Chapter III: Introduction (2)

The moon her soft ray on Pechérski poureth,
Its domes are shining in the river’s wave;
The soul the spirit of the past adoreth,
Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave:
Vladímir’s shade above thee calmly soareth,
Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave;
Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour
Breathes of the past,--a spell sublime and tender.

There fought the warriors in the field of glory,
Strong in the faith, against their country’s foe;
And many a royal flower yon palace hoary,
In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow.
And Boyán sang to them the noble story,
And secret rapture in their breast did glow;
Hark! midnight sounds,--that brazen voice is dying,--
A day to meet the vanished day is flying.

Where are the valiant?--the resistless lances,--
The brands that were as lightning when they waved?
Where are the beautiful, whose sunny glances
Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved?
Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances?
Ah! that deep bell hath answered what I craved:
And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river!
Murmurest, Dnieper, still, and flow’st for ever.

--Transl. by T. B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 1844
(vol. lv).

[4] Name of certain monasteries.

FROM “THE BLACK MONK”

I.--THE MONASTERY

Beyond Kíev, where the broad Dnieper boils and booms between steep banks, near a grove, upon a high hill, stands the hermits’ abode. Around it is a crenelated wall, with four towers in the corners, and in the midst,--the temple of the Lord with gilded cupolas. A row of cells, a dark corridor, a chapel at the holy gates, with a miracle-working image, and nearby a spring of cool water, whose medicinal stream bubbles under the shade of a century linden tree.

The evening darkness is in the misty field; the twilight is dimming in the heavens; the song is not heard in the meadows; the flocks are not seen in the vales. The horn will not be blown in the forest,--no one will come; only at times the bell tinkles in the distance upon the highway; no fires are to be seen upon the fishermen’s boats on the Dnieper. The midnight moon has risen, and the bright stars are shining; the clearings, the woods, the waters are asleep. The fateful hour has struck upon the tower,--the hermitage is merged in sleep,--and all around is peace and quiet.

II.--THE CONFESSION OF THE BLACK MONK

“I left my deserted country. Alone, in despair, in tears, I wandered around with my orphaned soul in distant defiles and woods. Gloomy clefts and mountains heard my groan, my wail, my plaints with terror, for seven years. Sullen, melancholy, wild, I pined away, dreaming an old dream, and sobbed for what is not. The shades of night, the mountain torrent, the whistling of the storm and the howl of the wind secretly united with my murky thought, with my unquenchable yearning. And sorrow was a delight, a sacred relic of former days; it seemed to me that through my suffering I did not altogether part from it.

“Where the heart loves, where it suffers,--there is also our merciful God; He gives the cross, and He also sends us hope with the cross. In these seven hard, stormy years there has flashed for me a consoling light. Once, at evening tide, I sat gloomy near the river; the star-flaming vault of heaven, the quiet glimmer of the moon, the rustling of the leaves, the plashing of the waves silvered by the moon, involuntarily held my soul captive. Everything attracted me by its mysterious beauty to a world of bliss.

“My crushed spirit awoke: ‘Creator of all! My babe with my unforgettable mate dwell in Thy holy abode, and, perchance, I shall be with them, and they there for ever mine!’ Love understands miracles: my heart trembled hopefully in some mysterious expectation. I lifted my eyes to the skies, dared to implore them with tears,--and it seemed to me that for an answer was given me that calm ocean with its imperishable stars. Since then, my father, have I found consolation in my misery itself, and I have hoped by my heavy cross to earn my union with her. Though still, at times, I shed tears, yet hope assuages them, and quiet grief has taken place of bitter sorrow. Flaming with faith, I have forgotten my misfortune and the villain: she with her babe in heaven appeared to my heart in dreams of paradise. My soul rose to her, and my mind was full of this: I wished to be as pure as she, and I gladly bid life farewell. But I wanted to die in my native home. I began to pine away in mountains of other lands. I wanted to cast my last glance upon our woods and our dales, to see the country which was full of her, and our village house, and the garden, and the blue waves of the Dnieper, and the church upon the mound where in the shade of the birches sleeps their dust, and the glowing evening sky over their quiet grave.

“Ah, what happened to my soul when suddenly, in all its sacred beauty, before me lay the landscape of my native Kíev fields! As before they were green, the waves of the Dnieper boomed as formerly, the same forest lay dim in the distance, the same songs were sung in the fields, and everything was the same in my native land, but she alone was not there. Everywhere familiar valleys, brooks, mounds, and plains, in an enchanting quiet, appeared to me on all sides, and brought back my brighter years; but with a poisoned soul, a stranger in my own land, I greeted them with tears and disconsolate melancholy.

“I walked. The day was inclining to the evening, and suddenly a rustic temple of the Lord stood before my frightened eyes. Beside myself, I approached the grave where my son, my wife,--my whole life lay buried. I barely touched the ground with my feet, as if fearing to disturb their eternal slumber. I repressed a deep groan within my breast, that their rest be not broken. My saddened spirit dared not give vent to my impassioned agitation. It seemed to me that upon their grave I breathed a sacred air. A wondrous feeling came over me, and with an unearthly hope I softly bent my knees, and prayed, and wept, and loved.”

Konstantín Nikoláevich Bátyushkov. (1787-1855.)

Bátyushkov received his education in the boarding-schools of St.
Petersburg, from which he took away a good knowledge of French,
German, and Italian, and little else, especially since all his
schooling ended with his sixteenth year. He was then ushered into the
circle of literary men by a relative of his, M. N. Muravév (see vol.
i. p. 395), who also interested him in the ancient classics, among
whom Bátyushkov admired most and imitated Horace and Tibullus. In 1806
he was seized by the prevailing patriotic enthusiasm, after the
disaster of Austerlitz, and joined the army. He was seriously wounded,
but in 1813 he again took part in the campaign against Napoleon.
During his stay in Germany he became intimately acquainted with the
German literature, which he began to prefer to the French and Latin.
He returned to Russia over England and Sweden. In 1818 he received a
diplomatic post at Naples, which gave him an opportunity of making
himself familiar with the country of his beloved author, Tasso. He
soon returned home, where he was up to his death, for a period of
thirty-three years, lost to Russian letters, having, like his mother
before him, become hopelessly insane. No other poet had given such
promise as Bátyushkov, and even Púshkin regarded him as his teacher.
His fame rests mainly on his _Dying Tasso_ and _The Friend’s Shadow_,
the Anacreontic character of the other poems and the absence of a
Russian motive having otherwise almost obliterated his fame.

In Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I., there
is a translation of his _To My Penates_, and in Part II., _To F. F.
Kokoshkin_, _The Farewell_, _The Friend’s Shadow_, _Love in a Boat_,
_The Prisoner_, _To the Rhine_. What purports to be a translation of
his _Dying Tasso_ is given in The Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832.

THE FRIEND’S SHADOW

From Albion’s misty isle across the waves I sped me:
It looked as if interred beneath a leaden sea,
And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me,
While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody.
The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling,
And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill,
And to the watch the active helmsman calling,
The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still.
All seemed to rock itself to gentle thought;
Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, looked forth,
And through the night and through the mist I sought,
I sought the star beloved of my domestic north.
Then into memory melted every feeling,--
My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace,
And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing,
Covered my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness.
Then dreams with other dreams were blended,
And lo!--there stood, was it a dream?--the form
Of that dear friend who his career had ended
Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm.
He stood upon the mist, and smiled,--his face,
Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining
Like the young spring in gaiety and grace,
Even as an angel from high heaven declining:--
“Comrade of better time! and is it thou?
And is it thou?” I cried, “thou hero bright!
Did I not in the fury of the fight
Attend thee, and when thou hadst fallen below
Make thy new grave,--and on a neighbouring tree
Write with my sword thy feats of bravery,
And followed thy cold ashes to their bed,
And hallowed it with prayers, and with tears waterèd?
Speak, unforgotten one, speak! Was it a deceit?
Is all that ’s past a dream, a cheating dream?
A dream that corpse, a dream that grave, that sheet
Wrapt round thee,--were they not? did they but seem?
Oh, but one word! Let that tongue’s melody
Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear:
O unforgotten one! Stretch out to me
Thy old right hand of friendship, stretch it here!”
I sprung towards him,--Oh! the mists had dimmed my eye,--
He vanished like a shade, a lock of airy smoke,--
Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky,
And I, arousing from my dream, awoke.
Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping;
The very winds, the very waves at rest;
And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping;
The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast.
But I was troubled, peace had left my soul,--
I stretched my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see,--
I called on him, whom I could not control,--
On thee, beloved one! best of friends, on thee!

--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
II.

THE DYING TASSO

What solemnity does ancient Rome prepare? Whither rush the nation’s noisy waves? For whom these fragrant fumes of incense and of myrrh, and everywhere the vases full of odorous herbs? Wherefore above the streets of the universal city, from the Tiber’s banks up to the Capitol, midst flowers and laurels, are fluttering costly carpets and the purple?

Wherefore this noise? Wherefore the timbrel’s sound and thunder? Is it of gladness or of victory the herald? Why with the standard gains the house of prayer the mitred apostolic vicar? For whom this glittering crown he holds,--a priceless gift of grateful Rome? For whom this triumph? For thee, immortal singer, for thee this gift, O singer of “Jerusalem.”

The din of joy has reached the cell where in death agony Torquato lies, where o’er the sufferer’s immortal head is borne the spirit of wingèd death. Neither tears of friendship, nor the prayers of the monks, nor honours’ tardy due,--these will not curb indomitable fate that spares not even the great. Half-shattered, he sees the threatening hour, hails it with joy, and,--alluring swan!--bids life good-bye and utters these last words:

“My friends, let me behold Rome the magnificent, where an untimely grave awaits the poet, that my eyes may see your hills and smoke, O ancient hearths of the Quirites! O sacred ground of miracles and heroes! O glorious ruins and O glorious dust! Azure and purple of cloudless skies, you poplars, ancient olives, and thou, eternal Tiber, wellspring of all the nations, grave of the bones of the world’s citizens,--you, you I greet within these sombre walls, where I lie doomed to an untimely end!

“’T is done! I stand o’er the abyss of destiny, shall not applauded reach the Capitol, and laurels of fame upon my feeble head will not assuage the singer’s bitter fate. From earliest youth a shuttlecock of men, I was an exile from my very childhood; a poor wanderer under the voluptuous heaven of my Italy, I have experienced all vicissitudes of fate. Where was my bark not borne by the waves? Where found it rest? Where wet I not my daily bread with tears of grief? Sorrento! cradle of my luckless days, where in the night, like terrified Ascanius, I was bereft by destiny of my mother, of her soft embraces and caresses,--rememberest thou how many tears I shed while still a child? Alas! since then, a prey of evil fate, all sorrows I have learned, all misery of existence. The depths by Fortune furrowed were cleft below me, and the thunder never silenced. Driven from vill to vill, from land to land, I sought in vain a refuge upon earth: its unrelenting finger saw I everywhere, and everywhere its lightnings struck the bard! Neither in the humble ploughman’s hut, nor under cover of Alfonso’s palace, nor in the quiet of the lowliest shelter, nor forest tangle, nor mountains, was my head secure, the exile’s head, by shame and fame oppressed, and from the cradle a victim of the goddess of the doom.

“Friends, what wrings so terribly my breast? What gnaws my heart, and keeps it in a flutter? Whence have I come? What awful journey have I made? What glimmers there behind me in the dark? Ferrara----furies----and the snake of envy! Whither, whither, murderers of genius? I ’m in the haven; ’t is Rome. Here are my family, my brothers! Here are their tears and sweet caresses,--and Virgil’s crown here in the Capitol!

“Yes, I have done Apollo’s bidding: his zealous priest from earliest youth, I sang, midst lightnings, under raging skies, the fame and majesty of bygone days. My soul, though fettered, never changed; the rapture of the sweet-voiced Muses never died in me, and through my sufferings my genius grew strong. It dwelt in the land of miracles, O Sion, by thy walls, on Jordan’s flowery banks; and it communed with thee, rebellious Cedron, and thee, peaceful retreats of Lebanon! ’T is there the heroes of the ancient days rose from the dead, in the majesty and glow of their grim glory. It beheld thee, Godfrey, ruler, lord of kings, majestic, calm, while arrows whizzed; and thee, youthful Rinaldo, fervid like Achilles and a happy victor in love and war. It saw thee flying o’er the corpses of the foeman’s host, like fire, like death, like the destroying angel,--and Tartarus vanquished by the gleaming cross!

“O models of unheard-of valour! O holy triumph and victory of the pure faith of our ancestors now long asleep! Torquato extricated you from the abyss of time: he sang,--and you will never be forgotten; he sang: to him a wreath of immortality has been decreed, wound by the hands of Muses and of Glory. Too late: I stand o’er the abyss of destiny, shall not applauded reach the Capitol, and laurels of fame upon my feeble head will not assuage the singer’s bitter fate!”

He stopped. A sombre light glowed in his eyes, the final ray of genius before its death; it seemed, the dying wished to snatch one day of triumph from the Parcæ; his eyes sought eagerly the Capitolian walls; he tried his best to raise himself but lay, exhausted from the dreadful torment of his agony, immovable upon his bed. Day’s luminary was gliding to the west, and merged in blood-red glow; the hour of death was near----the sufferer’s gloomy brow was now agleam with its last light. Refreshed by the evening coolness, he raised his right hand to the hearkening heavens, like a righteous man, with hope and joy:

“See,” he addressed his sobbing friends, “the royal luminary flaming in the west! ’T is he, ’t is he who calls me to the cloudless lands where glows the eternal light----. The angel stands before me to guide me on; he shades me with his azure pinions----. Give me Love’s token, this mysterious cross----. Pray in hope and tears----all earthly things are vanishing----and glory and the crown----the sublime creations of the Arts and Muses: all is there eternal as the Lord, the Giver of the crown of immortal glory! There is all the great my spirit fed upon, and I did from my cradle breathe. O brothers, friends! weep not o’er me: your friend has reached at last the longed-for goal. He’ll pass away in peace and, strong in faith, will not perceive his cruel end: there, there----. O bliss! ’midst virtuous women and ’midst angels Eleanor will meet him!”

And with the name of love the godly passed away; his friends sobbed speechless o’er him. Daylight softly died away----the bell’s voice spread the melancholy news down to the streets: “Dead is our Torquato!” Rome cried in tears: “Dead is the bard who has deserved a better fate!”---- The dawn perceived a sombre smoke of torches, and in mourning shrouded was the Capitol.

Fédor Nikoláevich Glínka. (1788-1880.)

Glínka was born in the Government of Smolénsk and was educated in the
First Cadet Corps, which he left in 1803 as lieutenant. He took part
in the campaign of the Russian army against Napoleon in the Austrian
possessions, serving as adjutant under Milorádovich. He described his
experience in his _Letters of a Russian Officer_, which is a
remarkable production for a young man of nineteen. After his return he
devoted himself to literature, both prose and poetry. His poems
attracted much attention on account of their sincerity and the
harmoniousness of their verses. In 1869 he published a collection of
_Spiritual Songs_.

In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given _The Appearance of the
Unknown_, _The Search for God_, and _Moscow_. N. H. Dole has
translated his _Moscow_ (publication unascertainable).

MOSCOW

Wondrous city, ancient city,
Thou enfoldest in thy walls
Villages and smiling suburbs,
Churches, palaces and halls.

Thou art girt by grassy meadows,
Gay with gardens, rich in flowers;
Seven the hills are which thou crownest
With thy temples, with thy towers.

Thou unfoldest like a parchment
Written by a giant hand,
And beside thy little river
Thou art glorious now and grand.

Many are thine ancient churches
Towering like the northern pine;
Where can eye see streets so noble,
Mother Moscow, as are thine?

Capture Moscow’s mighty Kreml?
Who on earth would boast the power?
Who could rob the golden bonnet
From the slender Iván tower?

Who could ever swing the Tsar-bell,
Or the Tsar-gun overthrow?
Reverence at the sacred gateway
Who could ever fail to show?

In thine awful hour of peril,
When thy haughty neck was bent,
All thy children, men of Russia,
Felt with thee the punishment.

White-walled city, thou wast chastened
Like a martyr in the fire;
And thy river, boiling, hastened
Onward to escape the pyre.

Once a captive and dishonoured,
In thine embers thou didst lie!
Now arisen from thine ashes
Changeless, lift thy head on high!

Flourish through the countless ages,
Moscow! many-towered town.
Thou art central heart of Russia,
Russia’s glory, Russia’s crown!

--Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication not ascertainable).

THE SEARCH FOR GOD

The heavens grow dark before mine eyes,
The earth gives out a groaning sound;
The stormy blasts in fury rise,
And all obstructions quick confound;
They drive apart hills with their foot,
Huge trees they pluck up by the root:
I call on God with loudest tone,--
God is not in the tempest known.

As I behold, the meadows fair
Are breaking into mound and vale;
The earth is shaking everywhere,
The rocks roll down the hills like hail;
Dense clouds of smoke the sight appall,
With trembling voice on God I call,--
But in the earthquake’s fearful round
His holy footsteps are not found.

On novel wonders still I gaze;
The vaults of heaven with lightning blaze,
The flames burst forth on every side,
And onwards rush,--a raging tide,--
Stirring the mind with direst fear,--
But not in fire does God appear.

Fair peace succeeds: the perfect calm
My prescient spirit fills with balm;
Like the young morn with glimmering light,
So burns with haze of silver bright
The presence pure of God:
The soul, responsive to the strain,
Breathes with unearthly life again;
Sweet stillness settles on the scene,
And, though deep distance intervene,
God’s voice is heard abroad.

--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.

Prince Petr Andréevich Vyázemski. (1792-1878.)

Prince Vyázemski was one of the very few literary men in Russia whose
career began before that of Púshkin and who were still active at a
time when Tolstóy and Dostoévski had established their reputations.
His father, dying, left him in charge of Karamzín, to whom he was
related by marriage. Through him, Prince Vyázemski was early brought
in contact with the literary circle, meeting there on a friendly
footing Zhukóvski, Bátyushkov, and Púshkin. He took part in the
campaign of 1812, and at Borodinó two horses were shot under him. He
later occupied various posts, and was made Associate Minister of
Public Instruction and a Senator in 1855. His literary works have
lately been collected in twelve large volumes, and yet, in spite of
his great talent as a satirist, critic, and lyricist, he has fallen
into oblivion. The cause of this is that he persevered in the
pseudo-classic, sentimental attitude of the school of Karamzín, while
the Romantic spirit of Púshkin’s time touched him but lightly, and the
realism of the period after the forties entrenched him only more in
his old habits and confirmed him in his hostility to everything that
departed from the code of Karamzín.

Sir John Bowring gives in Part II. of the _Specimens of the Russian
Poets_ translations of his _To My Three Absent Friends_, _To N. N._,
and _Fragment_; John Pollen, in the _Rhymes from the Russian_, has
translated his _Troika_. An epigram of his is given by V. E. Marsden
in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 9.

THE SAMOVÁR

’T is pleasant, having strayed abroad, to find a familiar picture of native customs, homelike bread-and-salt, a hospitable roof, a retreat, a sacred retreat of your country’s Lares for the soul that is crusted by the ice in the chill sea of the world, where to a native question there is no native answer; where life is but an empty exchange of ceremonial words; where you are only a stranger and only Monsieur N. ’T is pleasant to warm yourself in a quiet haven and with confidence to look into friends’ faces, eagerly to listen to the discourse in which there is something familiar to the soul and a message from bygone days.

A wanderer’s days are like unto displaced pages: a teasing, malicious spirit disrupts them,--there is no connection: each day you live anew, yet life is only good through traditions of love, oneness of beliefs and feelings, concord of impressions, and a gentle antiqueness of customary relations. Our mind is cosmopolitan, but our heart home-bound: the mind pleases itself in ever treading new paths, and has all its joys in the future; but the heart grows young with old dreams, the heart lives on old habits and blooms more gladly in the shadow of the past. Oh, be blessed, roof of light and refuge, where, like a relative, the guest of the moment has been received, where carelessly he could unfold his heart, and for a time deceive his orphanhood! Where consciously and sympathetically he partook of the dear family’s harmony and happiness, and saw the young joys of the parents’ souls blooming in a cloudless calm----.

But we are drawn even by another mysterious power to that familiar retreat where, with usual kindness, the loving family waits for us at the table. I love that hour,--almost the best of the day,--a poetic hour ’midst the prose of rude days, a sincere hour of life, a joyous interval ’twixt the labour of the day and the deep sleep of the night. All accounts are cast,--in the balance we live: there are no cares of life, nay, have not been; _to-day_ has vanished from your shoulders, _to-morrow_ is not yet. Hour of friendly discourse at the tea table! Honour and praise to the young hostess! Right Orthodoxly, not in German fashion, not thin like water or childish drink, but redolent with Russia, juicy and thick, the fragrant tea flows in an amber stream.

Very well! But I find one thing lacking: no, the stamp of Russian life is not complete! Where is the native samovár, our family’s hearth, our family altar, ark of domestic joys? In it boil, from it flow, the traditions of all our days; in it live the recollections of Russian antiquity; it alone has survived from the torso of former years,--the inextinguishable grandfather has passed to the grandchildren. It is the Russian rococo, formless, awkward, but inwardly good, though unsightly from without; it preserves better the heat, and while it croons, the discourse boils like its steaming liquid.

How many secret chapters of daily romances, life-stirring, heartfelt romances that are not in books,--let one write as sweetly as one may,--how many pure dreams of maidens’ souls and gentle quarrels of love, and gentle peace-making, and quiet joys, and softly riotous joys have stealthily taken fire in its flame and have invisibly been carried in its cloud of steam! Wherever there are domestic Penates, from gilded palaces to humble huts, wherever there is the brass samovár, an inheritance of the orphan, the widow’s last wealth, and luxury of poverty,--everywhere in holy and Orthodox Russia it is the chief participator at family reunions. One cannot be born into the world, nor enter into matrimony, nor will friends say “welcome” or “good-bye,” but that, the end and beginning of all everyday affairs, the boiling samovár, the domestic leader of the choir, raises its voice and calls the family together.

The poet has said, and his verse we understand: “Our country’s smoke is sweet and pleasant to us!” Was not our great poet--there can be no doubt about it--then inspired by the samovár? Derzhávin’s shades, following me, turn to you with the earnest request, to his honour and the honour of the Orthodox country, to throw away the teapot and introduce the samovár.

TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS

My brothers! whither scattered now?
What fate, what cruel fate could sever
Hands, souls, fast-bound, divided never?
But ye are fled, and fled for ever,
And I am left alone with woe!

The sigh I heave in silence here,
The careless zephyr bears away;
’T is lost in twilight’s darkening ray,
’T is veiled in night,--it fades in day,--
It ne’er will reach your listening ear.

Perchance e’en now, while round me roll
Dark storms and misty clouds, e’en now,
Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow,
One calls upon his friend, and oh!
Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul.

Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest!
My spirit seems to cling to thee;
From sorrow to felicity
Wafted, thy bark has passed the sea
Of storms, in joy’s calm port to rest.

How long shall absence’ misery last?
When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting?
Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting
Of social bliss return?--How fleeting
Its rapture,--’t is for ever past!

Cold, cold,--I feel my heart; delight
Can kindle ne’er its fire again;
My tears flow forth, they flow in vain;
My smiles,--no light those smiles retain;
For what awaked it sinks in night.

Time was, how blessèd to recall
That time, when our hands garlanded
The fairest wreaths of roses red,
And in youth’s spring the chorus led
To heaven, the source, the end of all.

Time was, but like a dream it fled!
The hymn,--’t is now a funeral dirge;
The garland,--’t is affliction’s scourge;
The dance,--its memories now emerge
Like ghosts that wander midst the dead.

And now the plaint ascends! Appear,
Appear, delightful hours, anew!
Spirit of youth, so fond, so true,
Awake! Suns, once so bright, so few,
Shine,--let illusion’s mockery cheer!

But see! the darkness creeps away,--
The clouds disperse, the storm is gone,--
Thy smile returns not, blessèd one!
The mountains see the morning dawn,
To me, alas! there dawns no day.

--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
II.

DEATH REAPS THE HARVEST OF LIFE

Death reaps the harvest of life, and every day and every hour asks for a new prey of life, and sternly tears us asunder.

How many fair names he has already snatched away from the living, and how many voiceless lyres hang on young cypresses!

How many companions are no more, how many younger ones have passed, whose morning dawned when the sultry midday burnt us!

But we have remained, have survived that fateful carnage; but we are impoverished after the death of our near ones, and no longer strive for life as for a conflict.

Sadly finishing our days, we are waiting for the belated relief,--slowly dying from day to day, until we shall be no more.

Sons of another generation, we are a last year’s flower in the new: the impressions of the living are foreign to us, and they have no sympathy for ours.

They care not for that which we love, and their passions do not agitate us! They were not there where we have been, and not for us is where they shall be!

Our world is an empty fane to them, our past is but a myth, and that which for us are hallowed ashes, to them is but mute dust.

Yes! We are like ruins, and we stand on the crossroad of the living, like mortuary monuments amidst the habitations of men!

Kondráti Fédorovich Rylyéev. (1796-1826.)

Rylyéev was at the early age of six inscribed by his mother in the
Cadet Corps, in order to remove him from the influence of his brutal
father. In 1814 he graduated as lieutenant, and took part in the
expedition that entered Paris. Upon his return, he was stationed in
the Governments of Minsk and Vorónezh; he later settled in St.
Petersburg, where he distinguished himself for his official integrity
as member of the Criminal Court and as Manager of the Russo-American
Company. He began to write verses as a boy, and his ardent
republicanism, coupled with a not less fervent patriotism, led him to
an idealisation of ancient Russian heroes. He did this in the
prevailing Romantic spirit, being urged on in his endeavours by his
mentor and friend, Púshkin. Of his historical ballads the best are
_Iván Susánin_ and _Voynaróvski_; they all created an outburst of
patriotic enthusiasm upon their appearance. Of his other poems the
most perfect are _The Citizen_ and _Civil Valour_. Rylyéev took an
active part in the plot of the Decembrists, was at once arrested, and
later publicly executed. His poems were prohibited in Russia until a
comparatively recent time.

An extract from _Voynaróvski_ was translated in the Foreign Quarterly
Review, vol. ix., 1832; a large number of his poems, containing the
whole of _Voynaróvski_, are given in _The Poems of K. F. Relaieff_,
translated from the Russian by T. Hart-Davies, London (new and
enlarged edition, 1887); C. T. Wilson has translated in _Russian
Lyrics_ his _Iván Susánin_, _Svyatopólk_, and _Prayer Before Death_.
In Free Russia, vol. xii., No. 2, _The Citizen_ is translated by
Elizabeth Gibson.

FROM “VOYNARÓVSKI”

But whose that wandering form that ’s seen
Athwart the morning fog to creep
From out yon hut, and on the steep
Beneath which Lena’s waters sweep
Pace with slow step and ’wildered mien?
His arquebus slung at his back,
His short caftan, and cap of black,
Seem to denote him a Cossack
From Dnieper’s shores. Stern is his face,
And full of grief, for cankering thought
Hath furrowed deep that brow, and wrought
The stamp of age on manhood’s grace.
See! to the west his hands extending,
Wild lustre breaking from his eyes,
Homeward his thoughts and wishes sending,
He thus exclaims with tearless sigh:

“Ye distant fields, that saw my birth,
My death you may not view!
Tombs of my sires! The exile’s bones
Will never rest in you!
In vain the flame of life yet burns,--
It never more may shine;
In vain my soul the dastard spurns,--
The dastard’s lot is mine.”

────────────────────────────────────

Who is that exile? None may tell:
Months, years have passed since first he came
To this his far abode of shame,
Here shunned, and shunning all, to dwell.
Ne’er hath a smile been seen to play
Across that face blanched by despair;
And woe, not age, hath tinged with grey
His unkempt beard and matted hair.
Yet, not a felon deed hath sent
That stranger hither; nor hath brent
The glowing iron his scarred face,
And charactered a slave’s disgrace;
Though ne’er did branded felon show
Such withered look, so wild a brow.
Calmness is there, but ’t is the calm
Of Baykal, ere the tempest rise
To lash its waters to the skies,
Spreading around dismay, alarm;
And, as athwart the midnight gloom
Flickers the lamp beside the tomb,
So gleam with ghastly glare his eyes.
Wandering alone o’er crag, through dell,
He roams each day, and none may dare
To ask his name, his grief, his care:
His frown forbids, that frown ’s a spell.

────────────────────────────────────

“List, stranger, and with wonder learn
How Fate, unpitying, wayward, stern,
Delights us mortals to oppress.
Beneath this garb uncouth, this dress
So coarse, a slave it scarce befits,
Thus abject here beside thee sits
Mazeppa’s kinsman, friend, and heir.”

--From Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832.

IVÁN SUSÁNIN

“Where lead’st thou our footsteps? Here naught can be seen,”
Thus shouted the foe to the brave Susanin,
“We sink in the snow-heaps, we stick on the road,
We ne’er shall arrive at thy sheltering abode;
’T is on purpose thou stray’st from the path, but in vain,
From tricks like this Michael no safety will gain.

“Though snow-storm may rage, though we wander afar,
Yet death at the Poles’ hands shall come on thy Tsar;
So lead on, or tremble! and shorten our pain,--
All night with the tempest contending amain,
Through snow-storms and cold thou hast made us to go,--
But what dark spot is that in the valley below?”

“’T is the hamlet,” the peasant replied, “see, there stand
The corn-yards, the bridge, and the pales round the land!
With me, on to the door, for the cottage hath been
Long time ready warmed to receive guests within,
So onward, and fear not!” “Well, well I must say
Thou hast led us, my friend, a most cursed long way.

“A night more infernal I never have seen,
With snow stuck together my eyelids have been;
My coat, pah! you wring it, there ’s not a thread dry.”
Thus grumbled the Pole, and went in with the cry
Of, “Wine, wine! we are cold, we are wet through and through,
Or we ’ll take what our broadswords can wring out of you.”

And now on the board the rough napkin was spread
With beer and with wine-jugs, and each had his bread
Before him, and soup made of cabbage was there
And Russian wheat-gruel, a right welcome fare.
Without the cold wind at the casemates was spurning,
Within the dim spluttering torches were burning.

Now midnight had passed, in tranquillity deep
On the benches the Poles lay unheeding asleep,
In the house filled with smoke no one stirring was seen,
Save as sentinel standing the grey Susanin,
In the corner he stood near the ikon, and there
For the young Tsar’s protection he murmured a prayer.

The silence the tramp of a horse’s hoofs stirred.
Then stole Susanin to the doorway, and heard,
“Is it thou, father dear? to find thee I am here.
Where goest thou? Rough is the journey and drear,
’T is past midnight, no lull in the tempest hath come,
Sure thou bringest distress to the hearts of thy home.”

“It was God’s will thy steps to this village to guide,
And now haste to the young Tsar,” the father replied,
“And tell him, tell Michael, to flee and not wait,
For the murderous Poles in their pride and their hate
In secret to murder young Michael intend,
And so doth a fresh woe o’er Moscow impend.

“Tell him that I, loving my faith and my land,
Will rescue the Tsar from the enemy’s hand;
Tell him that his safety lies only in flight,
That e’en now the assassins are with me this night.”
“O my father, what say’st thou?--a moment refrain,”
Said the youth, “if thou die, what to me will remain?

“Who then my young sister, my mother will guard?”
“The holy Creator will take them in ward,”
Said brave Susanin, “and they never will fall,
For assistance and shelter He giveth to all
Who are orphans; so hasten, ’t is time now to go,
’T is for Russia, remember, I lay my life low.”

With a sob the youth mounted, and swiftly did go,
Like a whistling arrow just loosed from the bow.
Through the clouds the moon shone, the wild snow-storm was o’er,
All hushed were the winds and the tempest’s loud roar,
In the east the dim dawn ’gan to glimmer afar,
And the Poles woke from slumber, those foes of the Tsar.

“Susanin,” they cried, “cease thy prayers to thy God,
It is time for the start, we should be on the road!”
So leaving the village in shouting array,
Through the forest they followed a winding pathway.
Susanin led them on; and now up rose the light,
And the sun through the branches began to gleam bright.

Soon his rays were obscured, then again brightly shone,
Then with dim light he glimmered, and vanished anon.
Scarce a rustle was heard from the beech or the oak,
Scarce a sound ’neath the feet from the frost-bound snow broke,
Scarce a crow rose in flight with a flutter and cry,
And the woodpecker pecked at the willow-tree dry.

In silence the Poles marched on singly in file,
Still farther their grey-haired guide led them the while;
Now high in the heavens the mid-day sun stood,
But darker and drearer grew the thick wood,
Till sudden before them the pathway was lost,
And a hedge of fir-branches thick plaited and crossed

With pine-boughs right down to the ground interlaced,
On the road like some rough wall before them was placed;
In vain did the scouts bend a listening ear,
All was desert and dead, not a sound could they hear.
“Whither now hast thou led us?” the wearied Poles cried.
“To the place that was needed,” the peasant replied;

“So slay me, a martyr, for here is my tomb,
But know that I save the young Tsar from his doom;
Ye thought ye had found a base traitor in me,
But no Russ is a traitor, nor ever shall be!
Here each loves his country from youth’s early day,
And his fatherland vilely can never betray.”

“Wretch!” yelled the fierce Poles with a wild fury torn,
“Thou shalt die ’neath our sabres.” “Your anger I scorn,
For the true Russian heart with content and with trust
Ever joyfully dies in the cause which is just,
Fear of death or of doom from my spirit is far,
All untrembling I die for my country and Tsar.”

“Die then!” to the hero the angry foe screamed,
O’er his grey head the broadswords keen-whistling gleamed,
“Perish, traitorous villain, thy life’s end is near!”
Susanin wounded fell without shrinking or fear,
By his purer blood’s red stream the pure snow was laved--
’T was that life-blood which Michael for Russia had saved.

--From T. Hart-Davies’s _The Poems of K. F. Relaieff_.

Aleksándr Sergyéevich Griboyédov. (1795-1829.)

The famous author of the drama _Intelligence Comes to Grief_ was the
son of wealthy and cultivated parents, who gave him a brilliant
education. At the age of fifteen he spoke several languages fluently,
and entered the university, from which he graduated two years later
with the degree of Bachelor of Laws. He immediately joined the army,
but did not take part in the foreign campaigns as his regiment was
kept back for home duty. During his leisure hours he translated and
remodelled several French dramas, without displaying any especial
talent for dramatic work. In 1818 he was appointed secretary of the
Russian legation in Persia, and in recognition of his important
services was highly decorated by both the Russian and the Persian
governments. During his wearisome sojourn in Asia he laid the
foundation for his drama _Intelligence Comes to Grief_, and he
finished it in Moscow in 1823. He went with it to St. Petersburg to
stage it, but the censor would not permit even its publication. In the
meanwhile the drama became known throughout Russia in hundreds of
manuscript copies, and it created a sensation unlike any previous work
of literature. In portraying both the servility and corruption of the
older temporising generation, and the carping criticism and would-be
liberalism of the younger set, who in their endeavour to imitate the
West sinned against the national character, Griboyédov incurred the
animosities of all the camps; but by unanimous consent _Intelligence
Comes to Grief_ is the greatest national drama of Russia. Since its
first appearance on the stage in 1831, and its first publication in
1833, it has had some fifty editions, and is still on the repertoire
of Russian theatres. In 1828 Griboyédov was sent again to Persia, this
time in the capacity of minister, but he was killed soon after his
arrival in Teheran by an infuriated mob.

_Intelligence Comes to Grief_ was translated into English under its
Russian title, _Gore ot Ouma_, from the Russian of Griboiedoff, by N.
Benardaky, London, Edinburgh, 1857. In The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 15, is translated his _David_, by F. P. Marchant.

FROM “INTELLIGENCE COMES TO GRIEF”