THE NINETEENTH CENTURY (continued 7)

He stopped and fell to musing.

“Bah, we don’t belong together!” he again exclaimed. “We are not a match for each other. Why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself!”

“No, no! It is good that you have come!” exclaimed Sónya, “it is better that I should know, much better!”

He looked in pain at her.

“After all, why not?” he said, as if pondering over it. “It certainly happened that way! Listen: I wanted to be a Napoleon, that ’s why I murdered⁠⸺ Well, do you understand now?”

“N⁠—no!” Sónya muttered naïvely and timidly, “but just go on! I ’ll understand you, I ’ll make it out!” she begged him.

“You will understand? Very well, we shall see!”

He grew silent and pondered for a long while.

“It is like this: I once asked myself what would have happened if Napoleon had been in my place, and had had nothing with which to begin his career, neither Toulon, nor Egypt, nor crossing Mont-Blanc; if instead of all these beautiful and monumental things there would be nothing but a funny old woman, a registrar’s widow, whom, in addition, it would be necessary to kill in order to get the money out of her trunk (for the sake of a career, you understand!),⁠—well, would he have made up his mind to do so, if there had been no other way? Would he have had scruples because it is far from being monumental, and⁠—and because it is sinful? Well, I tell you, this ‘question’ tormented me for a dreadfully long time, so that I felt very much ashamed when at last I guessed (it came all of a sudden to me), that he not only would not have had any scruples, but that it would not even have occurred to him that it was not monumental⁠—and that he would have been at a loss to see what he was to have any scruples about? And if no other road had been open to him, he would have choked her to death, without giving her a chance to cry out, and he would not even have brooded over it. Well, I⁠—stopped brooding over it⁠—killed her⁠—following the example of my authority⁠⸺ It was precisely that way! You think it is funny? Yes, Sónya, the funniest thing about all this is that it really happened that way⁠⸺”

Sónya did not think it at all funny.

“You had better tell me straight, without examples,” she begged him more timidly and in a hardly audible voice.

He turned towards her, sadly looked at her, and took her hands.

“You are again right, Sónya. That is indeed nonsense, nothing but empty prattle! You see: you know that my mother hardly has a thing. My sister has somehow managed to get an education, and she is destined to wear her life away as a governess. All their hopes were centred in me. I studied, but was unable to support myself in the university, and was compelled to leave it for a time. Even as it was, I still might have hoped, if circumstances became favourable, in ten or twelve years to be a teacher or official, with a thousand roubles yearly salary.” He spoke as if he had learned it by heart. “In the meanwhile my mother would dry up from cares and grief, and I should not after all succeed in making her lot easier, while my sister⁠—well, something worse could happen to her!⁠⸺ What pleasure is there in passing all your life by things and avoiding them, in forgetting your mother, or, say, respectfully bearing the insult offered to your sister? What for? To bury them, to get a family of your own, wife and children, and then to leave these too without a penny? Well⁠—well, so I decided to get hold of the old woman’s money, to use it for the first few years, by providing for myself in the university, without putting my mother to any trouble, and to use it also for the first steps after my university career. I had decided to do it all in a broad, radical manner, so as to provide abundantly for my new career, and to start on a new and independent road⁠⸺ Of course, it is wrong for me to have killed that old woman⁠—well, enough of it!”

He dragged out the story in complete exhaustion, and his head fell down on his breast.

“Oh, it is not that, not that,” Sónya exclaimed dejectedly, “how could one⁠—no, not that way, not that way!”

“You see yourself that it is not so! Still I have told you the whole truth!”

“What truth is that! O Lord!”

“I have only killed a louse, Sónya, a useless, nasty, harmful louse.”

“You call a person a louse!”

“I know myself that she is not a louse,” he answered, looking at her in a strange manner. “However, Sónya, I am lying,⁠—I have been lying for a long time⁠⸺ No, it is not that; you are right. No, there are altogether different reasons!⁠⸺ I have not talked to anybody for a long time, Sónya⁠⸺ My head hurts me dreadfully.”

His eyes burnt with a feverish fire. He was almost growing delirious; a restless smile hovered on his lips. A terrible impotence could be seen through the excited condition of his soul. Sónya understood how he was suffering. Her own head began to whirl. And he spoke so strangely, and yet as if one might understand, but⁠—“How is it possible? How is it possible, O Lord?” and she wrung her hands in despair.

“No, Sónya, it is not that!” he began again, raising his head, as if a sudden new turn in his thoughts had struck him and roused him. “It is not that! But rather, suppose (yes, that is better!), suppose that I am selfish, envious, malicious, villainous, revengeful, well⁠—if you wish it, inclined to insanity. (Let us grant all, while we are about it! We spoke before of insanity, it seems!) I told you long ago that I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know, I may have been able to after all! Mother would have sent the amount for the fees, and very likely I could have earned enough for shoes, clothes, and bread! There was some tutoring to do, and they offered fifty kopeks an hour. Take Razumíkhin, he is working! But I just got mad, and did n’t want to. That ’s it, mad,⁠—that is a good word! I then kept to my corner like a spider. You have been in my den, you have seen it⁠⸺ Do you know, Sónya, low ceilings and small rooms oppress soul and mind! Oh, how I did hate that den! And yet, I did not wish to leave it! I did not leave it for days at a time, and I did not want to work, or even eat, but lay there all the time. If Nastásya brought me anything, I would eat it; if not,⁠—a day might pass without eating. I was so mad, I did not ask on purpose. During the evenings I had no candles, but lay in darkness. I did not try to earn enough for candles. I ought to have studied, but I had sold my books; on my notes and copybooks that are lying on the table there is even now an inch of dust. I preferred to lie and think. And I did nothing but think⁠⸺ I had such strange visions, such peculiar dreams, just horrible! It was then that I began to imagine that⁠—no, that is n’t correct! I am again telling wrong! You see, I kept on asking myself: why am I so stupid and do not try to be wiser, when others are stupid and I am positive that they are stupid? Then I discovered, Sónya, that it would take a long time to wait for others to get wiser⁠⸺ Then I found out that it would never happen, that people would not change, that nobody could change them, and that it was not worth the while anyway! Yes, that ’s the way! That ’s their law, their law, Sónya! That ’s so!⁠⸺ I know even now, Sónya, that he who is strong and mighty in soul and mind is their master! He who dares is right in their eyes. He who looks with contempt at most things is their lawgiver, and he who dares most of all is most right! So it has always been, and so it will always be! Only a blind man will refuse to see that!”

Saying this, Raskólnikov looked at Sónya, but he was no longer concerned about her understanding him. He was in a kind of sombre rapture. He had really not exchanged any words with anyone for a long time. Sónya understood that that gloomy catechism was his faith and law.

“I then came to the conclusion, Sónya,” he proceeded in an ecstatic mood, “that power is given only to him who dares to bend in order to take it up. That is the only thing,⁠—one must dare! Then I worked out a thought, for the first time in my life, which no one had ever worked out before! Nobody! It all of a sudden became clear to me as the sun that it was very strange that, passing by all that nonsense, no one had ever dared or would dare to take the whole business by the tail and send it flying to the devil! I⁠—I wanted to dare, and I killed⁠—I only wanted to dare. Sónya, there is the whole reason!”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Sónya, and wrung her hands. “You have departed from God, and God has struck you down, and has given you over to the devil!”

“By the way, Sónya, when I was lying in the dark and all kinds of thoughts came to me, was it the devil that was tempting me, eh?”

“Hush! Don’t laugh, blasphemer! You do not understand anything, not a thing! O Lord! He will not understand anything!”

“Hush, Sónya, I am not at all laughing, I know myself that the devil was dragging me all the time. Hush, Sónya, hush!” he repeated gloomily and with emphasis. “I know all. I thought it all over and whispered it to myself as I was lying there in the dark⁠—I have discussed it all with myself, down to the finest point, and I know all, I know all! And I got then so tired of all that prattle! I wanted to forget and begin anew, Sónya, and stop all that nonsense! Do you really think I went headlong, like a fool? I went like a shrewd fellow, and it is this that has been my undoing! Or do you really think that I did not know, for example, that the very fact that I kept on asking myself and discussing with myself whether I had a right to have power, was in itself a proof that I had no such right? Or, that when I put the question to myself: ‘Is man a louse?’ man is no longer a louse, as far as I am concerned, but that he is only a louse for him who has no doubts about it, and proceeds without any questions? The very fact that I was vexed for several days by the question, whether Napoleon would have gone or not, showed that I clearly felt that I was no Napoleon⁠⸺ I suffered all the torment of that nonsense, Sónya, and I wanted to get rid of it. I wanted to kill without casuistry, Sónya, to kill for my own sake, only for me! I did not want to lie in this matter, not even to myself! I did not kill in order to help mother,⁠—that ’s bosh! I did not kill in order to get the means and the power with which to do good to humankind. Bosh! I simply killed, killed for my own sake, only for me. No doubt, it was all the same to me at that moment whether I was ever to become anybody’s benefactor, or whether I was going, like a spider, to catch them all in my cobweb in order to suck their vital sap!⁠⸺ Nor was money the main thing that I wanted when I killed her, Sónya; not so much the money as something else⁠⸺ Now I know it all⁠⸺ Understand me: if I were to go on that road again, I should never repeat that murder. I had to find out something else,⁠—something else drew me on. What I had to find out then,⁠—and find out at once,⁠—was whether I was a louse or a man! Whether I should be able to transgress or not! Whether I should be able to bend and take up or not! Whether I am a trembling creature, or whether I have the right⁠⸺”

“To kill? Whether you have the right to kill?” Sónya wrung her hands.

“Ah, Sónya!” he exclaimed excitedly; he wanted to retort something, but contemptuously kept silent. “Do not interrupt me, Sónya! I wanted to prove but one thing to you: that the devil was then drawing me on, and that only later he explained to me that I had no right to go there, because I am just the same kind of a louse as anybody else. He has had his laugh at me, and so I have come to you now! Here is a guest for you! If I were not a louse, would I have come to you? Listen! When I was then going to the old woman, I only went to try⁠—I am telling you!”

“And you killed her! You killed her!”

“How killed her? Is that the way to kill? Do people go to kill the way I went? I ’ll tell you sometime how I went then!⁠⸺ Did I kill the old woman? I killed myself, and not the old woman! I then crushed myself for eternity!⁠⸺ The devil killed the old woman, and not I⁠⸺ Enough, Sónya, enough! Leave me alone,” he suddenly cried out in convulsive despair, “leave me alone!”

He bent over his knees and pressed his head with his hands, as if in a vise.

“Oh, what torment!” Sónya moaned pitifully.

“Well, what is to be done now, speak!” he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face that was horribly distorted by despair.

“What is to be done!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat, and her eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to sparkle.

“Rise!” She grabbed him by his shoulder; he raised himself and looked almost perplexed at her. “Go at once, this very minute, stand at the cross-road, make your obeisance, first kiss the earth that you have polluted, then bow to the whole world, on all four sides, and cry out aloud to all, so that all may hear it: ‘I have murdered!’ Then God will send you life again. Will you go? Will you?” she asked him, trembling as if in a fit. She seized both his hands, pressed them tightly with her own, and looked at him with a fiery glance.

He was perplexed and was even surprised at her sudden ecstasy.

“You are talking about Siberia, Sónya, are n’t you? If I understand you right, I am to accuse myself,” he said gloomily.

“What is necessary is to accept the suffering and redeem yourself through suffering.”

“No, Sónya, I won’t go to them.”

“But how are you going to live?⁠—how are you? What are you going to live by?” Sónya exclaimed. “Will that be possible now? How are you going to talk to your mother? Oh, what will become of them, what will become of them now? But what am I saying? You have already abandoned mother and sister. You have abandoned them, you have. O Lord!” she exclaimed, “he knows all that himself! How, pray, how can one live without people? What will become of you?”

“Be no child, Sónya,” he softly said. “What am I guilty of in their presence? Why should I go? What shall I tell them? That is all visionary⁠⸺ They themselves get away with people by the million, and regard it a virtue. They are rascals and villains, Sónya!⁠⸺ I won’t go. What should I tell them?⁠—that I have killed somebody, and that I did not dare take the money, but hid it under a rock?” he added with a sarcastic smile. “Why, they will themselves laugh at me, and will say: ‘He was a fool not to take the money. A coward and a fool!’ They will understand nothing, absolutely nothing, Sónya, and they do not deserve to understand. Why should I go? Be no child, Sónya.”

“You will worry your life away, you will worry your life away,” she repeated, stretching out her hands to him, and imploring him with a despairing look.

“Maybe I have incriminated myself beyond necessity,” he remarked gloomily, as if lost in meditation, “maybe I am still a man, and not a louse, and have been too hasty in accusing myself⁠⸺ I will struggle on for a while.”

A haughty smile lay on his closed lips.

“To bear such a torment! And it is for a lifetime, for a lifetime!”

“I ’ll get used to it,” he said morosely and pensively. “Listen,” he began a minute later, “it ’s time to stop weeping, and think of business. I came to tell you that they are looking for me now, and trying to catch me⁠⸺”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sónya in fright.

“Why have you cried out! You yourself wanted me to be sent to the mines, and now you are frightened. But let me tell you: I am not going to give myself up to them. I will struggle on, and they will do nothing. They have no real clue. Yesterday I was in great danger, and I thought that I was undone; but to-day things have improved. All their proofs have two ends to them, that is, I can turn their accusations to my advantage, do you understand? And I will do so, for I have learned a thing or two. But they will certainly put me in jail. If it had not been for just one incident, they would have put me in jail to-day, and maybe they still will⁠⸺ But that is nothing, Sónya. I shall stay there a while, and then they will let me out, for they have not a single proper proof, and there will be none,⁠—I give you my word for it. With what they know, they cannot hold a man. Well, that ’s enough⁠⸺ I just wanted you to know⁠⸺ I shall try to fix matters with my mother and sister, so as to allay their suspicions and fears. Besides, my sister seems to be provided for at present, consequently mother too. Well, that ’s all. However, you want to be cautious. Will you come to see me in jail, when I am taken there?”

“O yes, I will, I will!”

They were sitting side by side, sorrowful and crushed, as if cast by a storm on a desolate shore. He looked at Sónya and he felt how much her love was upon him, and, strange to say, he suddenly had a heavy and painful feeling because he was loved. Yes, that was a strange and terrible sensation! As he was on his way to Sónya, he felt that all his hope was in her. He had hoped to put away part of his sufferings, and now that all her heart had turned to him, he suddenly felt and knew that he was infinitely more unhappy than he had been before.

“Sónya,” he said, “you had better not come to see me in jail.”

Sónya did not answer, she was weeping.

“You won’t, will you?”

“Here, take this cypress cross. I have another, of copper, that used to belong to Lizavéta. Lizavéta and I have exchanged crosses: she gave me her cross, and I gave her my image. I shall now wear Lizavéta’s, and you keep this one. Take it⁠—it is mine! It is mine!” she begged him. “We will suffer together, let us together bear the cross!”

“Give it to me!” said Raskólnikov. He did not wish to offend her. But he immediately drew back the hand that he had stretched out to receive the cross.

“Not now, Sónya. Better some other time,” he added, in order to calm her.

“Yes, yes, better later,” she said in rapture, “when you begin your punishment, then you will put it on. You will come to me, and I shall put it on you; then we will pray and we shall start.”

Apollón Nikoláevich Máykov. (1821-1898.)

A. N. Máykov was the grandson of V. I. Máykov, the author of the Eliséy (see vol. i., p. 263), and the son of a well-known artist. He passed his early childhood in the country, near Moscow, until his family, in 1834, emigrated to St. Petersburg. Here he early came in contact with the literary circles, and was prepared for the university by Goncharóv (see p. 259), who was his tutor in Russian literature. At first he devoted himself entirely to painting, and attached little importance to his poetical talents; but his growing nearsightedness interfered with his artistic activity, and the flattering reception of his verses by Byelínski led him to turn his attention to poetry. In 1842 he went abroad, staying more than a year in Italy, attending the Collège de France and the Sorbonne, and plunging into the Pan-slavic propaganda at Prague. Upon his return he wrote a large number of poems, dealing with his European impressions, and also some from Russian history. He excelled in the description of classic antiquity, which culminated in his great work, The Two Worlds, with Three Deaths as a kind of prologue to it; his classic knowledge appears to great advantage in his Anthological Poems. Of his medieval poems may be mentioned Savonarola and The Council of Clermont. He kept entirely aloof from the questions of the day, and Russian contemporary history and life occupied but a small space in his productions: he either betook himself to depicting scenery, as in The Catching of the Fish, or to the idealisation of the past. Of his many translations, mainly from the Slavic languages, must be especially mentioned his admirable modernisation of The Word of Ígor’s Armament.

In Macmillan’s Magazine, vol. xxxiii. (1877), is given To the Empress of India; in C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics, London, 1887, are given: The Cornfields, Hay-making, The Mountain Spring, The Idiot Girl, A Picture; in John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian, London, 1891: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Who Was He?, The Easter Kiss, On Lomonósov, Propriety, The Singer, A Little Picture, The Alpine Glacier, The Mother, The Kiss Refused, The Snowdrop, A Smile and a Tear. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society: by F. P. Marchant, The Marble Faun, in No. 19, On Re-reading Pushkin, in No. 32, The Thought, Hesiod, The Muse, The Peris, The Hermit, Happy realm of youth eternal, When overwhelmed by grief, From the Gnostics, in No. 33; by J. Pollen, reprint of his A Little Picture, in No. 33. In Free Russia are given: by Elizabeth Gibson, The Council of Constance, in vol. xi., Nos. 8-10, and parts of the Three Deaths, in vol. xii., No. 4. In the Library of the World’s Best Literature are reprinted J. Pollen’s The Easter Kiss, The Alpine Glacier, The Kiss Refused.

THE PERIS

⁠—Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 33.

WHO WAS HE?

A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT

⁠—From J. Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.

THE MARBLE FAUN

⁠—Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 19.

FROM THE LYRIC DRAMA “THREE DEATHS”

THE DEATH OF SENECA AND OF LUCIUS

(Having embraced Seneca and Lucius, Lucan exit, in company of the lictors.)

Seneca (wants to follow him, but stops as his disciples rush up to him; stroking his brow, he speaks softly and solemnly). I had but one aim in life, and I have walked to it over a rugged path. My life has ever been a moral school: and death is but a new lesson, a new letter, amidst the eternal and wondrous alphabet, a pledge of a higher, endless science! The Creator has given me a stern mind with which to scan the universe, that what I have learned in me and it I may transmit to future generations. He sent against me malice, monstrous and vile debauch, that, like an oak upon the height midst storms, I might grow strong through artful battling, that among a mass of deeds and acts I might impress my image⁠⸺ I have accomplished all. My form is cast. Yet one more chisel’s sweep,⁠—and proudly shall it stand through ages. The chisel shall not quiver. Terror shall not bind my hands. My journey is finished here,⁠—but my spirit, made in this terrestrial life more perfect and more wise, will enter eternity. Open is the door before me, and I see the dawn of another life⁠⸺

(The philosopher’s friends, sobbing, embrace his knees. Looking at them, he proceeds:)

Life is good when in the world we are a necessary link, and one with all the living; when at the banquet I am not superfluous; when going with the people to the fane, I worship the same gods with them. But when the crowd, apart from you, has raised up a divinity and with cruel malice watches the movements of your heart; when, seeing you afar, they point their fingers (oh, believe me, friends, it is not easy to live an outcast wanderer!) at the remnants of better generations, with their ancient virtue in their breast:⁠—we pass like corpses, like shadows, like jesters in the forum! And unobserved a mighty wind will drown us midst the rippling waves, like worthless chips of once victorious ships⁠⸺

Our age is past. Our time is up, O brothers! Others have now come into the world; other feelings and conceptions they have brought with them⁠⸺ Perchance, believing stubbornly in the traditions of our youth, we, like an ominous blast, congeal the renovated lives of men. Perhaps⁠⸺the truth is not with us! Our mind no longer grasps it, and looks up with weakened eyes, yet not ahead, nor sees the light of truth, and wails: “No, there is no salvation!” And, perchance, another man will come, and he will say: “Here is the light!” No! Our time is up!⁠⸺ Cut open now my arteries! O greatest of all gifts, O death, you are now in my hands! O Socrates! O teacher! Dearest friend! To you I go!

(Exit, accompanied by his disciples.)

Lucius. Well finished, Seneca! Thou borest it gloriously! And now, one hero less!⁠⸺ Looking at the man, I feel aggrieved! What matters it that thou art dead? That to the end thy courage did not flag? For gossips and for calumny thou hast for two days given food to Rome! In this alone thy exploit lies!

(Looks through the window at the sky and at the distant mountains.)

How all is quiet there! The mountains⁠—clear⁠⸺ Even thus the gods look reckless from the heavens at the human race! And what is there to see?

(Scans the room.)

’T is terrible here to live, and let alone⁠—to die! But little time is left for life. What use is there to grant one needless hour to cruel Nemesis? For great exploits one needs a rest, a joyful mood, and⁠—a good supper⁠⸺ Glory after death avails us not! What happiness is this that in the future a bearded rhetorician will expound you as a model for his schoolboys? With future mysteries I have no dealings! Or whether here my life will come to an end, or bodiless my soul may live,⁠—in any case I ’ll be no longer man! But now, while still I live, I may with honour dismiss my body, my old servant⁠⸺ O slave!

(Enter slave, Lucius continuing.)

In my villa by the sea prepare a splendid supper; in the amphitheatre, below the mountains, strew flowers on my couch; call a ballet of Bacchantes, a chorus of Fauns⁠⸺and lyres and timbrels,⁠—not the kind of chorus as last time, when the basso was a squeaker! Open in the garden all the fountains. Here is the key: in the inner storeroom are some cups of Grecian workmanship,⁠—get them. And send at once the slaves to call my friends. Let all come who are alive. Thyself go to Marcellus. Ask him humbly, he has long had in keeping some Horatian wine. Tell him that thy master begs him not to refuse him anything, and that to-day he deigns to die! Well, think of everything⁠—thou hast been a faithful slave, and thou art not forgotten in my testament.

(The slave falls down to his feet.)

Haggle not, nor be niggardly,⁠—let the supper teem with fabulous dainties! Yes, I have forgot the main thing: go, knock at the door of careless Pyrrha! Take basketfuls of flowers to her and let her, laughing heedlessly, come, brighter than springtime, to grace my supper.

(Exit slave.)

And on the knees of the dear maid I will with tensest power of life intoxicate my soul with the fragrance of the herbs, and with the sleeping sea, and with the sun immerging in the waves, and Pyrrha’s lucent beauty! And when my senses weary feasting, she will, with gentle smiles, give to me, not knowing it herself, the deadly draught in wine, and I will jesting die, scarce audible, a true, wise Sybarite who, having surfeited his dainty appetite at the luxurious table, sleeps peaceably, surrounded by aromas.

Nikoláy Aleksyéevich Nekrásov. (1821-1877.)

Nekrásov was the son of an impoverished landed proprietor who served on the military staff, and of a Polish mother, who was his first teacher. In 1832 he was sent to the Yarosláv Gymnasium. Here he made little progress in the ancient languages and in mathematics, and, having reached the fifth form, was obliged to leave on account of some satires he had written against the school authorities. He went to St. Petersburg and entered the university as a special student, but his extreme poverty made any regular progress impossible and undermined his health. He occasionally wrote prose stories for a variety of periodicals, and in 1840 he published his first volume of poems which, having been unfavourably received, he later bought up and destroyed. Then he published a number of volumes of miscellaneous collections, and in 1847 became the editor of The Contemporary, formerly Púshkin’s magazine. The most active period of Nekrásov’s life began in 1856, since when he produced all the poems by which he lives. It is difficult to characterise Nekrásov’s poetry, as it represents so many different aspects: there are in it elegies and lyrics in Púshkin’s best style, satires which have earned for him the name of the Russian Juvenal, and popular verses dealing with the life of all classes of society, especially with the peasant. The great wealth of native scenery which he depicts, the idiomatic, inimitable language of his poems, the objectivity of his themes, united with a graceful lyricism, make him the most notable of Russian poets. Among his best productions are Red-Nosed Frost, Who Lives in Russia Happily?, The Peddlers, and a large number of shorter poems.

English translations: A Moral Man, by Alexander Koumanin, in Cornhill Magazine, 1863; The Forgotten Village, Village News, Brandy, The Unreaped Plot, On the Road, and parts of The Railroad, In the Village, and Red-Nosed Frost, by W. R. S. Ralston, in the Contemporary Review, vol. xxvii. (1876); Red-Nosed Frost, translated in the original metres [by J. Sumner Smith], Boston, 1886, second edition emended, 1887; The Forgotten Village, The Field Unreaped, Mary, The Hospital, The Song of the Convicts, A Mother’s Tears, in C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics, London, 1887; Te Deum, The Prophet, Offer my Muse a friendly hand, Dream, A Sick Man’s Jealousy, The Landlord of Old Times, The Russian Soldier, in John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian, London, 1891 (The Prophet and The Russian Soldier reprinted in Library of the World’s Best Literature); in Free Russia, by Charlotte Sidgwick, I am weak, I am old, and another, in vol. x., Nos. 8-10, and The Song of the Poor Wanderer, in vol. x., No. 12, and by Mary Grace Walker, War, in vol. x., No. 11; in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, by A. C. Coolidge, The Unmown Strip and When from thine error, in No. 14 (from the Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895); by F. P. Marchant, Farewell and I gaz’d upon thy tomb, in No. 16; by J. Pollen, ’Tis May in the meadows, in No. 19; by Leo Wiener and A. C. Coolidge, Who Lives Happily in Russia? (reprinted from Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1898), in No. 25; by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, some extracts, in No. 30; by Leo Wiener, The Railroad, in No. 33; by L. A. Magnus, The Poet to his Love, in No. 34.

FROM “RED-NOSED FROST”

⁠—From [J. Sumner Smith’s] Red-Nosed Frost, Boston, 1887.

A MORAL MAN

⁠—By Alexander Koumanin, in Cornhill Magazine, 1863.

FROM “WHO LIVES IN RUSSIA HAPPILY”

EPILOGUE

⁠—Transl. by L. Wiener, revised by A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, January, 1898, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 25.

THE UNMOWN STRIP

⁠—By A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, 1895.

A MOTHER’S TEARS

⁠—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.

Iván Sávich Nikítin. (1824-1861.)

Nikítin was born in Vorónezh, the birthplace of Koltsóv (see p. 176), where his father was a chandler. At eight years of age he entered a religious school, and later, in 1841, the Seminary in his native town. He wrote his first poem while at school, but only in 1853 did he succeed in having his verses printed in the Vorónezh Governmental Gazette. These brought him in contact with the local cultured society who encouraged him to write more. His first volume of collected poetry was not favourably received by the literary circles of St. Petersburg, who saw in Nikítin’s verses mere imitations of Koltsóv and Nekrásov; his reputation has, however, risen since, and he is counted among the better popular poets. Among his best verses are The Ploughman, The Plough, The Wife of the Driver, The Fist, while such poems as The Morning, The Swallow’s Nest, A Winter Night in the Village, belong to the most popular of Russian songs.

W. R. S. Ralston, in Contemporary Review, vol. xxiii. (1874), has translated The Stubborn Father, Burlák, A Winter Night in the Village. In C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics are translated The Yamshchik’s Wife, The Grandfather, The State of the Departed, The Churchyard. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28, F. P. Marchant translated The Inheritance, and in No. 30 Mrs. Rosa Newmarch gives a part of The Village Money-Lender and The Gaffer.

BURLÁK[21]

⁠—From W. R. S. Ralston’s Russian Idylls, in The Contemporary Review, 1874 (vol. xxiii.).

THE GAFFER

⁠—Transl. by Mrs. R. Newmarch, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 30.

Aleksyéy Nikoláevich Pleshchéev. (1825-1894.)

Pleshchéev was the most cultivated and the most sympathetic poet who belonged to Nekrásov’s camp. He was born in the city of Kostromá, of an ancient noble family. He studied at St. Petersburg at the School of the Guard Cadets and at the university, without graduating from either. He began writing poetry at the age of eighteen, and in 1846 appeared the first edition of his poems. These were pervaded by a militant spirit of liberty, and soon his sympathies with the liberal movement brought him into trouble, for he was arrested in 1849 and banished to Orenbúrg, with loss of all his civil rights. He there served in the army as a common soldier, but rose in 1858 to the rank of a commissioned officer, when his privileges were restored to him, and he was permitted to return to Moscow. Up to that time he had entirely abandoned literature, but now his former activity began anew, and he enriched Russian letters with a large number of translations from various languages, and with original lyrical verses. These no longer are filled with the aspirations of his youth, but bear the imprint of melancholy disappointment and renunciation.

Spring and Passion are given in John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian, and N. H. Dole has translated A Legend (publication unascertainable).

FORWARD

Forward, without fear or doubt, to the valiant deed, my friends! I have already seen the dawn of the holy redemption in the skies!

Courage! We will take each other’s hands and boldly will move onward,⁠—and let our union grow and be strong under the banner of science!

We will chastise the priests of sin and falsehood with the word of truth,⁠—and we will awaken the sleeping from their sleep and will lead the host to battle.

We will not build an idol for ourselves, either upon earth, or in heaven; we will not fall before it in the dust for all the gifts and benefits of the world.

We will proclaim the teaching of Love to the poor and to the rich,⁠—and for it we will endure persecution, forgiving our malevolent enemies.

Blessed is he who has exhausted his life in a sanguinary struggle, in heavy cares; he has not, like an indolent and tricky slave, buried his talent in the ground!

Let holy truth burn as a guiding star for us,⁠—and, believe me, a noble voice will not resound in vain in the world.

Hearken, then, O brothers, to the word of a brother, as long as we are full of youthful strength! Forward, forward,⁠—and without returning, whatever fate may have in store for us!

MY COUNTRY

Scanty Nature of my native land, you are dear to my sad soul! Formerly, in the days of my fleeting spring, the distant shores of other countries enticed me.

And my glowing imagination painted brilliant pictures before me: I saw the transparently blue vault of the heavens, and the crenelated summits of mighty mountains.

Merged in the gold of midday beams, it seemed to me, the myrtle, the planes, and the olive trees called me into the shade of spreading branches, and roses beckoned silently to me⁠⸺

Those were days when my spirit did not ponder, among the seductions of life, over the aims of existence, and, being frivolous, I only demanded enjoyment from it.

But that time speedily disappeared without a trace,⁠—and grief unexpectedly visited me, and much with which my soul was not familiar suddenly became dear to it.

I then abandoned my secret dream of a magic and distant land,⁠—and in my country I discovered beauties invisible to the worldly eye.

Furrowed fields, ears of yellow grain-fields, the speechless, majestic expanse of the steppes, the freshets of broad rivers in the spring, mysteriously rustling oak-forests;

Sacred silence of poor villages, where the labourer, oppressed by misery, prayed to heaven for a new, a better day,⁠—the great day of liberty, to rise over him;

I understood you then,⁠—and near to my heart suddenly grew the song of my native land, whether in that song was heard deep pining or unrestrained hilarity.

My country, nothing in thee captivates the stranger’s eye; but thou art dear by thy stern beauty to him who himself has yearned for freedom and the wide expanse, and whose spirit has borne oppressive fetters.

A LEGEND

⁠—Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication unascertainable).

SPRING

⁠—From J. Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.

Aleksándr Nikoláevich Ostróvski. (1823-1886.)

No other dramatist is so characteristically Russian as Ostróvski. His father was a poor scribe who acted as a kind of attorney to that merchant class of Moscow which had not yet emerged from the manners and beliefs preceding the days of the reforms of Peter the Great. Ostróvski had, consequently, ample opportunity of getting acquainted with these people, who had heretofore entirely escaped the scrutiny of the litterateurs. When, in 1843, he was expelled from the university for some misbehaviour, he found employment in the Commercial Court, where he again came in contact with the merchant class. He had early developed a passion for the theatre, and in 1847 appeared two of his dramas, Pictures of Family Happiness and We’ll Square up Accounts with Our Own. The latter play gave offence to the merchants, who complained to the authorities, and Ostróvski was placed under police surveillance. Only five years later did he take up his pen again, and as before he had strictly adhered to the traditions of Gógol’s school, so now he paid his tribute to the Slavophile sentiments of Moscow by idealising his characters. The best drama of that period is Poverty is no Vice. After the Crimean War he began to represent in his dramas the negative sides of the wealthy merchant class, and to oppose to them the honesty and dignity of intelligent men. His chief production, The Storm, belongs to that period. He also tried himself in historical dramas, or Dramatic Chronicles, as he called them, but they are the weakest of his works. All his dramas are more properly realistic scenes lacking the element of conscious effect: they are supremely natural and tax the ability of the greatest actors. Ostróvski’s dramas soon became very popular, and he was elected president of the Society of Russian Dramatic Authors. Just before his death the Moscow Theatre was put in his charge, but his new activity was cut short by his illness, brought about by years of privation and suffering.

In English translation are to be found: The Storm, by Constance Garnett, London, 1899; Incompatibility of Temper and A Domestic Picture, in The Humour of Russia, by E. L. Voynich, London and New York, 1895. Extracts from several dramas are given in The Modern Russian Drama, in Edinburgh Review, cxxviii. (1868).

THE STORM

ACT V. SCENE 1. TWILIGHT. KULÍGIN (sitting on a bench), KABANÓV (walking in the square)

Kulígin (singing).

(noticing Kabanóv). Good-evening, sir! Which way are you bound?

Kabanóv. Home. Good friend, have you heard what has happened with us? Our whole family is upset.

Kulígin. Yes, I have heard so, sir.

Kabanóv. I have been away to Moscow, you know. Mamma kept giving me all kinds of instructions for my journey, but no sooner I got away, than I began having a good time. I was so happy to be free. I drank all the way up, and I kept on drinking in Moscow. I just went on a spree to last me for a whole year! Not even once did I stop to think of home, and if I did, I never should have dreamed what has happened here. You have heard about it?

Kulígin. Yes, I have, sir.

Kabanóv. My friend, I am a miserable man now! I am ruined just for nothing, for no cause at all.

Kulígin. Your mother is rather harsh.

Kabanóv. That ’s so. She is the cause of it all. Do tell me, why should I suffer for it? I just stopped at Dikóy’s,⁠—well, we took a drink together; I thought it might make me feel easier, but no, Kulígin, it ’s worse! See, how my wife has treated me! It could not be worse⁠⸺

Kulígin. It ’s a mixed-up affair, sir. It is hard to judge between you.

Kabanóv. No, don’t say that. What can there be worse? It is not enough to kill her for that. Mamma says she ought be buried alive for a punishment! But I love her, and it makes me feel bad to lay a finger upon her. I did give her some blows, but mamma told me to do so. You must understand, Kulígin, that I feel sorry for her. Mamma torments her to death, and she walks around like a shadow and does not say a word. She does nothing but weep, and she is melting away like wax. And I worry myself to death, as I look at her.

Kulígin. Could you not, sir, make up with her? You ought to forgive her, and never mention the affair again. I suppose you yourself are not without sin!

Kabanóv. Of course not!

Kulígin. Only you must not reproach her when you are drunk! She would make you a good wife, sir, I am sure, better than any other.

Kabanóv. Don’t you see, Kulígin, it is all right with me, but mamma⁠—there is no getting along with her!⁠⸺

Kulígin. It is time, sir, to live by your own wits.

Kabanóv. Well, what am I to do,⁠—to tear myself to pieces? They say, I have no sense of my own, and so I have to live by other people’s sense. I tell you, I ’ll drink away whatever little sense I have left, let mamma then bother with me as with a senseless fool.

Kulígin. It is bad, sir! Well, and Borís Grigórevich, what about him?

Kabanóv. They are sending that scoundrel to Kyákhta, into China. His uncle is sending him to the office of a merchant whom he knows there. He is going there for three years.

Kulígin. Well, what does he do, sir?

Kabanóv. He is suffering, too: he weeps. We fell upon him, his uncle and I, and we kept scolding him, but he did not say a word. He acts like a wild man. “Do with me what you please,” says he, “only do not torment her!” He is pitying her too.

Kulígin. He is a good man, sir.

Kabanóv. He is ready for the journey, and the horses are waiting. He is pining for her dreadfully. He wants to say good-bye to her, I see. What do I care? He has done enough harm. He is my enemy, you know, Kulígin! He ought to be quartered, so that he might know⁠⸺

Kulígin. We must forgive our enemies, sir!

Kabanóv. Go and talk to mamma about that, and see what she will tell you. Yes, friend Kulígin, all our family is now broken up. They are acting not like relatives to each other, but like enemies. Mamma has been nagging Várvara so long; she could stand it no longer, and so she just got up, and ran away.

Kulígin. Where has she gone?

Kabanóv. Who knows? They say she has run away with Vánka Kudryásh, and he can’t be found anywhere either. Now, Kulígin, I must tell you that is all mamma’s doing: she has been tormenting her, and locking her up. “Don’t lock me up,” she said, “or it will be only worse!” And just so it has happened. Do tell me, what I am to do now! Do instruct me how to live now! I loathe the house, I am ashamed to meet people, and if I try to work, my hands drop helpless. Here I am going home, but it is not to find pleasure there. (Enter Glásha.)

Glásha. Tíkhon Iványch!

Kabanóv. What is it now?

Glásha. Things have gone wrong at home, sir!

Kabanóv. Lord! There has been enough trouble! Speak, what is it?

Glásha. Your good wife⁠⸺

Kabanóv. Well, what? Is she dead?

Glásha. No, sir, she has gone off, and we can’t find her anywhere. We have run our legs off, trying to find her.

Kabanóv. Kulígin! We must look for her. Do you know, friend, what I am afraid of? That in her wretchedness she may lay hands upon herself! It is just terrible, how she is grieving! It makes my heart burst to look at her. (To Glásha.) That is the way you have watched her. Is it long she has been gone?

Glásha. Not very long, sir! It is our fault, we did not watch her better. However, one can’t be watching every minute.

Kabanóv. Well, what are you standing for? Go, run! (Exit Glásha.) Let us go, too, Kulígin! (Exeunt. The stage is empty for a little while. From the opposite side enters Katerína, and slowly walks across the stage.)

SCENE 2. KATERÍNA ALONE. (During the whole monologue and the following scenes she speaks slowly and repeats words, as if in thought and in a state of forgetfulness.)

Katerína. No, he is nowhere! What is he doing now,⁠—the poor fellow? If I only could bid him good-bye, and then⁠—and then I do not mind dying. Why did I lead him into misfortune? I am no better off for that! I alone ought to suffer! As it is, I have ruined myself, and I have ruined him: to me⁠—dishonour, to him⁠—eternal remorse! Yes, to me⁠—dishonour, to him⁠—eternal remorse. (Silence.) If I only could think what he said to me? How he pitied me? What were the words he said? (Clasps her head.) I can’t remember them, I have forgotten everything. The nights, the nights weigh heavily upon me! All lie down to sleep, I too. All feel well, but I feel as if I were going into the grave. It is so terrible in the dark! I hear a noise and singing, as if they were burying someone, only so soft, and barely heard, far, far from me⁠⸺ How glad one is when daylight comes! But I do not like to get up,⁠—the same people again, the same talks, the same torment. Why do they look that way at me? Why don’t they kill nowadays? Why have they changed it? They say, they used to kill. If they took and threw me into the Vólga, I should be happy. “If we kill you,” they say, “your sin will be taken from you; so live and be tormented for your sin.” I have suffered enough! How much longer shall I suffer? What am I to live for now, yes, what for? I want nothing,⁠—nothing gives me pleasure, God’s world gives me no pleasure! But death does not come. You call for it, but it does not come. Whatever I see, whatever I hear, causes me pain here (points to her heart). If I could live with him, maybe there would be some pleasure yet for me. Well, what difference does it make? I have lost my soul anyway. How I long for him! Oh, how I long for him! If I cannot see you, hear me at least from far away! Boisterous winds, bear my grief to him! O Lord, I am weary, I am weary! (Walks to the river bank and cries at the top of her voice:) My joy, my soul, my life, I love you! Answer! (Weeps. Enter Borís.)

SCENE 3. KATERÍNA AND BORÍS

Borís (not seeing Katerína). O Lord! That is her voice! Where is she? (Looks round.)

Katerína (runs up to him and falls on his neck). At last I see you again! (Weeps on his breast. Silence.)

Borís. Well, God has granted us to weep together.

Katerína. You have not forgotten me?

Borís. How can you speak of forgetting?

Katerína. Oh, no, it was not that, not that! You are not angry?

Borís. Angry for what?

Katerína. Forgive me! I did not mean to do you any harm: I was not free myself. I did not know what I said, and what I did.

Borís. Don’t speak of it! Don’t!

Katerína. Well, how is it with you? What are you going to do?

Borís. I am going away.

Katerína. Where are you going?

Borís. Far away, Kátya, to Siberia.

Katerína. Take me away from here.

Borís. I can’t, Kátya. I am not going of my own will: my uncle is sending me off, and the horses are waiting already. My uncle gave me but a minute to be away; I wanted to bid farewell to the place where we used to see each other.

Katerína. God speed you! Do not grieve over me. At first, I suppose, you, poor fellow, will pine for me, but you will soon forget me.

Borís. Let us not talk of me! I am a free bird! But how will it be with you? What of your mother-in-law?

Katerína. She torments me, she locks me up. She tells everybody, and my husband too: “Do not trust her, she is sly!” They follow me all day and laugh at me before my eyes. At every word they reproach me with you.

Borís. And your husband?

Katerína. He is now kind, and now angry, but he is drinking all the time. I loathe him, I loathe him; I loathe his kindness worse than his blows.

Borís. It is hard for you, Kátya.

Katerína. Yes, so hard, so hard, that death would be easier!

Borís. Who could have told that we would have to suffer so for our love? It would have been better if I had run away then.

Katerína. It was for misfortune that I saw you. I have seen little joy, but oh, how much sorrow! And how much there is still ahead of me! Well, what use is there to think of what will be? I am seeing you now, and that they will not take away from me! I need nothing else. All I wanted was to see you. Now I feel much more at ease: as though a mountain had rolled off my shoulders. And there, I thought that you were angry with me, that you cursed me⁠⸺

Borís. How could you? How could you?

Katerína. No, it is not that I mean. I wanted to say something else. I was longing for you, that is it; and now, I have seen you⁠⸺

Borís. If they should find us here!

Katerína. Wait, wait! I wanted to tell you something! I have forgotten again! Something important I had to tell you! my head is in a whirl, I can’t remember anything.

Borís. It is time for me to go, Kátya!

Katerína. Wait, wait!

Borís. Well, what was it you wanted to say?

Katerína. I will tell you right away. (Thinking a moment.) Yes! As you will travel on the road, don’t let any beggar go by without giving him something, and tell them to pray for my sinful soul.

Borís. Ah, if these people knew how hard it is for me to leave you! God grant they may some day feel as bad as I do now! Good-bye, Kátya! (Embraces her and is about to go.) Rascals! Monsters! If I only had the power!

Katerína. Wait, wait! Let me take a last look at you! (Looks into his eyes.) That will do me! Now, God be with you! Go, go quickly!

Borís (walks a few steps and stops). Kátya, something is wrong! You have something in your mind! I shall worry on my journey, thinking of you!

Katerína. No, no! God speed you! (Borís is about to walk up to her.) Don’t, don’t, that is enough!

Borís (sobbing). Well, God be with you! I must pray to God that she may die soon, that she may not suffer long! Farewell! (Greets her.)

Katerína. Farewell! (Exit Borís. Katerína follows him with her eyes and stands a while, lost in thought.)

SCENE 4. KATERÍNA (alone)

Where shall I go now? Home? No, I might as well go into the grave. What⁠—home, what⁠—grave? It is better in the grave⁠⸺ A little grave under a tree⁠—how nice!⁠⸺ The sun warms it, the rain waters it⁠—in the spring the grass, the soft grass will grow up⁠—the birds will fly to that tree, they will sing, and will bring up their little ones, the flowers will bloom: yellow, red, blue, all kinds of flowers (in thought), all kinds of flowers⁠⸺ How quiet! how nice! I almost feel better! I do not wish even to think of life! To live again? No, no, I do not wish it⁠—it is not good! I loathe the people, I loathe the house, I loathe the walls! I will not go there! No, no, I will not! If I go to them, they will come and talk to me, and what is that to me? Ah, it is dark! And they are singing somewhere! What are they singing? I cannot make it out⁠⸺ Oh, if I could die now⁠⸺ What are they singing? It is all the same whether death will come to me, or I myself⁠—no, I cannot live! It is a sin! They will not pray for me? He who loves me, will pray⁠⸺ They cross the hands over the breast⁠—in the coffin! Yes, it is so⁠—I remember. And if they catch me, they will take me home by force⁠⸺ Ah, quickly, quickly! (Goes to the river bank. Aloud.) My friend! My joy! Farewell! (Exit. Enter Mrs. Kabanóv, Kabanóv, Kulígin, and a workman with a lantern.)

SCENE 5. MRS. KABANÓV, KABANÓV, AND KULÍGIN

Kulígin. They say, they saw her here.

Kabanóv. Is it certain?

Kulígin. They certainly saw her.

Kabanóv. Thank the Lord they saw her alive.

Mrs. Kabanóv. And you have been frightened and crying! And for whom? Don’t fret: she will give us plenty of trouble yet.

Kabanóv. Who would have thought that she would come here! It is such a public place. Who would ever think of hiding here.

Mrs. Kabanóv. You see for yourself what she is doing. The creature she is! She wants to keep up her character! (People come from all sides with lanterns.)

One of the Crowd. Well, have you found her?

Mrs. Kabanóv. Why, no. She is vanished.

A Few Voices. I declare! That is strange! Where could she hide?

One of the Crowd. She will be found!

Another. Of course, she will be!

A Third. She will come herself, I think. (A voice behind the scene: “Hoa there, a boat!”)

Kulígin (from the river bank). Who is calling? What is up? (Voice: “A woman has thrown herself in the water!” Kulígin and several men after him run out.)

SCENE 6. THE SAME WITHOUT KULÍGIN

Kabanóv. O God, it is she! (Wants to run off. Mrs. Kabanóv holds him back.) Mamma, let me go, I must! I will save her! or I will myself⁠—what is the use of living without her!

Mrs. Kabanóv. I will not let you, indeed not! Kill yourself for her sake!⁠—is she worth it? She has brought enough disgrace on us without this!

Kabanóv. Let me!

Mrs. Kabanóv. They ’ll save her without you. I ’ll curse you if you go.

Kabanóv (falling on his knees). Just to look at her!

Mrs. Kabanóv. You will look at her when they have pulled her out.

Kabanóv (rises. To the crowd.) Well, friends, did you see anything?

First. It is dark down there, you can’t see anything. (A noise behind the scene.)

Second. They are calling there, but I can’t make out what.

First. That is Kulígin’s voice.

Second. They are walking along the bank with a lantern.

First. They are coming this way. They are carrying her. (A few people are returning.)

One of the Returning Men. Kulígin is a fine fellow! Here close by, in the whirlpool, by the shore: with the fire we could see a distance off in the water, and he saw her dress, and pulled her out.

Kabanóv. Is she alive?

Another Man. Alive? Why, she leaped high: the bank is steep here, and she must have fallen on an anchor, the poor woman is bruised! And yet, my friends, she looks as though alive! Only on the temple there is a small wound, and only one small drop of blood. (Kabanóv starts to run, and meets Kulígin with the people carrying Katerína.)

SCENE 7. THE SAME AND KULÍGIN

Kulígin. Here is your Katerína. Do with her what you please! Her body is here, take it; but her soul is not yours now: she is now before the Judge who is more merciful than you! (Puts her on the ground and runs away.)

Kabanóv (rushes to Katerína). Kátya! Kátya!

Mrs. Kabanóv. Enough! It is a sin even to weep for her!

Kabanóv. Mamma, you have killed her! You! You!

Mrs. Kabanóv. How dare you? Are you forgetting yourself? Do you know to whom you are speaking?

Kabanóv. You have killed her! You! You!

Mrs. Kabanóv. I ’ll talk to you at home. (Bowing low to the people.) I thank you, good people, for your services! (All bow.)

Kabanóv. It is well with you, Kátya! But why am I left in this world to suffer! (Falls on his wife’s body.)

Mikhaíl Evgráfovich Saltykóv. (pseud. Shchedrín). (1826-1889.)

Saltykóv was descended from an ancient noble family. He received his first education at home, at ten years of age entered the Moscow Institute for Sons of Noblemen, and two years later was chosen, on account of his excellent progress, to be sent to the Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló. In that school the memory of its distinguished alumnus, Púshkin, was still fresh, and it was expected that there should be a continuator of the great poet in every class. Thus Saltykóv wrote his first poem in 1841, but he soon abandoned poetry for satire. After leaving the Lyceum, Saltykóv threw himself into the whirlpool of pleasures, even in this emulating the older generation. In 1847 appeared his first story. The following year he wrote A Mixed Affair, which, like his previous effort, was quite weak and insignificant, but as it happened to have made its appearance in the critical year 1848, when the censorship was unusually severe, he was suspected of evil purposes and was banished to the Government of Vyátka. He there remained eight years, but served with distinction under the Governor and rose to various posts of eminence. Upon his return from exile he published his Provincial Sketches, in which he gave some gloomy pictures of provincial oppression and dishonesty. Saltykóv created a special language for his satires, which, on account of the endless allusions and masterly word-creations, are the despair of the translator and have made his admirable works less known abroad than they deserve to be. In his long literary career Saltykóv has adapted himself to the conditions of the time, and thus his satires give a continuous record of the reverse of Russian life for upwards of forty years. Among his best works are Pompadours and Pompadouresses, The Tashkentians, Refuge Monrepos, Diary of a Provincial at St. Petersburg, and his famous The Golovlévs, which enjoys a reputation like Gógol’s Dead Souls.

In English translation are to be found: Tchinovniks, Sketches of Provincial Life, from the memoirs of the retired Conseiller de Cour Stchedrin (Saltikow), translated with notes from the Russian by F. Aston, London, 1861; The Recollections of Onésime Chenapan, The Self-Sacrificing Rabbit, and The Eagle as Mecænas, in The Humour of Russia, by E. L. Voynich, London and New York, 1895; in Free Russia were given The Fool, in vol. i., No. 5, The Deceitful Editor and the Credulous Reader, in vol. i., No. 9, Story of how One Peasant Saved Two Generals, in vol. ii., No. 6, and Misha and Vania, in vol. iii., Nos. 6 and 7.

FROM “BEYOND THE BORDER”

Having grown tired of my fruitless sojourn in the world of concrete facts, I self-confidently attempted to fly as a steel-grey eagle into the sphere of abstractions. In my younger days I took such flights quite often. Together with my other companions I liked to pamper myself with excursions into that region where one is supposed to get “revelations of invisible things,” and, I remember, these excursions were a source of great pleasure to me. I cannot say I saw that region clearly defined, but, in any case, the contemplation of it evoked in me no fear, but a decidedly pleasurable sensation. In general, we then lived with more vigour (of course, I have in view only myself and my contemporaries), though I must confess our basal fund of life was impaired by inconsistencies that bordered on frivolities. Two lives went side by side: one, so to say, pro domo, the other for the fear of the Jews, that is, in the manner of a justificatory document to the authorities.

You are sitting at home and with your whole being, so to say, have transferred yourself into the sphere of the “revelation of invisible things.” Suddenly, the fateful hour strikes,⁠—run to your bureau! You don your trowsers and your office uniform, and fifteen minutes later you are in an entirely different sphere, in the sphere of the “confirmation of visible things.” Of course, the questions in the two places are quite different. In the first sphere the question is whether the golden age is to be sought behind or before us; in the second the question is the establishment of golden ages by means of provincial government offices and departments of charity, on the basis of explicit statutory enactments anent this subject. You stay there a while, scratch your pen, and behold! again strikes the fateful hour. You run home again, change your trowsers, put on a coat or a smoking-jacket, and you transport yourself once more into the sphere of the “revelation of invisible things.” Thus our youth passed⁠⸺

The present generation will, no doubt, regard this running from one sphere into another as not very consistent, but in those days we managed to unite them, and we felt no awkwardness. And now, after many, many years, passing in accidental solitude, the stream of my youth has suddenly burst upon me. Come, thought I, I will run, as in olden days. However, I did not get as far as running, for, though my youthful recollections streamed upon me with vim, I had to convince myself that my legs were not what they used to be, and that the blood in my veins was no longer the same. And then, the questions that these recollections brought back⁠—really, I do not know what to call them. Some, who are more lenient, call them untimely, while others, who are unquestionably evil-minded, blankly call them harmful⁠⸺ Well, you may judge for yourself.

The first question: “Does history console?” Some forty years ago⁠—I am quite sure of it⁠—I should in all truth have answered: “Yes, it consoles.” But what shall I say now? To tell the truth, I have even forgotten how to think by principles, without prefatory admixtures. I begin with the tenebrousness of Time, and no sooner does light begin to glimmer than I strike river Pinéga with Vilyúy, or some statute of abatement, and there I stick fast. Precisely that has happened now. Barely had the question peeped at me, and barely had I proceeded to dismember it, when God knows whence bobbed up Major-General Terrible and so flashed his eyes at me that I was completely stunned. “No, I had better to-morrow⁠—” I confusedly said to myself, and I that very moment hastened to duck so that my ears might not be seen.

The second question: “Can one live with the people, and depend upon them?” Forty years ago I certainly should have answered: “One not only can, but it is not possible to live otherwise.” Now⁠⸺ No sooner do I begin to expatiate and prove “from principle” that human activity outside of the sphere of the people is objectless and senseless, than the hide of my whole being begins to shudder. There stare at me those fellows of Hunting Row,[22] those colabourers of Hay Market, and, at last, a whole mass of temporising rascals, à la Napoleon III., who, too, had proclaimed: tout pour le peuple et par le peuple⁠⸺ Of course, the conclusion was that I had better to-morrow⁠⸺

The third question: “Is it possible to lead a life in which you are supposed to eat mushroom pie exclusively that you may restrain your tongue behind your teeth?” Forty years ago I, no doubt, should have answered again: “No, it is not possible to live that way.” And now?⁠—Now: “No, I had better to-morrow⁠⸺”

In short, I attempted to give answers to a whole stack of questions, but alas! neither concreteness, nor abstraction,⁠—nothing awakened impotent thought. I struggled for quite a while, and I came very near calling out: “Vódka!” but fortunately that drink is not so accessible in Paris as to console one at will.

So I lay me down to sleep, having carried away from my two-days’ blues the truth that under certain conditions of life a spree must be considered not so much from the standpoint of a vitiated will as in the sense of an irrepressible necessity of a grieving soul⁠⸺ I had a disturbed, painful dream. At first there hovered before me some incoherent fragments, but by degrees they formed themselves into something connected, there was a whole colloquy, the heroine of which was⁠—a swine! However, this colloquy is so interesting that I do not regard it nugatory to share it with my readers in the form in which my memory has preserved it.