THE DYING TASSO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fédor Nikoláevich Glínka. (1788-1880.)

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

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

MOSCOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SEARCH FOR GOD

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

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

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

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

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

Prince Petr Andréevich Vyázemski. (1792-1878.)

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

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

THE SAMOVÁR

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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