DEATH REAPS THE HARVEST OF LIFE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kondráti Fédorovich Rylyéev. (1796-1826.)

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

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

FROM “VOYNARÓVSKI”

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

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

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

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

--From Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832.

IVÁN SUSÁNIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aleksándr Sergyéevich Griboyédov. (1795-1829.)

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

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

FROM “INTELLIGENCE COMES TO GRIEF”

ACT II, SCENE 1. FÁMUSOV AND SERVANT

_Fámusov._ Petrúshka, your caftan is eternally patched up or torn at the elbow! Fetch down the almanac. Look there; don’t read like a sexton, but with feeling, with understanding, with rests. Hold on! Write down on the memorandum, against next week: “I ’m invited to Praskóvya Fédorovna on Tuesday for trout.” How wonderful this world is made! Your brain is in a whirl when you philosophise about it! Now you take care of yourself, and now it is a dinner; you eat three hours, and it will not be digested in three days. Oh, make a note for the same day--no, no! “For Thursday I am called to a funeral.” O human race! It has slipped my mind that we all shall have to get into that box where one can neither stand up nor sit. Here is an example of a praiseworthy life: the defunct was an honourable chamberlain, he held a key, and has managed to obtain a key for his son; he was rich, and married to a rich woman; he married off his children and grandchildren; he has passed away, and all mention him with regret: “Maksím Petróvich, peace to his ashes!” Write down, on Thursday, while you are about it, or may be, on Friday, or Saturday: “I am to be godfather at the doctor’s widow.” The child is not yet born, but, if my calculation is right, will be.