Chapter V: Prologue (1)

It was the 27th of October, 1505. As if for the coronation of a Tsar, Moscow was decorated and adorned. The Cathedral of the Assumption, the Church of the Annunciation, the Stone Palace, the Tower Palace, the Kreml with its towers, a multitude of stone churches and houses scattered over the city--all this, just come out of the hands of skilful architects, bore the stamp of freshness and newness, as if it had risen up in one day by an almighty will. In reality, all this had been created in a short time by the genius of Ioánn III. A person who, thirty years back, had left Moscow, poor, insignificant, resembling a large village, surrounded by hamlets, would not have recognised it had he seen it now; so soon had all Russia arisen at the single manly call of this great genius.

Taking the colossal infant under his princely guardianship, he had torn off its swaddling bands, and not by years, but by hours, he reared it to a giant vigour. Nóvgorod and Pskov, which had never vailed their bonnet to mortal man, had yet doffed it to him, and had even brought him the tribute of liberty and gold: the yoke of the Khans had been cast off, and hurled beyond the frontiers of the Russian land; Kazán, though she had taken cover from the mighty hunter, yet had taken cover like the she-wolf that has no earth,--her territories had melted away, and were united into one mighty appanage; and the ruler who created all this was the first Russian sovereign who realised the idea of a Tsar.

Nevertheless, on the 27th of October, 1505, the Moscow which he had thus adorned was preparing for a spectacle not joyful but melancholy. Ioánn, enfeebled in mind and body, lay upon his death-bed. He had forgotten his great exploits; he remembered only his sins, and repented of them.

It was towards the evening-tide. In the churches gleamed the lonely lamps; through the mica and bladder panes of the windows glimmered the fires, kindled in their houses by faith or by necessity. But nowhere was it popular love which had lighted them; for the people did not comprehend the services of the great man, and loved him not for his innovations. At one corner of the prison, the Black House, but later than the other houses, was illumined by a weak and flickering light. On the bladder which was the substitute for glass in the window, the iron grating, with its spikes, threw a net-like shadow, which was only relieved by a speck, at one moment glittering like a spark, at another emitting a whirling stream of vapour. It was evident that the prisoner had made this opening in the bladder, in order, unperceived by his guards, to look forth upon the light of heaven.

This was part of the prison, and in it even now was pining a youthful captive. He seemed not more than twenty. So young! What early transgression could have brought him here? From his face you would not believe in such transgressions; you would not believe that God could have created that fair aspect to deceive. So handsome and so noble that you would think never had one evil intention passed over that tranquil brow, never had one passion played in those eyes, filled with love to his neighbour and calm melancholy. And yet, by his tall and majestic figure, as he starts from his reverie, and shakes his raven curls, he seems to be born a lord, and not a slave. His hands are white and delicate as a woman’s. On the throat of his shirt blazes a button of emerald; in the damp and smoky room, on a broad bench against the wall, are a feather-bed with a pillow of damask, and with a silken covering; and by the bedside a coffer of white bone in filigree work. Evidently he is not a common prisoner. No common prisoner!--no, he is a crowned prince!--and pure in thought and deed as the dwellers of the skies.

All his crime is a diadem, which he did not seek, and which was placed on his head by the caprice of his sovereign; in no treason, in no crime had he been accomplice; he was guilty by the guilt of others,--by the ambition of two women, the intrigues of the courtiers, the anger of his grandfather against the others, and not against him. They had destined him a throne, and they had dragged him to a dungeon. He understood not why they crowned him, and now he understands not why they deprived him of liberty,--of the light of heaven,--of all that they deny not even to the meanest. For him his nearest kinsman dared not even pray aloud.

This was the grandson of Iván III., the only child of his beloved son,--Dmítri Ivánovich.

At one time he sat in melancholy musing, resting his elbows on his knees, and losing his fingers in the dark curls of his hair; then he would arise, then lie down. He was restless as though they had given him poison. No one was with him. A solitary taper lighted up his miserable abode. The stillness of the room was disturbed only by the drops from the ceiling, or the mice nibbling the crumbs that had fallen from the captive’s table. The little light now died away, now flared up again; and in these flashes it seemed as though rows of gigantic spiders crept along the wall. In reality, these were scribbling in various languages, scrawled with charcoal or with a nail. Hardly was it possible to spell out among them--“Matheas,” “Marfa, burgomistress of Nóvgorod the Great,” “Accursed be----,” “Liebe Mutter, liebe A----”; and several words more, half obliterated by the damp which had trickled along the wall, or been scratched out by the anger or the ignorance of the guards.

The door of the dungeon softly opened. Dmítri Ivánovich started up. “Afóniya, is it thou?” he joyfully enquired; but seeing that he had mistaken for another the person who entered, he exclaimed sadly: “Ah, is it thou, Nebogáty! Why cometh not Afóniya? I am sad, I am lonely, I am devoured by grief, as if a serpent lay at my heart. Didst thou not say that Afóniya would come as soon as they lighted the candles in the houses?”

“Afanási Nikítin[6] hath a mind as single as his eye,” said the deacon Dmítri Nebogáty, a kind and good-natured officer, yet strict in the performance of the charge given him by the Great Prince, of guarding his grandson. (We may remark that at this time he, in consequence of the illness of Dmítri, the treasurer and groom of the bedchamber, fulfilled their duties. All honour to a prince, even though he be a prisoner!)

“Make thyself easy, Dmítri Ivánovich; soon, be sure, will come our orator. Thou wottest thyself he groweth infirm, he seeth not well, and so must grope along the wall; and till he cometh, my dear child, play, amuse thyself with thy toys. Sit down cozily on thy bed; I will give thee thy coffer.”

And Dmítri Ivánovich, a child, though he was more than twenty years old, to escape from the weariness that oppressed him, instantly accepted the proposition of his deacon, sat down with his feet on his bed, took the ivory box upon his knees, and opened it with a key that hung at his girdle. By degrees, one after the other, he drew out into the light a number of precious articles which had been imprisoned in the coffer.

The young prince held up to the fire, now a chain of gold with bears’ heads carved on the links, or a girdle of scaly gold, then signet rings of jacinth or emerald, then crucifixes, collars, bracelets, precious studs: he admired them, threw the collars round his neck, and asked the deacon whether they became him; took orient pearls and rubies by the handful, let them stream like rain through his fingers, amused himself in playing with them, like an absolute child--and suddenly, hearing a voice in the neighbouring chamber, threw them all back anyhow into the coffer. His face lighted up.

“’T is Afóniya!” he cried, giving back the box to the deacon, and descending from the bed.

“Lock it, Dmítri Ivánovich!” said Nebogáty firmly: “without that I will not receive it.”

Hastily clinked the key in the coffer; the door opened, and there entered the room an old man of low stature, bowed down by the burden of years; the silver of his hair was already becoming golden with age. From the top of his head to the corner of his left eye was deeply gashed a scar, which had thus let fall an eternal curtain before that eye, and therefore the other was fixed in its place, like a precious stone of wondrous water, for it glittered with unusual brilliancy, and seemed to see for itself and for its unfortunate twin brother. No son more affectionately meets a tenderly beloved father than Dmítri Ivánovich met the old man. Joy sparkled in the eyes of the Tsarévich, and spoke in his every gesture.

He took his guest’s walking-staff, shook from his dress the powdered snow, embraced him, and seated him in the place of honour on his bed. Nevertheless, the guest was no more than Afanási Nikítin, a merchant of Tver, a trader without trade, without money, poor, but rich in knowledge, which he had acquired in an adventurous journey to India, rich in experience and fancies, which he knew how to adorn beside with a sweet and enchanting eloquence. He lived on the charity of his friends, and yet was no man’s debtor: the rich he paid with his tales, and to the poor he gave them for nothing. He was allowed to visit the Great Prince Dmítri Ivánovich (whom, however, it was forbidden to call Great Prince). We may judge how delightfully he filled up the dreadful solitude of the youth’s imprisonment, and how dear he therefore was to the captive. And what did Dmítri give him for his labour? Much, very much to a good heart,--his delight, the only pleasure left him in the world,--and this reward the Tver man would not have exchanged for gold. Once the Tsarévich had desired to present him with one of the precious articles from his ivory box; but the deacon gently reminded the captive that all the articles in his coffer were his, that he might play with them as much as he pleased, but that he was not at liberty to dispose of them.

The day before Afanási Nikítin had begun a tale about the “Almayne,” surnamed the _Heretic_. To-day, when he had seated himself, he continued it. His speech flowed on like the song of a nightingale, which we listen to from the flush of morning till the glow of eve without shutting our eyes even for a moment. Greedily did the Tsarévich listen to the story-teller, his cheeks burned, and often tears streamed from his eyes. Far, very far, he was borne away from his dungeon, and only from time to time the rude brawling of the guards behind the partition-wall recalled him to bitter reality. In the meantime the deacon Nebogáty’s pen was hurriedly scratching along the parchment: the sheets, pasted one to another in a long line, were fast covered with strange hieroglyphics, and wound up into a huge roll. He was writing down from Afanási Nikítin’s mouth, _A tale touching a certain Almayne, surnamed the Heretic_.

Suddenly, in the midst of the tale, there rushed into the dungeon the court officer of the Great Prince. “Iván Vasílevich is about to render up his soul to God,” said he hastily; “he grieveth much about thee, and hath sent for thee. Make haste!”

The prince was convulsively agitated. Over his face, which became as white as a sheet, passed some thought; it flashed in his eyes. Oh, this was a thought of Paradise! Freedom----a crown----the people----mercy----perhaps a block----what was there not in that thought? The captive--the child who had just been playing with jewels--arose the Great Prince of all Russia.

Iván was still a sovereign, though on his dying bed; death had not yet locked for ever his lips, and those lips might yet determine on his successor. The thoughts of another life, remorse, an interview with his grandson, whom he had himself of his own free will crowned Tsar, and whom they had just brought from a dungeon,--what force must these thoughts have on the will of the dying man!

They gave the prince his bonnet, and just as he stood, conducted by the deacon and other officers, he hastened to the Great Prince’s palace. In the hall he encountered the sobbing of the kinsmen and servants of the Tsar. “It is over!--My grandsire is dead!” thought he, and his heart sunk within him, his steps tottered.

The appearance of Dmítri Ivánovich in the palace of the Great Prince interrupted for a time the general lamentation, real and feigned. The unexpectedness, the novelty of the object, the strange fate of the prince, pity, the thought that he, perhaps, would be the sovereign of Russia in a moment, overwhelmed the minds and hearts of the courtiers. But even at this period there were among the long-beards some wise heads: acute, far-sighted calculations, which we now call politics, were then as now oracles of fate, and though sometimes, as happens even in our own days, they were overthrown by the mighty hand of Providence.

These calculations triumphed over the momentary astonishment; the tears and sobbing began again, and were communicated to the crowd. Only one voice, amidst the expressions of simulated woe, ventured to raise itself above them: “Haste, my lord, our native prince,--thou hast been sent for no short time,--Iván Vasílevich is yet alive,--the Lord bless thee, and make thee our Great Prince!”

This voice reassured the youth; but when he was about to enter the bedchamber where the dying man lay, his strength began to fail. The door opened; his feet seemed nailed to the threshold. Iván had only a few minutes left to live. It seemed as if death awaited only the arrival of his grandson, to give him his dismissal. Around his bed stood his sons, the primate, his favourite boyárs, his kinsmen.

“Hither,--to me, Dmítri,--my dear grandson,” said the Great Prince, recognising him through the mists of death.

Dmítri Ivánovich threw himself towards the bed, fell upon his knees, kissed the cold hand of his grandsire, and bedewed it with tears. The dying man, as if by the power of galvanism, raised himself, laid one hand on his grandson’s head, with the other blessed him, then spoke in a breathless voice: “I have sinned before God and thee----Forgive me----forgive----The Lord and I have crowned thee----be----my----”

The face of Vasíli Ioánnovich was convulsed with envy and fear. Yet one word more----

But death then stood on the side of the strongest, and that word was never pronounced in this world. The Great Prince Iván Vasílevich yielded up his last breath, applying his cold lips to the forehead of his grandson. His son, who had been earlier designated by him as his heir, immediately entered into all his rights. They tore Dmítri from the death-bed, led him out of the Great Prince’s palace, and conducted him back to his dungeon. There, stretched on his bed, was reposing Afóniya in the deep slumber of the just. Having bewailed his woes, the ill-fated Dmítri lay down beside the old man. Prince and peasant were there equal. The one dreamed that night of royal banquets, and of a glorious crown, glittering like fire, upon his head, and of giving audience to foreign ambassadors, and reviewing vast armies; the other, of the hospitable palm and the rivulet in the deserts of Arabia. The poor man awaked the first, and how was he surprised to find the Tsarévich by his side! Mournfully he shook his hoary head, and wept, and was about to bless him, when he heard the joyful gallant cry of Dmítri Ivánovich as he dreamed--“Warriors!----on the Tartars!----on Lithuania!----”

And immediately awoke the young prince. Long he rubbed his eyes, and gazed around him, and then, falling on Afóniya’s bosom, he melted into tears. “Ah, father, father, I have been dreaming----”

His words were strangled by sobs.

Soon all that he had seen and heard in the palace of the Great Prince began to appear to him as a dream. Only when he recalled to his memory that weary vision, he felt on his forehead the icy seal which had been placed on it by the lips of the dying Tsar.

The winter came: all was as before in the Black House; nothing but the decorations of the scene had changed: the uniform sound of the falling drops was dumb, the bright speck had vanished from the bladder window-pane; instead, a silvery film of frost adhered to the corners of the walls and the crevices of the ceiling, and the bright speck, through which the captive could see the heavens, with their sun and free birds, was veiled with a thick patch. But Afóniya, as of old, visited the dungeon. He had finished his tale of the Almayne, whom they called the Heretic, and the scribe Nebogáty, putting it on paper word for word, had placed the roll in his iron chest,--an amusement for his descendants.

Thus passed a little more than three years.

The royal prisoner was no longer in the dungeon, and Afanási Nikítin was seen no more within it. Assuredly Dmítri Ivánovich had been set at liberty. Yes, the Lord had set him free from all earthly bonds. Thus writes an annalist: “In the year 1509, on the fourteenth of February, departed this life the Grand Prince Dmítri Ivánovich, in prison.” Gerberstein adds: “It is thought he was starved--with cold or with hunger--to death, or stifled with smoke.”--From _The Heretic_, translated from the Russian by Thomas B. Shaw, Edinburgh and London, 1844.

[6] See vol. i., p. 111.

Baron Antón Antónovich Délvig. (1798-1831.)

Délvig entered the Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló on the same day with
Púshkin, whose friend he remained to his death. He began writing
poetry at about the same time as his more gifted schoolmate. At first
he confined himself to more or less close imitations of Horace, but
under Púshkin’s influence he soon turned his attention to original
poems. Though only a star of the second magnitude, his verses became
very popular and were set to music. Later they served as the
starting-point for the popular poets, Koltsóv, Nekrásov, and others.

GLOOMY THOUGHTS

To-day I feast with you, dear friends,
With joy our spirits burn;
To-morrow’s chance may find me there
Whence I shall not return.

Thus, long ago, I spake to those
Who were with merriment wild;
For gloomy thoughts of coming grief
Possessed me from a child.

My laughing friends around my locks
Enwreathed a fresh bright crown;
“For shame!” they cried; “youth’s not a time
To wear a moody frown.”

War breaking out, my friends to it
As to a banquet prest;
I with them; but me cruel fate
Soon parted from the rest.

In weary idleness their steps
I followed mentally;
And oft their relatives I cheered
With words of victory.

Time passed: the thoughts of days gone by
Sad tears of sorrow yield;
Then ceased the war. Where are my friends?
Dead on the battlefield.

Now I am sorrowful at feasts,
Where others’ joy is great;
In wine-cups e’en the past recalled
Embitters all my state.

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

───────

Sang a little bird, and sang,
And grew silent;
Knew the heart of merriment,
And forgot it.
Why, O little songster bird,
Grew you quiet?
How learned you, O heart, to know
Gloomy sorrow?
Ah! the little bird was killed
By grim snow-blasts;
Perished is the fellow brave
Through ill gossips!
Had the bird but flown away
Tow’rds the blue sea!
Had the youth but run away
Tow’rds the forest!
On the sea the billows roar,
And not snow-blasts;
In the woods are evil beasts,
And not people!

───────

Ah, you night, you little night!
Ah, you night, you stormy night!
Why from early evening tide
Even to the midnight late
Twinkle not your little stars,
Shineth not your full-orbed moon?
You are veiled with darkling clouds!
’T is with you, I think, O night,
Even as with me, young man,--
Villain grief has called on us!
When the dire one takes abode
Somewhere deep within the heart,--
You forget the lasses fair,
Dances and obeisances;
You forget from evening tide
Even to the midnight late,
Singing songs, to take delight
In the chorus and the dance.
No, you sob, you weep aloud,--
And, a sad and lonely lad,
You upon your coarse straw bed
Throw yourself as in the grave!

Aleksándr Sergyéevich Púshkin. (1799-1837.)

Púshkin was descended, on his father’s side, from a family of
distinguished men, and, on his mother’s side, from Peter the Great’s
favourite negro, Hannibal. Having early lost his mother, he was
brought up by his grandmother, but the greatest influence upon his
first education had his nurse, Arína Rodiónovna, who charmed him with
her rich stock of popular stories and fairy tales, and who, even later
in life, inspired him with national themes. In 1811 Púshkin entered
the newly opened Lyceum at Tsárskoe Seló, where he did not display any
especial aptitude for studies; but he soon began to write poetry, and
in 1817, at graduation, read his own production which attracted
attention. After leaving school he threw himself into the whirl of
society pleasures, but at the same time devoted himself to his first
great poem, still in the Romantic style of the older generation,
_Ruslán and Lyudmíla_. In 1820 he incurred the displeasure of the
Government for writing some verses on liberty and for his liberal
utterances. He was banished to the south, passing part of the time in
the Caucasus. Here his genius was unfolded in all its greatness. In
the Caucasus he wrote _The Prisoner of the Caucasus_; the Crimea gave
him material for his _Bakhchisaráy Fountain_; in the neighbourhood of
Odessa he composed his _Gypsies_ and laid the foundation for _Evgéni
Onyégin_, besides writing a large number of smaller poems. In 1824
Púshkin was permitted to return to his native village, in the
Government of Pskov, where he remained two years, after which he was,
by the intercession of his friends, allowed to settle in the capitals.
In this last period of his activity he devoted himself more especially
to subjects taken from Russian life. He wrote his series of fairy
tales, illustrated the acts of Peter the Great by a number of poems,
of which _The Bronze Rider_ is the best known, and wrote a _History of
the Pugachév Rebellion_. Aspersion upon his domestic life caused him
to challenge to a duel the son of the Dutch ambassador, by whom he was
killed in 1837, in his thirty-eighth year.

Púshkin’s great poetical genius has not been surpassed by that of any
other Russian poet, and has only been equalled by that of Lérmontov.
All the later generations have drawn their inspiration from him. Since
the forties his importance has been obscured by the universal
domination of the democratic spirit in literature, as evidenced in the
Russian novel. The celebration of the centennary anniversary of his
birth has given rise to a wide-spread interest in Púshkin, and his
influence is again in the ascendant.

Púshkin’s prose tales have often been translated into English: _Queen
of Spades_, in Chambers’s Papers, 1850, and Living Age, 1850, also in
Gift of Friendship, 1854; _The Captain’s Daughter_, translated by J.
F. Hanstein, London, 1859; some tales in _Simple Tales, a Reading Book
for Little Folks_, by Mary Anna Pietzker, St. Petersburg, 1860; _The
Pistolshot_, in the Albion, 1861; _Russian Romance_ (consisting of
miscellaneous tales), by Mrs. J. B. Telfer (_née_ Mouravieff), London,
1873 and 1880; _Queen of Spades_, in Lippincott’s Magazine, 1876;
_Marie, a Story of Russian Love_, by Marie H. de Zielinska, Chicago,
1877 (1876); _The Captain’s Daughter, a Tale of the Time of Catherine
II. of Russia_, translated by Madame Igelström and Mrs. Percy Easton,
London, 1883; _Queen of Spades_, in Modern Age, 1884; _The Daughter of
the Commandant, a Russian Romance_, translated by Mrs. Milne Home,
London, 1891; _The Queen of Spades and Other Stories_, from the
Russian, by Mrs. Sutherland Edwards (the first three stories had
appeared before in the Strand Magazine), London, 1892; _Tales from the
Russian_, I.--_Dubrovsky_ (in Railway and General Automatic Library),
London, 1892; _The Prose Tales of A. Poushkin_, from the Russian, by
T. Keane, London, 1894 and 1896.

Of his poetical works the following have been translated: Extracts
from _Ruslán and Lyudmíla_, _The Prisoner_, _The Robbers_, in _Russian
Literature and Poetry_, in Foreign Review, 1827; extracts from _The
Fountain of Bakhchisaráy_ and _Poltava_ in The Foreign Quarterly
Review, 1832; _The Talisman_, with Other Pieces (_The Hermit_),
translated by George Borrow, St. Petersburg, 1835; _Pushkin, the
Russian Poet_ (containing _October 19, 1825_, _Caucasus_, _To ----_,
_The Mob_, _The Black Shawl_, _The Rose_, _Napoleon_, _The Storm_,
_The General_, _Alas for Her_, _To the Sea_, _Echo_, _The Lay of the
Wise Oleg_, _Remembrance_, _I have outlived the hopes that charmed
me_, _Motion_, _To the Slanderers of Russia_, _Presentiment_, _The
Madonna_, _André Chénier_), by T. B. Shaw, in The Edinburgh Blackwood
Magazine, 1845; _The Bakhchesarian Fountain_, W. D. Lewis,
Philadelphia, 1849; several poems, by W. R. Morfill, in Constitutional
Press, 1860; _On the Calumniators of Russia_, by W. R. Morfill, in
Literary Gazette, 1861; _Translations from Russian and German Poets_,
by a Russian Lady (containing two extracts from _The Gypsies_, _The
Poet_, _The Angel_, _The 19th of October_, _The Demon_, and several
minor poems), Baden-Baden, 1878; _Eugene Oneguine_, translated by
Lieut. Col. Spalding, London, 1881; _The Black Shawl_, _The Talisman_,
_Ode to the Sea_, and several extracts (the first two, amended, in
_The Story of Russia_, New York and London, 1890), by W. R. Morfill,
in Westminster Review, 1883; _The Flower_, _The Birds_, _The
Bridegroom_, _The Winter Journey_, _The Anchor_, _Poltava_, _Song of
Oleg the Wise_, _To ----_, _The Angel_, _The Demons_, in C. T.
Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _Poems by Alexander Pushkin_,
translated by Ivan Panin, Boston, 1888; parts of _Boris Godunov_ in
_Shakespeare and the Russian Drama_, by N. H. Dole, in Poet Lore, vol.
i. (1889); _I wander down the noisy streets_, _Anacreontic_, _To his
Wife_, _Let me not lose my senses_, _I’ve overlived aspirings_, _Peter
the Great_, _The Prophet_, _Play_, _My Kathleen_, _A Monument_, _The
Poet_, in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891. In
Free Russia have appeared: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. x., No. 1,
_The Poison-Tree_, _ib._, No. 3, _The Monument_; by Mrs. M. G. Walker,
in vol. x., No. 4, _The Prophet_; by Elizabeth Gibson, vol. xii., No.
2, _A Message_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society have been
published: some verses, by a Russian lady, in No. 11; by F. P.
Marchant, _Scene from “Boris Godunov,”_ in No. 13, _The Shield of
Oleg_, in No. 15, _The Prophet_, _The Three Springs_, _The Prayer_,
_Truth_, in No. 22, _To My Friends_, in No. 32; by J. Pollen, _The
Talisman_, in No. 22; by Miss H. Frank, _The Demons_, in No. 34; by L.
A. Magnus, _Through clam’rous streets my feet may stray_, in No. 33.
In the Library of the World’s Best Literature are given: by N. H.
Dole, _The Bard_, _The Angel_, _The Free Life of the Bird_ (a
different version of this poem is given below); reprints of several of
T. B. Shaw’s and J. Pollen’s poems, and extracts from _Boris Godunov_
and _Evgeni Onyegin_, by Miss I. Hapgood.

FROM “THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER”

As I crossed the square I saw several Bashkirs assembled round the gibbets, engaged in dragging off the boots of those who had been hanged. With difficulty I repressed my indignation, feeling convinced that if I gave expression to it, it would have been perfectly useless. The brigands invaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the officers’ houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken mutineers. I reached home. Savélich met me on the threshold.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed when he saw me; “I was beginning to think that the villains had seized you again. Ah! my little father, Peter Andréich, will you believe it, the robbers have plundered us of everything--clothes, linen, furniture, plate--they have not left us a single thing. But what does it matter? Thank God! they have spared your life. But, my lord, did you recognise their leader?”

“No, I did not recognise him. Who is he then?”

“How, my little father! Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel who swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn? A brand new hairskin pelisse; and the beast burst the seams in putting it on.”

I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pugachév to my guide was very striking. I felt convinced that Pugachév and he were one and the same person, and then I understood why he had spared my life. I could not but feel surprised at the strange connection of events--a child’s pelisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hangman’s noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in wandering from one inn to another, was now besieging fortresses and shaking the empire!

“Will you not eat something?” asked Savélich, still faithful to his old habits. “There is nothing in the house; but I will go and search, and get something ready for you.”

When I was left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain in the fortress now that it was in the hands of the villain, or to join his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go wherever my services might still be of use to my fatherland in the present critical position of its affairs---- But love strongly urged me to remain near Maria Ivánovna and be her protector and defender. Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change in the course of affairs, yet I could not help trembling when I thought of the danger of her situation. My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who came to inform me that “the great Tsar required me to appear before him.”

“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.

“In the Commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner our father took a bath, but at present he is resting. Ah! your Excellency, it is very evident that he is a distinguished person; at dinner he deigned to eat two roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath, where the water was so hot that even Tarás Kúrochkin could not bear it; he had to give the besom to Fomká Bikbáev, and only came to himself through having cold water poured over him. There is no denying it; all his ways are majestic---- And I was told that in the bath he showed his Tsar’s signs upon his breast: on one side a two-headed eagle as large as a five-kopek piece, and on the other his own likeness.”

I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s statement, and I accompanied him to the Commandant’s house, trying to imagine beforehand what kind of a reception I should meet with from Pugachév, and endeavouring to guess how it would end. The reader will easily understand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself.

It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Commandant’s house. The gibbet, with its victims, loomed black and terrible before me. The body of the poor Commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who accompanied me went in to announce me, and, returning almost immediately, conducted me into the room where, the evening before, I had taken a tender farewell of Maria Ivánovna. An unusual spectacle presented itself to my gaze. At a table, covered with a cloth and loaded with bottles and glasses, sat Pugachév and some half a score of Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and shirts, heated with wine, with flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did not see among them Shvabrín and his fellow traitor, the orderly.

“Ah! your Excellency!” said Pugachév, seeing me. “Welcome; honour to you and a place at our banquet.”

The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at the end of the table. My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall and handsome, poured out for me a glass of wine, which, however, I did not touch. I began to observe the company with curiosity. Pugachév occupied the seat of honour, his elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped under his black beard. His features, regular and sufficiently agreeable, had nothing fierce about them. He frequently turned to speak to a man of about fifty years of age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timoféich, sometimes as uncle. All those present treated each other as comrades, and did not show any particular respect for their leader. The conversation was upon the revolt, and of their future operations. Each one boasted of what he had done, expressed his opinion, and fearlessly contradicted Pugachév. And in this strange council of war it was resolved to march upon Orenbúrg; a bold movement, and which was to be very nearly crowned with success. The march was fixed for the following day.

“Now, lads,” said Pugachév, “before we retire to rest, let us have my favourite song. Chumakóv, begin!”

My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melancholy peasant’s song, and all joined in the chorus:

“Stir not, mother, green forest of oak,
Disturb me not in my meditation;
For to-morrow before the court I must go,
Before the stern judge, before the Tsar himself.
The great Lord Tsar will begin to question me:
‘Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant’s son,
With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed?
Did you have many companions with you?’
‘I will tell you, true-believing Tsar,
The whole truth I will confess to you.
My companions were four in number:
My first companion was the dark night,
My second companion was a steel knife,
My third companion was my good horse,
My fourth companion was my taut bow,
My messengers were my tempered arrows.’
Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Tsar:
‘Well done, my lad, brave peasant’s son;
You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply:
Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present
Of a very high structure in the midst of a field--
Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.’”

It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me by this popular gallows song, trolled out by men destined for the gallows. Their ferocious countenances, their sonorous voices, and the melancholy expression which they imparted to the words, which in themselves were not very expressive, filled me with a sort of poetical terror.

The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table and took leave of Pugachév.

I wanted to follow them, but Pugachév said to me:

“Sit down; I want to speak to you.”

We remained face to face.

For some moments we both continued silent. Pugachév looked at me fixedly, every now and then winking his left eye with a curious expression of craftiness and drollery. At last he burst out laughing, and with such unfeigned merriment that I, too, looking at him, began to laugh, without knowing why.

“Well, your lordship,” he said to me, “confess now, you were in a terrible fright when my fellows put the rope round your neck. I do not believe that the sky appeared bigger than a sheepskin to you just then---- You would have been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not been for your servant. I knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your lordship have thought that the man who conducted you to the inn was the great Tsar himself?”

Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance.

“You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,” continued he, “but I pardoned you on account of your virtue, and because you rendered me a service when I was compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But you will see something very different presently! You will see how I will reward you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Will you promise to serve me with zeal?”

The rascal’s question, and his insolence, appeared to me so amusing that I could not help smiling.

“Why do you smile?” he asked, frowning. “Perhaps you do not believe that I am the great Tsar? Is that so?--Answer plainly!”

I became confused. To acknowledge a vagabond as emperor was quite out of the question; to do so seemed to me unpardonable cowardice. To tell him to his face that he was an imposter was to expose myself to certain death, and that which I was prepared to say beneath the gibbet before the eyes of the crowd, in the first outburst of my indignation, appeared to me now a useless boast. I hesitated. In gloomy silence Pugachév awaited my reply. At last (and even now I remember that moment with self-satisfaction) the sentiment of duty triumphed over my human weakness. I replied to Pugachév:

“Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge yourself: can I acknowledge you as emperor? You, a sensible man, would know that it would not be saying what I really thought.”

“Who am I, then, in your opinion?”

“God only knows; but whatever you may be, you are playing a dangerous game.”

Pugachév threw a rapid glance at me.

“Then you do not believe,” said he, “that I am the Emperor Peter? Well, be it so. But is not success the reward of the bold? Did not Gríshka Otrépev reign in former days? Think of me what you please, but do not leave me. What does it matter to you one way or the other? Whoever is pope is father. Serve me faithfully and truly, and I will make you a field-marshal and a prince. What do you say?”

“No,” I replied with firmness. “I am by birth a nobleman; I have taken the oath of fealty to the Empress; I cannot serve you. If you really wish me well, send me back to Orenbúrg.”

Pugachév reflected.

“But if I let you go,” said he, “will you at least promise not to serve against me?”

“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You yourself know that it does not depend upon my will. If I am ordered to march against you, I must go--there is no help for it. You yourself are now a chief; you demand obedience from your followers. How would it seem if I refused to serve when my services were needed? My life is in your hands; if you set me free, I will thank you; if you put me to death, God will be your judge; but I have told you the truth.”

My frankness struck Pugachév.

“Be it so,” said he, slapping me upon the shoulder. “One should either punish completely or pardon completely. Go then where you like. Come to-morrow to say good-bye to me, and now go to bed. I feel very drowsy myself.”

I left Pugachév and went out into the street. The night was calm and cold. The moon and stars were shining brightly, lighting up the square and the gibbet. In the fortress all was dark and still. Only in the tavern was a light visible, where could be heard the noise of the late revellers. I glanced at the pope’s house. The shutters and doors were closed. Everything seemed quiet within.

I made my way to my own quarters and found Savélich grieving about my absence. The news of my being set at liberty filled him with unutterable joy.

“Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God!” said he, making the sign of the cross. “At daybreak to-morrow we will leave the fortress and go wherever God will direct us. I have prepared something for you; eat it, my little father, and then rest yourself till the morning, as if you were in the bosom of Christ.”

I followed his advice and, having eaten with a good appetite, I fell asleep upon the bare floor, worn out both in body and mind.--From T. Keane’s _The Prose Tales of Alexander Poushkin_.

FROM “EVGÉNI ONYÉGIN”

TATYÁNA’S LETTER TO ONYÉGIN

I write to you! Is more required?
Can lower depths beyond remain?
’T is in your power now, if desired,
To crush me with a just disdain.
But if my lot unfortunate
You in the least commiserate
You will not all abandon me.
At first I clung to secrecy:
Believe me, of my present shame
You never would have heard the name,
If the fond hope I could have fanned
At times, if only once a week,
To see you by our fireside stand,
To listen to the words you speak,
Address to you one single phrase
And then to meditate for days
Of one thing till again we met.
’T is said you are a misanthrope,
In country solitude you mope,
And we--an unattractive set--
Can hearty welcome give alone.
Why did you visit our poor place?
Forgotten in the village lone,
I never should have seen your face
And bitter torment never known.
The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed down
By time (who can anticipate?)
I had found my predestinate,
Become a faithful wife and e’en
A fond and careful mother been.

Another! to none other I
My heart’s allegiance can resign,
My doom has been pronounced on high,
’T is Heaven’s will and I am thine.
The sum of my existence gone
But promise of our meeting gave,
I feel thou wast by God sent down
My guardian angel to the grave.
Thou didst to me in dreams appear,
Unseen thou wast already dear.
Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,
I heard thy voice’s resonance
Long ago. Dream it cannot be!
Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,
I flushed up, stupefied I grew,
And cried within myself: ’t is he!
Is it not truth? in tones suppressed
With thee I conversed when I bore
Comfort and succour to the poor,
And when I prayer to Heaven addressed
To ease the anguish of my breast.
Nay! even as this instant fled,
Was it not thou, O vision bright,
That glimmered through the radiant night
And gently hovered o’er my head?
Was it not thou who thus didst stoop
To whisper comfort, love, and hope?--
Who art thou? Guardian angel sent
Or torturer malevolent?
Doubt and uncertainty decide:
All this may be an empty dream,
Delusions of a mind untried,
Providence otherwise may deem--
Then be it so! My destiny
From henceforth I confide to thee!
Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour
And thy protection I implore.
Imagine! Here alone am I!
No one my anguish comprehends,
At times my reason almost bends,
And silently I here must die--
But I await thee: scarce alive,
My heart with but one look revive;
Or to disturb my dreams approach
Alas! with merited reproach.

’T is finished. Horrible to read!
With shame I shudder and with dread--
But boldly I myself resign:
Thine honour is my countersign!

--From Lieut.-Col. Spalding’s _Eugene Onéguine_, London, 1881.

FROM “THE BAKHCHISARÁY FOUNTAIN”

Days passed away; Maria slept
Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now--
From earth the orphan maid was swept.
But who knew when, or where, or how?
If prey to grief or pain she fell,
If slain or Heaven-struck, who can tell?
She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves,
And his neglected harem leaves,
Flies from its tranquil precincts far,
And with his Tartars takes the field,
Fierce rushes mid the din of war,
And brave the foe that does not yield,
For mad despair hath nerved his arm,
Though in his heart is grief concealed,
With passion’s hopeless transports warm.
His blade he swings aloft in air
And wildly brandishes, then low
It falls, whilst he with pallid stare
Gazes, and tears in torrents flow.

His harem by the chief deserted,
In foreign lands he warring roved,
Long nor in wish nor thought reverted
To scene once cherished and beloved.
His women, to the eunuch’s rage
Abandoned, pined and sank in age.
The fair Grusinian now no more
Yielded her soul to passion’s power,
Her fate was with Maria’s blended,
On the same night their sorrows ended;
Seized by mute guards the hapless fair
Into a deep abyss they threw,--
If vast her crime, through love’s despair,
Her punishment was dreadful too!

At length th’ exhausted Khan returned,
Enough of waste his sword had dealt,
The Russian cot no longer burned,
Nor Caucasus his fury felt.
In token of Maria’s loss
A marble fountain he upreared
In spot recluse:--the Christian’s cross
Upon the monument appeared
(Surmounting it a crescent bright,
Emblem of ignorance and night!).
Th’ inscription mid the silent waste
Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced,
Still do the gurgling waters pour
Their streams dispensing sadness round,
As mothers weep for sons no more,
In never-ending sorrows drowned.
In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,)
Roam where this monument appears,
And pitying poor Maria’s fate
Entitle it the Fount of Tears!

--From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_.

THE POISON-TREE

Remote and dire, in desert-lands
Where naught but sunburnt sod is seen,
Anchár, the Tree of Poison, stands--
A sentinel, with threatening mien.

The thirsty steppe-land gave it birth
In bitterness and anger dark;
It sucked foul venom from the earth,
Its roots and leaves are dead and stark.

At noon, when fiercest sunlight glows,
The poison from its veins escapes,
And trickling down the stem it flows
By evening into globèd shapes.

No bird will seek this Tree of Death,
Nor dare the tiger prowl anigh,
The hungry whirlwind’s dusty breath
Grows baneful as it hastens by.

If e’er a wand’ring cloud distil
Soft rains upon its blighted top,
Their harmless nature turns to ill,
And changed, in deadly dews they drop.

But yet a man’s imperial nod
Sent forth a fellow-man afar,
Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod,
Right to the base of foul Anchár.

By morning he returned, and bore
The fatal resin, with a bough
Of withered leaves, and like it wore
A wasted look--and from his brow

Cold sweat was streaming, and he tried
To stand, but fell to earth prostrate.
And there, poor slave! he sank and died
In presence of the Potentate,

Who sopped his arrows in the bane,
And sent them dark--a doom new-found!--
By messenger o’er hill and plain
To neighbours in the countries round.

--Transl. by Charlotte Sidgwick, in Free Russia, January, 1899
(vol. x., No. 1).

THE BIRD

Naught of labour, naught of sorrow,
On God’s little bird doth rest,
And it questions not the morrow,
Builds itself no lasting nest.

On the bough it sleeps and swings
Till the ruddy sun appears,
Then it shakes its wings and sings,
When the voice of God it hears.

After Spring’s delightful weather,
When the burning Summer’s fled,
And the Autumn brings together
For men’s sorrow, for men’s dread,

Mists and storms in gloomy legions;
Then the bird across the main
Flies to far-off, southern regions,
Till the Spring returns again.

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

THE PROPHET

By spiritual thirst opprest,
I hied me to the desert dim,
When lo! upon my path appeared
The holy six-winged seraphim.
My brow his fingers lightly pressed,
Soothing my eyelids into rest:
Open my inward vision flies,
As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes.
He touched my ears, and they were filled
With sounds that all my being thrilled.
I felt a trembling fill the skies,
I heard the sweep of angels’ wings,
Beneath the sea saw creeping things,
And in the valleys vines arise.
Over my lips a while he hung,
And tore from me my sinful tongue--
The babbling tongue of vanity.
The sting of serpent’s subtlety
Within my lips, as chilled I stood,
He placed, with right hand red with blood.
Then with a sword my bosom cut,
And forth my quivering heart he drew;
A glowing coal of fire he put
Within my breast laid bare to view.
As corpse-like on the waste I lay,
Thus unto me God’s voice did say--
“Prophet, arise! Confess My Name;
Fulfil my will; submit to Me!
Arise! Go forth o’er land and sea,
And with high words men’s hearts inflame!”

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

THE TALISMAN

Where fierce the surge with awful bellow
Doth ever lash the rocky wall,
And where the moon most brightly mellow
Doth beam when mists of evening fall;
Where midst his harem’s countless blisses
The Moslem spends his vital span,
A sorceress there with gentle kisses
Presented me a Talisman.

And said: “Until thy latest minute
Preserve, preserve my Talisman;
A secret power it holds within it,--
’T was love, true love the gift did plan.
From pest on land or death on ocean
When hurricanes its surface fan,
O object of my fond devotion!
Thou scap’st not by my Talisman.

“The gem in eastern mine which slumbers,
Or ruddy gold ’t will not bestow;
’T will not subdue the turbanned numbers
Before the Prophet’s shrine which bow;
Nor high through air on friendly pinions
Can bear thee swift to home or clan,
From mournful climes or strange dominions,
From South to North,--my Talisman.

“But oh! when crafty eyes thy reason
With sorceries sudden seek to move,
And when in night’s mysterious season
Lips cling to thine,--but not in love,--
From proving then, dear youth, a booty
To those who falsely would trepan,
From new heart wounds, and lapse from duty,
Protect thee shall my Talisman.”

--From _The Talisman, and Other Pieces_, by George Borrow, St.
Petersburg, 1835.

THE LAY OF THE WISE OLÉG

Wise Olég to the war he hath bound him again,
The Khozárs have awakened his ire;
For rapine and raid, hamlet, city, and plain
Are devoted to falchion and fire.
In mail of Byzance, girt with many a good spear,
The Prince pricks along on his faithful destrere.

From the darksome fir-forest, to meet that array,
Forth paces a grey-haired magician:
To none but Perún did that sorcerer pray,
Fulfilling the prophet’s dread mission:
His life he had wasted in penance and pain:--
And beside that enchanter Olég drew his rein.

“Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perún,
The good and the ill that ’s before me;
Shall I soon give my neighbour-foes triumph, and soon
Shall the earth of the grave be piled o’er me?
Unfold all the truth; fear me not; and for meed,
Choose among them,--I give thee my best battle-steed.”

“O enchanters, they care not for prince or for peer,
And gifts are but needlessly given;
The wise tongue ne’er stumbleth for falsehood or fear,
’T is the friend of the councils of Heaven!
The years of the future are clouded and dark,
Yet on thy fair forehead thy fate I can mark:

“Remember now firmly the words of my tongue;
For the chief finds a rapture in glory:
On the gate of Byzantium thy buckler is hung,
Thy name shall be deathless in story;
Wild waves and broad kingdoms thy sceptre obey,
And the foe sees with envy so boundless a sway:

“And the blue sea, uplifting its treacherous wave,
In its wrath,--in the hurricane-hour,--
And the knife of the coward, the sword of the brave,
To slay thee shall never have power:
Within thy strong harness no wound shalt thou know,
For a guardian unseen shall defend thee below.

“Thy steed fears not labour, nor danger, nor pain,
His lord’s lightest accent he heareth,
Now still, though the arrows fall round him like rain,
Now o’er the red field he careereth;
He fears not the winter, he fears not to bleed,--
Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!”

Olég smiled a moment, but yet on his brow,
And lip, thought and sorrow were blended:
In silence he bent on his saddle, and slow
The Prince from his courser descended;
And as though from a friend he were parting with pain,
He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane.

“Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold!
We must part,--such is Destiny’s power:
Now rest thee,--I swear, in thy stirrup of gold
No foot shall e’er rest, from this hour.
Farewell! we ’ve been comrades for many a long year,--
My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrere.

“The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be:
And lead him away to the meadow;
On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintilie,
He shall drink of the well in the shadow.”
Then straightway departed the squires with the steed,
And to valiant Olég a fresh courser they lead.

Olég and his comrades are feasting, I trow;
The mead-cups are merrily clashing:
Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snow
On the peak of the mountain-top flashing:
They talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.

“But where,” quoth Olég, “is my good battle-horse?
My mettlesome charger,--how fares he?
Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course;
His age and his freedom how bears he?”
They answer and say: on the hill by the stream
He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.