Chapter XIV: Act I: Scene 2 (4)

“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

Her sins atoned by tears of sorrow,
Those penitential tears scarce dry,
The soul, by her Creator pardoned,
Flies on swift wings to realms on high.

Through starry space, the soul embracing,
White peris take their flight along,
While choirs of infant cherubs thronging
Greet her with bursts of joyous song.

Oh, with ecstatic cries of rapture
She would fill all the heavenly plains,
Would render thanks, and in rejoicing
Forget all former earthly pains!

But, circling round with curious glances
And coaxing wiles, the peris all
Entreat her, with most tender pleading,
To tell the story of her fall.

Is it their joy a soul to comfort,
From earthly trials gone up on high?
Or do they know by strange traditions
This world of sin beyond the sky?

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

WHO WAS HE?

A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT

Upon the mighty Neva’s bank,
Along the winding woodland way,
A Horseman rode, in forest wilds
Of elms, of pine, of mosses grey.

Before him rose a Fisher’s hut;
Beneath a pine, by the blue stream,
An aged, bearded Fisherman
Was mending his boat’s broken beam.

The Horseman said, “Grandsire! Good-day!
God help thee, friend! how livest thou?
Dost thou catch much? and tell me, pray,
Where dost thou sell thy takings now?”

The old man answered sullenly,
“Are fishes in the river few?
And other market have I none
Except the town, there, close to you.

“And how am I to fish to-day?
What kind of turmoil’s here, you see!
You fight; and, in the fight, a shell
Has smashed my fishing-boat for me!”

The Horseman bounded from his horse,
Without a word the tools he grasped;
And in a twinkling planked the boat,
The rudder in the stern set fast.

“See, now, old friend, thy boat’s all right!
Out on the water boldly set;
And, in the name of Peter’s luck,
Cast forth into the deep thy net.”

He vanished. Mused the stern old man:
“I wonder who the de’il was he!
In every inch he looked a king,
But plied the hatchet splendidly.”

--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.

THE MARBLE FAUN

Through a deserted garden-walk I wandered in the shade, The rosy twilight faded, and of leaves the trees all bare In dark clusters stood around me, while the autumn evening made The atmosphere quite chilly. Then among the thickets there I chanced to find a statue of a faun once white and clean, With rubbish, dust, and moss encrusted, dingy, mildewed, green. He glanced from out the branches with a pleasant smile, and these Set in motion gently by the wind, his strong visage swept, While hidden from my downward glance the marble form they kept. I saw the aged lindens shake, and lo, among the trees Were other forms of marble that within their foliage slept. But what of all most struck my view wrapped in the shrubs’ embrace Was that one marble image-head and mocking, smiling face. I admired the ancient idol, long neglected, for a while, And the face amid the thicket threw at me a cunning smile. I felt a kind of pity. “Thou wert held of old divine, Image cynical and smiling! To the flute’s melodious sound Men prepared to thee the sacrifice, for thee the flames did shine, They uttered prayers, the lamb expired, and thou wert sprinkled round With the fresh blood of the victim. Now, I pray thee, let me know, Art thou sighing for the days gone by,--thy vanished power and crown? Then upon those youthful races did a happier lot pour down? Or have sages merely fabled of the days of long ago? Was that tale a vain invention, of their lives of peace and joy, Or did ceaseless labour in the field their energies employ? Thou dost smile upon me, dost thou?--Then when dawned a later date Thou didst gaze, a mute spectator, on a splendid court and state; Thou wert looked on as a marvel when among the ruins found, Then the garden was laid out for thee, and thou wert compassed round With the tritons and the naiads, with Athenians old and wise, And with Rome’s Imperial Cæsars and Greek Sovereigns of the skies; Thou didst look on it with laughter, and thy pleasant visage glowed On the ball-scene’s glitter gazing. Then the garden overflowed With the ringing strains of music. In that alley’s gloomy shade A pair of youthful lovers from the guests their shelter made. Thou didst note their stolen interviews among the bushes dark, Thou didst hear the kiss resounding, and their fond caresses mark. Tell me further: were those lovers’ ardent pledges kept for long Unrepentant and unbroken? Was their hearts’ love always strong, Shining brightly, burning ever, not expiring like a spark? Were their names and plighted promise,--on thy pedestal here traced By precise and earnest fingers,--by the raindrops soon effaced? Or, maybe, they wandered here again, beneath thy lindens’ shade, Where to meet with other paramours they new appointments made? Through the thick boughs overhanging did thy sly and sneering smile From their amorous professions tear the treacherous mask away? Did their faces, flushed with crimson, their deceitful hearts betray?”

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Thus I gazed in mute inquiry on the statue for a while, And the marble cynic answered with his calm, sarcastic smile.

--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”

Three grievous allotments had Fortune decreed:--
Allotment the first,--with a slave man to marry;
The second,--the mother to be of his seed;
The third,--until death his hard yoke e’er to carry.
And all these allotments so grievous did lie
On woman ’neath Russia’s broad sky.

The ages have passed: all for pleasure has striven;
To manifold change all on earth has been given.

The poor peasant woman alone is forgot:
No change in her lot has God made.
Of feminine beauty and strength, we all wot,
The type, ’mong the Slavs, has decayed.

Fortuitous victim of fate!
Hast suffered unseen and unheard;
The world has not told of thy strait,
Of plaining hast uttered no word.

But me thou, my friend, wilt tell all;
From childhood together we ’ve plodded:--
Fatigue and dismay on thee fall,
All misery in thee is embodied.
No heart in his breast carrieth he
Who tears doth not shed over thee.

────────────────────────────────────

We ’ve thus of the serf woman spoken,
However, with purpose to say:--
The type of the stately Slavonian,
Perhaps, may be found e’en to-day.

In Russ hamlets women are dwelling,
Of countenance earnest, serene;
In all grace of movement excelling;
In bearing and look like a queen.

Perhaps they ’ll escape the dim-sighted;
But one who can see says of them:--
“She passes--with sunshine all ’s lighted!
And looks--’t is like giving a gem!”

The paths all our people are thronging
They follow,--the same burthens bring;
But mire, to their low lot belonging,
To them as it were does not cling.

See blooming,--a world’s admiration,--
The beauty! tall, rosy, well-shaped;
Proficient in each occupation;
A beauty, however she ’s draped;

Both hunger and cold calmly brooking;
Content, ever patient, discreet.
I oft as she moved have been looking:
One flourish--a haycock complete!

Her kerchief is o’er her ear slipping,
Her tresses are ready to fall.
And then some young fellow comes tripping--
The rascal! and up throws them all:

The flaxen, luxuriant tresses
O’erspread her tanned bosom, and wrap
Her little bare feet in caresses;
Her eyes, too, in darkness entrap:

She quickly her locks apart brushes,
And fiercely a glance at him throws;
Her tress-enframed, proud face with blushes
Of passion, of hot anger glows.

On work-days she likes full employment.
But strange will to you be her face
When from it the smile of enjoyment
The sigil of toil shall erase:

Such laughter, so hearty! such measure
In song and in dance! no such treats
With gold can be purchased. “What pleasure!”
Each peasant to each oft repeats.

The horseman she ’ll vanquish in racing;
In danger, not flinching, she ’ll save:
A galloping steed boldly facing;
To enter a burning hut, brave.

Her beautiful, regular teeth
Seem pearls, when to view them one chances;
But firmly the lips’ rosy sheath
Conceals them from people’s rude glances.

She rarely indulges in laughter,
For jesting she ’s no time to spare;
Not oft dares her neighbour come after
Some item of her kitchen ware.

No pity has she for the tramp,--
Why country paths uselessly scour?
Of scrupulous fitness the stamp
She bears and of immanent power.

She knows, as ’t were writ in her creed,
In labour is all their salvation;
And labour returns her the meed:--
Her household knows never privation;

They ’ve always a warm roof o’erhead,
Bread well-baked, and kvas of good savour;
The children are healthy, well-fed;
For high-days there ’s some extra favour.

This woman goes forth Sunday morn
To mass, all her family guiding:
Is sitting a child, two years born,
Her bosom upon, and there riding:

The mother, well dressed, by the hand
Is leading her six-years-old boy.
This picture all friends of Russ land,
All friends of Russ folk will enjoy.

--From [J. Sumner Smith’s] _Red-Nosed Frost_, Boston, 1887.

A MORAL MAN

A strictly moral man have I been ever,
And never injured anybody--never.

I lent my friend a sum he could not pay,
I jogged his memory in a friendly way,--
Then took the law of him th’ affair to end,--
The law to prison sent my worthy friend.
He died there,--not a farthing for poor me!
I am not angry, though I ’ve cause to be.
His debt that very moment I forgave,
And shed sad tears of sorrow o’er his grave.
A strictly moral man have I been ever,
And never injured anybody--never.

I sent my slave to learn the art of dressing
Meat;--he succeeded,--a good cook ’s a blessing;
But he too oft would leave his occupation,
And gained a taste not suited to his station.
He liked to read, to reason, and discuss--
I, tired of scolding, without further fuss
Had the rogue flogged,--all for the love of him:
He went and drowned himself,--’t was a strange whim.
A strictly moral man have I been ever,
And never injured anybody--never.

My silly daughter fell in love one day,
And with her tutor wished to run away:
I threatened curses and pronounced my ban;
She yielded, and espoused a rich old man.
Their house was splendid, brimming o’er with wealth,
But suddenly poor Mary lost her health,
And in a year consumption wrought her doom:
She left us mourning o’er her early tomb.
A strictly moral man have I been ever,
And never injured anybody--never.

--By Alexander Koumanin, in Cornhill Magazine, 1863.

FROM “WHO LIVES IN RUSSIA HAPPILY”