THE NINETEENTH CENTURY (continued 6)

“Where is your new friend?” he asked Arkádi.

“He is not at home. He generally rises early and goes away. The main thing is, not to pay any attention to him: he does not like ceremonies.”

“Yes, that is evident.” Pável Petróvich began leisurely to spread some butter on his bread. “Is he going to stay here long?”

“That depends. He has stopped here on his way to his father’s.”

“Where does his father live?”

“In our Government, some eighty versts from here. He has a small estate there. He used to be an army surgeon.”

“Well, well, well! That ’s why I kept on asking myself: ‘Where have you heard that name Bazárov’? Nikoláy, it seems to me there was a surgeon by the name of Bazárov in papa’s division.”

“I think there was.”

“That ’s right. So that surgeon is his father. Hm!” Pável Petróvich smoothed his moustaches. “Well, and Mr. Bazárov himself, what is he?” asked he with deliberation.

“What Bazárov is?” Arkádi smiled. “If you want, uncle, I ’ll tell you what he really is.”

“Do me the favour, dear nephew.”

“He is a nihilist.”

“What?” asked Nikoláy Petróvich, and Pável Petróvich raised up his knife with a piece of butter at the end of the blade, and remained immovable.

“He is a nihilist,” repeated Arkádi.

“Nihilist,” muttered Nikoláy Petróvich. “That is from the Latin nihil, nothing, so far as I can judge; consequently that word designates a man who⁠—who acknowledges nothing?”

“Say, who respects nothing,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, starting again to spread his butter.

“Who looks at everything from the critical point of view,” remarked Arkádi.

“Is not that the same?” asked Pável Petróvich.

“No, not the same. A nihilist is a man who bows to no authorities, who accepts not a single principle on faith, no matter with what respect that principle be surrounded.”

“And do you call that good?” Pável Petróvich interrupted.

“It depends, uncle. It ’s good for some, and very bad for others.”

“I declare. Well, that, I see, is beyond us. We are of the older generation; we assume that without principles (Pável Petróvich pronounced this word softly, in the French fashion, Arkádi, on the contrary, pronounced it hard, with a decided accent on the first syllable), without principles taken, as you say, on faith, it is impossible to take a step, or breathe. Vous avez changé tout cela. God grant you health and the rank of general,[15] but we shall only take pleasure in looking at you, gentlemen⁠⸺what do you call them?”

“Nihilists,” Arkádi said distinctly.

“Yes. Formerly there used to be Hegelists, and now there are nihilists. Let us see how you are going to exist in the vacuum, in an airless space. But now, please ring the bell, brother Nikoláy Petróvich; it is time for me to drink my cocoa.”

⁠⸺For some moments silence reigned upon the terrace. Pável Petróvich sipped his cocoa, and then he suddenly raised his head.

“There is the nihilist coming to honour us with his presence,” he said half aloud.

There was really Bazárov, crossing the beds in the garden. His linen ulster and trowsers were smeared with mud; a prickly swamp plant surrounded the band of his old round hat; in his right hand he held a small bag, and in the bag were crawling living things. He rapidly approached the terrace and said, nodding: “Good-morning, gentlemen! Excuse me for being late to tea. I shall be back at once; I just want to find a place for my captives.”

“What have you there, leeches?” asked Pável Petróvich.

“No, frogs.”

“Do you eat them or raise them?”

“For experiments,” indifferently answered Bazárov and went into the house.

“You see, he is going to cut them up,” remarked Pável Petróvich. “He does not believe in principles, but in frogs.”

Arkádi looked with pity at his uncle, and Nikoláy Petróvich stealthily shrugged his shoulders. Pável Petróvich felt himself that he had made an infelicitous remark, and began to talk about the estate and the new manager who had come to him a few days before to complain of Fomá’s having become useless on account of his reckless ways.

⁠⸺Bazárov returned, seated himself at the table, and began hastily to drink his tea. Both brothers looked at him in silence, and Arkádi threw stealthy glances, now upon his father, now upon his uncle.

“Did you have a long tramp?” finally asked Nikoláy Petróvich.

“You have a small swamp near the aspen grove. I there scared up some five snipes. Arkádi, you ’ll have some shooting there.”

“Are you not a hunter?”

“No.”

“I understand your specialty is physics?” asked Pável Petróvich in his turn.

“Yes, physics; natural sciences in general.”

“They say the Teutons have of late made great progress in this field.”

“Yes, the Germans are in this our teachers,” Bazárov answered carelessly.

Pável Petróvich had used the word Teutons, instead of Germans, in irony, but no one took notice of it.

“Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?” spoke Pável Petróvich with affected politeness. He began to feel a secret irritation. Bazárov’s extreme plainness ruffled his aristocratic nature. That son of a surgeon not only was not abashed, but he answered abruptly and as if against his will, and in the sound of his voice there was something harsh, nay, impudent.

“Their learned men are a fine lot.”

“Yes, yes. Well, I suppose, you have not the same flattering conception of the Russian savants.”

“I guess you are right.”

“That is a very laudable self-abnegation,” retorted Pável Petróvich, straightening himself, and throwing his head back. “But how is it Arkádi Nikoláevich told a little while ago that you did not acknowledge any authorities? Do you not believe them?”

“Why should I acknowledge them? And what should I believe? If I am told a fact, I agree with it, that ’s all.”

“Do the Germans always tell facts?” spoke Pável Petróvich, and his face assumed a disinterested, distant expression, just as if he had retired to some cloudy height.

“Not all,” answered Bazárov with a slight yawn, evidently not wishing to continue the discussion.

Pável Petróvich looked at Arkádi, as if to tell him: “I must say, your friend is a polite chap.”

“As for me,” he spoke again with some effort, “I, sinful man, am not particularly fond of the Germans. Not to mention the Russian Germans: we all know what kind of birds they are. But I cannot stomach even the German Germans. Those of the former generations were not half so bad; they then had, well, a Schiller, or let us say, a Goethe⁠⸺Brother thinks quite favourably of them. But now there is such a procession of chemists and materialists over there⁠⸺”

“A decent chemist is twenty times more useful than any poet,” Bazárov interrupted him.

“Indeed!” spoke Pável Petróvich, barely raising his eyebrows, as if falling asleep. “So you do not acknowledge art?”

“The art to make money, or no more hemorrhoids!” exclaimed Bazárov with a contemptuous smile.

“Yes, yes. How you please yourself to jest! So you deny all that? Very well. So you believe only in science?”

“I have already reported to you that I believe in nothing. What is science anyway, science in general? There are sciences, as there are trades and professions; but science in general does not exist at all!”

“Very well, sir. Well, and do you assume the same negative attitude in regard to all the other institutions, generally accepted in human existence?”

“What is this, an inquest?” asked Bazárov.

Pável Petróvich grew slightly pale. Nikoláy Petróvich thought it necessary to take part in the conversation.

“We will discuss this matter more thoroughly some other time, dear Evgéni Vasílich; we shall then get your view, and we shall tell you ours. I, for my part, am very glad to hear that you busy yourself with the natural sciences. I have heard that Liebig has made some remarkable discoveries in regard to the fertilisation of the fields. You could aid me in my agronomic work by giving me some useful advice.”

“I am at your service, Nikoláy Petróvich; but what business have we with Liebig? We must first learn the ABC, and then we may take to books; we have not yet put our eyes on A.”

“I should say you are a nihilist,” thought Nikoláy Petróvich. “Still, let me in case of necessity have recourse to you,” he added aloud. “But for the present, brother, I think it is time for us to go and have a talk with the steward.”

Pável Petróvich rose from his chair.

“Yes,” he said, without looking at anyone, “it is a misfortune to live five years in the country, away from great minds! You will just become a round fool. You are trying not to forget what you have learned, and, before you know it, it turns out that it is all nonsense, and you are told that clever people no longer busy themselves with such trifles, and that you, sir, are an old-fashioned night-cap. What is to be done? It seems the younger generation is really more clever than we are.”

Pável Petróvich slowly turned upon his heels and walked away leisurely. Nikoláy Petróvich went after him.

“Say, is he always that way?” Bazárov coolly asked Arkádi, when the door was closed behind the two brothers.

“Listen, Evgéni, you have treated him altogether too brusquely,” remarked Arkádi. “You have offended him.”

“I am not going to pamper these county aristocrats! It is with them nothing but egotism, manners of society lions, dandyism! Well, he ought to have continued his activities in St. Petersburg, if he is built that way⁠⸺ However, God be with him! I have found a fairly rare specimen of a water beetle,⁠—Dysticus marginatus, do you know it? I ’ll show it to you!”

⁠⸺They began to talk about one of the landowners of the neighbourhood.

“A scoundrel, a snob of an aristocrat,” calmly remarked Bazárov who had met him in St. Petersburg.

“Permit me to ask you,” began Pável Petróvich, and his lips quivered, “according to your conception, the words ‘scoundrel’ and ‘aristocrat’ mean one and the same thing?”

“I said ‘snob of an aristocrat,’” remarked Bazárov, lazily sipping his tea.

“Just so. But I suppose you are of the same opinion about aristocrats, as you are about snobs. I regard it my duty to inform you that I do not share that opinion of yours. I dare say, I am known as a liberal man and one who loves progress, and it is for that very reason that I respect aristocrats, that is, real aristocrats. Remember, dear sir” (at these words Bazárov turned his eyes to Pável Petróvich), “remember, dear sir,” he repeated with acrimony, “the English aristocrats. They do not yield an iota from their privileges, and therefore they respect the rights of others. They demand the fulfilment of obligations towards them, and therefore they fulfil their own obligations. The aristocracy gave England its freedom, and the aristocracy supports it.”

“We have heard that old song before,” replied Bazárov. “But what do you wish to prove by it?”

“I wish to prove by that there thing, dear sir” (when Pável Petróvich got angry, he purposely said “that there” and “this here,” although he knew full well that grammar did not permit any such forms. In this oddity one might perceive a reminiscence of the traditions of the days of Alexander I. The somebodies of those days were in the habit of using “that there” and “that yer,” in the rare cases when they spoke their native language, as much as to say: “We are native Russes, and at the same time dignitaries, who have a right to disdain scholastic rules”), “I wish to prove by that there thing that without the feeling of one’s own dignity, without respect to oneself,⁠—and in an aristocrat these feelings are developed,⁠—there is no secure foundation of society⁠—bien public⁠—the social structure. Individuality, dear sir,⁠—that is the main thing: human individuality must be as strong as a rock, for everything rests upon it. I know very well, that you please yourself to find my habits, my toilet, in fine, my cleanliness, ridiculous, but it all flows from my feeling of self-respect, from my feeling of duty, yes, sir, yes, sir⁠—duty. I am living in the country, in the wilderness, but I do not let myself fall⁠—I respect the man in me.”

“Permit me to say, Pável Petróvich,” spoke Bazárov, “you claim to respect yourself, and yet you sit with folded hands; what good is that to the bien public? It would be better, if you respected yourself less, and did more.”

Pável Petróvich grew pale. “That is an entirely different question. It is not my duty to explain to you now, why I am sitting with folded hands, as you please to express yourself. I only want to say that aristocratism is a principle, and in our days only immoral and brainless people can live without principles. I told Arkádi so on the next day after his arrival, and I repeat it to you. Am I not right, Nikoláy?”

Nikoláy Petróvich nodded his head.

“Aristocratism, liberalism, progress, principles,” Bazárov was saying in the meantime. “Just think how many foreign and useless words! A good Russian would not take them gratis.”

“Then what does he want, according to you? Listening to you, one might conclude that we are living beyond the pale of humanity, beyond its laws. Why, sir, the logic of history demands⁠⸺”

“What do you want to do with that logic? We are getting along without it.”

“How so?”

“We just do. I hope you do not need any logic in order to put a piece of bread into your mouth, when you are hungry. What good to us are all these abstractions?”

Pável Petróvich waved his hands.

“After that I do not understand you. You insult the Russian nation. I can’t understand how one can fail to acknowledge principles and rules! By dint of what do you act?”

“I told you before, uncle, that we do not acknowledge any authorities,” interposed Arkádi.

“We act by dint of what we regard as useful,” spoke Bazárov. “At the present time the most useful thing is negation,⁠—we negate.”

“Everything?”

“Everything!”

“What? Not only art, poetry⁠⸺but⁠⸺it is terrible to say it⁠⸺”

“Everything,” repeated Bazárov with inexpressible calm.

Pável Petróvich stared at him. He had not expected that, while Arkádi even blushed with joy.

“But permit me to ask you,” again said Pável Petróvich, “you deny everything, or, to express myself more correctly, you destroy everything⁠—but is it not necessary to build up again?”

“That is not our affair. First, the place has to be cleared.”

“The contemporary condition of the people demands it,” Arkádi added with dignity. “We must execute these demands; we have no right to devote ourselves to the satisfaction of our personal egotism.”

This last phrase evidently displeased Bazárov: it smacked of philosophy, that is, of Romanticism, for Bazárov called philosophy Romanticism; but he did not think it necessary to contradict his young disciple.

“No, no!” exclaimed Pável Petróvich in a sudden passion. “I do not wish to believe that you, gentlemen, properly understand the Russian nation, that you are the representatives of its needs, its aims! No, the Russian nation is not as you represent it to yourselves. It reveres tradition, it is patriarchal, it cannot live without faith⁠⸺”

“I will not dispute that,” interrupted Bazárov; “I am even willing to admit that you are right in this.”

“And if I am right⁠⸺”

“And yet it proves nothing.”

“That ’s it, it proves nothing,” repeated Arkádi with the confidence of an experienced chess player who, foreseeing the apparently dangerous move of his antagonist, does not become in the least uneasy.

“How does it not prove anything?” muttered Pável Petróvich in wonderment. “So you are going against your nation?”

“What of it, if I do? People imagine that when it thunders the prophet Elias is riding in a chariot over the heavens. Well? Shall I agree with them? Besides, they are Russians, and am I not myself a Russian?”

“No, you are not a Russian, after what you have just told me! I cannot acknowledge you as a Russian.”

“My grandfather was a ploughman,” replied Bazárov with supercilious pride. “Ask any of your peasants, in whom he will quicker recognise a countryman of his, in you or me? You do not even know how to talk with him.”

“But you speak with him and despise him at the same time.”

“Why not, if he deserves contempt! You find fault with my tendency, but who told you that it is accidental in me? that it is not provoked by the same national spirit that you are championing?”

“Well, of what good are the nihilists?”

“It is not for you to decide whether they are any good or not. Don’t you regard yourself useful?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please no personalities!” exclaimed Nikoláy Petróvich, rising from his chair.

Pável Petróvich smiled and, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder, compelled him to sit down again.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will not forget myself, by dint of that very feeling of dignity that the gentleman, the doctor, makes so light of. Permit me,” he turned again towards Bazárov, “you probably think that your doctrine is something new. But you imagine that in vain. The materialism which you preach has been in vogue more than once, and it has always proved itself insufficient⁠⸺”

“Again a foreign word!” interrupted Bazárov. He began to feel annoyed and his face assumed a coarse coppery colour. “First of all, we preach nothing; that is not our custom⁠⸺”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I ’ll tell you what we do. In former days, not so long ago, we used to say that the officials take bribes, that we have no roads, no commerce, no regular justice.”

“Yes, yes, you are accusers, I think that is what you call it. I agree with many of your accusations, but⁠⸺”

“Then we came to the conclusion that to prate, nothing but prate, about our sores is not worth the trouble, that it only leads to triteness and doctrinarianism; we discovered that our wise men, the so-called leaders and accusers, were good for nothing, that we were busying ourselves with nonsense, were talking of art, unconscious creative power, parliamentarism, of legalism, and the devil knows of what not, when we ought to have talked of the daily bread, when we were oppressed by most vulgar superstition, when all our commercial companies burst only because there was a dearth of honest men, when the very liberty with which the Government is concerned would hardly do us any good, because our peasants would as lief rob themselves, if only they could fill themselves with brandy in the tavern.”

“Ah,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, “ah! You have convinced yourself of all that, and so you have decided not to do anything seriously?”

“And we decided not to undertake anything,” grimly repeated Bazárov. He suddenly felt irritated for having entered into a dispute with that gentleman.

“And only to scoff?”

“To scoff.”

“And that is called nihilism.”

“And that is called nihilism,” again repeated Bazárov, but this time with special rudeness.

Pável Petróvich slightly closed his eyes.

“Ah, that ’s the way!” he said with a strangely calm voice. “Nihilism is to help all misery, and you⁠—you⁠—are our deliverers and heroes. Yes. But why do you hold others in honour, say, those very accusers? Or do you not prate like the rest?”

“You may accuse us of anything else, but not of that,” said Bazárov through his teeth.

“Well? You act, don’t you? You are getting ready to act?”

Bazárov did not answer. Pável Petróvich shuddered, but he immediately controlled himself.

“Hm!⁠—Act, break⁠—” he continued. “But how are you going to break, not knowing for what purpose?”

“We break, because we are a force,” remarked Arkádi.

Pável Petróvich glanced at his nephew and smiled.

“Yes, force does not give any accounts of itself,” said Arkádi straightening himself out.

“Miserable man!” lamented Pável Petróvich. He was absolutely unable to hold himself any longer. “If you only thought what you are supporting in Russia by your despicable phrase? No, that would make an angel lose his patience! Force! A wild Calmuck, a Mongolian has force too, but of what good is it to us? We treasure civilisation, yes, sir, yes, sir, dear sir, we treasure its fruits. Don’t tell me that these fruits are worthless. The last latherer, un barbouilleur, a fiddler who gets five kopeks for an evening, are more useful than you, because they are the representatives of a civilisation, and not of a rude Mongolian force! You regard yourselves as leaders, but you ought to pass your days in a Calmuck tent! Force! Remember, gentlemen of force, that there are only four and a half of you, and there are millions of others who will not permit you to tread under foot their most sacred beliefs and who will crush you.”

“If they will crush us, then that is our destiny,” spoke Bazárov. “Only you are slightly off. We are not as few as you imagine.”

“What? You think in earnest you will be able to stand out against a whole nation?”

“You know, it was a kopek candle that caused the conflagration of Moscow,” replied Bazárov.

“Yes, yes. First it is an almost satanic pride, and then contemptuous scoffing. That ’s what the young generation is carried away with, that ’s what conquers the inexperienced hearts of boys! Just look at them: one of them is sitting by your side; he almost worships you,⁠—look at him. (Arkádi turned away and frowned.) This plague has spread far and wide. I have been told that our artists won’t visit the Vatican in Rome, that they regard Raphael almost as a fool, because, don’t you see, he is an authority; but they themselves are impotent and barren to nausea; their fancy does not rise above a Girl at the Fountain, try as they may! And the girl is horribly painted at that. In your opinion they are a fine lot, are they not?”

“In my opinion,” retorted Bazárov, “Raphael is not worth a copper penny, and they are not better than he.”

“Bravo! Bravo! Listen, Arkádi! That ’s the way modern young men must express themselves! When I come to think of it, why should they not follow you! Formerly young men had to study; they did not like to pass for ignoramuses, and so they worked, even against their will. But all they have to say now is: “Everything in the world is bosh!” and that ’s all there is to it. The young people are happy. And really, formerly they were nothing but blockheads, but now they have suddenly turned nihilists.”

“There, your vaunted feeling of your personal dignity has played you false,” phlegmatically remarked Bazárov, while Arkádi flamed up and his eyes glistened. “Our discussion has gone too far⁠⸺ It seems it would be better to cut it short altogether. I will then be ready to agree with you,” he added, rising, “when you will show me one single institution in our present existence, social or domestic, which does not call for a complete and merciless negation.”

“I will show you millions of such institutions,” exclaimed Pável Petróvich, “millions! For example, the village commune.”

A cold smile contorted Bazárov’s lips.

“When it comes to the commune,” he said, “you had better have a talk with your brother. He, it seems, has discovered in practice what kind of a thing the commune is, and communal responsibility, temperance, and similar fine things.”

“The family, if you please, the family, as it exists with our peasants!” cried Pável Petróvich.

“It would be better, I suppose, not to enter into the details of that affair. Listen, Pável Petróvich, give yourself two days’ time; you will hardly find anything before that time. Run over all our conditions of life, consider them all well, while, in the meantime, Arkádi and I will⁠⸺”

“Make light of everything,” interrupted Pável Petróvich.

“No, cut up frogs. Come, Arkádi! Good-bye, gentlemen!”

Both friends went out.

POEMS IN PROSE (SENILIA)

NATURE

I dreamt that I entered an enormous subterranean hall with high vaults. It was all filled with an even, subterranean light.

In the very centre of the hall sat a majestic woman in a flowing garment of a green colour. Bending her head on her hand, she seemed to be buried in deep meditation.

I saw at once that that woman was Nature herself, and, with a sudden chill, a reverential awe entered my soul.

I approached the woman who was sitting there, and making a respectful bow: “O our common mother!” I exclaimed. “What are you meditating on? Are you, perchance, pondering on the future destiny of the human race? Or, how it may reach the highest possible perfection and happiness?”

The woman slowly turned to me her dark, piercing eyes. Her lips moved, and there issued from them a ringing voice, like the clanking of iron.

“I am thinking how to add greater strength to the muscles of a flea’s legs, that it may more easily save itself from its enemies. The equilibrium between attack and defence has been impaired⁠⸺ It must be re-established.”

“What?” I lisped an answer. “Is that what you are thinking about? But are we not, men, your favourite children?”

The woman barely frowned: “All creatures are my children,” she spoke, “and I take equal care of them, and equally exterminate them.”

“But goodness⁠—reason⁠—justice⁠⸺” I muttered again.

“Those are human words,” was heard the woman’s voice. “I know neither good nor evil⁠⸺ Reason is not my law, and what is justice? I have given you life, and I will take it from you and will give it to others, worms or men⁠⸺it makes no difference to me⁠⸺ You defend yourself in the meantime, and do not bother me!”

I wanted to retort⁠—but the earth around me gave a dull groan and trembled, and I awoke.

Dmítri Vasílevich Grigoróvich. (1822-1900.)

Grigoróvich was the son of a landed proprietor, and was born in a village on the Vólga, in the Government of Simbírsk. His early childhood he passed at home; at ten years of age he entered a boarding school in Moscow, and later the School of Engineers, where he studied at the same time as his friend Dostoévski. Having become infatuated with art, he transferred himself to the Academy of Arts and there studied drawing for two years. He began writing in 1844, and attracted the attention of the public and of the critic Byelínski by his sketches from the life of the serfs, The Village and Antón the Miserable. These were followed by a large number of shorter stories and two novels, The Fishermen and The Emigrants; they mainly excel for their artistic landscape painting, in which they abound. His warm advocacy of emancipation and his sympathetic descriptions of peasant life have earned for him the name of the Russian Beecher-Stowe.

Two of his stories have been translated into English: Cruel City, after the Russian, with a sketch of the author, by E. de Pierson (Sunshine Series, No. 84), London and New York, 1891; New Year’s Eve (Railway and General Automatic Library), London, [1892].

FROM “THE FISHERMEN”

A gloomy, grey day. The vault of heaven looks as though lowered, as though pensively reposing over the silent earth. If it were not for the warmth of the air, the nascent odour of budding verdure, one might have thought spring had suddenly been changed into autumn. There are many such days in the beginning of spring. They resemble the fair, pensive face of a young girl. All Nature suddenly grows still, like a lively child in the open, who, having abandoned himself to noisy, boisterous merriment, and not trusting his strength, suddenly throws himself tired on the grass and sleeps a sweet sleep.

In such days you will not hear a sound. Everything living seems to hold its breath, to get ready for something, to collect its strength for a noisy celebration of the summer. The flocks are silent, as if intoxicated by the strong aroma of the unfolding plants, which, lacking the sunrays, is spreading over the ground; the animals are reclining on the succulent grass, and hang their heads, or lazily wander about. The birds dreamily slumber on the branches that are permeated by their fresh, young sap; the insects are hid under the tree-bark, or have crept into the narrow seams of the moss that, in an infinitely diminished form, resembles impassable fir forests; not a fly buzzes in the air; the air itself seems to be afraid to break the solemn quiet, and touches not a blade, nor even raises the light down that is left in the meadows by the young, newly hatched goslings.

Nothing can be more poetical than such days! A delicate, happily tuned ear can distinguish, midst this dead silence, a measured, harmonious singing. Your soul is filled with an inexpressibly pleasant sensation. But not ecstatic agitation nor pensive sorrow (in which there is a charm of their own) takes possession of your soul: no! your blood and brain are in perfect composure; you simply feel happy; your whole being involuntarily recognises the possibility of quiet, peaceful enjoyments, of a modest, intimate life with yourself,⁠—a life which you have been, perchance, long seeking in vain; the capitals, with their din, splendour, and enticements, do not exist for you: they appear so small that you do not even notice them. In such moments your heart is light and free, as in the first years of happy youth; not one evil thought will enter your head. You are satisfied with yourself, satisfied with your feelings, satisfied with your loneliness, and you bless Providence for having given you a chance to live, breathe, and feel.

It was just such a day when Vanyúsha, early in the morning, bade his family farewell. The landscape, it seemed, had assumed the most gloomy and grey appearance in order to rouse in the heart of the lad as little regret as possible in parting with familiar places. The fisherman’s family was standing in the yard: it was not numerous now, for Peter, Vasíli, and their wives and children had left the day before. There were there in all: Glyeb, his old wife, his son, the adopted child, and Grandfather Kondráti, who had come to see Vanyúsha off.

We find them during the most fateful and oppressive minute. The gate that leads out to the small square is already open; grandfather Kondráti has already taken back to the cabin the old ikon with which the parents have blessed their son. It is only left to say: “Come!” but old Glyeb is still hesitating. Gríshka has meanwhile told the companion of his youth good-bye; he is standing some distance away; his head is bent, his brows are knit, but his dark eyes, which are stealthily directed now to one side of the yard, now to another, clearly indicate that his sorrowful look is assumed only by necessity, to fit the occasion, and that he does not share the family’s grief.

None of those present this minute think of the adopted child. Aunt Ánna tightly clasps the neck of her beloved child with both her hands; the face of the old woman is still more tightly pressed against his breast; in a weak, dying voice she pronounces a disconnected parting prayer. Before them Glyeb is standing; his eyes are dry; he utters no complaints, no accusations, no bitter words of blame, but his hands folded over his breast, the drooping head, the furrows, which one cannot count upon his high brow, sufficiently indicate that the soul of the old fisherman is passing through a heavy trial. In vain Grandfather Kondráti, whom Glyeb always respected and obeyed, tries to console him, calling to his aid soul-saving words: the words of the old man are powerless now; they act upon Glyeb as upon a half-witted person: he hears every word of the grandfather, distinguishes every sound of his voice, but does not retain them in his memory. Glyeb is still unable to collect his thoughts: in the last three days the old man had passed through so much sorrow! The acts of his children have effaced from his memory the whole sixty years of a quiet, undisturbed, one may even say, happy life. But however much one may think, or feel grieved, nothing is gained by it, and time passes. “Come!” says Glyeb.

Grandfather Kondráti warily unclasps the hands of the old woman who thoughtlessly and speechlessly is hanging about the neck of her son; Aunt Ánna has wept her last strength away with her last tears. Ványa transfers her from his hands to the hands of Kondráti, hastily throws a bundle with his possession over his shoulder, makes the sign of the cross and, without raising his tearful eyes, hurries after his father who meanwhile has bent around the corner of the cabin. A despairing, heartrending cry, uttered behind him, chains the young lad to the spot.

“Ványa!⁠—Ványa!”

“Cease, mother⁠⸺do not grieve so⁠⸺God is merciful!” says he, embracing the old woman who is grasping him in her hands like an insensate person.

But the consolations are in vain! Grandfather Kondráti and Ványa continue their path, while supporting Ánna. Now, they have already passed the garden, and now, they have crossed the brook. This brook, witness of youthful years, serves as the last threshold of the paternal house. Now, they have already reached the footpath, and they begin to ascend the hill. Memories are crowding in the soul of the young lad; with every advancing step there is a new parting.

However much the young fisherman strengthened himself with the thought that by his action he had saved his old father from injustice and had freed him from a heavy sin, however strong his faith in Providence was, yet he could not restrain his tears that of their own accord coursed down his youthful cheeks. It is, indeed, hard for the first time to part from your paternal home, and you cannot control your heart: it will not listen to reason, and is not deceived by fancies and hopes.

It is even more difficult for a common man to leave his native roof, than for any other person. No matter how wretched the cabin of the poor man may be, he is attached to it with all his feelings, with all his soul. The attachment of the educated man for material objects to which he has become accustomed, his attachment for his house and his soil, is quite insignificant in comparison with the attachment of the common man for the same objects with which he is familiar. This is easily explained: the mental and spiritual life which more or less absolves man from a coarse materialism is very limited in the common man. Living almost exclusively a material, carnal life, he, so to say, grows one with every object which surrounds him, with every log of his cabin; he was born there, he has passed his life there without interruption; not one thought has drawn him away beyond the confines of his native hut: on the contrary, all his thoughts have been directed to the one object of never leaving his home. The Russian peasant is pre-eminently a lover of his family, and domestic in his habits.

I had once occasion to see a ploughman’s family who were of their own free will emigrating to the fertile southern Governments, bidding farewell to their field,⁠—miserable two desyatínas of clayey, almost worthless, soil. I have in all my life not seen such a terrible parting, such terrible tears! A mother, who parts from her beloved children, does not embrace them so passionately and does not kiss them so warmly, as these peasants kissed the earth that had supported them so many years. It seemed as though they left themselves in these two plots. Pieces of earth were even sewed into the amulets of the suckling babes!

The common man bows to habit: when he parts from his house, he parts from everything that binds him to the soil. He has lived in his exclusive, limited sphere; there are no interests for him outside of his home; he looks with suspicion at the world which transcends the limits of his customary, narrow conceptions. When he leaves his home, he does not strengthen himself, as we do, with dreams and hopes: he positively knows only this,⁠—that he is leaving his home, that he is leaving everything which binds him to life, and therefore he abandons himself with all his feelings, with all his soul to grief.

Having reached the summit of the high ridge of the river bank, from which the deceased Uncle Akím had once timidly descended with Gríshka to the cabin of the old fisherman, Glyeb stopped. It was not the rapid ascent that had tired him: he would rather have walked more rapidly, and would have gone higher up. A strange weight rested upon the old man’s heart; he wished to walk a hundred versts without stopping, if the exhaustion would only allay the persistent pining that was gnawing at his heart. When Ványa and Grandfather Kondráti, who were still supporting Ánna, had ascended the hill, Glyeb went up to them:

“Why did you bring her here?” said he impatiently: “it will not make things easier. Well, old woman, that will do⁠—say farewell, and the Lord be with you! Too much parting,⁠—too much weeping! Well, good-bye!”

“Good-bye, mother!” muttered the son, and for the first time he could not control himself, and for the first time burst out into tears: he wept bitterly, like a small boy.

The old woman shuddered at this sight: her oblivion disappeared, her strength was resurrected. Drawing aside with her lean hands the kerchief which covered her head, she cast a senseless glance on all present, as if not yet quite conscious of what was happening, and then she suddenly, with the rapidity of lightning, threw herself on her son, and placed her hands over his head. The cry that accompanied that motion cut as with a knife the hearts of the two old men. People of Grandfather Kondráti’s age do not weep: all the tears have been wept, and their source itself has long ago dried up. But Glyeb had yet seen little grief; and so his strength left him. However much Glyeb fortified himself, however much he turned his head aside, and knit his brows, large teardrops of their own will burst from his eyes and silvered still more his grey beard. He waved his hand and walked ahead more rapidly. Ványa tore himself away from the embrace of his mother and ran after him, all the time making the sign of the cross.

“Ványa! Ványa!”

The old woman started after her son; but her legs gave way. She fell upon her knees and extended her hands before her.

Ványa meanwhile continued to follow his father. Only once did he turn back: the cabins, the small squares, the brook, the boats, the nets,⁠—all had disappeared! At the edge of the hill, which hid the indentation of the shore that served him for his native place, he saw only Kondráti’s white head leaning over something prostrate in the road. Beyond them, in the limitless depth, he saw the distant meadows. From this height Grandfather Kondráti’s little lake appeared as in the palm of the hand: a white moving dot glinted through the verdure that surrounded the lake in a dark strip. Ványa almost stopped, but immediately turned his head aside, made the sign of the cross, and walked on more rapidly. When he found himself within a few steps from his father, he did not hold out, and turned back once more; but this time the eyes of the young lad no longer met familiar places: everything had disappeared behind the hill, the dark ridge of which rested against the gloomy, grey, cheerless sky.

Farewell, mother! Farewell home, childhood, memories,⁠—farewell everything!

Yákov Petróvich Polónski. (1820-1898).

Polónski was born in the city of Ryazán, where he graduated from the Gymnasium. After that he studied law at the Moscow University, and in 1844 he published his first collection of poems, under the title of Gamuts. Then began for him years of restless wanderings in Russia and abroad, in his attempt to earn his daily bread. Upon his return to St. Petersburg, in 1859, he became an editor of a periodical, and soon after he was made a member in the Board of Foreign Censorship. His genius has been characterised by Turgénev as follows: “His talent represents a special, quite individual mixture of simple-hearted grace, a free picturesqueness of language, upon which still rests a reflection of Púshkin’s elegance, and a certain amiable, though frequently awkward, honesty and truthfulness of impressions. At times he, almost unconsciously to himself, surprises one with the sharpness of his poetic vision.” Many of his lyrics belong to the most popular of songs in Russia, and have been set to music. Of his longer poems, the fantastic tale Musician Grasshopper enjoys the greatest popularity.

But little of Polónski has been translated. In C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics are given The Birds, Night in the Crimea, The Sun and the Moon, The Guardian Angel; in John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian,⁠—On Skobelev (reprinted in the Library of the World’s Best Literature); in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 21, by H. Havelock, Love scared thee not, and To the fond heart that passionately loveth; in Free Russia, vol. xii, No. 11, by Charlotte Sidgwick, A Vision.

THE BIRDS

⁠—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.

NIGHT IN THE CRIMEA

⁠—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.

⁠—Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 21.

FROM “MUSICIAN GRASSHOPPER”

Not the blustering cricket chirping at the stove I sing: my hero is a small grasshopper. He was of small size, but oblong in shape, and wore over his back a greenish frock; he was thin-legged, lank, and broad of brow, and he was a real genius, had a special gift: he was famed as a musician among all the insects, and he often invited his friends to hear his concerts. He lived under the luxuriant grass in the open field, and drowned the air with the eternal piping of his orchestra. The frivolous tribe of hoppers has forgotten that at that time he was the representative of good taste and music.

Everything which the rustic dweller nowadays hears outside the window, as he lies upon his bed, or as he walks out on the balcony in his morning gown,⁠—this crackling piping, this discordant din that is over everything,⁠—so dry and yet so tender,⁠—if in this gloomy concert there is at all any glowing voluptuousness and rapture,⁠—believe me,⁠—those are the bygone, eternal creations, or imitations, of my hero.

Poor little grasshopper, your genius is forgotten! But you have passed your life not without adventures. I know you did not in vain pass for an idealist: you used to sit down in the silvery light of the moon, under the canopy of night, upon a grassblade broken by the wind. Though the bending ears are not lightly broken, yet the naughty wind crushes many of them in the wavy meadow. You used to sit down, and with all your might you scraped upon your fiddle, in order to glorify night. And the empty-headed squeakers, the villainous mosquitoes, the trumpeters of the steppe, teased you, and ladybirds fell in love with you, and envy roiled many a little head with the same musical inclination and with the same eagerness, but not with the same ability. And the gnat threatened to kill, by means of science, the sounds which you produced, and the weighty June-bug repeatedly assured all that it was pleasant to moisten the ears at your concert, for otherwise the ears would dry up, like the grass, from the terrible drouth.

In your private life you have frequently been put in an awkward position by the good little ladybirds, flies, and little bugs: you listened to their confessions, and timidly avoided secret meetings with them. Nothing, however, disturbed your calm: no sting appeared injurious to your talent: you were unconquerable in the musical world.

Little linden trees,⁠—that was something in the nature of a park; in the centre⁠—a pond, and at the entrance⁠—a bower of branches, unquestionably a marvel of perfection; it was so spacious that⁠—just think of it⁠—two hundred insects could enter it in a row. Hang me if I am telling an untruth! The architect of it⁠—I will not conceal it⁠—was Nature herself; only I do not know who paid her for the work; however, we are not concerned here about Nature. Lest the journalists should peck us to death, I will confess that it was hardly possible to describe the staircase under the yellow carpet of moss, which was worn through in spots; nor the gloomy antechamber, where the lackeys could remain from early morning without their boots, but not without their liveries; nor the parlour, where some mould, like stalactites, stuck to the cornices and was wound about with verdure. An acquaintance of mine, a Russian architect, saw in this parlour a bit of Etruscan art, and⁠—I remember it well⁠—he boasted, without blushing, that the idea had struck him in that parlour tastefully to adorn lordly rooms by covering the wall-paper with white mould.

However, the house of the sylphid, to be sternly critical about the style, resembled somewhat a hole in a tree. The grasshopper was so charmed, or his heart was so electrified, that he trembled and wasted away as he silently waited for the sylphid, while standing at the window and looking at the sights. The sylphid was flitting about with someone in the garden, and having a chat with pleasant guests. These guests were worms of various appellations, and they lay in the grass in the form of hooks. A black-skinned little bedbug, doubtless the porter’s son, or the nurse’s grand-child⁠—a godchild of the gentlefolk⁠—announced to the sylphid that a certain lank gentleman was waiting for her in the drawing-room.

My hero was called in. His bow was returned with a smile, and he heard the muttering: “Very, very happy!” The ladies examined his whole figure, and hardly could withhold their laughter: they only looked askance at the gentlemen. But the worms did not stir, for someone had so dreadfully narrowed down their brains that they need only look at the decoration on the ribbon or around the neck, in order not to pay any attention to the rest, and remain in haughty calm.

The artist’s calling familiarises the soul with all kinds of meetings; but my hero was not accustomed to the manners of the charming insects of the higher order. Living at a distance from the garden, poor, sickly, and pale, he wore from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet the imprint of the field upon him. There clouds alone raise their voice, and the harvest waves its ears, and the grain waits for the scythe.

I know, O grasshopper, how well you were received by the butterfly. You acted proudly, as if you had spent all your life in higher society, though from early childhood you had never travelled except in your own carriage. But tell me, what became of you on that evening, and what inexpressible feeling compressed your soul, and what thoughts ardently possessed your genial brow, as you departed from the park and took your fieldward way over the tufts? Will you say, or⁠—shall we put down periods?

Departing day wept behind the mountain, and, shedding tears, cast a warm glow upon the edge of the meadow, from behind the dark grove. Night came in the track of day, and mingling lights were reflected and, quivering, wandered over her cheeks. Softly came out the lights, the heralds of the moon, lighting the tapers before the throne of God. Far and wide the sea of the tremulous harvest grew dark; the melancholy birch embraced the linden tree; the grove grew silent; only the oak whispered, and the woodpecker somewhere tapped his strong beak, and somewhere a rivulet lisped sadly,⁠—only fateful passions were not asleep, and only the irrepressible world of insects vociferated without cessation in the sleepless silence. The flies hummed, the mosquitoes trumpeted; those whom the grasshopper led in the chorus merrily scraped their fiddles, evidently knowing their music even without candles. In front of the orchestra, he scraped his fiddle loudest of all, in honour of his queen. It was the marriage of the butterfly’s cousin, and the bridegroom was a fine fellow with a long mouthpiece; of course, he was not mentally quick, but he came from a family of select worms. According to the bride’s words, he was intolerable only because he indiscriminately compared the odour of old pines with the vernal fragrance of violets, and because he respected the brier and was afraid of jackdaws.

But what do we care for this nonsense? The ball was magnificent. The choirs bubbled over with sounds. Dozens of Spanish flies in golden liveries burnt incense in murky avenues. Glowworms, flaming up like fire-pots and rockets, gleamed up and down all the paths. The guests swarmed everywhere. The butterflies flitted in the moonshine in their ball dresses; darning-needles flashed through the air, holding on to darning-needles; the variegated whirl of the waltz spun around with a rustling sound; bugs circled around the serving table; small beetles crawled about, and the weighty persons of fashionable society, the ladybugs, were gathered together to show their newest dresses. Two beetles with big bellies on short legs silently approached two green flies. An ant, laced in a waistcoat of the latest fashion, solemnly and carelessly bent his knees, while dancing with a yellow ladybird. The lively sylphid flapped her little wings: her eyes, her nose, her little feet, the pattern of her dress,⁠—everything in her involuntarily attracted attention.

My artistic grasshopper’s soul was aflame; he did not turn his eyes away from her and be played like a demon. At her own request he, his heart being unchangeable, composed this inspired dance, by whose music hop even to-day the myriads of insects on any flower-bed of your garden, if, O reader, the Creator has at all given you a garden, or, at least, a garden plot.

However, the ball of the insects did not pass without a scandal: they say, there was an evil spider in the park who, having drawn his threads from twig to twig, made such a devilishly clever and artistic, invisible net, that, maybe, he had a nice little snack in secret. They say also that a ladybird fell down and that from fright her corset gave way. The artist himself noticed a little spider⁠—he looked so innocent⁠—throwing something like a hook over the sylphid’s wing, and trying to draw her to him, in order to find somewhere in the charming garden a place where he could pass with her at least ten minutes in the cool shade, in silence, in comfort, away from the bustle. But the jealous artist understood his cunning, so he leaped up and tore the fateful threads.

The spider swelled with anger; and a mosquito buzzed to the artist: “See, how you have soiled yourself, as if you had been in an improper place.”

The grasshopper blushed, seeing the cobweb sticking to his sleeve. “What a beast!” he grumbled, and he wiped it off. The butterfly said not a word, and only chose another partner for the dance: the winged gentleman was her neighbour’s silly brother.

“Is it true,” he asked, “there is a rumour in the meadow, that you are dead in love with the maestro? They say that the grasshopper wants to marry you, and that he is suing for your hand?”

“Don’t say that!” said the sylphid. “My husband⁠—a grasshopper! What an insult! Who has spread this gossip? Or have the flies concocted this stupid thing?”

“No, not the flies at all! Someone from the orchestra said that he heard it from the maestro.”

The fay controlled herself and did not show her anger and, flapping her wings, cast a cold glance upon the musician, and when all, to honour his talents, cried: “Bravo! Fora, fora!” she screwed up her face or smiled, with downcast eyes.

Aleksyéy Feofiláktovich Písemski. (1820-1881.)

Písemski was the son of poor gentlefolk in the Government of Kostromá, where his father was an army officer. At fourteen years of age he entered the Gymnasium, and there developed a taste for the theatre and for writing; after graduation he studied mathematics at the Moscow University, but he devoted much of his time to acting in amateur theatricals and to public readings, becoming famous as a reader of Gógol. He began his literary career in 1847 and produced a large number of novels and dramas. In all these he evolved a cynical pessimism of the extremest kind, and unmercifully and without reserve laid bare the moral dirt and corruption that surrounded him. His pictures from the life of the common people, as found in The Petersburgian, The Faun, Bitter Fate, and A Thousand Souls, are remarkably realistic, though harrowing in their nakedness. Having incurred the enmity of the liberal writers of the sixties, who suspected him of retrograde tendencies, he, in 1863, wrote his novel, Troubled Waters, which roused a storm of indignation in the liberal camp. By depicting only the underside, with all its nastiness, of the movement of the sixties, he did great harm to progress in Russia. After that greatest of his works, his genius began to decline, and he died, amidst much mental and moral suffering, neglected and despised by the literary coteries.

THE OLD PROPRIETRESS

The cabin which I entered was large and neat, the woodwork was planed, the stove white, the partition made of boards, the bench and shelves washed clean. In the front corner, under the ikons, stood a table, behind which sat an old man with a shaven beard, with two grey tufts of hair on his temples, with a clever expression on his face and, evidently, blind. He was dressed in a blue cloth coat of ancient cut, underneath which could be seen a laced shirt front and a striped cashmere vest, no doubt an ancient fashion, too. All that old costume of his was clean and, it seemed, preserved in spite of time. By his side sat a neat and trim-looking old woman, in a threadbare old hood and a chintz capote. At first glance I thought they were poor gentlefolk. Upon my entering, the old woman immediately rose and said something to the old man: he raised himself, and both bowed to me.

“Please, be seated, I shall find a place,” said I.

“Never mind, sir,” said the old woman with an affected voice, brushing aside her scanty possessions in a small bag.

“Be seated, please,” I repeated.

The old man heeded my words and, feeling the bench with the cautiousness of a blind person, seated himself, and, bending over his staff, fixed his dim eyes upon me. The old woman did not sit down but continued standing in a respectful attitude. I guessed they were not gentlefolk.

“Whither are you travelling, friends?” asked I.

“To the capital of the Government, dear sir,” answered the old man in a sad voice.

“The grandparents are seeing this lad off,⁠—they are his grandparents,” hastened to add the hostess, who was placing a samovár on the table.

“The grandparents of this fellow?” said I.

“Yes, sir,” answered the old man with a deep sigh, and hung his grey head.

“What rank are you?”

“Burghers, your honour.”

“Burghers by birth?”

“By no means, sir; we were formerly manorial servants.”

“Not in this place ought a grandson of Yákov Ivánovich be,” interrupted the hostess: “I will say it in the presence of this old man,” she continued, “he was in his day a great gentleman, and full of mettle. Whenever he stopped off here, I had to bestir myself: it would not have done to offer him stale food or a dirty samovár.”

The old man smiled a bitter smile.

“We did not think, madam, that a child of our own could ever act thus,” said the old woman in her affected and somewhat lackadaisical voice.

“What ’s to be done, mother? What ’s to be done?” replied the hostess, also in a whining voice.

“He was left after my daughter,” proceeded the old woman. “He was our precious diamond; we thought he would be the consolation and joy in our loneliness and old age. We had him educated like a child of gentlefolk: we placed him in Moscow with what we thought to be nice merchant people.”

“What ’s to be done, what ’s to be done, mother!” again fell in the hostess.

“Well, did he dissipate?” asked I.

“God knows, sir, whether it was the merchant people did not treat him right, or he did not watch himself,” answered the old woman.

The old man smiled bitterly and interrupted his wife:

“He had not taken care of himself since his childhood, for he was born and brought up a spoilt child. Other clerks in his business send money home while they are still boys, but our lad kept on writing home for some: we sent him money, until we were ruined. Meanwhile we heard that he was getting into things that might bring him into jail. We wrote him to come home, and he turned up only after two years: he was barefoot and naked. We clothed him, hoping that he would mend under our eyes, but, instead, he began the very first week to take everything from the house to the inn.” With every new word there was heard more severity in his voice, and tears stood in the eyes of the old woman.

“Who were your masters?” asked I, in order to interrupt the conversation, which evidently gave them pain.

“Our mistress was Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov,” reverently spoke the old man.

“Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov,” repeated I, remembering that my mother used to tell about a Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov, as in her day a great lady.

“Your mistress was quite a prominent and well-known woman in these parts?” said I.

At this question the face of the old man became quite serene.

“Our lady,” he began, speaking slowly and with emphasis, “was probably the first person in Russia. She was a woman by sex, but not one man could have stood out against her. As she said, so it was done. She was a woman of immense brains.”

“They say she lived well, in a lordly manner,” said I.

“Royally, or as would become the wife of a field-marshal. She did not visit her fellow landed proprietors the year round. There were forty rooms in the manor, and yet they were crowded on holidays. They would come down like the locusts with their nurses and their children,⁠—everybody was welcome,” concluded the old man in a boastful tone.

I saw that I had before me one of those old servants of former lords, who had grown up and become old, on the one hand, in what was then regarded as modern fashions, and on the other, under the cane.

“You, no doubt, were a steward?” asked I.

“I was, sir,” answered he, compressing his eyes, as if to collect his thoughts, “I was, as we used to call it in those days, chief servant of the manor: for one thing, I had some twenty men and the musicians under my command, but especially the serving at the table. Our lady of blessed memory did not like things to be done half way: every day there was to be a parade! Another thing: her eyesight was weak, so I had to write letters at her dictation, and I had to attend courts in her behalf; I was well instructed and, though I did not know the law as I ought to, I knew how to get along with the officials. Up to the fiftieth year of my life, sir, I never wore anything but silk stockings and full dress of fine English cloth. God grant her the kingdom of heaven,⁠—I enjoyed the favour of my lady.”

“Nowadays there are no such masters,” said I.

“By no means, sir, and there cannot be,⁠—I have not the honour of knowing who you may be, for, being blind, I cannot see. There are no such masters now,” answered the old man, as if restraining himself from being open to me.

“I am a landed proprietor in this neighbourhood, and I should like to ask you about those masters of olden times.”

The old man sighed.

“I am seeing my ninety-seventh year in this world, sir, and I see a great change in everything: those old masters, I must say so, are in comparison with those of to-day like eagles before sparrows,” spoke he, significantly shaking his head.

“How so?” asked I.

The old man moved his hands in thoughts.

“The first thing,” he began, “they have somehow squandered their properties, and they have not the same spirit. Gentlemen nowadays behave differently, but then all was simple; there was plenty of everything: grain, cattle, their own winepress,⁠—they prepared liqueurs by the barrel, and such meads and sweet drinks! They made merry and enjoyed themselves; for example, they would bring together a lot of male and female jesters on some holiday, and they would urge them on against each other: and they fought and amused the gentlefolk; but nowadays they keep little company with each other, and find more pleasure in books.”

Here the old man stopped, but he soon began anew with animation:

“There are not many gentlemen who now stay on their estates, unless they be old or sick, but all serve in some capacity; there are no longer great personages. Let us take, for instance, our lady, the Court-intendant,” he continued, almost with emotion, “how she was honoured in the Government! A new lieutenant, or, as you call him now, a new governor, is appointed: he is still in St. Petersburg, but she is already writing to her friends, the ministers and senators, that, inasmuch as a new governor is coming to us, ‘you tell him to know me, and I will know him.’ And the moment she receives the news that he has arrived, she immediately sends for me. I make my appearance, and bow. ‘Listen,’ says she, ‘Yákov Ivánov!’⁠—she always spoke a little through her nose: ‘Listen! A new governor has arrived, so take the best tróyka,[16] drive to Kostromá, go to such and such a jeweller and purchase a silver basin; search out wherever you please the very best of sterlets, or, still better, a live sturgeon; go in my name to the governor, have yourself announced, and say this and that about your mistress, the Court-intendant, and that, on account of ill-health, she cannot come herself, so she congratulates him by proxy upon his arrival and, as a resident, sends him, as a greeting and instead of the bread and salt, fish in the basin.’ He receives it, I am given a fine treat, and he sends a letter to our mistress.”

“So the amity began,” remarked I, in imitation of the old man’s voice.

“That ’s it, amity, your word is correct!” he fell in: “because, when now his Excellency, the Chief of the Government, deigned to travel on inspections, he would visit us, and those were magnificent assemblies. From what I have seen and heard, governors nowadays travel with great pomp, and demand great receptions and respect, and there is a great fear, at least upon the small officials, but from what I know of the past, the governors of to-day are nothing in comparison with them.”

“How was it then?” asked I.

“Formerly, sir, the governor travelled over the Government like a king of the earth: what a lot of officials surrounded his person, and what a lot of gentlefolk joined him everywhere on his journey! There was one,⁠—I dare not mention his name,⁠—who was in the habit of travelling over the Government with his wife, and she,⁠—pardon me for saying so,⁠—on account of her feminine weakness, had a great love for dogs. There was a special carriage for these dogs; and a special officer had charge of them. He by accident lost one little dog; her Excellency the governor’s wife, in spite of her exalted position, boxed his ears in sight of all people, and he was discharged,⁠—that ’s the kind of times that were then!”

“Those were good, simple times,” remarked I.

“It was simple, sir,” concluded Yákov Ivánov; then, having thought a moment, he continued: “It would happen, sir, that all that company stayed with us for three or four days, or a whole week, and if the governor chanced to praise some thing in our house, say a clock, a picture, a silver platter, I had a standing order to take that thing in the evening to his sleeping-room and to report that my lady was very happy that such and such a thing had pleased him, and that she begged him to accept it.”

“Did the old lady do it all from mere bravado?” asked I.

“Bravado there was,” answered Yákov Ivánov. “Of course, she had great vanity, but more than that, she drew great advantages from it. For instance, an estate was for sale by order of the chancery,⁠—and my lady, relying on her amicable relations to the chiefs of the Government, had only to cast her eyes upon it, and it was ours. If I, the plenipotentiary of Mrs. Pasmúrov, appeared at the sales in the chancery, not a purchaser turned up: they knew full well that the Chief of the Government did not desire it. I thanked where thanks were needed, and in a befitting manner, and it was all right whatever was paid for the estate. The estate of Byelogrívy, sir, came in those days into our hands for one hundred and twenty roubles, and when I went down to take possession of it, I collected two hundred roubles of delinquent dues from the peasants, so you may figure out what the estate cost us.”

Saying this, the peasant evidently did not consider that he had said too much, and when I cried out almost involuntarily:

“Old man! but that is a sin, that is stealing,” he was taken back, and answered in an humbled voice and with a sigh:

“A sin, sir; in my wretchedness and blindness I see and feel it all; in the commandments of the Lord it is said: thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, nor his village, nor his manservant,⁠—but our old lady had a desire for it all, though it must be said that all people are not without weaknesses.” He strongly accentuated the last word.

“I should say, he and his mistress knew their advantage!” suddenly fell in Gráchikha, who was busy at the stove: “you are telling of the estate, but you had better tell how you delivered a gentleman into the army as a recruit from your estate,” continued she, stepping out behind the partition and standing near the ovenbed, while she leaned with one arm on a beam and with the other against her fat side.

Yákov Ivánov frowned a little.

“How a gentleman?” asked I.

“They did,” answered Gráchikha. “Their mistress, the General’s wife, did not like to get her peasants under the red hat, because she needed them all; so there happened to turn up a poor gentleman: he was not a nice fellow to behold; he must have been maimed when he was young,⁠—his head was so large and flat, and there was little sense in it, for he knew neither count, nor days, nor anything else, and yet he knew enough to live according to his estate. So these our falcons came to him and began to persuade him: ‘You,’ they said, ‘are a gentleman, and yet you live as a labourer among the peasants. You had better serve in the army; but as you know neither how to read, nor write, you will not be ranked as a gentleman, so you had better serve first for our estate, and later, when you will declare yourself a gentleman, you will be properly advanced.’ Having no kin with whom to take counsel, he foolishly drank their wine and ate their cates, and unthinkingly consented. The young gentleman was brought to the recruiting office, and was declared a common peasant. They called out: ‘Shave him!’ dressed him in soldier’s clothes, and ‘March!’ with the rest of the recruits. Three or four years later he announced to his superior: ‘I,’ says he, ‘am a gentleman!’ ‘What kind of a gentleman are you?’ says he, and he chaffed him a little, but he kept on repeating: ‘I am a gentleman, that ’s all,’ and he went to the higher authorities, and told them the same. They looked into the documents, and saw that he was a peasant, so they reported that way. So our gentleman had to give it up, and he served thirty-five years for their estate. They knew how to fix documents! It may be that for their trickery they are now paying with their own blood,” said Gráchikha half-loud, pointing with her eyes to Yákov Ivánovich, who, in his turn, had listened to her recital with bent head, and without saying a word.

I tried to change the subject, so I asked the old man:

“In whose hands is the estate of your mistress now? I saw it: it is dilapidated and neglected, and the house is in ruins.”

“Our estate is now held in trust,” answered he, evidently satisfied with the change. “Well, the guardians are strangers, and they either do not care to look after things, or they steal into their own pockets. Not only do they neglect the estate, but they do not keep the peasants in order. Drunkards and wasters are living without fear, and those who are better off now are frequently squeezed: ‘We will put your son,’ they say, ‘into the army, or we will take him to our own estate.’”

“And now, peasant, pay your ransom. In former days you used to make a great deal of money,” fell in Gráchikha.

Yákov Ivánov paid no attention to her words, and continued:

“And then the estate has no protection against the officials. In former days, when my mistress was alive, our manorial servants were, to tell the truth, a riotous lot. Not a church holiday passed without their riots, when they would smash whole fairs, but the authorities, considering who they were and to what lady they belonged, begged them with words to stop; but nowadays, our rural captain of police, an insignificant man, commands and punishes in our villages, just out of interest to that accursed one himself, in whose favour he is so biassed that he regards that day lost in which he has not had some advantage from his office. I once met him in town, and says I to him: ‘Why and for what cause do you, sir, so abuse the estate of my mistress?’ ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘worthy old man, where are we, the rural police, to have our sway, if not in the estates that are in trust? These are severe times, we are not permitted to take bribes, but what we can pocket in any other way is all right!’ and he laughed, sir!”

Afanási Afanásevich Shenshín (Fet). (1820-1892.)

Shenshín is one of the most melodious of the minor poets. He was born in the Government of Orél, and received his early education at home. Upon entering the Moscow University he was confronted with certain difficulties which compelled him to assume the name of Fet, after his mother by her first marriage, which he retained through life as his nom de plume. He then served in the army up to 1856, after which he retired to his Orél estate. He began writing in 1840, and at first distinguished himself as a translator from Goethe and Horace. His original poems, of which there is a large number, are all short and tunable lyrical outbursts, with rarely a title to know them by.

Two short poems, A Russian Scene and Tryst, are given in John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian, reprinted in the Library of the World’s Best Literature; and the four nameless ones, given below, by I. H. Harrison in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 19.

⁠—Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 19.

TRYST

⁠—From John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.

Fédor Mikháylovich Dostoévski. (1821-1881.)

Dostoévski was the second of seven children of a poor army surgeon. He was brought up at home, which consisted of but two living rooms, by his father. At thirteen years of age he was sent to a boarding school, and later to the School of Engineering in St. Petersburg from which he graduated in 1843. He received a good appointment, but soon resigned from it in order to devote himself to literature. His first novel, Poor People, appeared in 1846, and was proclaimed as the work of a “new Gógol.” In 1849 he was arrested for a supposed participation in a conspiracy and was sentenced for four years to Siberian prisons, after which he was to serve as a soldier in a Siberian regiment. His nerves, which had never been strong, were completely shattered in his imprisonment, and he at times had fits of epilepsy. He was permitted to return to European Russia in 1859. Two years later he published with his brother a periodical, The Time, in which appeared simultaneously two of his great novels, The Humiliated and the Offended, and The Memoirs from the Dead House. His best novel, Crime and Punishment, came out a few years later. Only towards the end of his life did his works and his literary labours furnish him with a competency. Dostoévski’s writings lack the artistic perfection of his great contemporaries, and almost entirely neglect the description of Nature; but they are unsurpassed for the psychological analysis of human character, especially of the diseased mind. It has been pointed out by a medical authority that in his analysis of pathological cases he has anticipated later scientific discoveries.

The following works have been translated into English: Buried Alive; or, Ten Years of Penal Servitude in Siberia, translated by Marie von Philo, London and New York, 1881; Prison Life in Siberia, translated by H. S. Edwards, London, 1887; Crime and Punishment, London, 1885, New York, 1886 and 1889 (4th ed. London, 1893); Injury and Insult, translated by F. Whishaw, London, 1886; Uncle’s Dream, and The Permanent Husband, London, 1888-9; Friend of the Family, and The Gambler, London, 1887-9; Poor Folk (Franklin Square Library, No. 594), New York, 1887, translated by L. Milman, Boston, and London, 1894; The Idiot, London, 1887-8; extracts from Poor People, and Crime and Punishment, translated by I. Hapgood, in the Library of the World’s Best Literature.

FROM “CRIME AND PUNISHMENT”

RASKÓLNIKOV’S CONFESSION

Raskólnikov again covered his face with his hands and dropped his head. He suddenly grew pale, rose from his chair, looked at Sónya, and, without uttering a word or being conscious of the act, seated himself on her bed.

To his sensations, that moment bore a dreadful resemblance to the one when he was standing back of the old woman and, having loosened the axe from the noose, was feeling that not another minute was to be lost.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Sónya, terrified.

He could not speak a word. It was not at all that way that he had intended to announce it to her, and he did not himself understand what was going on within him. She softly went up to him, sat down on the bed near him, and waited, without taking her eyes away from him. Her heart alternately beat strongly or stopped beating. It became unbearable. He turned his deathly pale face to her; his lips twitched impotently in a vain effort to say something. Terror passed through Sónya’s heart.

“What is the matter with you?” she repeated, moving a little away from him.

“Nothing, Sónya. Don’t get frightened. Nonsense! Really, when you come to think of it, it is nonsense,” he muttered like a delirious person who is not conscious of himself. “But why have I chosen you of all persons to torment?” he added suddenly, looking at her. “Really, why? I am continually asking myself this question, Sónya.”

It may be he had asked himself that question fifteen minutes before, but just then he had lost control of himself and hardly knew what he was about, feeling only an uninterrupted chill over his whole body.

“Oh, how you suffer!” she spoke with a painful expression, looking fixedly at him.

“It ’s all bosh!⁠⸺ Say, Sónya” (he, for some reason, suddenly for a second or two smiled a pale and impotent smile), “do you remember what I had intended to tell you yesterday?”

Sónya was waiting restlessly.

“I told you, as I left you, that it was probably the last time I was bidding you good-bye, but that if I came back to-day, I would tell you⁠—who killed Lizavéta.”

A tremor suddenly passed over her whole body.

“So, you see, I have come to tell you.”

“So you really did yesterday⁠⸺” she whimpered with difficulty. “But how do you know?” she immediately asked, as if coming to.

Sónya began to breathe with difficulty. Her face grew paler and paler.

“I do know.”

She remained silent for a minute.

“Did they find him?” she asked him timidly.

“No, they did n’t.”

“How, then, do you know about it?” she again asked him barely audibly, after a minute’s silence.

He turned around to her and fixed his gaze at her. “Guess!” he muttered with the same convulsive and impotent smile as before.

Her whole body was shivering as if with cramps. “You⁠—why do you⁠—do you frighten me?” she spoke and smiled like a child.

“It must be, then, I am a great friend of his, since I know,” proceeded Raskólnikov, continuing uninterruptedly to look at her face, as though it was beyond him to take his eyes away from her. “He did not mean to⁠—kill⁠—that Lizavéta⁠— He⁠—killed her by accident⁠— He wanted to kill the old woman⁠—when she was alone⁠—and he came⁠— And then Lizavéta entered⁠— He⁠—then killed her too.”

Another terrible minute passed. They looked at each other.

“So you can’t guess?” he suddenly asked her, with a sensation as if he were falling down a belltower.

“N⁠—no!” Sónya lisped almost inaudibly.

“Take a good look.”

When he said that, the former, familiar sensation suddenly iced his soul. He glanced at her, and immediately it appeared to him, he recognised Lizavéta in her face. He vividly remembered the expression of Lizavéta’s face as he approached her with the axe and she kept receding to the wall, with outstretched hand, and perfectly childish expression of fear in her face, precisely as little children do who, when they suddenly become frightened at something, immovably and restlessly look at the object of their fear, step back and begin to cry, while stretching out their little hands. Almost the same took place with Sónya. She looked at him for a while, just as powerless, with just the same expression of terror; then, suddenly, she stretched out her left hand, barely touched his breast with her fingers, and began to rise slowly from the bed, all the time removing farther away from him and ever more immovably fixing her eyes upon him.

Her terror was soon communicated to him, and he began to look at her, almost with the same childish smile.

“Have you guessed?” he whispered at last.

“Lord!” A terrible moan issued from her breast. She fell powerless on the bed, with her face on the pillows. But in a moment she was again on her feet, rapidly walked up to him, seized his two hands, and, pressing them hard with her thin fingers, as in a vise, again became motionless as if glued to the place, and stared at him. With this last, despairing glance she wanted to read some last hope in his face. But there was no hope; there was no suspicion left; it was all so! Even later, when she recalled that moment, she felt inexpressibly strange: how was it that she then saw at once that there was no doubt whatsoever left? For certainly she could not say that she had had a presentiment of that kind. But just then, when he had barely told her about it, it suddenly flashed upon her that she really had had some such presentiment.

“Stop, Sónya, stop! Do not torment me!” he begged her pitifully. He had had the intention of telling her about it in an entirely different manner, but it had turned out just that way.

She jumped up, as if beside herself, and, wringing her hands, stepped to the centre of the room; but she immediately returned and seated herself by his side, touching his shoulder with her own. Then she suddenly quivered, as if pierced by an arrow, cried out aloud, and, without knowing herself why, kneeled down before him.

“Oh, what have you done with yourself?” she cried in despair and, rising to her feet, embraced his neck and pressed it with all her might.

Raskólnikov reeled back and looked at her with a sad smile.

“You are a strange girl, Sónya! You embrace and kiss me, though I told you all about it. You are beside yourself.”

“No, there is not a more unfortunate man in the whole world than you are!” she called out, as if in a stupor, without hearing his remark, and suddenly bursting into tears, as if in hysterics.

A long unfamiliar feeling flooded his soul and at once softened it. He did not struggle against it: two tears rolled out of his eyes and hung upon his lashes.

“So you will not leave me, Sónya?” he spoke, looking almost hopefully at her.

“No, no! Never and nowhere!” Sónya cried out. “I will go with you, anywhere you want me to! O Lord! O miserable girl that I am. Oh, why, why did I not know you before? Why did you not come to see me before? O Lord!”

“You see, I have come now!”

“Now! Oh, what can now be done? Both of us, both of us!” she cried out as if oblivious and again embraced him. “I ’ll go to Siberia with you!”

Something touched him to the quick, and his former hateful and almost supercilious smile stood upon his lips.

“Sónya, as far as that is concerned, I may not yet be ready to go to Siberia,” he said.

Sónya cast a swift glance at him.

After her first impassioned and vexatious sympathy with the unfortunate man, the terrible idea of the murder struck her again forcibly. She heard the murderer in his changed tone of voice. She looked in wonderment at him. She knew nothing as yet, neither why, nor how, nor for what purpose. Now all these questions burst at once upon her consciousness. And again she could not believe: “He, he a murderer! But is that possible?”

“But what is that? Where am I?” she exclaimed in great perplexity as if still in a trance. “But how could you, you, take that step? How was it possible?”

“Why, to rob. Stop, Sónya!” he answered, as if exhausted and even as if annoyed.

Sónya stood for a moment, as if struck dumb, then she suddenly cried out:

“You had been hungry! You⁠—to help your mother? Yes?”

“No, Sónya, no,” he muttered and turned away his drooping head, “I was not so hungry, I really wanted to help my mother, but⁠—that is not quite correct either⁠—do not torment me, Sónya!”

Sónya wrung her hands.

“But can all this be really true? Lord, is it true? Who would believe it?⁠⸺ How can it be, you give away your last, and then you kill, in order to rob! Ah!” she suddenly cried out. “The money, the money that you had given Katerína Ivánovna⁠—that money⁠—Lord, can it be that money, too?”

“No, Sónya,” he speedily interrupted her, “not that money, calm yourself! That money mother sent me by a merchant, and I received it when I was sick, and that very day I gave it away. No, that was my money, my own money.”

Sónya listened to him perplexed and was invoking all her reasoning power in order to form a concept.

“That money⁠—I really do not even know whether there was any money there,” he added softly and as if lost in meditation. “I did take off a purse, a full chamois purse, from her neck, but I did not open it to look into it; I suppose I did not have the time for it⁠⸺ There were some other things, studs, chains, and I know not what,⁠—I buried all that and the purse next morning under a rock in somebody’s yard, in the V. Prospect⁠⸺ It ’s all there yet⁠⸺”

Sónya was straining herself to hear.

“Then why did you do it? You said yourself, you did it to rob, and then you did not take anything?” she quickly asked him, trying to catch at a straw.

“I do not know⁠—I have not yet made up my mind whether to take that money, or not,” he spoke, as if again lost in meditation, but suddenly regaining consciousness, his face was lit up by a swift, soft smile. “Oh, what a lot of bosh I have been just saying, eh?”

A thought flashed through Sónya’s mind: “Maybe he is insane!” but she immediately arrested her thought: “No, there is something else there.” She did not understand a thing, not a thing!

“Do you know, Sónya,” he suddenly said with a kind of inspiration, “do you know what I will tell you? If I had murdered them because I was hungry,” he continued, accentuating every word, and enigmatically, though sincerely, looking at her, “I would now be happy! You had better know that! What do you care, what do you care,” he cried out after a moment in a voice akin to despair, “what do you care for my confession, if I were to make it, that I have done wrong? What good could such a foolish victory of yours over me do you? O Sónya, did I now come to you for that?”

Sónya again wanted to say something, but she kept silent.

“That ’s why I wanted you last night to be with me, because you are the only one left to me.”

“Where did you want me to go to?” Sónya asked timidly.

“Not to steal, nor murder, don’t worry⁠—not for that,” he smiled sarcastically. “I only now begin to understand what I called you for last night! Yesterday, I did not understand what I called you for. I called you for the same purpose for which I have come to see you now: not to leave me. You will not leave me, Sónya?”

She pressed his hand.

“Now, why did I tell her, why did I confess to her,” he cried out a minute later in despair, looking in endless torment at her. “You are waiting for an explanation from me, Sónya; you are sitting there and waiting, I see it; but what am I to tell you? You won’t understand a word of it; you will only suffer torment⁠—for me! There, there you are weeping and again embracing me. Why are you embracing me? Is it because I did not bear it all myself, but came to put it on other shoulders, that by your suffering I may feel relieved? And you can love such a villain?”

“Are n’t you suffering yourself?” Sónya exclaimed.

The same feeling again flooded his soul, and again for a moment softened it.

“Sónya, my heart is bad. Take a note of that, for you will be able to explain much by it. I came because I am bad. There are some who would not have come. But I am a coward, a villain! Well, let it be! But that is not it!⁠⸺I ought to talk now, and I do not know how to begin⁠⸺”