_Miller_ (_alone. He is planing a board and sings, only the song is
without words and music. Then he says_): What song is that?... Oh, yes:
“How our night from midnight” ... that’s it ... (_he begins to sing
that tune, continuing his work_).

    How our night from midnight,
    From midnight to white day ...

What a downpour it has been, and now it has stopped! (_He sings again,
and continues his song._)

    ’Twas at the dawn, the early one,
    At the fall of the shining moon....

How it did blow! I declare, it did blow; why, it almost tore my
mill down. I would have been left with nothing. It has done some
damage,--thanks to the Lord, not much damage. Did I say not much
damage? Well, I have enough to do to fix it up. (_Putting the level
to the board._) It’ll come out all right, and all will go well again.
(_Advancing towards the orchestra._) I have to laugh every time I think
of it; they say that a mill cannot exist without a wizard, and that a
miller isn’t just a man like anybody else: he is on speaking terms with
the house-spirit, and the house-spirits live in their mills like devils
... ha, ha, ha, ha! What bosh! Am I not a miller through and through?
I was born, brought up, and have grown old in the mill, and yet I have
never laid my eyes on a house-spirit. Now, to tell the gospel truth,
it’s just this: if you are a shrewd fellow and a good hand at cheating,
that sorcery business is a good thing.... Let them prattle what they
please, but we earn our bread by our profession.

    Who by cheating makes a living,
    Him at once all call a gipsy,
    And you gain through gipsy dealings
    The reputation of a wizard.
    Even in that way the witches
    Make a living by deception.
    There’s a big lot of these rascals:
    Some of them bespeak the water,
    Others turn the sieve for people,
    And through such tricks make a living!
    Just like me, sinful man!...

SCENE 2. FILIMÓN AND THE FORMER

_Miller_ (_noticing him_). Ah! I am getting a guest. I’ll earn a penny
this day. (_To Filimón._) Godspeed, young man!

_Filimón._ My respects, old man.

_Miller._ Whence come you, whither tend you?

_Filimón._ Not farther than my business takes me.

_Miller._ Of your own will, or by compulsion?

_Filimón._ I am looking for horses: my roan and grey have gotten away
from me; they are fine horses, such fine horses. (_Aside._) He is a
fortune-teller: I’ll try my fortune with him. (_To the Miller._) Say,
old man, I want to ask you----

_Miller._ What is it you want? As you please, I am at your service.

_Filimón._ That’s good! And I’ll pay you for it. Tell me my fortune:
shall I find my horses?

_Miller._ Shall you find your horses?

_Filimón._ That’s it, old man. I am very anxious to find out about them.

_Miller._ Now, how about that; is there going to be anything?
(_Stretches out his hand to him._)

_Filimón._ First tell me, old man, and then we’ll see.

_Miller_ (_turns away from him, and angrily begins a song_):

    Tell the fortune:
    As the guess is,
    So is the pay.

_Filimón._ But, old man, I expect to pay you.

_Miller._

    ’Tis with a promise
    As with a chair:
    If you sit and do not eat,
    Then your belly is not full.

_Filimón._ Believe me, I am not lying to you.

_Miller._

    If it’s so,
    All this talking is in vain;
    Take out your purse,
    Don’t talk uselessly,
    Count out the money.
    (_Puts out his hand, and looks in his eyes._)

_Filimón._ Well, I don’t care: I’ll give you some money in advance.

_Miller._ Only this?

_Filimón._ It will do for the present; what more do you want?

_Miller_ (_aside_). You won’t get off with less than half a rouble.

_Filimón._ What are you going to tell me now?

_Miller._ What is it now, early in the morning?

_Filimón._ Not very late yet, the sun has not yet set behind the woods.

_Miller._ Turn three times around, towards the sun.

_Filimón._ What for?

_Miller._ That’s what I need in my sorcery. Do as you are told!

_Filimón._ To please you, I’ll turn around. (_Turns around once._)

_Miller._ Once more, towards the sun.

_Filimón_ (turning around). Here it is, and towards the sun.

_Miller._ Now stand against this tree. (_Filimón is about to start for
the tree, but the Miller says_): No, no, stop! Have you a kerchief?

_Filimón_ (_taking out his handkerchief_). Here it is.

_Miller._ Close your eyes tight, and tie your kerchief over them.
That’s all right! Now listen: you must stand quiet, and don’t move from
the spot, nor speak a word to anyone, while I go and see the elder.

_Filimón_ (_does all the Miller commands him to do_). But suppose
someone should come and ask me why I am standing there, and why my eyes
are tied up?

_Miller._ Not a word to anybody; but you may grumble to yourself.

_Filimón._ May I sing a song?

_Miller._ You will frighten all. No, you must not.

_Filimón_ (_aside_). What is it all going to be?

_Miller._ Stand still and don’t move!

             Ippolít Fédorovich Bogdanóvich. (1743-1803.)

 Ippolít Bogdanóvich, the son of a minor official, entered the
 mathematical school connected with the Senate; at fourteen years of
 age he began to study at the University and to write verses under
 the guidance of Kheráskov. He then served as secretary of legation
 in Saxony, and later was connected with the Government Archives.
 His reputation rests only on his _Psyche_, which is a paraphrase
 in verse of La Fontaine’s _Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon_,
 itself an imitation of an episode in Apuleius’s _Golden Ass_. It is
 a mock-heroic in the style of Máykov’s _Eliséy_ (see p. 263), and
 was immensely popular at the end of the eighteenth century, and even
 Dmítriev, Púshkin and Byelínski found pleasure in reading it. There
 are traces in his poems of an intimate acquaintance with the Russian
 popular literature, from which are introduced many characters. The
 poem found so many admirers because it was an expression of the
 reverse side of the philosophy, of the eighteenth century, with its
 frivolity and superficiality.

PSYCHE

FROM BOOK I

The goddess donned her ancient gala dress, and seated in the shell, as
they paint in pictures, glided over the waters on two large dolphins.

Cupid, bestowing his imperious look, bestirred all Neptune’s court. The
frisky waves, perceiving Venus, swam after her, replete with merriment.
The watery tribe of Tritons issues to her from the abysses of the
waters: one dives all about her and pacifies the wanton waves; another,
whirling in the depths, gathers pearls at the bottom and drags forth
all the secrets of the sea to place before her feet. One, struggling
with the monsters, forbids them to disport nearby; another, briskly
leaping into the coachman’s seat, scolds loudly those he meets and
orders them to stand aside; he proudly holds the lines, and steers his
path away from rocks, and crushes impudent monsters. One, with trident,
precedes her on a whale and drives all far out of the way; he casts
about him his angry looks and, that all may know his will, loudly blows
a coral horn; another, having come to the goddess from distant regions,
bears before her a bit from a crystal mountain instead of a mirror.
This sight refreshes her pleasure and the joy upon her brow.

“Oh, if this sight,” proclaims he, “for ever remained in this crystal!”
But the Triton’s wish is vain: that vision will disappear like a dream,
and nothing will remain but the stone, and in the heart a fatal flame
which will consume him. Another has joined the retinue of the goddess,
and protects her from the sun and cools the sultry beam by sending
upwards a stream of water. Meanwhile sirens, sweet singers, sing
verses in her honour, and mingle fiction with truth in their attempt
to extol her: some dance before her; others, anticipating her wishes,
are present to serve her, and with fans waft coolness to the goddess;
others, borne on the crests, breathe heavily in travelling post from
fields, beloved by Flora, and bring her flowery wreaths. Thetis herself
has sent them for small and great services, and wishes only that her
husband stay at home. The weather being most favourable, the storms
dare not annoy her, and only the Zephyrs are free to fondle Venus.

FROM BOOK II

Psyche awoke from her sleep not sooner than midday past, nay, one hour
after midday. All serving-maids came to dress the princess, and brought
with them forty garments and all that with them went. For that day
Psyche designated the simplest of all gowns, for she hastened as soon
as possible to inspect the marvels of the palace. I shall follow in the
princess’s track and shall present the mansion to you, and describe all
in detail that could amuse her.

At first Psyche visited the rooms, nor left a corner in them where she
did not pass a while; thence to the conservatory and to the balcony;
thence on the veranda, and down, and out, to inspect the house from all
sides. A bevy of girls were slow in following her; only the Zephyrs
were fast enough, and they guarded her, lest running she should fall.
Two or three times she inspected the house from within and from
without. Meanwhile the Zephyrs and Cupids pointed out the architecture
to her and all the marvels of nature, which Psyche was anxious to
inspect. She wished to see all, but knew not where to begin, for her
eyes were distracted now by one thing, now by another. Psyche would
fain have looked at everything, but running around so much, she soon
became fatigued.

While resting herself, she looked at the statues of famous masters:
those were likenesses of inimitable beauties, whose names, in prose and
verse, in various tales, both short and long, reign immortally among
all the nations and through all the ages: Calisto, Daphne, Armene,
Niobe, Helen, the Graces, Angelica, Phryne, and a multitude of other
goddesses and mortal women appeared before her eyes in lifelike form,
in all their beauty arrayed along the wall. But in the middle, and
right in front of them, Psyche’s image stood on an elevated pedestal
and surpassed them all in beauty. Looking at it, she herself fell to
wondering, and, beside herself with wonderment, stopped: then you might
have perceived another statue in her, such as the world had never seen.

Psyche would have stayed there a long time, looking at her image that
held sway over her, if her servants who were with her had not pointed
out in other places, for the pleasure of her eyes, other likenesses of
her beauty and glory: up to her waist, her feet, her lifelike form, of
gold, of silver, of bronze, of steel, her heads, and busts, and medals;
and elsewhere mosaic, or marble, or agate represented in these forms
a new splendour. In other places Apelles, or the god of artists who
with his hand had moved Apelles’s brush, had pictured Psyche in all her
beauty, such as no man could have imagined before.

But does she wish to see herself in pictures? Here, Zephyrs bring
her Pomona’s horn and, strewing flowers before her, disport with her
in vales; in another, she with mighty buckler in her hands, dressed
as Pallas, threatens from her steed, with her fair looks more than
with her spear, and vanquishes the hearts through a pleasant plague.
There stands Saturn before her: toothless, baldheaded and grey, with
new wrinkles on his old face, he tries to appear young: he curls his
sparse tufts of hair, and, to see Psyche, puts on his glasses. There,
again, she is seen like a queen, with Cupids all around her, in an
aërial chariot: to celebrate fair Psyche’s honour and beauty, the
Cupids in their flight shoot hearts; they fly in a large company,
all carrying quivers over their shoulders, and, taking pride in her
beautiful eyes, raise their crossbows and proclaim war to the whole
world. There, again, fierce Mars, the destroyer of the law of peace,
perceiving Psyche, becomes gentle of manner: he no longer stains the
fields with blood, and finally, forgetting his rules of war, lies
humbled at her feet and glows with love to her. There, again, she is
pictured among the Pleasures that precede her everywhere and by the
invention of varied games call forth a pleasant smile upon her face.
In another place the Graces surround the princess and adorn her with
various flowers, while Zephyr, gently wafting about her, paints her
picture to adorn the world with; but, jealous of licentious glances,
he curbs the minds of the lovers of licentiousness, or, perchance,
shunning rebellious critics, hides in the painting the greater part of
her beauties, though, as is well known, before Psyche those beauties of
themselves appear in the pictures.

In order that various objects, meeting her eyes, should not weary
her, her portraits alone were placed upon the wall, in simple and in
festive gowns, or in masquerade attire. Psyche, you are beautiful in
any attire: whether you be dressed as a queen, or whether you be seated
by the tent as a shepherdess. In all garments you are the wonder of
the world, in all you appear as a goddess, and but you alone are more
beautiful than your portrait.

              Gavriíl Románovich Derzhávin. (1743-1816.)

 Derzhávin was born near Kazán, deriving his descent from a Tartar
 Murza, and passed his childhood in the east, in the Government of
 Orenbúrg. His early education was very scanty. In his fourteenth
 year his mother hastened with him to Moscow to enter him for future
 service as the son of a nobleman; but, her means being exhausted, she
 returned with him to Kazán, where she placed him in the newly opened
 Gymnasium. Even here the lack of good teachers precluded his getting
 any thorough instruction; his only positive gain was a smattering of
 German, which was to help him later in acquainting himself with the
 productions of the German Muse. In 1762 he entered the regiment of the
 Transfiguration (Preobrazhénski) as a common soldier. Whatever time
 he could call his own in the crowded and dingy barracks in which he
 passed eight years of his life he devoted to reading and to imitations
 of Russian and German verse. In 1772 he was made a commissioned
 officer, and was employed to quell the Pugachév rebellion.

 It was only in 1779 that Derzhávin began to write in a more
 independent strain; one of the best odes of this new period is his
 _Monody on the Death of Prince Meshchérski_. But the one that gave
 him his greatest reputation was his _Felítsa_, with which began a new
 epoch in Russian poetry. Lomonósov, Sumarókov, Tredyakóvski, and a
 number of minor poets had flooded Russian literature with lifeless
 odes in the French pseudo-classic style, written for all possible
 occasions, and generally to order. Just as a reaction was setting in
 against them in the minds of the best people, Derzhávin proved by his
 _Felítsa_ that an ode could possess other characteristics than those
 sanctioned by the French school. In 1782 he occupied a position in
 the Senate under the Procurator-General Vyázemski. He had an exalted
 opinion of Catherine, whom he had not yet met, and he spoke with full
 sincerity of her in his ode. The name _Felítsa_ was suggested to
 him by the princess in her moral fable (see p. 276 _et seq._). The
 chief interest in the ode for contemporary society lay in the bold
 attacks that Derzhávin made on the foibles of the dignitaries. Its
 literary value consists in the fact that it was the first attempt
 at a purely colloquial tone of playful banter, in a kind of poetic
 composition formerly characterised by a stilted language, replete
 with Church-Slavic words and biblical allusions. Numerous are the
 references made by the poets of the day to the Singer of _Felítsa_
 (see p. 358 _et seq._); they all felt that Derzhávin had inaugurated a
 new era, that the period which had begun with Lomonósov’s _Capture of
 Khotín_ was virtually over.

 Catherine made Derzhávin Governor of Olónetsk, and later of Tambóv;
 but neither in these high offices, nor later, when Paul appointed
 him Chief of the Chancery of the Imperial Council, and Alexander
 I. made him Minister of Justice, was he successful. His excitable
 temperament, combined with a stern love of truth which brooked no
 compromise, made him everywhere impossible. Of the many productions
 which he wrote after _Felítsa_, none gained such wide popularity
 as his _Ode to God_. Though parts of it bear strong resemblance to
 similar odes by Klopstock, Haller, Brockes, and to passages in Young’s
 _Night Thoughts_, yet the whole is so far superior to any of them
 that it soon was translated into all European languages, and also
 into Japanese; there are not less than fifteen versions of it in
 French. Derzhávin lived to hear Púshkin recite one of his poems and to
 proclaim him his spiritual successor. The following translations of
 Derzhávin’s poems in English are known to me:

 _God_, _On the Death of Meshcherski_, _The Waterfall_, _The Lord and
 the Judge_, _On the Death of Count Orlov_, _Song_ (_The Little Bee_),
 in Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.;
 _To a Neighbour_, _The Shipwreck_, _Fragment_, _ib._, Part II.; _To
 God_, _The Storm_, in William D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_,
 Philadelphia, 1849; _The Stream of Time_, in J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from
 the Russian_; _Drowning_, by N. H. Dole; _Ode to the Deity_, by J.
 K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2; _Ode to
 God_, by N. H. Dole, in The Chautauquan, vol. x; _On the Death of
 Meshcherski_, in C. E. Turner’s _Studies in Russian Literature_, and
 the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.

ODE TO THE DEITY

    O Thou infinite in being;
      Living ’midst the change of all;
    Thou eternal through time’s fleeing;
      Formless--Three-in-one withal!
    Spirit filling all creation,
    Who hast neither source nor station;
      Whom none reach, howe’er they plod;
    Who with Thine existence fillest,
    Claspest, mouldest as Thou willest,
      Keepest all; whom we call--God!

    Though the lofty mind could measure
      Deepest seas, and count the sand,
    Of the starry rays the treasure,
      Thou no number hast, no strand!
    Highest souls by Thee created,
    To Thy service consecrated,
      Ne’er could trace Thy counsels high;
    Soon as thought to Thee aspireth,
    In Thy greatness it expireth,
      Moment in eternity.

    Thou didst call the ancient chaos
      From eternity’s vast sea:
    On Thyself, ere time did ray us,
      Thou didst found eternity.
    By Thyself Thyself sustaining,
    From Thyself unaided shining,
      Thou art Light--light flows from Thee;
    By Thy words all things creating,
    Thy creation permeating,
      Thou wast, art and aye shalt be.

    All existence Thou containest
      In Thee, quick’nest with Thy breath;
    End to the beginning chainest;
      And Thou givest life through death.
    Life as sparks spring from the fire,
    Suns are born from Thee, great sire:
      As, in cold clear wintry day,
    Spangles of the frost shine, sparkling,
    Turning, wavering, glittering, darkling,
      Shine the stars beneath Thy ray.

    All the million lights, that wander
      Silent through immensity,
    Thy behests fulfil, and squander
      Living rays throughout the sky.
    But those lamps of living fire,
    Crystals soaring ever higher,
      Golden waves in rich array,
    Wondrous orbs of burning ether,
    Or bright worlds that cling together,
      Are to Thee as night to day.

    Like a drop in sea before Thee
      Is the firmament on high:
    What’s the universe of glory,
      And before Thee what am I?
    In yon vast aërial ocean
    Could I count those worlds in motion,
      Adding millions to them--aught
    I could fancy or decipher,
    By Thy side is but a cipher;
      And before Thee I am--naught!

    Naught! And yet in me Thou rayest,
      By Thy gift and through Thy Son:
    In me Thou Thyself portrayest,
      As in one small drop the sun.
    Naught! Yet life I feel throughout me,
    And, content with naught about me,
      Upward fly with eager heart.
    That Thou art, my soul supposes,
    Tries, and with this reas’ning closes:
      “Sure I am, hence Thou too art.”

    Yes, Thou art--all nature tells me;
      Whispers back my heart the thought;
    Reason now to this impels me:
      Since Thou art, I am not naught!
    Part of Thine entire creation,
    Set in nature’s middle station
      By Thine order I abide;
    Where Thou endest forms terrestrial
    And beginnest souls celestial,
      Chains of beings by me tied.

    I’m the link of worlds existing,
      Last high grade of matter I,
    Centre of all life subsisting,
      First touch of divinity.
    Death to dust my body sunders:
    In my mind I wield the thunders.
      I’m a king, a slave to Thee:
    I’m a worm, a god! Whence hither
    Came I, wonderful? Oh, whither?
      By myself I could not be.

    Thine am I, Thou great Creator,
      Outcome of Thy wisdom sole;
    Fount of life, blest conservator;
      Of my soul the king and soul!
    Needful to Thy just decreeing
    Was it that my deathless being
      Pass to Thee through death’s abyss:
    That my soul, in body vested,
    Wend, by death refined and tested,
      Father, to Thy deathlessness.

    Traceless One, unfathomable!
      Now I cannot see Thy face:
    My imagining’s too feeble
      E’en Thy shadow here to trace;
    But, if we must sing Thy glory,
    Feeble mortals, to adore Thee
      In a worthy attitude,
    We must rise to Thee to wreathe Thee,
    Lost in distance far beneath Thee,
      And--shed tears of gratitude.

--Translated by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870,
May 2.

MONODY ON PRINCE MESHCHÉRSKI[147]

    O iron tongue of Time, with thy sharp metallic tone,
    Thy terrible voice affrights me:
    Each beat of the clock summons me,
    Calls me and hurries me to the grave.
    Scarcely have I opened my eyes upon the world,
    Ere Death grinds his teeth,
    And with his scythe, that gleams like lightning,
    Cuts off my days, which are but grass.

    Not one of the horned beasts of the field,
    Not a single blade of grass escapes,
    Monarch and beggar alike are food for the worm.
    The noxious elements feed the grave,
    And Time effaces all human glory;
    As the swift waters rush towards the sea,
    So our days and years flow into Eternity,
    And empires are swallowed up by greedy Death.

    We crawl along the edge of the treacherous abyss,
    Into which we quickly fall headlong:
    With our first breath of life we inhale death,
    And are only born that we may die.
    Stars are shivered by him,
    And suns are momentarily quenched,
    Each world trembles at his menace,
    And Death unpityingly levels all.

    The mortal scarcely thinks that he can die,
    And idly dreams himself immortal,
    When Death comes to him as a thief,
    And in an instant robs him of his life.
    Alas! where fondly we fear the least,
    There will Death the sooner come;
    Nor does the lightning-bolt with swifter blast
    Topple down the towering pinnacle.

    Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight,
    Meshchérski, where hast thou hidden thyself?
    Thou hast left the realms of light,
    And withdrawn to the shores of the dead;
    Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us.
    Where is it? It is there. Where is there? We know not.
    We can only weep and sob forth,
    Woe to us that we were ever born into the world!

    They who are radiant with health,
    Love and joy and peace,
    Feel their blood run cold
    And their souls to be fretted with woe.
    Where but now was spread a banquet, there stands a coffin:
    Where but now rose mad cries of revelry,
    There resounds the bitter wailing of mourners;
    And over all keeps Death his watch,--

    Watches us one and all,--the mighty Tsar
    Within whose hands are lodged the destinies of a world;
    Watches the sumptuous Dives,
    Who makes of gold and silver his idol-gods;
    Watches the fair beauty rejoicing in her charms;
    Watches the sage, proud of his intellect;
    Watches the strong man, confident in his strength;
    And, even as he watches, sharpens the blade of his scythe.

    O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling!
    O Man, thou strange mixture of grandeur and of nothingness!
    To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth:
    To-day buoyed up with cheating hope,
    And to-morrow, where art thou, Man?
    Scarce an hour of triumph allowed thee
    Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of Chaos,
    And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run.

    Like a dream, like some sweet vision,
    Already my youth has vanished quite.
    Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway,
    Gladness no more, as once, entrances me,
    My mind is no longer free and fanciful,
    And all my happiness is changed.
    I am troubled with a longing for fame;
    I listen; the voice of fame now calls me.

    But even so will manhood pass away,
    And together with fame all my aspirations.
    The love of wealth will tarnish all,
    And each passion in its turn
    Will sway the soul and pass.
    Avaunt, happiness, that boasts to be within our grasp!
    All happiness is but evanescent and a lie:
    I stand at the gate of Eternity.

    To-day or to-morrow we must die,
    Perfílev, and all is ended.
    Why, then, lament or be afflicted
    That thy friend did not live for ever?
    Life is but a momentary loan from Heaven:
    Spend it then in resignation and in peace,
    And with a pure soul
    Learn to kiss the chastening rod.

--From C. E. Turner’s _Studies in Russian Literature_, and the same in
Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.

FELÍTSA[148]

Godlike queen of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,[149] whose incomparable
wisdom discovered the true path for the young Tsarévich Khlor, by which
to climb the high mountain where grows the rose without prickles, where
virtue dwells that captivates my soul and my mind! Oh, teach me how to
find it!

Instruct me, Felítsa, how to live voluptuously, yet justly; how to tame
the storm of passions, and be happy in the world. Your voice enthuses
me, your son guides me, but I am weak to follow them. Disturbed by
worldly cares, I control myself to-day, to-morrow am a slave of my
caprices.

You do not emulate your Murzas,[150] and frequently go on foot; the
simplest food is served at your table. You disdain your rest, and read
and write by the tallow dip, and from your pen flows bliss to all
the mortals.[151] Nor do you play cards, like me, from morning until
morning.[152]

You do not care overmuch for masquerades, and do not set your foot
into a club. You keep old customs and habits, and make no Don Quixote
of yourself. You do not saddle the steed of Parnassus,[153] do not
attend the séances, to see spirits,[154] do not go to the East[155]
from your throne; but, walking on the path of humility, your gracious
soul passes an even tenor of useful days.

But I sleep until noon, smoke tobacco and drink coffee. I change the
work-days into holidays, and live in a whirl of chimerical thoughts: I
now take booty from the Persians, now direct my arrows to the Turks;
now, imagining myself to be the Sultan, I make the world tremble with
my looks; or, suddenly attracted by a sumptuous garment, I hasten to
the tailor for a new caftan.[156]

Or I am at a sumptuous feast, where they celebrate in my honour, where
the table sparkles with its silver and gold, where there are a thousand
different courses,--here the famous Westphalian bacon, there slices of
Astrakhán fish, there stand the pilau and the cakes,--I drink champagne
after my waffles and forget everything in the world ’midst wine,
sweetmeats and perfumes.

Or, ’midst a beautiful grove, in an arbour, where the fountain plashes,
by the sound of a sweet-voiced harp, where the zephyr scarcely
breathes, where everything inclines to luxury, and entices the mind
to joy, and the blood becomes now languid, now flows warm, inclining
upon a velvet divan, I rouse the tender feelings of a young maiden, and
inspire her heart with love.

Or, in a magnificent tandem, in a gilded English carriage, I drive with
a dog, a fool, or friend, or fair maiden to the Swings, or stop at the
taverns to drink mead; or, when I get tired of that, for I am inclined
to change, fly, with my cap posed jauntily, on a mettled steed.

Or I delight my soul with music and singers, the organ and flute, or
boxing and the dance.[157] Or, dropping all care of business, go on the
chase, and take pleasure in the barking of the hounds[158]; or, on the
banks of the Nevá, enjoy at night the sound of horns and the rowing of
agile oarsmen.[159]

Or, staying at home, pass my time playing “Old Maid” with my wife; or
we climb together into the dove-cot, or, at times, play Blindman’s
Buff with her, or sváyka,[160] or have her examine my head; or I love
to pore over books, to enlighten my mind and heart, that is, I read
_Pulicane_ and _Bovo_,[161] or yawn and fall asleep over the Bible.

Such are my debauches, Felítsa! But the whole world resembles me, no
matter if one passes for a sage: every man is a living lie. We travel
not by the paths of light, we run after the whims of pleasure. ’Twixt
the Indolent and the Choleric,[162] ’twixt vanity and vice, one seldom
finds the straight road to virtue.

Suppose we have found it! How are we weak mortals not to blunder,
where even Reason stumbles and follows after passions, where learned
ignoramuses bedim our heads as the mist bedims the wanderers?
Temptation and flattery dwell everywhere, and luxury oppresses all
the pashas. Where, then, dwells virtue? Where grows the rose without
prickles?

It becomes you alone, O Empress, to create light from darkness,
dividing chaos harmoniously in spheres, to firmly unite them by a
common bond; you alone can bring forth concord out of discord, and
happiness out of violent passions: thus the sailor, crossing the sea,
catches the gale in his sails and safely guides his ship.

You alone hurt not, nor injure anyone; though you may connive at
stupidity, you tolerate no mean act; you treat peccadillos with
condescension. You do not choke people, as the wolf chokes the sheep,
but you know their worth: they are subject to the will of kings, but
more to righteous God who lives in their laws.

You judge soundly of merits, and mete out honour to the deserving:
you deem him not a prophet who merely makes rhymes. And as for that
entertainment of the mind,--the honour and glory of good caliphs, the
lyric strain to which you condescend,--poetry is pleasing to you,
acceptable, soothing, useful,--like a refreshing lemonade in summer.

Rumour tells of you that you are not in the least haughty, that you are
pleasant in business and in jest, agreeable in friendship and firm;
that you are indifferent to misfortune, and so magnanimous in glory
that you refused to be called “Wise.”[163] Again, they justly say that
one may always tell you the truth.

This, too, is an unheard-of thing and worthy of you alone: you permit
the people boldly to know and think all,[164] openly or in secret; nor
do you forbid them to say of you what is true or false; and you are
always prone to forgive those crocodiles, the Zoiluses of all your
benefactions.

Rivers of joyful tears stream from the depth of my heart. Oh, how happy
the people must be there with their fate, where a meek, peaceful
angel, clad in porphyry splendour, wields the heaven-sent sceptre!
There one may whisper conversations and, without fearing punishment, at
dinners not drink the health of kings.

There one may erase Felítsa’s name in the line, or carelessly drop
her portrait on the ground. There they do not celebrate preposterous
weddings, and steam people in ice baths, and pull the mustaches of
dignitaries; princes do not cackle like sitting hens, nor favourites
laugh loud at them and smear their faces with soot.

You know, O Felítsa, the rights of men and kings. While you enlighten
the manners, you do not turn men into fools. In your moments of rest
you write fables for instruction and teach the alphabet to Khlor: “Do
no wrong, and you will cause the bitterest satirist to become a hated
prevaricator.”

You are ashamed to be called great, lest you be feared and hated: it
becomes only a wild she-bear to tear animals and suck their blood. Need
one have recourse to the lancet, unless in extreme fever, when one
can get along without it? And is it glorious to be a tyrant, a great
Tamerlane in cruelty, where one is great in goodness, like God?

Felítsa’s glory is the glory of a god who has calmed strife, who has
covered, dressed and fed the orphaned and the poor; whose radiant eye
emits its light to fools, cowards, ungrateful people and the just, and
enlightens alike all mortals, soothes, cures the sick,--does good for
good’s sake;

Who has given the liberty to travel to other lands, has permitted his
people to seek gold and silver; who makes the waters free, and does not
prohibit cutting down the woods; who orders to weave, and spin, and
sew; who, freeing the mind and the hands, orders to love commerce and
the sciences, and to find happiness at home;

Whose law and hand distribute favours and justice. Announce, wise
Felítsa, where is the villain separated from the honest man? Where does
old age not go a-begging, and merit find its bread? Where does revenge
not drive anyone? Where dwells conscience with truth? Where shine
virtues?--if not at your throne?

But where does your throne shine in the world? Where do you flourish,
celestial branch? In Bagdad, Smyrna, Cashmir? Listen: wherever you may
live and my praises reach you, think not that I wish a hat or caftan
for them. To feel the charm of goodness is for the soul a wealth such
as even Crœsus did not possess.

I pray the great prophet that I may touch the dust of your feet, that I
may enjoy the sweet stream of your words and your look. I entreat the
heavenly powers that they extend their sapphire wings and invisibly
guard you from all diseases, evils and ennui, that the renown of your
deeds may shine in posterity like stars in the heavens.

FROM “THE WATERFALL”

    Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright,
    Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall
    Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light:
    They sink, they rise, and sparkling cover all
    With infinite refulgence; while its song,
    Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along,--

    Rolls through the woods,--they send its accents back,
    Whose last vibration in the desert dies:
    Its radiance glances o’er the watery track,
    Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies
    Beneath the forest shade; then sweetly flows
    A milky stream, all silent, as it goes.

    Its foam is scattered on the margent bound,
    Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum
    Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound,
    Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come
    On the fast-travelling breeze! Oh no, no voice
    Is heard around but thy majestic noise!

    When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder,
    In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb;
    When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder,
    As sands they sink into thy mighty womb:
    The ice that would imprison thy proud tide
    Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide.

    The fierce wolf prowls around thee--there it stands
    Listening,--not fearful, for he nothing fears:
    His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands,
    Like bristles o’er him his coarse fur he rears;
    Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats,
    And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats.

    The wild stag hears thy falling waters’ sound,
    And tremblingly flies forward,--o’er her back
    She bends her stately horns, the noiseless ground
    Her hurried feet impress not, and her track
    Is lost among the tumult of the breeze,
    And the leaves falling from the rustling trees.

    The wild horse thee approaches in his turn:
    He changes not his proudly rapid stride;
    His mane stands up erect, his nostrils burn,
    He snorts, he pricks his ears, and starts aside;
    Then rushing madly forward to thy steep,
    He dashes down into thy torrents deep.

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

THE STORM

    As my bark in the restless ocean
      Mounts its rough and foaming hills,
    Whilst its waves in dark commotion
      Pass me, hope my bosom fills.

    Who, when warring clouds are gleaming,
      Quenches the destructive spark?
    Say what hand, what safety’s beaming,
      Guides through rocks my little bark?

    Thou, Creator, all o’erseeing,
      In this scene preserv’st me dread!
    Thou, without whose word decreeing
      Not a hair falls from my head!

    Thou in life hast doubly blest me,
      All my soul to Thee’s revealed,--
    Thou amongst the great hast placed me,--
      Be ’midst them my guide and shield!

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

THE STREAM OF TIME[165]

    The stream of time, with onward sweep,
    Bears off men’s works, all human things,
    And plunges o’er Oblivion’s steep
    Peoples and kingdoms with their kings.
    If for a space amidst the swirl
    The lyre of trumpet some sustain,
    They’re swept at last in ceaseless whirl,
    And none escape Fate’s common main.

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

FOOTNOTES:

[147] Alexander Ivánovich Meshchérski was the president of the St.
Petersburg magistracy, and later served in the Chief Customs Chancery.
Both he and his friend Perfílev, mentioned at the end of the monody,
led a life of luxury.

[148] See Catherine II.’s _Prince Khlor_, p. 280.

[149] Catherine had some villages in the Government of Orenbúrg, near
the settlements of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,--hence the name given her
by Derzhávin.

[150] Tartar chiefs, but courtiers are meant here.

[151] Through the promulgation of her laws.

[152] Derzhávin was much addicted to gambling in his early life, and
had even tried to mend his fortune by cheating.

[153] Catherine was not successful as a versifier.

[154] She loved neither Masons nor Martinists, who were a kind of
precursors of the modern spiritualists.

[155] Name of a Masonic lodge.

[156] The reference is to Potémkin, his dreams of conquering India and
Persia, his foppery, his sumptuous feasts.

[157] Characterisation of A. G. Orlóv.

[158] P. I. Pánin.

[159] Allusion to S. K. Narýshkin, who had introduced wind instruments,
where each player played but one note.

[160] A game which consists of throwing a large nail into a ring.

[161] Famous popular novels much in vogue in all Europe; the latter
is the English _Bevys of Hamptoun_; the allusion is here to the rude
manners of Prince Vyázemski.

[162] Lentyág and Bryúzga of Catherine’s _Prince Khlor_, by whom she
meant Potémkin and Vyázemski.

[163] In 1767 the Senate and deputies, who had been invited to present
a project for a new code of laws, proposed a title for the Empress
“Great, Most Wise, and Mother of the Country,” but she declined it.

[164] This and the following lines refer to the reign of Empress
Anna, when the least inattention to the minutest details of Imperial
prerogatives brought about the severest persecution: it was sufficient
not to empty a beaker which was drunk to her health, or to scratch out
or correct her name in a document, or to drop a coin with her picture
upon it, in order to be immediately denounced to the secret police.
Then follows the reference to the ice palace in which the marriage of
the Court fool, Prince Golítsyn, was celebrated; the other Court fools
of the day were the Princes Volkónski and Apráksin.

         Yúri Aleksándrovich Neledínski-Melétski. (1752-1829.)

 After finishing his education in the University of Strassburg,
 Neledínski occupied various posts in the army and with legations. In
 1800 he was made a Senator. He distinguished himself in literature by
 his simple, deep-felt songs, two of which, given below, have become
 enormously popular. His other poems and translations from French
 authors are now forgotten.

 Sir John Bowring has translated his “Under the oak-tree, near the
 rill,” “To the streamlet I’ll repair,” and “He whom misery, dark and
 dreary”; the latter is the same as Lewis’s “He whose soul from sorrow
 dreary.”

SONG

    To the streamlet I’ll repair,
      Look upon its flight and say:
    “Bear, O fleeting streamlet, bear
      All my griefs with thine away!”

    Ah, I breathe the wish in vain!
      In this silent solitude
    Counted is each throb of pain:--
      Rest is melancholy’s food.

    Waves with waves unceasing blend,
      Hurrying to their destiny:
    E’en so thoughts with thoughts, and tend
      All alike to misery.

    And what grief so dark, so deep
      As the grief interred within,
    By the friend, for whom I weep,
      All unnoticed, all unseen?

    Yet, could I subdue my pain,
      Soothe affection’s rankling smart,
    Ne’er would I resume again
      The lost empire of my heart.

    Thou, my love, art sovereign there!
      There thou hast a living shrine:
    Let my portion be despair,
      If the light of bliss be thine.

    Loved by thee, oh, might I live,
      ’Neath the darkest, stormiest sky:
    ’Twere a blest alternative!
      Grief is joy, if thou be nigh.

    Every wish and every pray’r
      Is a tribute paid to thee:
    Every heart-beat--there, oh there,
      Thou hast mightiest sovereignty.

    To thee, nameless one! to thee
      Still my thoughts, my passions turn;
    ’Tis through thee alone I see,
      Think, and feel, and breathe, and burn.

    If the woe in which I live
      Ever reach thy generous ear,
    Pity not, but oh, forgive
      Thy devoted worshipper!

    In some hour of careless bliss
      Deign my bosom’s fire to prove;
    Prove it with an icy kiss,--
      Thou shalt know how much I love!

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

STANZAS

    He whose soul from sorrow dreary,
      Weak and wretched, naught can save,
    Who in sadness, sick and weary,
      Hopes no refuge but the grave;
    On his visage Pleasure beaming
      Ne’er shall shed her placid ray,
    Till kind fate, from woe redeeming,
      Leads him to his latest day.

    Thou this life preservest ever,
      My distress and my delight!
    And, though soul and body sever,
      Still I’ll live a spirit bright;
    In my breast the heart that’s kindled
      Death’s dread strength can ne’er destroy,
    Sure the soul with thine that’s mingled
      Must immortal life enjoy.

    That inspired by breath from heaven
      Need not shrink a mortal doom,
    To thee shall my vows be given
      In this world and that to come.
    My fond shade shall constant trace thee,
      And attend in friendly guise,
    Still surround thee, still embrace thee,
      Catch thy thoughts, thy looks, thy sighs.

    To divine its secret pondering,
      Close to clasp thy soul ’t will brave,
    And if chance shall find thee wandering
      Heedless near my silent grave,
    E’en my ashes then shall tremble,
      Thy approach relume their fire,
    And that stone in dust shall crumble,
      Covering what can ne’er expire!

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

FOOTNOTES:

[165] The last verses Derzhávin wrote.

                Mikhaíl Nikítich Muravév. (1757-1807.)

 Muravév was an alumnus of the Moscow University, and early
 distinguished himself for his intimate knowledge of the ancient and
 many modern languages. In 1785 he became the instructor of Alexander
 and Constantine, and when the first ascended the throne, Muravév was
 made Senator, and later Curator of the Moscow University. He not only
 did much for the cause of education in Russia, but himself educated a
 new generation of writers, among them Bátyushkov; through his efforts
 Karamzín was made historiographer, and the Archives were opened to
 him. In his prose and poetry, Muravév was himself a follower of the
 pseudo-classic school, with an addition of sentimentalism, through
 Karamzín’s influence. In his classicism, however, he differs from all
 his contemporaries in that he drew directly from the ancient sources,
 with which he was intimately acquainted.

 Sir John Bowring translated Muravév’s _To the Goddess of the Neva_,
 _Boleslav_, and “She bent her head, and her tears that fell.”

TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVÁ

    Glide, majestic Neva! Glide thee,
      Decked with bright and peaceful smiles;
    Palaces are raised beside thee,
      ’Midst the shadows of the isles.

    Stormy Russian seas thou bindest
      With the ocean--by the grave
    Of our glorious Tsar thou windest,
      Which thy graceful waters lave.

    And the middle-ocean’s surges
      All thy smiling naiads court;
    While thy stream to Paros urges,
      And to Lemnos’ classic port.

    Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded,
      See the brightest memories fade;
    Glassy mirrors--how degraded!
      Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade.

    While thy happier face is bearing
      Ever-smiling images,
    On thy busy banks appearing
      Crowds in gaiety and peace.

    Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes,
      Spread their riches o’er thy breast,
    While thy well-known banner rises,
      Rises proudly o’er the rest.

    In thy baths what beauties bathe them,
      Goddesses of love and light;
    There Erota loves to swathe them
      In the brightest robes of night.

    Cool thy smiling banks at even,
      Cool thy grottoes and thy cells,
    Where, by gentle breezes driven,
      Oft the dancing billow swells.

    Then thou gatherest vapours round thee,
      Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress;
    Love and mirth have now unbound thee--
      Yield thee to thy waywardness.

    Thou dost bear the dying over,
      Weary of this earthly dream;
    And with awful mists dost cover
      All the bosom of the stream.

    With thy car thou troublest never
      The calm silence of the deep;
    Sirens dance around thee ever,
      Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep.

    Peaceful goddess! Oft the singer
      Sees thee in his ecstasy,
    On the rock he loves to linger,
      Sleepless,--then he meets with thee.

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

                Vasíli Vasílevich Kapníst. (1757-1824.)

 Kapníst, the son of a brigadier, entered the army as a corporal
 in 1771, and was made a commissioned officer in 1775, but he soon
 retired to his native village of Obúkhovka in the Government of Kíev,
 which he later described in the manner of Horace. He was elected
 a Representative of the Nobility of his district, later (upon his
 return to St. Petersburg), became a member of the Academy, and rose
 to many other honours. He early distinguished himself by translations
 and imitations of Horace, in which he devoted a closer attention
 to perfect form than any of his contemporaries, so that, but for a
 somewhat antiquated language, he is read with pleasure even at the
 present time. His chief reputation with his contemporaries was earned
 by the comedy _The Pettifoggery_, which had a phenomenal success, and
 was only superseded by Griboyédov’s _Intelligence Comes to Grief_
 and Gógol’s _The Revizór_. Like all the great comedies of Russia,
 _The Pettifoggery_ deals with the negative sides of social life, and
 lays bare the corruption of officialdom. The plot of the play is as
 follows: Pettifog devises a plan by which he is to get hold of the
 property of Squareman. The latter is named in his certificate of birth
 Theodotos; his father left his estate to this Theodotos, but he naming
 himself Deodatus (Bogdán), Pettifog argues before the judges that
 Deodatus is another unlawful holder of that estate, and that it ought
 to revert to himself, as a distant relative of the deceased man. To
 make his case sure he bribes the judges, Gurgle, Snare, Gladly and
 Wordy, and the Procurator Grab and Secretary Talon, and sues for the
 hand of Sophia, the daughter of the Presiding Judge Casetwister. All,
 however, ends well, for Pettifog is denounced to the Senate and put
 in gaol, and the judges are turned over to the criminal court, while
 Squareman marries Sophia, his old sweetheart. The verses at the end of
 Act III., Scene 6, “Take, you’ll learn the art with ease,” went like
 wild-fire through all Russia, and became the byword for the large host
 of bribers.

 Sir John Bowring has translated his _On Julia’s Death_, also reprinted
 in F. R. Grahame’s _The Progress of Science, Art and Literature in
 Russia_.

FROM “THE PETTIFOGGERY”

ACT III., SCENE 6. FÉKLA, SOPHIA, ANNA, CASETWISTER, PETTIFOG, GURGLE,
SNARE, GLADLY, WORDY, GRAB, TALON AND SLY (_tipsy, playing cards_)

_Talon._ They have picked me clean.

_Gurgle._ Well! We are not picking your own feathers.

_Pettifog._ My dear friend, always grab the jack-pot!

_Talon._ A well-born man grabs all in splendid style.

_Wordy_ (_to Pettifog_). Your intimate has been flaying us.

_Pettifog._ That’s proper. (_To Sly._) You had better rise. (_To
Casetwister._) Will you not let him mix a punch for us? He is a great
hand at it.

_Casetwister._ Very well.

_Gurgle._ That’s right, for the young beauty has been watering us as
from a trough....

_Sly_ (_walking up to Anna_). There is some brandy in the basket.

_Fékla._ His goose is cooked.

_Pettifog._ That’s so.

_Casetwister._ Whose?

_Pettifog._ Mine.

_Gurgle._ That accursed Theodotos has done it all.

_Gladly_ (to Grab, who has been looking into his cards). Leave my
ca-ca-ca----

_Grab_ (_putting his hand on his mouth_). Stop your cawing.

_Wordy._ Say, Sly, stop courting her.

_Casetwister._ Anna, why have you run away from us? You had better
serve us the new punch; we will be obliged to you.

_Fékla_ (_to Anna_). Hurry up.

(_Anna serves to the guests punch and wine, while Fékla gives her
privately some signs: the guests are getting drunk._)

_Snare._ Oh, oh, we are getting there!

_Pettifog._ Eh?

_Wordy_ (_pointing to Sly_). Ask him.

_Sly._ Sir, the trouble is, it’s all gone.

_Pettifog._ Keep it up; here is the wherewithal (_throws a purse to
him_).

_Gurgle._ The trouble is all with Theodotos.

_Pettifog._ It is easy for you to have your fun with Theodotos; but
it’s I who am having the trouble with him.

_Casetwister._ What of it? If it is true that through conspiracy
Deodatus has gotten away with Theodotos’s property, there is a law for
such a case.

_Talon._ I have already given the order to find the laws that cover the
case.

_Casetwister._ I suppose there are some statutes?

_Talon._ Lots of them, sir.

_Wordy._ And also some decrees?

_Talon._ There are.

_Gurgle._ And, of course, there must be a special ukase.

_Talon._ There are several.

_Grab._ But clearest of all it is in the Institutes; you will find it
in the chapter where ... about it----

_Snare._ Rather dark.

_Wordy._ It’s an ace and a jack.

_Casetwister._ And then we may apply the law of false pretences?

_Talon._ Of course, we may, sir! It fits the case.

_Gurgle._ And we bring the Reglement in accord with the Institutes....

_Talon._ Then all will agree with the above-mentioned ukase.

_Gurgle._ That’s it. You see, you can easily pass sentence.

_Casetwister._ Theodotos is out of the question. Deodatus is certainly
a villain; so we will take Theodotos’s property and give it where it
belongs. That’s my opinion.

_Gurgle._ Mine too.

_Snare._ And mine.

_Wordy._ And mine.

_Gladly._ A-a-and mine.

_Grab._ I agree with that unanimous opinion.

_Pettifog._ Thank you all.

_Casetwister._ ’Tis not hard to pick the laws.

_Anna_ (_aside, as she picks up the cards on the ground_). And I will
pick the cards.

_Casetwister._ Where is the punch?

_Fékla._ Anna! Be quick about it, and serve them often all around, and
ask their favour.

_Gurgle._ Oh, we will soon ask hers.

_Casetwister._ Let’s have a song.

_Wordy._ Let’s throw away the cards: the queen has forsaken me.

_Snare._ You deal with a heavy hand.

_Casetwister_ (_to Grab_). Dear Procurator! You have a good voice: give
us a song!

_Grab._ Most gladly, but I have no voice.

_Casetwister._ The best way you can.

_Gurgle._ We will sing the refrain.

_Grab_ (_sings_).

    Take, you’ll learn the art with ease!
    Take whatever you can seize!
    God for this your hands did make,
    That you may take!

(_All repeat_: Take, take, take!)

(_Sophia shuts her ears and goes away._)

ACT IV., SCENE 6. CASETWISTER, FÉKLA AND TALON

_Casetwister_ (_to Talon_). But hear, my dear. The rumour must be false
that some meddler has denounced us to the Senate for taking bribes and
for deciding wrongly cases at law.

_Talon._ I declare! What bad luck is that?

_Casetwister._ I could not find out all. But you, my friend, tell me in
truth what case it was we decided so wrongly that we did not cover our
tracks? I can’t think of any.

_Talon_ (_scratching his spine_). Even if I were to go to confession, I
could not think of any.

_Fékla._ But that’s impossible.

_Casetwister._ I beg you, wife, leave us alone! We know affairs better
than you.

_Fékla._ Indeed, I know as well as you. Is it not my business to
receive things and look after them? But may the wrath of the Lord
strike me on the spot, if my right hand knows what my left hand takes.

_Casetwister_ (_to Talon_). Say: it just occurs to me that there was
quite a disturbance about the note whose endorsement I ordered to have
scratched.

_Talon._ O sir, there is no cause for your worry there. I myself did
the scratching. The defendant suspected the plaintiff of changing the
endorsement. You decided the case properly according to the laws, and
ordered the note to be destroyed.

_Fékla_ (_to Casetwister_). Well, you have done no more wrong there
than I.

_Talon._ Besides, you did not scratch the note, but only clean paper.

_Fékla._ Then where is your guilt? What sin is there in scratching mere
paper? None at all.

_Casetwister._ So much the better.

_Talon._ There is something else that occurs to me. Do you remember
the lawsuit for Simple’s estate? Pettifog, who had really nothing to
do with the case and had forgotten the name of Simple in the lawsuit,
contrived cunningly to sue Trickster, who had also not the slightest
right to the estate. We did not bother about finding out whose the
village in question was, and without further investigation, in the
absence of Simple, disposed of the lawsuit by adjudging another’s
property to the contending parties, which they proceeded at once to
divide among themselves. I can’t imagine what Simple is going to say
about it.

_Casetwister._ Let him say whatever he pleases, since he has paid so
little attention to it. Why should we worry about him now? We are the
judges. ’Tis our duty to know only that which is presented for our
consideration on paper. What right have we to know that the estate
under contention does not belong to the contending parties, but to
someone else? We should have to have some written proof of that; in
absence of the same, we simply must decide a lawsuit between two
parties strictly according to the laws. We cannot help it if both were
contending for something that did not belong to them.

OBÚKHOVKA

At peace with my neighbours and relatives, at peace with my conscience,
in love with my beloved family, I here with my joys alone measure the
stream of quiet days.

My cosey house with straw-thatched roof is all I want, neither too low,
nor too high; there is a nook in it for friendship, and indolence has
forgot to put a lock on the door, to notabilities unknown.

By a mount from the north protected, it stands upon a grassy hill,
and looks into groves and distant meadows, while Psel, winding like a
serpent, babbles as it tends towards the mills.

Nearby, the favourite child of nature, a vast shadowy forest, surrounds
it on all sides with its thick tree-tops, without encroachment on the
free expanse.

Before it, and on a small eminence, art, to please our eyes, having
given a gentle slope to abrupt mounds, has on a modest elevation raised
a modest temple to moderation.

Moderation, O heavenly friend, be ever my companion! You lead men
to happiness; but your altar, not known to all, is hidden from the
boastful rich.

You have taught me from earliest youth not to seek honour nor gold,
without pinions not to fly upwards, and in the glowworm not to show the
light to the wonderment of the world.

With you, the dearest one to me in the world, I treasure my fate;
whithersoever I glance with you, in every object I discover a new
charm.

As I walk down the hill, the arbour covered by the dense shade of trees
calls the tired one, through the forest that bends into a vault, to
rest, and mirrors itself in the crystal stream below.

Coolness reigns here for ever and refreshes the feelings and the mind,
while the gentle, incessant murmur of the impetuous waterfall induces
sleep amidst sweet thoughts.

There suddenly twenty wheels begin to turn, and circle hastens after
circle; diamonds, opals, hyacinths, rain down from gleaming bows, while
pearls beat underneath in clouds.

Thus the vision of happiness moves the passions, and with them the
whole world is in motion. Fortunate he who gets away from them, for
they crush all, tear all in pieces that passes under their millstone.

Let us go, before it grows dark, to rest upon the nearby island; a
covered way leads to it, where the rays of the sun dare not glide
through the dark foliage.

There I shall sit down under a mossy elm, leaning against a mighty
trunk. Alas, not long, upon a hot day, will its leafy top carpet for me
a hospitable shade!

Already it has inclined its brow upon the water that has undermined
the steep bank; already it looks into the gloomy depth,--and soon, in
stormy weather, it will fall with upturned roots into the water.

Thus in the world all is carried away by the stream of time amidst an
eternal strife; thus ancient altars have fallen; thus kingdoms and
kings have fallen, with the pillars of their thrones.

But to disperse painful thoughts, let us walk the path to the
forest-covered hill where Phœbus with brilliant beam reflects from the
zenith a mighty shade.

I see a modest plain with a hedge of crimson bushes: there Flora, the
tender mother of the gardens, has scattered her basket full of fragrant
flowers.

Farther off, in the realm of Pomona, fruit burdens the trees; beyond is
the vineyard of Bacchus, where, filled with nectar juice, gleam amber
clusters.

Is it possible to picture all the beauties of nature, and all its
charm? To weld there the distance with the horizon, to adorn here the
vales with flocks, and nap it with the golden harvest?

No, no! Abandon the vain endeavour! Already the sun has disappeared
behind the mountain; already above the ethereal azure, ’twixt clouds,
twinkle bright stars and glisten on the waves of the river.

I ascend the hill. The golden moon has swum out on a gentle cloud, and,
glinting through the bluish cirrus, leaves behind it a gleaming path
above the liquid glass.

Oh, how dear that place is to me when the satellite of the night
comes, in all her beauty, to weld with the dream of a pining soul the
remembrance of bright days!

ON JULIA’S DEATH

    The evening darkness shrouds
      The slumbering world in peace,
    And from her throne of clouds
      Shines Luna through the trees.
    My thoughts in silence blend,
      But gathered all to thee:
    Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
      Oh, come and mourn with me!

    Upon her grave I bow,
      The green grave where she lies:
    Oh, hear my sorrows now,
      And consecrate my sighs!
    This is her ashes’ bed,--
      Here her cold relics sleep,--
    Where I my tears shall shed,
      While this torn heart can weep.

    O Julia! Never rose
      Had half the charms of thee!
    My comfort, my repose,--
      Oh, thou wert all to me!
    But thou art gone, and I
      Must bear life’s load of clay,--
    And pray, and long to die,
      Though dying day by day.

    But I must cease to sing,
      My lyre all mute appears.
    Alas! Its plaintive string
      Is wetted with my tears.
    Oh! Misery’s song must end,--
      My thoughts all fly to thee:--
    Thou moon! The mourner’s friend,
      Oh, come and mourn with me!

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

               Adrián Moyséevich Gribóvski. (1766-1833.)

 Gribóvski was a Little-Russian by birth. In 1784 he was secretary to
 Derzhávin, the poet, who was then Governor of Olónetsk. Then he served
 under Potémkin, and after his death in 1791 he entered the service
 of Count Zúbov, Catherine’s favourite. In 1795 he was Catherine’s
 Secretary of State. Like so many Russian Memoirs of the eighteenth
 century, Gribóvski’s _Memoirs_ not only throw light on contemporary
 events, but are of great importance for a correct appreciation of the
 literature of the time. What Gribóvski reports of the simplicity of
 Catherine’s private life forms the subject of Derzhávin’s _Felítsa_
 (see p. 385 _et seq._).

FROM HIS “MEMOIRS”

The Empress’s [Catherine II.] manner of life was of late years the
same: In the winter she resided in the large Winter Palace, in the
middle story, above the right, smaller entrance. Her own rooms were
few. Upon ascending a small staircase, one entered into a room where,
for the immediate dispatch of the Empress’s orders, there stood behind
a screen a writing table with writing material for the secretaries of
state and other officers. This room faced a small court, and from it
you passed into the boudoir, with its windows on the Palace Square.
Here stood a toilet table. Of the two doors in this room, the one to
the right led into the diamond room, the other, to the left, into the
sleeping-room, where the Empress generally received her reports. From
the sleeping-room one passed straight into the interior boudoir, and to
the left--into the study and mirror room, from which one way led into
the lower apartments, and the other, over a gallery, into the so-called
Neighbouring House. In these apartments the Empress lived until spring,
but sometimes she removed earlier to the Tauric Palace, which had been
built by Prince Potémkin on the bank of the Nevá.

The main building of this latter palace was only one story high,
on purpose, it seems, that the Empress should not be annoyed by
staircases. Here her rooms were larger than in the Winter Palace,
especially the study in which she received the reports. In the first
days of May she always went incognito to Tsárskoe Seló, and from there
she returned, also incognito, in September to the Winter Palace. Her
apartments in Tsárskoe Seló were quite large and tastefully furnished.
All know the magnificent gallery in which the Empress frequently
took a walk, particularly on Sundays when the park was filled with a
large crowd of people that used to come down from St. Petersburg. She
received the reports in the cabinet, or in the sleeping-room.

The Empress’s time and occupations were arranged in the following
manner: She rose at seven, and was busy writing in her cabinet until
nine (her last work was on the Senate Regulations). She once remarked
in her conversation that she could not live a day without writing
something. During that time she drank one cup of coffee, without cream.
At nine o’clock she passed into the sleeping-room, where almost in
the entrance from the boudoir she seated herself in a chair near the
wall. Before her stood a table that slanted towards her and also to the
opposite direction, where there was also a chair. She then generally
wore a sleeping-gown, or capote, of white gros de Tours, and on her
head a white crêpe bonnet which was poised a little towards the left.
In spite of her sixty-five years, the Empress’s face was still fresh,
her hands beautiful, her teeth all well preserved, so that she spoke
distinctly, without lisping, only a little masculinely. She read with
eyeglasses and a magnifying glass. Having once been called in with my
reports, I found her reading in this way. She smiled and said to me:
“You, no doubt, do not need this apparatus! How old are you?” And when
I said: “Twenty-six,” she added: “But we have, in our long service to
the Empire, dulled our vision, and now we are of necessity compelled
to use glasses.” It appeared to me that “we” was used by her not as an
expression of majesty, but in the ordinary sense.

Upon another occasion she handed me an autograph note which contained
some references for her Senate Regulations for verification, and said:
“Laugh not at my Russian orthography. I will tell you why I have
not succeeded in mastering it. When I came here, I applied myself
diligently to the study of Russian. When my aunt, Elizabeth Petróvna,
heard of this, she told my Court mistress that I ought not to be
taught any more,--that I was clever enough anyway. Thus, I could learn
Russian only from books, without a teacher, and that is the cause of
my insufficient knowledge of orthography.” However, the Empress spoke
quite correct Russian, and was fond of using simple native words, of
which she knew a great number. “I am very happy,” she said to me, “that
you know the order of the Chancery. You will be the first executor of
my Regulations before the Senate. But I caution you that the Chancery
of the Senate has overpowered the Senate, and that I wish to free
it from the Chancery. For any unjust decisions, my punishment for
the Senate shall be: let them be ashamed!” I remarked that not only
the Senate, but also other bureaus that are guided by the General
Reglement, are hampered in the transaction of their business by great
inconveniences and difficulties that demand correction. “I should
like very much to see those inconveniences and difficulties of which
you speak to me in such strong terms. The General Reglement is one of
the best institutions of Peter the Great.” Later on, I presented to
her Highness my notes upon the General Reglement, which I read to her
almost every afternoon of her residence in Tsárskoe Seló in 1796, and
which were honoured by her undivided august approval. (These notes must
be deposited with other affairs in the Archives of the Foreign College.)

After occupying her seat, of which I spoke above, the Empress rang a
bell, and the valet of the day, who uninterruptedly remained outside
the door, entered and, having received his order, called in the
persons. At that time of the day, the Chief Master of Police and the
Secretary of State waited daily in the boudoir; at eleven o’clock there
arrived Count Bezboródko; for the other officers certain days in the
week were set apart: for the Vice-Chancellor, Governor, Government
Procurator of the Government of St. Petersburg, Saturday; for the
Procurator-General, Monday and Thursday; Wednesday for the Superior
Procurator of the Synod and Master General of Requests; Thursday for
the Commander-in-Chief of St. Petersburg. But in important and urgent
cases, all these officers could come any other time to report.

The first one to be called in to the Empress was the Chief Master of
Police, Brigadier Glázov. He made a verbal report on the safety of
the capital and other occurrences, and presented a note, written at
the office irregularly and badly on a sheet of paper, containing the
names of arrivals and departures on the previous day of people of all
conditions who had taken the trouble to announce their names at the
toll-house, for the sentinels stopped no one at the toll-house, nor
inquired anything of them,--in fact there existed then no toll-gates;
anybody received a passport from the Governor at any time he asked for
it, and without any pay, and could leave the city whenever he wished:
for this reason the list of arrivals and departures never could be very
long. After the Chief Master of Police left, the Secretaries of State
who had any business had themselves announced by the valet, and were
let in one by one. I was one of them. Upon entering the sleeping-room,
I observed the following ceremony: I made a low obeisance to the
Empress, to which she responded with a nod of her head, and smilingly
gave me her hand, which I took and kissed, and I felt the pressure of
my own hand; then she commanded me to take a seat. Having seated myself
on the chair opposite, I placed my papers on the slanting table, and
began to read. I suppose the other reporting officers acted in the same
way, when they entered the room of the Empress, and that they met with
the same reception.

About eleven o’clock the other officers arrived with their reports,
as mentioned above, and sometimes there came Field-Marshal Count
Suvórov Rýmnikski, who then, after the conquest of Poland, resided at
St. Petersburg. When he entered, he first prostrated himself three
times before the image of the Holy Virgin of Kazán, which stood in the
corner, to the right of the door, and before which there burned an
undying lamp; then he turned to the Empress, prostrated himself once
before her, though she tried to keep him from it, and, taking him by
the hand, lifted him and said: “Mercy! Alexander Vasílevich, are you
not ashamed to act like that?” But the hero worshipped her and regarded
it as his sacred duty to express his devotion to her in that manner.
The Empress gave him her hand, which he kissed as a relic, and asked
him to seat himself on the chair opposite her; two minutes later she
dismissed him. They used to tell that Count Bezboródko and a few others
prostrated themselves in the same way before her, but not before the
Holy Virgin.

At these audiences in the Winter and Tauric Palaces, the military
officers wore uniforms, with their swords and shoes, but boots on
holidays; civil officers wore during week-days simple French coats,
but on holidays gala dresses; but at Tsárskoe Seló, both the military
and civilians wore dress-coats on week-days, and only on holidays the
former put on uniforms, and the latter French coats with their swords.

The Empress was busy until noon, after which her old hair-dresser,
Kozlóv, dressed her hair in her interior boudoir. She wore her hair
low and very simple; it was done up in the old fashion, with small
locks behind her ears. Then she went into the boudoir, where we all
waited for her; our society was then increased by four spinsters who
came to serve the Empress at her toilet. One of them, M. S. Aleksyéev,
passed some ice to the Empress, who rubbed her face with it, probably
in order to show that she did not like any other washes; another, A.
A. Polokúchi, pinned a crêpe ornament to her hair, and the two sisters
Zvyerév handed her the pins. This toilet lasted not more than ten
minutes, and during that time the Empress conversed with some one of
the persons present, among whom there was often the Chief Equerry,
Lev Sergyéevich Narýshkin, and sometimes Count Strogonóv, who were
her favourite society. Having bid the company good-bye, the Empress
returned with her maids into the sleeping-room, where she dressed
herself for dinner, with their aid and with the aid of Márya Sávishna,
while we all went home. On week-days the Empress wore simple silk
dresses, which were all made almost according to the same pattern, and
which were known as Moldavian; the upper garment was usually of lilac
or greyish colour, and without her decorations,--her lower garment
white; on holidays she wore a brocade gown, with three decorations--the
crosses of St. Andrew, St. George and St. Vladímir, and sometimes she
put on all the sashes that belong to these decorations, and a small
crown; she wore not very high-heeled shoes.

Her dinner was set for two o’clock. During the week there were
generally invited to dinner, of ladies, the Maid of Honour Protásov
and Countess Branítski; of gentlemen, Adjutant-General P. V. Pássek,
A. A. Narýshkin, Count Strogonóv, the two French emigrants, the good
Count Esterházy and the black Marquis de Lambert, at times Vice-Admiral
Ribas, Governor-General of the Polish provinces Tutolmín, and finally
the Marshal of the Court, Prince Baryatínski. On holidays there were
invited also other military and civil officers who lived in St.
Petersburg, down to the fourth class, and, on special celebrations,
down to the sixth class. The ordinary dinner of the Empress did not
last more than an hour. She was very abstemious in her food: she never
breakfasted, and at dinner she tasted with moderation of not more than
three or four courses; she drank only a glass of Rhine or Hungarian
wine; she never ate supper. For this reason she was, in spite of her
sixty-five years and industrious habits, quite well and lively. At
times, indeed, her legs swelled and sores were opened up, but that only
served to purify her humours, consequently was advantageous for her
health. It is asserted that her death took place solely through the
closing up of these sores.

After dinner all the guests immediately departed. The Empress was
left alone: in summer she sometimes took a nap, but in winter never.
She sometimes listened, until the evening assembly, to the foreign
mail which arrived twice a week; sometimes she read a book, or made
cameo imprints on paper; this she did also during the reading of her
mail by P. A., or Count Markóv, or Popóv; but the latter was rarely
invited to read, on account of his poor pronunciation of French,
though he was nearly always present in the secretary’s room. At six
o’clock there assembled the aforementioned persons, and others of the
Empress’s acquaintance whom she specially designated, in order to
pass the evening hours. On Hermitage days, which were generally on
Thursdays, there was a performance, to which many ladies and gentlemen
were invited; after the performance they all went home. On other days
the reception was in the Empress’s apartments. She played rocambole or
whist, generally with P. A., E. V. Chertkóv and Count Strogonóv; there
were also card-tables for the other guests. At ten o’clock the Empress
retired to her inner apartments; at eleven she was in bed, and in all
the rooms reigned a deep silence.

                Gavrílo Petróvich Kámenev. (1772-1803.)

 Kámenev wrote very few poems, and his reputation rests on his ballad
 _Gromvál_, which is remarkable for its flowing verse, the first two
 lines being in dactylic measure, and the last two lines of each stanza
 in anapests. Its main importance, however, lies in the fact that it
 was the first successful attempt at Romantic verse in the Russian
 language. Púshkin said of him: “Kámenev was the first in Russia who
 had the courage to abandon the classic school, and we Russian Romantic
 poets must bring a fitting tribute to his memory.”

GROMVÁL

In my mind’s eye I rapidly fly, rapidly piercing the dimness of time; I
lift the veil of hoary antiquity, and I see Gromvál on his good horse.

The plumes wave upon his helmet, the tempered arrows clang in his
quiver; he is borne over the clear field like a whirlwind, in burnished
armour with his sharp spear.

The sun is setting behind the mountains of flint, the evening is
descending from the aërial heights. The hero arrives in the murky
forest, and only through its tops he sees the sky.

The storm, shrouded in sullen night, hastens to the west on sable
pinions; the waters groan, the oak woods rustle, and centennial oaks
creak and crack.

There is no place to protect oneself against the storm and rain; there
is no cave, no house is seen; only through the dense darkness now
glistens, now goes out, through the branches of the trees, a little
fire in the distance.

With hope in his heart, with daring in his soul, slowly travelling
through the forest towards the fire, the hero arrives at the bank of a
brook, and suddenly he sees nearby and in front of him a castle.

A blue flame gleams within and reflects the light in the flowing
stream; shadows pass to and fro in the windows, and howls and groans
issue dully from them.

The knight swiftly dismounts from his horse and goes to the
grass-covered gate; he strikes mightily against it with his steel
spear, but only echoes in the forest respond to the knocking.

Immediately the fire within the castle goes out, and the light dies in
the embrace of darkness; the howls and groans grow silent, too; the
storm increases, the rain is doubled.

At the powerful stroke of his mighty hand the firmness of the iron
gates gives way: the latches are broken, the hinges creak, and fearless
Gromvál goes in.

He unsheathes his sword, ready to strike, and, groping, goes into the
castle. Quiet and gloom lie over all, only through the windows and
chinks the whirlwind whistles.

The knight cries out in anger and in grief: “Ferocious wizard, greedy
Zlomár! You have compelled Gromvál to wander over the world, you have
stolen Rognyéda, his companion!

“Many a kingdom and land have I passed, have struck down mighty knights
and monsters, have vanquished giants with my mighty hand, but have not
yet found my beloved Rognyéda!

“Where do you dwell, evil Zlomár? In wild mountain fastnesses, in
caves, in forests, in murky underground passages, in the depth of the
sea do you hide her from my view?

“If I find your habitation, wicked magician, evil sorcerer, I will drag
Rognyéda out of her captivity, I will pull out your black heart from
your breast.”

The knight grows silent, and sleep comes over him. Fatigue and night
make him a bed. Without taking off his armour, in the breastplate and
helmet, he kneels down and falls into a deep sleep.

The clouds hurry away, and the storm dies down, the stars grow dim,
the east grows light; the morning star awakes, Zimtsérla blooms like a
crimson rose, but Gromvál is still asleep.

The sun rolls over the vault of heaven, at noon glows with its heated
rays, and the pitch of the pines waters through the bark, but sleep
still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.

The forerunner of the night with olive brow glances from the east upon
the forest and fields, and from an urn sprinkles dew upon the sward;
but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.

Night, with cypress crown upon its head, in a garment woven of darkness
and stars, walks frowning, over stairs, to its throne; but sleep still
keeps Gromvál in its embrace.

Clouds congest in the vault of heaven, darkness grows thick, midnight
comes on; the hero, awakening from his deep sleep, wonders when he sees
not the crimson dawn.

Suddenly peals roar in the castle like thunder; the walls shake, the
windows rattle, and, as lightnings rapidly flash in the darkness, the
hall is made bright with a terrible fire.

All the doors bang loud as they open: in white shrouds, with candles in
their hands, shadows appear; behind them skeletons carry in their bony
hands an iron coffin.

They place the coffin in the vast hall; immediately the lid flies off,
and the wizard Zlomár, O horrible sight! lies breathless within, with
open eyes.

The floor opens wide, and a hellish fire rises up in a howling
whirlwind and thunder, and, embracing the iron coffin, heats it to a
white glow; Zlomár sighs the heavy sigh of Gehenna.

In his wild, fierce, bloodshot eyes terror is painted, despair and
grief; from his mouth black foam boils in a cloud, but the magician
lies motionless, like a corpse.

The ghosts and skeletons, taking each other’s hands, yell, howl, laugh,
whistle; raving in rapturous orgy, they dance a hellish dance around
his coffin.

Midnight passes in a terrible entertainment, and their groans and
howls thunder ever more horrible. But scarcely has the herald of
morning crowed three times, when ghosts, skeletons and coffin suddenly
disappear.

There is darkness as in the grave, and quiet all around; in the
forest nearby is silence and gloom. Gromvál perplexed, marvels at the
appearance, and wondering does not believe himself.

Suddenly a magic flute is heard, and the sound of the harp strikes his
ears: the vault of the hall bursts open, and a rose-coloured beam, with
its soft light, dispels dense night.

In a light cloud of fragrant vapours, as if a fresh breeze were blowing
and a swan gently gliding high up in the air, a sorceress softly
descends into the hall.

Purer than the lily is her garment; her girdle shines on her waist like
hyacinth; like the twinkle of the gold-gleaming eastern star, merriment
beams in her eyes.

With a pleasant voice Dobráda speaks: “Sad knight, submit to your fate!
Zlomár is no longer; fate has for ever cleared the world from that
wrongdoer.

“Into the abyss of hell he has been hurled for ever; the jaws of
Gehenna have swallowed him; with the gurgling of the lava and the roar
of the fire, the abyss alone will hear his howl and groan.

“Death, transgressing the law of nature, has not deprived the
magician’s body of feeling: the shades of persons by him destroyed
nightly torment him here in the castle.

“Knight, hasten to your Rognyéda! To the south of the forest, in a
sandy plain, in a steel prison of Zlomár’s castle, two winged Zilants
watch her.

“Accept this magic horn from me; it has the power to close the jaws of
monsters. But listen! You cannot save Rognyéda without shedding her
blood,--thus the fates have decreed.”

The magic strings sound again; the cloud is wafted upwards with
Dobráda. Struck dumb by this speech, and beside himself, Gromvál, like
a statue of stone, follows her with his glances.

Holding the emerald horn in his hand, in bitter resentment, the hero
exclaims: “Ill-starred gift of the faithless sorceress, you promise
happiness to me by the death of Rognyéda!

“No! I tremble at the very thought, and my heart flies a sacrifice
to her. But, Gromvál, obey the dictum of fate, and hasten to destroy
Zlomár’s sorcery.

“If you cannot save Rognyéda, lay the castle in ruins, vanquish the
Zilants,--shed your heroic blood for her, and crown your love with an
heroic death!”

A beautiful morning with radiant beam gilds the tops of century oaks.
Turning his horse to the midday sun, our knight leaves both the castle
and forest.

Ravines, cliffs, rapids, crags, groan under the heavy beats of the
hoofs; dense dust like a cloud and whirling in a pillar flies upwards
where Gromvál races.

Through the gloomy pass of a rocky mount the knight rides into a vast
steppe: an ocean of sand spreads before his view, and in the distance,
it seems mingled with the sky.

No wind stirs the sandy waves; heat breathes there its pestiferous
breath; no shrubs rustle there, nor brooks babble: all is quiet and
still as in the cemetery at midnight.

Through that wilderness, those terrible fields, no road leads, no
tracks are seen; only in the east one can discern a steep mountain, and
upon it a mighty castle stands out black in the distance.

Struggling three days with thirst and heat, the hero passes the barrier
of death; on his worn-out steed, and in a bloody perspiration, he
slowly reaches the foot of the mountain.

Over slippery paths on overhanging cliffs that threaten to crash down
into the valley, slowly ascending the narrow footpath above an abyss,
Gromvál reaches the top and castle.

Zlomár has built this castle with the power of Gehenna and the spirits
of Hell. The turrets that tower above black cliffs announce destruction
and evil death.

With Rognyéda in his heart, with bravery in his soul, Gromvál, like a
fierce storm, breaks the hinges of the cast-iron doors, and with his
tempered spear enters the terrible castle.

Furious he advances,--under his mighty heel dead bones and skulls
crack; ravens, birds of the night and bats are awakened in the mossy
crevices of the walls.

They hover like a cloud above the castle, and their terrible cries
shake the air; the Zilants, hearing Gromvál’s arrival, begin to howl
and whistle, and flap their wings.

Opening their jaws, they fly against him; their stings issue from their
mouths like spears; they rattle their scales, bending their tails, and
stretch out their destructive claws from their feet.

The hero blows his emerald horn,--the sound deafens them, and they fall
like rocks; their wings are clipt, their jaws are closed; falling into
a sleep of death, they lie in mounds.

In rapture the knight flies to the dungeon to embrace Rognyéda with
flaming heart; but instead, an enormous door is opened, and a giant,
mailed in armour, comes to meet him.

His furious glances are comets in the dark; brass is his corselet,
lead his warclub; grey moss of the bog is his beard, a black forest
after the storm the hair on his head.

Swinging his club with a terrible might, the giant lets it fall on
Gromvál and strikes his valiant head: the echo shakes, reverberating
through the castle.

The helmet clangs and is shattered to pieces; sparks issue from his
dark eyes. From the stroke the club is bent as a bow, but Gromvál, like
a rock, does not move from the spot.

The sword flashes in his heroic hand, and strikes the wretch like a
thunderbolt; his strong brass would have broken to splinters, but the
blade glides down his magic coat of mail.

The giant roars in evil madness, breathes flames, trembles with anger;
he swells the muscles of his powerful shoulders, and threatens to crush
Gromvál in his claws.

Death is unavoidable, destruction near; his terrible hands touch his
corselet; but Gromvál, seizing his leg like an oak, makes him totter,
and brings him to his fall.

The giant falls like a crumbling tower, and shakes all the castle
with his terrible cry; the walls recede, the battlements fall; he is
prostrate on the ground, and has dug a grave in the damp earth.

Grasping his throat with his mighty hand, Gromvál thrusts his sword
into his jaws; the giant’s teeth gnash against the steel; he roars and
groans, and writhes in convulsions.

Black foam and crimson blood lash and gush from his mouth; furious
with suffering, battling with death, he digs the earth with his feet,
trembles, lies in the agony of death.

Mingling in a boiling stream the giant’s blood wells up; a gentle
vapour, rising from it in a cloud, forms the outline of fair Rognyéda.

The roses in her cheeks, the charm in her eyes, the crimson lips beckon
for a kiss; her hair, falling like velvet over her shoulders, veils her
swan’s breast.

Gromvál marvels at this miracle: does he see a vision or a real being?
Approaching her with hope and hesitation, he presses not a dream, but
Rognyéda to his breast.

Filled with passionate rapture, Gromvál addresses his love with tender
words: “Long, oh, long have I sought you, Rognyéda, and have, like a
shadow, wandered over the wide world!”

Drawing a deep breath, she says: “The evil magician, the cunning
Zlomár, impelled by his despicable passion, brought me to this
enchanted castle.

“Here he touched me with his magic wand, and deprived me of memory and
feelings. Falling immediately into a mysterious trance, I have ever
since been shrouded in deepest darkness.”

Taking Rognyéda by her hand, Gromvál softly descends to the foot of the
mountain. He seats her behind him on his steed, and like an arrow flies
back on the road.

Deep darkness covers the castle; thunders roar furiously in the night;
stormy whirlwinds, tearing themselves away from their chains, howl, and
the flinty ribs of the rock tremble.

With a terrible roar the earth bursts open, and the towers fall into
the bottomless abyss; the Zilants, dungeon, giants are overthrown:
Gromvál has vanquished the magic of Zlomár.

             Vladisláv Aleksándrovich Ózerov. (1770-1816.)

 Ózerov entered the military school when a child, left it as a
 lieutenant in 1788, and then was made adjutant to the director of the
 school, Count Anhalt, who died in 1794. His first literary venture
 was an _In Memoriam_ to the director, written in French. He then
 tried himself in odes and shorter songs, of which only the _Hymn to
 the God of Love_ rises above mediocrity. He scored his first great
 success in his tragedy _Œdipus at Athens_, which produced a stirring
 effect upon the audience. This was followed by _Fingal_, the subject
 being from Ossian. But the drama that most affected his generation was
 _Dimítri Donskóy_, which appeared opportunely on the eve of Napoleon’s
 invasion, in 1807. The element of tearfulness, or “sentimentality,” as
 Karamzín called it, which Ózerov was the first to introduce into the
 Russian tragedy, and the patriotic subject which he developed in his
 _Dimítri Donskóy_ combined to make his plays very popular, though his
 verse is rather heavy and artificial.

DIMÍTRI DONSKÓY

ACT I., SCENE I. DIMÍTRI AND THE OTHER PRINCES, BOYÁRS AND GENERALS

_Dimítri._ Russian princes, boyárs, generals, you who have crossed the
Don to find liberty and, at last, to cast off the yokes that have been
forced upon us! How long were we to endure the dominion of the Tartars
in our land, and, content with an humble fate, sit as slaves on our
princely throne? Two centuries had nearly passed when Heaven in its
anger sent that scourge against us; for almost two centuries the foes,
now openly, now hidden, like hungry ravens, like insatiable wolves,
have been destroying, burning, plundering us. I have called you here to
avenge us: the time has now come to repay the foe for our calamities.
The Kipchák horde has, like a gigantic burden, been lying on Russian
shoulders, spreading desolation and terror all around, but now, heavy
by its own weight, it has fallen to pieces. Civil strife, dissension
and all the ills which heretofore had brought the Russian land to utter
weakness, have now penetrated the horde. New khans have arisen who
have torn themselves loose from it; but the insatiable tyrants, having
barely risen, threaten our land. The most insatiable of them and most
cunning, Mamáy, the accursed ruler of the Trans-Don horde, has risen
against us in an unjust war. He is hurrying against us, and perhaps
with to-morrow’s dawn will appear before our camp. But seeing the
sudden union of the Russian forces, his heart was disturbed, and his
mind misgave him, so he decided to send first an embassy to us. Friends
of Dimítri, do you advise to receive them? Or, remaining firm in our
heroic intention, shall we answer Mamáy in front of our army, when the
first bold onslaught of the Russians would resound upon the earth and
would frighten the Tartars?

_Tverskóy._ Let us give the answer before the army in the field of
battle! None of us, O princes, can be more anxious than I to avenge
ourselves on the inhuman foe. Whose family can compare with the
Tverskóys in misfortunes they have borne? My grandfather and his sire,
after endless tortures, lay their heads in the graves through the
treachery of the infidel, and their ashes groan under the power of the
horde. Grand Prince of Russia, you have called us hither not to enter
into parley with Mamáy, but to decide in battle and end all discord
with him....

_Byelózerski._ Oh, how happy am I to have lived to see this day, to
contemplate here the concord and love among the princes, and the
unanimous zeal in your hearts against the enemy! I, about to bear my
age into the yawning grave, will be able to bring hope to the departed
fathers, that the honour of the Russian land is to be reinstated,
that her power and glory is to return. O shades of Vladímir, and you,
shades of Yarosláv, ancestral heads of princely houses! In the lap
of the angels you will rejoice, as you foresee the blessed time when
the disunited nation of Russian tribes, uniting with one soul into
one whole, will triumphantly appear a threatening giant, and united
Russia will give laws to the world! Dimítri, your victory is certain!
No, never before has such an army been gathered in so far-reaching a
camp, either by your grandfather Iván, or Simeón the Terrible, or your
meek father! I, the old leader of the forces of Byelózersk, have never
seen Russia lead out such numbers of bold warriors. Of all the Russian
princes, Olég alone has remained in idleness at Ryazán, and without
interest in the expedition; his ear alone is deaf to the common groan.
May the memory of those perish whose spirit can with quiet eye see the
country’s woes, or rather, let their name with disgrace and endless
shame pass to late posterity! Yet, my lord, however flattering your
success may be, my advice is to receive the Tartar embassy, and if we
can establish peace by paying a tribute to Mamáy.... (_All the princes
express dissatisfaction._)

_Dimítri._ O Prince of Byelózersk, what do you propose? Fearing strife,
to acknowledge the Tartar’s power by paying a shameful tribute?

_Byelózerski._ To spare the priceless Christian blood. If we conquer
Mamáy, look out, the hordes will once more unite for our common woe;
beware, this temporarily successful exploit will again rouse their
ambitious spirit, and they will perceive at last how injurious for
their ambition their strife is, which separates their khans. The
murders, fire, slaughter of wives and children which the Tartars have
perpetrated against us, in their opinion, give the hordes a right over
us. They deem Russia to be their patrimony. Seeing our bravery, they
will stop their disorders, and will soon, united, bring misery on the
Russians. Rather give them a chance to weaken in their destructive
discord; let us gather strength in the peaceful quiet and, warding off
the chances of war, choose peace instead of useless victory.

_Dimítri._ Oh, better death in battle than dishonourable peace! Thus
our ancestors thought, thus we, too, will think. Those times are
past when timid minds saw in the Tartars a tool of Heaven, which
it is senseless and improper to oppose. In our days honour and the
very voice of faith arm us against the tormentors. That voice, that
prophetic voice of faith, proclaims to us that an immortal crown awaits
the fallen in battle, that through the grave they pass to eternal
joy. O Sérgi, pastor of souls, whom the groans of fellow-citizens
have so often disturbed in your hermit prayers, and whose tears have
so abundantly flowed lamenting the fate of the innocent, O you who
with sacred hand blessed us for the impending battle! In your hermit
cell, where you pass your humble days, listen to my words: inspired
by you, they will inflame the Russian hearts to seek here liberty or
the heavenly crown! ’Tis better to cease living, or not to be born
at all, than to submit to the yoke of a foreign tribe, than with the
name of payers of tribute to flatter their greed. Can we with such
slavery avert our misfortunes? He who pays a tribute is weak; he who
evinces a weak spirit invites arrogant lust to insult. But I am ready
to receive the Khan’s messenger and to bring him before the assembly
of the princes, not to listen to the shameless propositions of Tartar
arrogance, but to announce to him the resolve for war, that he may
read valour in our brows, and, shuddering, bear terror into Mamáy’s
camp.

_Smolénski._ The whole assembly announces assent to your advice.

_Dimítri._ The messenger awaits the decision near the tent. You,
Brénski, bring in the Tartars that have come to us!

           Prince Iván Mikháylovich Dolgorúki. (1764-1823.)

 Iván Mikháylovich Dolgorúki was the grandson of Prince Iván
 Aleksyéevich, the favourite of Peter II. (see p. 233). In 1791 he left
 the army with the rank of brigadier. He was then made Vice-Governor of
 Pénza, where he sought relief from the humdrum life of a provincial
 town in reading and in writing poetry. One of the first of his
 poems to attract attention was the envoi _To my Lackey_; he became
 universally known through his _My Penza Fireplace_. In 1802 he was
 appointed Governor of Vladímir. Not long after his return to Moscow
 he was forced to retire before the advancing Frenchmen. During his
 retreat he wrote his _Lament of Moscow_. His best poem is probably his
 _Legacy_. While not a poet of the first order, Dolgorúki displayed
 great originality and much depth of feeling. This is what he himself
 said of his poems: “In my poems I wished to preserve all the shades
 of my feelings, to see in them, as in a picture, the whole history
 of my heart, its agitation, the change in my manner of thinking, the
 progress of my thoughts in the different ages of my life, and the
 gradual development of my small talents. Every verse reminds me of
 some occurrence, or thought, or mood that influenced me at such and
 such a moment.... That is the key to the originality which many are so
 kind as to ascribe to my productions.” _The Legacy_ was translated by
 Sir John Bowring.

THE LEGACY

    When time’s vicissitudes are ended,
      Be this, be this my place of rest;
    Here let my bones with earth be blended,
      Till sounds the trumpet of the blest.
    For here, in common home, are mingled
    Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled;
      And those whom fortune, fame passed by,
    All mingled, and all mouldering;--folly
    And wisdom, mirth and melancholy,
      Slaves, tyrants,--all mixt carelessly.

    List! ’Tis the voice of time,--Creation’s
      Unmeasured arch repeats the tone;
    Look! E’en like shadows, mighty nations
      Are born, flit by us, and are gone!
    See! Children of a common father,
    See stranger-crowds, like vapours gather;
      Sires, sons, descendants, come and go.
    Sad history! Yet e’en there the spirit
    Some joys may build, some hopes inherit,
      And wisdom gather flowers from woe.

    There, like a bee-swarm, round the token
      Of unveiled truth shall sects appear,
    And evil’s poisonous sting be broken
      In the bright glance of virtue’s spear.
    And none shall ask, what dormitory
    Was this man’s doom, what robes of glory
      Wore he, what garlands crowned his brow,--
    Was pomp his slave?--Come now, discover
    The heart, the soul,--Delusion’s over,--
      What was his conduct?--Answer now!

    Where stands yon hill-supported tower,
      By Fili, shall I wake again,
    Summoned to meet Almighty Power
      In judgment, like my fellow-men.
    I shall be there, and friends and brothers,
    Sisters and children, fathers, mothers,--
      With joy that never shall decay;
    The soul, substantial blessing beaming
    (All here is shadowy and seeming),
      Drinks bliss no time can sweep away.

    Friends, on my brow that rests when weary
      Erect no proud and pompous pile:
    Your monuments are vain and dreary,
      Their splendour cannot deck the vile.
    A green grave, by no glare attended,
    With other dust and ashes blended,
      Oh, let my dust and ashes lie!
    There, as I sleep, Time, never sleeping,
    Shall gather ages to his keeping,
      For such is nature’s destiny.

    My wife, my children shall inherit
      All I possessed,--’twas mine, ’tis theirs;
    For death, that steals the living spirit,
      Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs.
    Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow,
    No garments of the raven borrow;
      ’Tis idle charge, ’tis costly pride.
    Be gay, through rain and frosty weather,
    Nor gather idle priests together
      To chant my humble grave beside.

    Cry, orphans! Cry, ye poor! imploring
      The everlasting God, that He
    May save me when I sink, adoring,
      Amidst His boundless mercy-sea.
    My blessing to my foes be given,
    Their curses far from me be driven,
      Nor break upon my hallowed bliss;
    God needs no studied words from mortals,
    A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals,--
      He could not err, He taught us this.

    No songs, no elegy,--death hearkens
      To music ne’er though sweet it be:
    When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens,
      Then let oblivion shadow me.
    No verse will soften Hades’ sadness,
    No verse can break on Eden’s gladness,
      ’Tis all parade and shifting glare:--
    A stream, where scattered trees are growing,
    A secret tear, in silence flowing,
      No monument as these so fair.

    Such slumber here, their memory flashes
      Across my thoughts.--Hail, sister, hail!
    I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes,
      And soon shall share thy mournful tale.
    Thou hast paid thy earthly debts,--’tis ended,
    Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended,
      The circle of thy being run;
    And now in peace thy history closes,
    And thy stilled, crumbling frame reposes
      Where life’s short, feverish play is done.

    I live and toil,--my thoughts still follow
      The idle world:--my care pursue
    Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow,
      And vanities still false, though new.
    Then fly I earthly joys, I find them
    Leave terror-working stings behind them:
      “Beware, beware!” experience cries;
    Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty,
    One smile of yonder flattering beauty
      Would make me waste even centuries.

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

MY MOSCOW FIREPLACE

Scarcely have we seen summer, behold, winter is here! The frosts drive
us into our rooms, and will for a long time keep us within. Nature’s
beauty is changed, and dimmed by the veil of night. Oh, what shall I
do? What begin? I will move up to my dear fireplace, and will share
with it, as before, my melancholy.

Whatever countries I have been in, whether my house was large or
small, whether I paraded in high palace halls, or retired to my
apartments,--the fireplace, my winter benefactor, was everywhere
the witness of my acts: whole days I passed with it alone; pining,
sorrows and annoyances, consolation, pleasure, joy,--my fireplace has
experienced them all.

Whenever I mentally survey all human lots in this world, and by
the fireplace in my study judge of humanity, I with difficulty can
harmonise in my imagination the opinions of happiness that are common
to all. The whole world lives in a noise and din; but what does it find
in place of happiness? New causes for worriment.

Kings, of their own free will, leave the throne and hasten to arms; in
their elevated place they not seldom curse their lives. No matter how
boyárs grow stout, they also pale in their good fortune, like their
lowest slave. He in his unbounded sphere, the other in his earth hut,
or cave,--both are weak against the attack.

Everywhere they have written of happiness, and will always prate about
it, but they have nowhere found it. Yes, ’tis difficult to attain! And
I, though a simple man, can also like a philosopher aver it is within
me; but where, and how to find it?--I do not know! In sorrow I suffer
openly; whenever I am merry, ’tis as if in a dream.

Protesting against the evil of the passions, knitting his brow, like
Cato, when all is quiet in his soul, the philosopher proclaims his law:
“Why be enslaved by passions? We must submit to reason. All our desires
are an empty dream; all upon earth, O men, is transitory: seek eternal
happiness in Heaven, for the world is vanity of vanities.

“If one dish satisfies your hunger, why have three? If you have a
caftan, what is the use of five? What need is there of a pile of money?
When you die, you will not take it with you. Contract the limits of
your necessities, flee from the city into the country, live quietly
your allotted time, with equanimity bear insults, magnanimously suffer
sorrow, be more than man!”

What are you yourself, my teacher? Are you a god, or an angel in the
flesh? Guardian of deep wisdom, permit me to look within you! Reveal
to us not your mind alone, but your feelings, announce to us without
ambiguity: are you yourself? I see, you are a vain hypocrite: you do
not believe your own sermon, you are an empty-sounding cymbal.

Oh, if people all lived as reason bids them! If feelings were more
gentle, if the fount of blood did not boil,--how nice life would be!
All would be peace and security, and love the tie of all the lands;
people would not devour each other; and a Frenchman, an Arab, a
Mussulman would live in harmony together.

Oh, if ... I need but place this word at the head, and my pen creates
at once a new earth, nay, heaven. All kingdoms will flow with
abundance, all men will be equally strong, nowhere there shall be snow,
nor winter, but flowers will grow the year around, and we will not run
to the fireplace,--we shall be regenerated.

Oh no! I am sorry for the fireplace! Let us leave all as it is: we
cannot reproduce what my reason has evoked. Let the sphere circle
around, and let each various chimera disport with every mind! The
Creator will turn all for the best: to-day the chill disturbs us, but
the thunder of the summer does not terrify us.

I hear at all times of the good qualities of countrymen, what beautiful
lives they lead, and how the law of nature is not trampled upon by
them. “Their manners,” they assert, “are coarser, but their amusements
are incomparably simpler than ours: they live in freedom with each
other, do not drink nor eat according to the fashion.” ’Tis not true!

When we listen to serenades on a beautiful summer day, while limpid
waterfalls make a rippling noise, and the shade of cedars protects us
from the heat, the peasant hitches his horse to the plough and tears
up the earth, or hauls a log, or, if it be winter, looks through dim
windows, through which nothing can be seen, at the blizzard without.

Fireplace, I will not exchange you for all the treasures of the lords!
You are often my consolation, and always pleasant and agreeable to
me. Let sorrows be inevitable: joy is coextensive with them. You are
the throne of my amusements; but I am satisfied with my books; I feel
with them neither pain, nor think my room small, and I read them as my
spirit prompts me.

But when I leave my book, and fix my eyes upon the fireplace, with what
pleasure I recall the host of various incidents! I at once reproduce
in my mind the picture of my youth, and the progress and cause of my
cares; I even now, as it were, glance to the north, and south, and the
capital, and the Finland border.

I accuse myself before thee, my Lord! I have in vain killed my youth;
carried on the wave of habit, I have given my days and nights to
dreaming. I, tossed now hither, now thither, hastened to make new
acquaintances, and thought: “This is all a loan I make; some day the
debt, I am sure, will be duly returned to me.”

’Tis time to adapt myself to the custom! I shall soon be forty years
old: it is time to learn from experience that to judge people rightly,
to know this world, to seek friends is a self-deception and vain
endeavour of the heart. The measure of human indifference is in our
days full to overflowing; ask for no examples: alas! there are too many
of them.

In your presence all will praise you, but let there be an occasion for
helping you, and your worth will be depreciated, or without saying a
word they will walk away. If one be cunning, he will so oppress you
that he will compel you to think all your life of him in tears; if he
be foolish, he will, wherever he may meet you, cast a heap of stones
before you and bar your way.

From all such evils my consolation art Thou, only God, God of all
creation! I need nothing more, for I expect no happiness from men. A
hundredfold more pleasant it is, staying at home, and not perceiving in
it the temptations of the world, to live simply with your family and,
modestly passing your time and vigorously communing with reason, to
stir the wood in the fireplace.

                 Iván Ivánovich Dmítriev. (1760-1837.)

 Dmítriev was born in the Government of Simbírsk, where his friend
 and colleague Karamzín was also born. He entered the army in 1775 as
 a common soldier, and did not advance to the grade of commissioned
 officer until 1787. During his military service he privately studied
 foreign languages and wrote poetry. His first collection of poems,
 containing _Ermák_, _What Others Say_ and _The Little Dove_, appeared
 in 1795. These are the best of his productions. He also wrote a
 number of fables that do not suffer by comparison with those of
 Krylóv. His shorter songs, like _The Little Dove_, have become very
 popular, and are part of every song-book, together with Neledínski’s
 “To the streamlet I’ll repair” and other similar songs. Dmítriev did
 for poetry what Karamzín was doing for prose,--he purified Russian
 from the dross of the Church-Slavic language, an inheritance from
 the days of Lomonósov, and he popularised the Romantic spirit in
 Russian literature. He also encouraged younger men of talent, such as
 Krylóv. Dmítriev rapidly rose in honours, until he was made Minister
 of Justice in 1810. He retired a few years later to his estates near
 Moscow, where he passed his days surrounded by a coterie of literary
 men.

 The following English versions of his poems have appeared: _During a
 Thunder-Storm_, _The Tsar and the Two Shepherds_, _The Broken Fiddle_,
 _Over the Grave of Bogdanóvich_, _Love and Friendship_, in Sir John
 Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.; _Yermak_, _Moskva
 Rescued_, _To the Volga_, _Enjoyment_, “O had I but known before,”
 _The Little Dove_, _To Chloe_, _ib._, Part II.; _Counsel_, _The Little
 Dove_, in W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_; _Yermak_, _The
 Siskin and the Chaffinch_, _The Doctor_, _Sympathy_, in C. T. Wilson’s
 _Russian Lyrics_; _The Moon_, in Fraser’s Magazine, 1842 (article,
 _Russian Fabulists_).

THE LITTLE DOVE

    The little dove, with heart of sadness,
      In silent pain sighs night and day;
    What now can wake that heart to gladness?
      His mate beloved is far away.

    He coos no more with soft caresses,
      No more is millet sought by him,
    The dove his lonesome state distresses,
      And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.

    From twig to twig now skips the lover,
      Filling the grove with accents kind,
    On all sides roams the harmless rover,
      Hoping his little friend to find.

    Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
      Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
    And imperceptibly is wasting,
      Wasting away, the little dove!

    At length upon the grass he threw him,
      Hid in his wing his beak and wept;
    There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
      The little dove for ever slept.

    His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
      Flies from a distant home again,
    Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
      And bids him wake with sorrowing pain.

    She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
      Around and round the spot she goes;
    Ah! charming Chloe’s lost in anguish,
      Her friend wakes not from his repose!

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

DURING A THUNDER-STORM

    It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
      Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above;
    Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
      That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
    Almighty! Trembling like a child,
      I hear Thy awful voice, alarmed, afraid,
    I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
      And in the very grave would hide my head.

    Lord! What is man? Up to the sun he flies,
      Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
    There is he lost ’midst heaven’s high mysteries,
      And here in error and in darkness lost.
    Beneath the stormclouds, on life’s raging sea,
      Like a poor sailor, by the tempest tossed
    In a frail bark, the sport of destiny,
      He sleeps, and dashes on the rocky coast.

    Thou breathest, and the obedient storm is still.
      Thou speakest,--silent the submissive wave;
    Man’s shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
      And the hushed billows roll across his grave.
    Sourceless and endless God! Compared with Thee,
      Life is a shadowy, momentary dream,
    And Time, when viewed through Thy eternity,
      Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.

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

ERMÁK

    How strange a sight is this I see,
    By thee revealed, Antiquity!
    Beneath the gloomy garb of night,
    By the pale moonbeam’s cloudy light,
    I gaze upon the Irtýsh stream,
    Whose waters foaming, whirling, gleam,
    As on they rush with angry tide.
    Two men I see, exhausted, there,
    Like shadows in the murky air;
    Their faces in their hands they hide.
    One youthful is, the other old,
    His beard hangs down with wavy fold;
    Each wears a dress whose every part
    With awe and wonder fills the heart;
    Descending from their helmets down,
    The coiling tails of serpents frown,
    Mingled with owlet’s bristling wing,
    Their coats wild-beasts’ skins borrowing.
    Their breasts entire with thongs are hung,
    Of flints, and rusty iron, strung;
    Within each belt is firmly prest
    A knife, whose edge well sharpened is;
    Two drums are at their feet, I wis,
    And close beside their lances rest:
    They both are sorcerers of Siberian race,
    And thus the meaning of their words I trace.

    THE OLD MAN

    “Roar on, old Irtýsh, let our cry
    Along thy stream re-echoing fly;
    The gods have chastening sent in ire
    And poured on us misfortunes dire.”

    THE YOUNG MAN

    “Woes, woes, upon us tenfold lour
    In this our most disastrous hour.”

    THE OLD MAN

    “O thou, whose crown three nations bore,
    Their names far-spread from shore to shore!
    O mighty, proud, and ancient State,
    Mother of many races great!
    Thy glory’s past and worn away,
    No longer chief, thou must obey!”

    THE YOUNG MAN

    “As clouds of dust from whirlwinds hie,
    So scattered quite thy people lie;
    And he, Kuchúm,[166] dread of the world,
    Is dead, on foreign deserts hurled.”

    THE OLD MAN

    “The holy Shamans, forced from home,
    Throughout the rugged forests roam;
    For this, ye gods of earth and air,
    Was it that white has grown my hair?
    Tell me, was it for this that I,
    Through all my life your faithful slave,
    Prostrate in dust before ye lie,
    And thousands for companions have?”

    THE YOUNG MAN

    “And who are they have made thee fall?”

    THE OLD MAN

    “From Russia come they, one and all;
    Why did not plague and famine loom
    Upon our land with frightful doom?
    Better if elemental wrath
    Had fall’n in fury on our path,
    And swallowed up Siberia’s fame,
    Than bow before this Ermák’s name.”

    THE YOUNG MAN

    “Of Nature’s self the curse and blight,
    May curses heavy on him light!
    Ye streams, and mountains old, ’tis he
    Has flung upon you infamy!”

    THE OLD MAN

    “As fiery columns passing on,
    As icy blasts the land upon,
    All fell by his destructive tread;
    Where’er his fatal arrow sped,
    There life grew pale, and death’s dire smart
    O’ertook each timid, cowering heart.”

    THE YOUNG MAN

    “By him deprived of mortal breath,
    Our royal brother met his death.”

    THE OLD MAN

    “As I looked on, the hero’s might
    Shone forth in that terrific fight;
    ’Twas on Muhammad-Kula’s[167] plain--
    Such fight I ne’er shall see again.
    His arrows hurtling in swift course,
    His breast enkindled with strange force,
    He drew from out its sheath his blade--
    ‘Rather than weary life give death,
    Free from captivity,’ he saith,
    And fierce assault upon Ermák he made.
    Most terrible the sight! as clash
    Their swords, the lightnings from them flash;
    Blow fell on blow with frightful sounds.
    They give and they receive new wounds.
    They seize each other in their rage,
    And dreadful combat still they wage;
    Arm against arm--breast against breast--
    They in their struggle know no rest;
    The wild woods with their cries resound,
    They dig up with their feet the ground:
    From brows ran down, like hail, their sweat,
    And fearfully their bosoms beat;
    Their heads incline from side to side,
    And thus they grapple, to each other tied,
    Still struggling on; until the weight
    Of Ermák seals his foeman’s fate.
    ‘The victory’s mine!’--’tis thus he cries:
    ‘The land before me subject lies!’”

    THE YOUNG MAN

    “Accomplished is the prophecy,
    That this our land should conquered be.
    But shall the oppressèd sigh in vain,
    And never more to freedom rise again?”

    THE OLD MAN

    “Eternal is the fatal yoke:
    Listen, my son! Late yesternight
    Into the silent woods I took
    My way; and there, while rapturous light
    Enkindled all my inmost soul,
    Burnt sacrifice I offered whole,
    And to the gods made fervent prayer
    That they would to our aid repair:
    When, suddenly, the winds arise,
    From off the trees the fresh leaves fall,
    The cedars groan with creaking cries,
    The goats away are scattered all.
    Down sank I, when, above the noise
    Of the dire storm, I heard a voice
    Thus speaking: ‘Furious war does wage
    Racha[168] ’gainst sinners; to his rage
    All those who sin devoted are;
    Siberia has renounced my laws,
    And righteous, therefore, is the cause
    Why she be subject to the fierce White Tsar.[169]
    By morn and night ye shall be found
    Alike in heavy fetters bound;
    But Ermák’s name shall never fade,
    Nor of his race an end be made;
    They ’neath the moon shall ever be
    Eternal in their majesty.’
    When ceased the voice, the thunders loud
    Rattled from out each stormy cloud;
    On us has fallen Misfortune’s hand,
    Woe”----

    THE YOUNG MAN

      “Woe to us, and our land.”

    Then, while they yield to deepest sighs,
    They from the moss-strewn stones arise,
    And while their arms again they wear,
    Along the shore they disappear.
      Peace, Ermák, on thine ashes rest!
    Thine image of bright silver made,
    Which in Siberia’s mines was laid,
    Is by the crown of Russia prest.
    But why speak I with hasty zeal?
    What do my foolish words reveal?
    We do not even know the place
    Where rest thy bones in earth’s embrace.
    The wild beasts trample them upon,
    Or Ostiaks, as they hurry on,
    Chasing the antlered stag, and roe,
    To bring them by their arrows low.
    But, hero, from thine anger cease,
    And let thy memory know peace!
    Poetic genius every day,
    When golden morning’s beauties play,
    Shall o’er thy corpse still float along,
    And greet thee with triumphant song.
    What matters it in any case
    If to barbaric times we trace
    Thy birth? Yet thou such deeds hast done
    As have thy land victorious shown.
    Although thine ashes disappear,
    Though e’en thy sons no likeness bear
    To thee, but, their great sire forgetting,
    Their livelihood in wild woods getting,
    They dwell the wolves and bears amid,
    Yet never shall thy name be hid.
    Thou shalt with demigods find place,
    From age to age, from race to race;
    And ne’er shall darken thy bright ray
    Until grows dark the orb of day;
    When with a crash the heavens fall,
    And time shall cease to be, and ruin cover all.

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

WHAT OTHERS SAY

“How strange! More than twenty years have passed since we, with mind
intent and furrowed brow, have assiduously been writing odes, yet we
nowhere hear praises sung to them or us! May it be that Phœbus has sent
forth his stern decree that none of us should ever aspire to equal
Flaccus, Ramler[170] and all their brotherhood, or ever be renowned as
they in song? What do you think? I took yesterday the pains to compare
their song and ours: in theirs, there is not much to read! a page;
if much, three pages, and yet what joy to read! You feel--how shall
I say it?--as if you flew on wings! Judging by their briefness, you
are sure they wrote them playfully, and not labouring four days: then
why should we not be more fortunate than they, since we are a hundred
times more diligent and patient? When one of us begins to write, he
leaves all play aside, pores a whole night over a couple of verses,
sweats, thinks, draws and burns his paper; and sometimes he rises to
such daring that he passes a whole year over one ode! And, of course,
he uses up all his intelligence upon it! And there you have a most
solemn ode! I cannot say to what species it belongs, but it is very
full,--some two hundred strophes! Judge for yourself how many fine
verses there are in it! Besides, it is written according to the rules:
at first you read the introduction, then the argument, and finally the
conclusion,--precisely as the learned speak in the church! And yet, I
must confess, there is no pleasure in reading it.

“Let me take, for example, the odes on victories, how that they
conquered the Crimea, how the Swedes were drowned at sea: I find there
all the details of a battle, where it happened, how, when,--in short,
a report in verse! Very well!... I yawn! I throw it away, and open
another, one written for a holiday, or something like it: here you
discover things that a less clever mind would not have thought out
within a lifetime: ‘Dawn’s rosy fingers,’ and ‘lily of paradise,’ and
‘Phœbus,’ and ‘heaven cleft open’! So vociferous, so loud! No, it does
not please, nor move our hearts in the least.”

Thus an old man of our grandfathers’ times spoke yesterday to me in
gentle simplicity. I, being myself a companion of those singers, the
action of whose verse he so marvelled at, was much disturbed, nor knew
how to answer him. But luckily, if at all that may be called luck to
hear your own terrible sentence, a certain Aristarch began to speak to
him.

“For this,” said he, “there are many causes; I will not promise to
unveil one-half of them, but some I will gladly expound to you. I
myself love the language of the gods, poetry, and just as you, am
little edified with ours. In former days I have much conversed in
Moscow with our Pindars, and have watched them well: the greater
part of them are corporals of the body-guard, assessors, officers,
scribes, or dust-covered guardians of monsters in the Museum of
Antiquities,--all of them busy government officials; I have often
noticed that they barely have time in two days or three to make a
proper rhyme, their mind being all taken up with their affairs. No
sooner has a lucky thought struck them, when, lo, the clock strikes
six! The carriage is waiting: ’tis time for the theatre, and then to
the ball, or to Lion,[171] and then ’tis night.... When are they to
call on Apollo? In the morning, no sooner has he opened his eyes, than
there is a note: ‘Rehearsal at five o’clock’.... Where? In fashionable
society, where our lyric poet is to play the part of the harlequin.
Is there any time left for odes? You have to learn our parts, then to
Kroll,[172] then home again, to primp yourself and get dressed, then to
the theatre, and good-bye another day. Besides, the ancients had one
purpose, we another: Horace, for example, who nurtured his breast with
ecstasy, what did he want? Not very much: in the æons immortality, and
in Rome but a wreath of laurels or of myrtle, that Delia might say: ‘He
is famous; through him I, too, am immortal!’ But the aim of many of
us is a present of a ring, at times a hundred roubles, or friendship
with a princelet who all his life has never read anything except now
and then the Court almanac, or praises from their friends to whom each
printed sheet appears to be sacred.

“Considering how different their views and ours are, it may safely be
asserted, without offending those mettlesome gentlemen, the alumni
of the Russian Muses, that they must have some especial taste, and
different means, and a special manner in the composition of a lyrical
poem; what they are I cannot tell you, but I shall announce to
you--and, truly, I will not lie about it--what a certain poet thought
of verses, of whose works the _Mercury_ and the _Observer_[173] and the
book stores and the stalls are full. ‘We are born into this world,’
he thought, ‘with rhymes; is it then not ridiculous for us poets to
waste our time, like Demosthenes, at the sea-shore in a cabin, in doing
nothing but reading and thinking, and relating what we have thought
out only to the noisy waves? Nature makes the poet, and not study: he
is without study learned when he becomes enthused, but science will
always remain science, and not a gift; the only necessary equipments
are boldness, rhymes and ardour.’

“And this is the way the natural poet wrote an ode: barely has the
thunder of the cannon given the nation the pleasant news that the
Rýmnikski Alcides[174] has vanquished the Poles, or that Férzen has
taken their chief, Kosciuszko, captive, he immediately grabs the pen,
and, behold, the word ‘ode’ is already on the paper.” Then follows in
one strain: “‘On such a day and year!’ How now? ‘I sing!’ Oh no, that’s
old! Were it not better: ‘Grant me, O Phœbus?’ Or, better still: ‘Not
you alone are trod under heel, O turban-wearing horde!’ But what shall
I rhyme with it but ‘snored,’ or ‘bored’? No, no! it will not do! I had
better take a walk, and refresh myself with a whiff of air.”

He went, and thus he meditated on his walk: “The beginning never daunts
the singers: you simply say what first occurs to you. The trouble
only begins when you have to praise the hero. I know not with whom to
compare him; with Rumyántsev, with Greyg or with Orlóv? What a pity I
have not read the ancients! For it does not seem proper to compare to
the moderns. Well, I’ll simply write: ‘Rejoice, hero, rejoice, O thou!’
That’s good! But what now? Ah, now comes the ecstasy! I’ll say: ‘Who
has rent the veil of eternity for me! I see the gleam of lightning!
From the upper world I hear, and so on.’ And then? Of course: ‘Many a
year!’ Most excellent! I have caught the plan, and thoughts, and all!
Hail to the poet! All I have to do now, is to sit down and write, and
boldly print!” He hurries to his garret, scribbles, and the deed is
done! And his ode is printed, and already they wrap shoeblacking in his
ode. Thus has he Pindarised, and all his ilk who are scarcely capable
to write a proper shop sign! “I wish Phœbus would tell them in their
dream: ‘He who in Catherine’s loud age of glory cannot by his eulogy
move the hearts of others, nor water his sweet lyre with tears, let him
throw it away, break it and know he is not a poet!’”

FOOTNOTES:

[166] Yermák defeated Kuchúm Khan in 1579; Kuchúm Khan fell into the
hands of Calmucks, who killed him.

[167] The translator misunderstood the passage. Mehmed-Kul was the
King’s brother, whom Ermák made prisoner and sent to John the Terrible.

[168] God of the Ostiaks.

[169] The Tsar of Russia; the origin of the appellation is not certain.

[170] A German poet who translated the odes of Horace and wrote odes of
his own.

[171] Master of masquerades at St. Petersburg.

[172] St. Petersburg tailor.

[173] Magazines.

[174] Suvórov.

                            END OF PART I.

                                 INDEX

  Ablesímov, A. O., his comic opera, 36;
    biographical sketch and extract, 370 _seq._

  Academy founded, 316 _seq._

  Achronism, of Russ. literature, 9;
    of legends, 14

  Addison’s influence on Russ. literature, 30 _seq._, 291, 327

  Alexander the Great in legend, 14

  Alexander I., 304 _seq._, 378

  Alexis Mikháylovich, school established during his reign, 17;
    and the theatre, 26;
    _and see_ 35

  _All Kinds of Things_, 272, 326

  American interest in Russ. literature, vii. _seq._

  Anacreon, translated, 224

  Andover, see _Biblical Repository_

  Anglo-Russian Literary Society’s studies in Russ. literature, x.

  Anthologies of Russ. literature, viii., x.

  Apocrypha, 12 _seq._;
    legends, 114 _seq._;
    stories, 152 _seq._

  _Aprakos_, 11

  Apuleius, 33, 358, 374

  Athenæum, yearly reports on Russ. literature, xi.

  Bain, R. N., translation of fairy tales, 189

  Baldwin, Prince, and Daniel the Abbot, 57 _seq._

  Barlaam and Josaphat, 14

  Bátyushkov, 395;
    translated, viii.

  Bazán, E. P., on Russ. literature, x.

  Beccaria, 30

  _Bee, The_, Russ. literary collection, 100;