_Bobchínski._ An extraordinary occurrence!
_Dobchínski._ An unexpected occurrence!
_All._ What, what is it?
_Dobchínski._ An unforeseen affair: we come to the inn----
_Bobchínski_ (_interrupting him_). Petr Ivánovich and I come to the inn----
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Eh, permit me, Petr Ivánovich, let me tell it.
_Bobchínski._ Oh no, let me----let me, let me----you are n’t a good speaker----
_Dobchínski._ And you ’ll get confused and you ’ll forget something.
_Bobchínski._ No, I won’t, upon my word, I won’t. Don’t bother me, let me tell it, don’t bother me! Please, gentlemen, do tell Petr Ivánovich not to bother me.
_Burgomaster._ For the Lord’s sake, do tell, what is it? My heart is in my mouth. Sit down, gentlemen! Take seats! Petr Ivánovich, here is a chair for you. (_All sit around the two Petr Ivánovichs._) Well, what is it, what?
_Bobchínski._ Allow me, allow me; I ’ll tell it all in order. No sooner had I the pleasure of leaving you, just as you were disturbed by the letter you had received, yes, I at once ran----now, please don’t interrupt me, Petr Ivánovich! I know it all, truly, I do. So, you see, I ran to Koróbkin’s house. As I did not find him at home I turned in to Rastákovski’s, and as I did not find him at home I stopped at Iván Kuzmích’s house to inform him the piece of news you had received, and as I was going away from there, I fell in with Petr Ivánovich.
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Near the booth where they sell cakes.
_Bobchínski._ Near the booth where they sell cakes. Yes, and as I fell in with Petr Ivánovich, I said to him: “Have you heard the news that Antón Antónovich has received in a trustworthy letter?” But Petr Ivánovich had already heard that from your housekeeper Avdótya, who had been sent for something or other to Filíp Ivánovich Pochechúev.
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). For a keg of French brandy.
_Bobchínski_ (_warding him off with his hand_). For a keg of French brandy. So Petr Ivánovich and I came to Pochechúev----Now, Petr Ivánovich, please don’t----don’t interrupt me, please, don’t interrupt me!----We went to Pochechúev, and on the way Petr Ivánovich said to me: “Let ’s go,” says he, “to the inn. My stomach,--I have eaten nothing since morning,--why, there ’s a rumbling in my stomach----” Yes, Petr Ivánovich’s stomach---- “In the inn,” says he, “they have received some fresh salmon, so we ’ll have a bite.” No sooner had we entered into the inn, when a young man----
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Of good appearance and in citizen’s clothes----
_Bobchínski._ Of good appearance and in citizen’s clothes, was walking up and down the room, such an expression in his face----physiognomy----carriage, and up here (_moves his hand around his forehead_) very distinguished. I had a kind of presentiment, and I said to Petr Ivánovich: “There ’s something up here.” Yes. And Petr Ivánovich beckoned to the innkeeper and called him up,--’t was innkeeper Vlas,--his wife had a baby three weeks ago, such a lively creature, he ’ll be an innkeeper like his father. So, calling up Vlas, Petr Ivánovich asked him in a whisper: “Who,” says he, “is that young fellow?” to which Vlas answered: “That,” says he----oh, don’t interrupt me, Petr Ivánovich, I beg you, don’t interrupt me, you won’t be able to tell the story, upon my word you won’t: you lisp, you have a whistling tooth in your mouth, I know---- “That young man,” says he, “is an official,” yes, “he ’s from St. Petersburg, and his name is,” says he, “Iván Aleksándrovich Khlestakóv, sir, and he is on his way,” says he, “to the Government of Sarátov, and,” says he, “he is acting very strangely: he has been here nearly two weeks, he never leaves the inn, takes everything on credit, and won’t pay a kopek.” When he told me that, a light dawned upon me at once. “Oho!” said I to Petr Ivánovich----
_Dobchínski._ No, Petr Ivánovich, it was I who said “Oho!”
_Bobchínski._ First you said it, and then I. “Oho!” said we. “What reason could he have to stay here, when his road is to the Government of Sarátov?” Yes, sir, he is that very official.
_Burgomaster._ Who--what official?
_Bobchínski._ The official about whom you have received that information,--the Revizór.
_Burgomaster_ (_terrified_). Don’t say that, the Lord be with you! it is n’t he.
_Dobchínski._ He! He does n’t pay his bill, and he does n’t leave. Who else could it be, if not he? His passport is made out for Sarátov.
_Bobchínski._ He--he--upon my word, he----He is so observing: he watches everything. He saw Petr Ivánovich and me eating salmon,--mainly because of, on account of, Petr Ivánovich’s stomach----yes, he even looked into our plates. I just trembled with fear.
_Burgomaster._ Lord, have mercy upon us sinners! Where is he staying there?
_Dobchínski._ Number five, under the staircase.
_Bobchínski._ The same room that the transient officers had a fight in last year.
_Burgomaster._ Has he been here long?
_Dobchínski._ Some two weeks. He arrived on the day of St. Basil the Egyptian.
_Burgomaster._ Two weeks! (_Aside._) Friends and saints, help me! Within these two weeks the sergeant’s wife has been flogged! The prisoners have received no provision. Drunkenness and dirt in the streets! Disgraceful! Shameful! (_Tears his hair._)
_Curator._ Antón Antónovich, had we not better make an official call in the inn?
_Judge._ No, no! First send the Mayor, the clergy, the merchants. It says in the book “John the Mason”----
_Burgomaster._ No, no! Let me attend to it! I ’ve had hard cases before in life, and I not only got out of them hale, but even received thanks. Maybe God will succour me now too. (_Turning to Bobchínski._) You say, he is a young man?
_Bobchínski._ Yes, about twenty-three or -four at most.
_Burgomaster._ So much the better: it is easier to get at the bottom of a young fellow. It is a tough job, if you have an old devil to deal with; but a young fellow is all on the surface. You, gentlemen, make your proper arrangements, and I ’ll go myself, or maybe with Petr Ivánovich, privately, just for a walk to see that travellers are properly treated. Here, Svistunóv!
_Svistunóv._ At your service, sir!
_Burgomaster._ Fetch me at once the captain--or, no. I need you. Tell somebody there to fetch me the captain as quickly as possible, and come back here. (_The sergeant runs away._)
_Curator._ Let us go, let us go, Ammós Fédorovich. There might, indeed, happen some misfortune.
_Judge._ What are you afraid of? Put clean nightcaps on the patients, and your deed is done.
_Curator._ Bosh, nightcaps! The patients are supposed to get oat gruel, and instead there is such a smell of cabbage in the corridors that you are compelled to hold your nose.
_Judge._ I am at ease on that score. Indeed, who would think of looking into the County Court? And if he should take it into his head to glance at some papers, he ’ll wish he had not done it. It ’s now fifteen years I have been occupying the bench, but when I look into a brief, I give it up in despair. Solomon himself could not make out what is right and what wrong.
(_The Judge, Curator of Charitable Institutions, Inspector of Schools, and Postmaster go out, and in the door bump against the returning sergeant._)
FROM “DEAD SOULS”
MRS. KORÓBOCHKA
“It ’s a fine village you have there, motherkin. How many souls are there?”
“There are in it nigh upon eighty souls, my friend,” said the proprietress. “The trouble is, times are bad: now, last year there was such a failure of crops; God save us from another!”
“Yet your peasants are rather a fine lot, and their cabins look as if they were in good trim. Oh, please tell me your name! I am so distracted, having arrived here in night time----”
“Koróbochka, college secretary.”
“Much obliged. And your Christian name and patronymic?”
“Nastásya Petróvna.”
“Nastásya Petróvna? It ’s a fine name--Nastásya Petróvna. I have an aunt, my mother’s sister, whose name is Nastásya Petróvna.”
“And what is your name?” asked the proprietress: “you are the tax-collector, if I am not mistaken?”
“No, motherkin!” answered Chíchikov smiling: “not the tax-collector. I am travelling on my own account.”
“Oh, then you are buying things! What a pity that I sold the honey so cheap to the merchants! I am sure, my friend, you would have bought it of me.”
“No, it is n’t honey I am after.”
“What then? Hemp? Why, I have n’t much of it just now,--something like half a pud.”
“No, motherkin, it ’s different goods I want. Tell me, have any of your peasants died?”
“Oh, my friend, eighteen of them?” said the old woman with a sigh. “And it ’s all good workers that have died. There have been born some since, it is true, but what good is there in them? It ’s all small fry. When the tax-collector comes around, I ’ll have to pay for the dead ones all the same as if they were living. Last week my blacksmith was burned; he was such a fine blacksmith, and he was a locksmith too.”
“Have you had a fire, motherkin?”
“God has spared me that misfortune. A fire would have been worse; no, he burnt himself, my friend. There was something inside of him that caught fire: he had been drinking hard. A blue flame came out of him, and he burnt all up, and grew black like coal. Oh, he was such a fine blacksmith! Now I can’t drive out at all, for there is nobody here to shoe the horses.”
“God’s will is in everything, motherkin!” said Chíchikov heaving a sigh: “we must say nothing against the wisdom of God---- Turn them over to me, Nastásya Petróvna!”
“Whom, my friend?”
“I mean all those that have died.”
“How do you mean, to turn them over?”
“Why, just turn them over, or, if you wish, sell them to me. I ’ll pay you for them.”
“How do you mean that? I declare, I can’t see through it. Do you intend to dig them up?”
Chíchikov perceived that she was far from the mark, and it became necessary to explain to her the business. He told her in a few words that the transfer or sale would be only on paper, and that the souls would be mentioned as if they were still alive.
“What do you want them for?” said the old woman, as she stared at him.
“That ’s my affair.”
“But they are dead!”
“Well, who said they were alive? That ’s where your loss comes in, because they are dead. You have been paying for them all this time, and I will deliver you from trouble and expenses. You understand? I will not only deliver you, but I ’ll pay you fifteen roubles to boot. Well, is it clear now?”
“I confess, I don’t know,” said the proprietress deliberately: “I have never before sold dead souls.”
“I guess not! It would, indeed, have been an odd thing if you had. Or do you, really, think there is some use in them?”
“No, I don’t think exactly that. What use can there be in them? There ’s no use in them. The thing that troubles me is, they are dead.”
“I see she is a thick-skulled old woman,” Chíchikov thought. “Listen, motherkin! Just consider well: you are ruining yourself when you pay taxes for them as if they were alive----”
“Oh, my friend, don’t mention it!” the proprietress interrupted him. “It is n’t three weeks yet that I had to pay one hundred and fifty, and to grease the tax-collector besides.”
“That ’s it, motherkin! Now, just consider that you will not have to grease the tax-collector again, for it is I who am going to pay for them, and not you. I take upon myself all obligations. I ’ll even have the deed made out at my expense, do you understand that?”
The old woman became pensive. She saw that the business was indeed advantageous, but so new and unusual that she was growing suspicious, lest the purchaser should get the better of her, especially since God knows where he came from, and that, too, at night time.
“Well, motherkin, is it a bargain?” said Chíchikov.
“Really, my friend, I have never yet had a chance to sell corpses. As for living ones, it ’s only three years hence that I sold some to Protopópov,--two girls at one hundred roubles apiece,--and he ’s been thankful for them: they have turned out to be excellent workers, and they can make even napkins.”
“But we are not concerned about living ones,--God be with them! I am asking for dead ones.”
“Really, I am afraid, to begin with, I might sell them at a sacrifice. Maybe, my friend, you are cheating me. Who knows but what they are worth more?”
“Listen, motherkin,--what a funny woman you are! What worth can they have? Think of it: they are dust. Do you understand?--they are nothing but dust. Take any useless, worthless thing, say, a common rag, and that has some value: it may be, at least, bought in the paper factory, but what are these good for? Say yourself, what are they good for?”
“I ’ll agree, you are right. They are good for nothing. The only thing that bothers me is that they are dead.”
“Confound that club-headed woman!” said Chíchikov to himself, as he was beginning to lose patience. “Go and straighten things out with her! She has made me sweat, accursed woman!” He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe off the perspiration that really had come out on his forehead. In reality, Chíchikov had no special reason to lose his patience: there is many an honourable man, a man of state, who is a fine reproduction of Mrs. Koróbochka. Let him take some notion, and you will not get him away from it; all your proofs in the world, even if they are as clear as daylight, will rebound from him, like a rubber ball from the wall. Having wiped off his perspiration, Chíchikov resolved to try her from another side, hoping to get her at last on the right path.
“Motherkin, either you do not want to understand my words, or you are just talking, to be a-talking. I am offering you money, fifteen roubles in assignats,--do you understand? It is money I am offering you. You can’t pick it up in the street. Now, confess, what did you sell your honey at?”
“Twelve roubles a pud.”
“You are sinning a little, motherkin. You did not sell it at twelve.”
“Upon my word, I did.”
“Well, you see, but it is honey! You have been gathering it probably for a year, with care, and trouble, and worry; you had to be about, to starve the bees, to feed them a whole winter in the cellar--while dead souls are not of this world. Here you have to undergo no trouble: it was God’s will that they should leave this world and cause your estate a loss. There you received a compensation for your labour and your care at the rate of twelve roubles, and here you receive for nothing, and not twelve, but fifteen, and not in silver, but in blue assignats.”
Chíchikov did not doubt that after such convincing proof the old woman would finally capitulate.
“Really,” answered the proprietress, “I am such an inexperienced widow! I think I had better wait a little: maybe some other purchasers will come, and I ’ll get used to the price.”
“Shame, shame, motherkin! Simply, shame! Now, just think what you are saying! Who is going to buy them? Well, what use can anybody make of them?”
“Maybe they are some good on the estate----” retorted the old woman and did not finish her speech. She opened her mouth and looked at him almost with terror, wondering what he would say to that.
“Dead souls on the estate! What a guess you have made! What do you want to do with them? Use them for scarecrows to drive the sparrows out of your garden?”
“The power of the cross be with us! What awful things you say!” muttered the woman, making the sign of the cross.
“Well, where else would you make use of them? Besides, I leave their bones and graves to you: the transfer is only on paper. Well, what do you say? Give me, at least, some kind of an answer.”
The old woman fell again to musing.
“What are you thinking about, Nastásya Petróvna?”
“Really, I can’t quite make it out; let me better sell you some hemp.”
“What do I want with the hemp? I declare, I am asking you for something else, and you foist hemp upon me! The hemp is all right, I ’ll come another time, and will take your hemp. How is it now, Nastásya Petróvna?”
“Upon my word, it ’s such a strange article, and so odd.”
Here Chíchikov’s patience burst all bounds; in his anger he banged a chair against the floor, and sent her to the devil.
The proprietress was dreadfully put out by the devil. “Oh, don’t mention him, God be with him!” she cried out, while growing pale: “Only night before last the accursed one appeared to me in my dream. I had carelessly been laying cards to tell fortune in the evening after prayers, so the Lord evidently sent him to me to punish me. Oh, he looked so horrible: his horns were longer than a bull’s.”
“I wonder how it is they don’t come to you by the dozen. Out of mere Christian charity I wanted to help a poor widow that is suffering want---- Go to perdition with your whole village!----”
“What curses you are uttering!” said the woman, looking at him in terror.
“I can’t find the right words with you! Really, not to use any bad words, you are just like a watchdog that is lying on the hay: he does n’t himself eat any hay, and won’t let anybody else eat it. I had intended to buy all kinds of produce from you, for I am also a government contractor----” He lied here, just in passing, without any further thought, but it came in unexpectedly at the right moment. Government contracts made a strong impression on Nastásya Petróvna; at least she spoke in an almost imploring voice:
“But what has made you so dreadfully angry? If I had known before that you are such an excitable man, I would n’t have contradicted you at all.”
“There is really no cause for anger! The whole business is n’t worth an empty eggshell, and why should I get angry over it?”
“Well, if you want them, I ’ll let you have them for fifteen in assignats! Only, my friend, let me tell you about your government contracts: if you have any occasion to buy up rye, or buckwheat, or grit, or meat,--please don’t forget me.”
“No, motherkin, I won’t,” he said while wiping off the sweat that came down his face in three streaks. He asked her whether she did not have in town some attorney or friend whom she could give the power to make out the deed and everything else that was necessary.
“Certainly! The son of Father Cyril, the protopope, serves in the court-house,” said Koróbochka.
Chíchikov asked her to write a letter to him granting him power of attorney, and, to save more trouble, began to compose the letter himself.
“It would be nice,” Koróbochka said to herself in the meanwhile, “if he bought flour and beef of me for the government. I must get on the good side of him: there is some dough left from last night, so I ’ll go and tell Fetínya to make some griddle cakes.”
Vissarión Grigórevich Byelínski. (1811-1848.)
Few persons have exerted such a far-reaching influence upon Russian literature as the critic Byelínski, and a whole generation of writers was cast in the mould of his æsthetic views. Byelínski was the son of a district physician in the Government of Pénza. His home life was exceedingly unhappy and his childhood was neglected; from the district school, to which he was sent up to his fourteenth year, he was transferred to the Gymnasium and later to the Moscow University, but he was a very poor student and careless about his person. In Moscow he joined the Schelling circle of the students and with them devoted his time to the study of literature, especially of Shakspere, Goethe, Schiller, and Hoffmann. In 1832 he left the university, and the next two years he passed in utter wretchedness and poverty. Then he took his first critical essay, _Literary Dreams_, to a magazine, and his literary career began. Under Schelling’s influence he denied the previous importance of Russian literature, and proclaimed the nascent genius of Gógol, who had just made his appearance. Between 1836 and 1838 Byelínski’s circle of friends vaulted over to Hegel’s philosophy, and under this new influence Byelínski rejected all lyrics and satire as not compatible with an unbiased, objective contemplation of the phenomena of life, and discredited all productions that dealt with the living questions of the day. In 1839 he was called to St. Petersburg to take charge of the critical and bibliographical departments of the Memoirs of the Fatherland. Here began the third and most important period of his activity: he soon recanted his former æsthetic theories and evolved the theory of “art for life,” which henceforth became the criterion for all literary criticisms. Of his many excellent essays of this period dealing with Russian belles-lettres, the best is _A View on Russian Literature for the Year 1847_. He died of consumption, brought about mainly by his many privations.
THE NATURAL SCHOOL
Our literature has been the fruit of conscious thought; it appeared as an innovation, it began by imitation. It did not stop there, but continually strove to be independent, national; from being rhetorical it strove to become simple, _natural_. This tendency has been made perceptible by a continuous progress, and forms the meaning and soul of the history of our literature. We will say without reserve that in no Russian writer has this tendency been crowned by such success as in Gógol. This end was attained only through the exclusive application of art to reality, in spite of all ideals. It became necessary to direct all the attention to the people, the masses, to depict common men, and not merely the pleasant exceptions from the universal rule, that invariably tempt the poets to idealise, and that bear upon themselves a foreign stamp. That was Gógol’s great merit, and it is that precisely which the men of the old culture regard as his crime against the laws of art. By his manner he has completely changed the view on art itself. One may apply to the works of all the Russian poets, by stretching the point a little, the old and obsolete definition of poetry as “Nature adorned”; but it is impossible to do so in relation to Gógol’s works. For these the more appropriate definition is “a reproduction of reality in all its truth.” Here the whole matter is in _types_, and the _ideal_ is here not understood as an adornment (consequently--a lie), but as the correlation of the types created by him, in accordance with the thought which he wishes to develop in his production.
Art has in our days got the better of theory. The old theories have lost all their credit; the very people that had been educated in them follow not them, but a certain strange mixture of old and new conceptions. Thus, for example, some of them, in rejecting the old French theory in the name of Romanticism, were the first to give the aggravating example of introducing into their novels persons from the lower strata, even villains, under the appropriate appellation of Pilferer and Cutter; but they immediately rectified themselves by bringing out moral persons, together with the immoral ones, under the name of Truth-lover, Charitable, etc. In the first case was to be seen the influence of new ideas, in the second, of old conceptions, for according to the recipe of ancient poetics at least one clever fellow must be added to a number of fools, and at least one virtuous man to a number of good-for-nothings. In either case these betweeners left out of sight the main thing, namely, art; for it did not occur to them that their virtuous and vicious persons were not men, not characters, but rhetorical personifications of abstract virtues and vices. That explains better than anything why for them theory, rule, is more important than fact, reality: the latter is inaccessible to their comprehension. However, not even talented writers and geniuses are always able to escape the influence of theory. Gógol belongs to the number of the few who have entirely avoided every influence of any and all theory. Though capable of understanding art and of admiring it in the productions of other poets, he nevertheless proceeded in his own way, following his deep and true artistic instinct with which Nature had endowed him lavishly, and without being tempted to imitate the successes of others. Of course, that did not in itself give him any originality, but enabled him to preserve and express in its entirety that originality which was the part and parcel of his individuality, consequently, like talent, a natural gift. It is for that reason that he appeared to many as having entered Russian literature from without, while, in reality, he was its necessary phenomenon, which was the logical conclusion of all its preceding evolution.
Gógol’s influence on Russian literature has been enormous. Not only did all the young talents throw themselves on the path which he had indicated, but some writers who had already gained a reputation abandoned their old way and proceeded on the new. Gógol wrote nothing after the _Dead Souls_. There is only his school upon the arena of literature. All blame and accusation that formerly was hurled at him is now directed against the natural school, and whatever attack is still made upon him is on account of that school. What is he, then, accused of? There are but few accusations, and they are nearly always the same. At first they attacked the school, they claimed, on account of its eternal attacks upon the officials. In the representation of the life of this class some saw sincerely, others feignedly, evil-minded caricatures. These accusations have been silenced for some time. Now they accuse the writers of the natural school for loving the people of the lower occupations, for making heroes of their novels out of peasants, janitors, coachmen, for describing the purlieus and refuges of naked poverty and frequently of all kind of immorality. To put the new writers to shame, the accusers point with triumph to the beautiful days of Russian literature, refer to the names of Karamzín and Dmítriev, who had chosen for their productions high and noble objects, and adduce as an example of now forgotten prettiness the sentimental song: “Of all the flowerets I loved most the rose!” But we shall remind them that the first noteworthy novel, was written by Karamzín, and its heroine was “Poor Líza,” a peasant girl, who was seduced by a coxcomb---- But, they will say, everything is decent and pure there, and the Moscow peasant girl does not yield to the best-brought-up lady. Now we have, at last, come to the cause of the dispute: you see, the old poetics is to be blamed for it. It does not mind your representing peasants, but not otherwise than masqueraded in theatrical costumes, who display feelings and ideas that are strange to their existence, position, and education, and who express themselves in a language no one speaks, and least of all peasants,--a literary language that is embellished by “wherewith, aforementioned, than which,” and so forth.---- In short, the ancient poetics permits you to represent anything you please, but immediately prescribes so to adorn the subject under discussion as to make it utterly impossible to discover what it is you had intended to represent.
The natural school follows the very opposite rule: the nearest possible resemblance of the persons represented to their prototypes in reality does not form its all, but is its first condition, a non-compliance with which would vitiate anything good there may be in the composition. It is a heavy condition which only a talent can comply with. After that, how can those writers help loving and honouring that ancient poetics, who formerly could without talent insinuate themselves successfully in the field of poetry? How can they help regarding the natural school as their most terrible enemy, since it has introduced a manner of writing which is inaccessible to them? That, of course, refers only to people with whom egotism enters in the discussion of this question; but there will also be found many who in all sincere conviction do not love the natural in art, through the influence of the old poetics upon them. These people, in addition, complain with special bitterness, because art has now forgotten its former purpose. “Poetry,” they say, “used to instruct while amusing, compelled the reader to forget the tribulations and sufferings of life, and represented to him only pleasant and smiling pictures. The former poets used to represent also pictures of poverty, but a poverty that was neat, washed, and expressing itself modestly and with refinement; then, at the end of the novel there always appeared a sentimental young lady or maiden, a daughter of rich and refined parents, or at least a philanthropic young man,--and, in the name of these kind hearts, was enthroned abundance and happiness where there was poverty and misery, and grateful tears watered the beneficent hand,--and the reader involuntarily raised his batiste handkerchief to his eyes and felt that he was growing better and more sentimental----
“But now!--See what they are writing about now! Peasants in bast shoes and gabardines who often smell of brandy; an old woman--a kind of centaur, by whose dress one cannot easily tell of what gender that creature may be; purlieus--refuges of misery, despair, and debauch, which one can reach only by yards knee-deep in mud; some drunkard,--a scribe or a seminarist turned teacher, expelled from service,--all that is described from nature, in the nakedness of terrible truth, so that the reading of it will give you some bad dreams----”
Thus, or in some such manner, speak the intrepid disciples of the ancient poetics. In reality, their complaints are that poetry has quit lying shamelessly, that it has changed from a nursery tale into a not always pleasant narrative, that it has ceased being a rattle, by the sound of which children leap about or fall asleep. Strange people, happy people! They have succeeded in remaining all their life children, and even in their old age to be minors,--and now they demand that all should resemble them! Read your old fairy tales, nobody will keep you from them; but leave to others the occupations that suit those who are of age. For you--the lie; for us--truth: let us divide without quarrelling. You do not want our share, and we will not take yours gratis----
But there is another cause which interferes with this friendly division,--egotism which regards itself as virtue. Indeed, let us take a man who is well-off, or even rich. He has just had a good, savoury dinner (he has an excellent cook), has seated himself in his comfortable arm-chair, with a cup of coffee, in front of a glowing fireplace; he feels good and warm, a feeling of well-being makes him happy; he takes a book and lazily turns its pages; his brow wrinkles over his eyes, the smile disappears from his rosy lips, he is agitated, disturbed, annoyed---- And there is reason for it! The book tells him that not all people in the world live as well as he; that there are purlieus where a whole family shakes with cold under rags, though it had, probably, but lately known of ease; that there are people in the world who by birth and fate are destined for misery,--that the last kopek goes for “green wine” not always from indolence, but also from despair. And our happy man feels ill at ease, and rather ashamed of his comfort. The whole trouble is in that wretched book: he had picked it up for his pleasure, and he had read himself into melancholy and ennui. Away with it! “A book is to give you a pleasant pastime; I do not need it to find out that there is much sorrow and sadness in life, and if I do read, it is to forget it all!” he exclaims.
Yes, dear sybarite, for your peace books ought to lie, and the poor man forget his woe, the hungry his hunger, the groans of suffering must reach your ears as musical notes, lest your appetite be spoiled, your sleep disturbed---- Now let us imagine another lover of pleasant reading in the same situation. He has to give a reception, the time is drawing near, and there is no money. His steward, Nikíta Fédorych, has for some reason been slow in sending the amount. At last the money arrives, the reception can come off. With a cigar in his mouth, happy and satisfied, he is lying on the couch and, having nothing to do, his hands lazily stretch out towards a book. Again the same story! That damnable book tells him the exploits of his Nikíta Fédorych, that low-born churl, who had been accustomed from childhood eagerly to pander to the passions and whims of others, who was married to the ex-sweetheart of his master’s progenitor---- Away with that wretched book!
Now imagine again another man in a comfortable condition, who in his childhood had been running about barefooted, had been a messenger-boy, and at fifty had somehow risen to rank, and who possessed a small competency. Everybody reads, so he must too. But what does he find in the book?--His biography and, at that, correctly told, though no one, but himself, knows anything of the experiences of his life, and no author could possibly have discovered his secret---- He is not merely agitated, he is mad, and with a feeling of dignity he eases his anger by the following consideration: “That’s the way they write nowadays! That’s what Free Thought has come to! Did they write that way before? No! It used to be such a fluent style, and they discussed such tender and elevated subjects that it was a joy to read, and there was no cause for annoyance!”
There is a special class of readers who, from a sentiment of aristocratism, hate to meet people of the lower strata even in books, especially those that have no sense of proprieties and refinement; they despise dirt and misery, as the very opposite of their luxurious parlours, boudoirs, and cabinets. These refer to the natural school only with a haughty contempt and ironical smile---- Who are they, these feudal barons, that they loathe the “low-born mob” that in their eyes is lower than a good horse? Be not in a hurry to learn about them in books of heraldry or at European courts: you will not find their coats-of-arms; they do not go to Court, and if they have seen the fashionable world, it was only in the street, through brilliantly lighted windows, as much as curtains and blinds permitted them to do so. They cannot boast of ancestors: they are generally officials, or new-made nobles that are rich only in plebeian traditions of a grandfather who was a steward, an uncle--a contractor, and, at times, a grandmother--a baker of altar breads, and an aunt--a huckstress.
A contempt for the lower strata of society is in our days no longer a vice of the higher classes; no, it is the disease of upstarts, a monstrous outgrowth of ignorance, and vulgarity of feelings and conceptions. A wise and cultured man would never manifest this disease, if he were at all subject to it, because it does not comport with the spirit of the time, because to proclaim it would be the croaking that announces the raven. It seems to us that, though doublefacedness is contemptible, in this case it is better than a raven sincerity, for it bears witness to cleverness. The peacock that proudly opens his splendid tail before the other birds has the reputation of a beautiful, not clever, animal. What is to be said of the raven that haughtily displays its borrowed plumage? Such haughtiness is always devoid of sense, and is generally a plebeian vice. Where is there more display and pretence than in those classes of society that come right after the lowest? It is so, because there is most ignorance there. See how deeply the lackey despises the peasant who is, in every respect, better, nobler, humaner than he! Whence that pride in the lackey?--He has adopted his master’s vices, and therefore he regards himself as more cultured than the peasant. External lustre is ever taken by coarse natures for culture.
“What sense is there in flooding literature with peasants?” exclaim the aristocrats of a certain category. In their opinion the writer is an artisan who is to furnish work according to order. It does not enter their minds that in the selection of the subject for his composition the author cannot be guided by the will of others, or even his own free choice, for art has its laws that must be complied with in order that one may write well. It demands above all that the writer should be true to his own nature, his talent, his fancy. How are we to explain the fact that one likes to represent happy subjects, another sad ones, if not by the nature, character, and talent of the poet? What one loves and is interested in, that one knows best, and what one knows best, one represents best. That is the most legitimate justification of the poet who is blamed for the selection of his subjects; it is not satisfactory only to those who have no understanding of art and vulgarly confound it with the artisan’s profession.
Nature is the eternal model of art, and the greatest and noblest subject in nature is man. And is a peasant not a man? But what can there be of interest in a coarse, untutored man? Why, his soul, mind, heart, passions, inclinations,--in short, the same as in the cultured man. Granted, the latter is more interesting than the first; but is the botanist interested only in artfully improved garden plants, and does he neglect their wild-growing field prototypes? Is not for the anatomist and physiologist the organism of a wild Australian as interesting as the organism of an enlightened European? For what reason should art, in this respect, differ so much from science? Then you say that a cultured man is higher than an uncultured one. One has to agree with you in that, but not unconditionally. Of course, the most frivolous worldly man stands incomparably higher than a peasant, but in what respect? Only in worldly education, but that in no way interferes with many a peasant’s being higher than he, for example, as regards his mind, feelings, character. Education only develops the moral powers of man, it does not give them; Nature gives them to man. In this distribution of her precious gifts, she acts blindly, without considering the classes. If from the educated class of society there issues a greater number of remarkable men, it is only because there are there more means for development, and not at all because Nature has been more niggardly with the men of the lower classes in the distribution of her gifts.
“What can one learn from a book in which is described some miserable wretch who has drunk himself to perdition?” say again these second-hand aristocrats. Why, certainly not worldly manners and refinement, but the knowledge of man under certain conditions. One man gets drunk through indolence, through bad bringing up, through weakness of character, another through unfortunate circumstances in life for which he may not bear the least blame. In either case, they are instructive and curious examples for observation. Of course, it is much easier to turn away with disgust from a fallen man than to stretch out to him a consoling and helpful hand, just as it is much easier to judge him severely in the name of morality than with sympathy and love to enter into his situation, to probe the cause of his fall, and to pity him as a man, even when he appears much to blame for his fall.
The Redeemer of the human race came into the world for all men; not wise and educated men, but simple-minded and simple-hearted fishermen He called to be “fishers of men”; not rich and happy men, but poor, suffering, fallen men He sought, in order to console some, and encourage and raise others. Festering sores on a body that was hardly covered with unclean rags did not offend His eyes, which shone with love and charity. He, the son of God, loved men humanely and sympathised with them in their misery, dirt, shame, debauch, vices, wrongdoings. He bid those throw a stone at the adulteress who could not in any way accuse their own consciences, and put the hard-hearted judges to shame, and gave the fallen woman a word of consolation,--and the robber, who breathed his last on the cross as a well-deserved punishment, for one moment of repentance, heard from Him the word of forgiveness and peace. But we, the sons of men, we want to love only those of our brothers who are like us, we turn away from the lower classes as from pariahs, fallen ones, lepers. What virtues and deserts have given us the right to do so? Is it not rather the very absence of all virtues and deserts? But the divine word of love and brotherhood has not in vain been proclaimed to the world.
That which formerly was only the duty of persons who had been called to serve at the altar, or the virtue of the chosen few, has now become the obligation of societies, and no longer serves as a token of mere virtue, but also of culture of private individuals. See, how in our century everybody is interested in the lot of the lower classes, how private philanthropy is everywhere being changed into state institutions, how on all sides are formed well-organised, richly endowed societies for the aid of the needy and suffering, for the suppression and prevention of misery and its inevitable consequence--immorality and debauch. This universal movement, so noble, so humane, so Christian, meets its detractors in the persons of the worshippers of a dull and stark patriarchalism. They say that fashion, whim, vainglory, and not philanthropy, are active here. Suppose it is so, but when and where have similar trifling impulses not taken part in the best of human actions? But how can one assert that only such impulses have been the cause of these phenomena? How can one think that the chief creators of these phenomena, who by their example have influenced the masses, are not inspired by nobler and higher impulses? Naturally, there is no cause for admiring the virtue of people who throw themselves into charity not from a sense of neighbourly love, but from fashion, from imitation, from vainglory. But it is a virtue as regards society which is so full of the spirit that it can direct the activities of trivial people towards the good! Is it not an extremely encouraging phenomenon of modern civilisation, of progress of mind, education, and culture?
Entirely admitting that art must above all be art, we nevertheless think that the idea of some kind of a pure, exclusive art that lives in its own sphere, that has nothing in common with the other sides of life, is an abstract, visionary idea. There has never and nowhere existed such an art. No doubt, life is divided and subdivided into a multitude of sides that have their separate existences; but these sides continually interact in a living organism, and there is between them no sharply drawn line. No matter how you may parcel out life, it is always one and inseparable. They say: for science we need mind and reason, for art, fancy, and they think that they have thus once and for all settled the matter, and that it is fit to go in that shape into the archives. Does not art need mind and reason as well? And can the savant get along without fancy? No! The truth is that in art fancy plays the most active and important part, while in science, mind and reason. There are, to be sure, productions of poetry in which nothing is to be seen except a strong, brilliant fancy; but that is not a common rule for artistic productions.
Sergyéy Timoféevich Aksákov. (1791-1859.)
Aksákov represents the rare example in Russian literature of an author who passed from the pseudo-classic style to the realistic school of Gógol without taking part in the intervening Romantic movement. He was born at Ufá, and graduated from what was then the Kazán University at sixteen years of age. He then served as a government translator, and devoted himself to literature, mainly to translations from the French. His sympathies were entirely with Shishkóv, Karamzín’s opponent. In 1827 he was made a censor, in which capacity he gained an unenviable reputation as an unscrupulous partisan. In the thirties he came under the influence of Gógol, and in 1833 he wrote _The Snowstorm_, which was later followed by an admirable series of sketches on angling and on hunting, containing charming pictures of animal life. In 1856 appeared his great work, _The Family Chronicle_, in which he gives vivid descriptions from the life of a landed proprietor in the Orenbúrg country, abounding in exquisite landscape pictures. _The Family Chronicle_ differs from all the other productions of the realistic school in that there is not a word of fiction in it, but that it is based entirely on actual facts.
FROM “THE FAMILY CHRONICLE”
Towards the end of June the heat was oppressive. After a sultry night there blew, at daybreak, a fresh eastern breeze, but it subsided as soon as the sun grew warmer. Grandfather awoke at sunrise. He found it warm sleeping in a small upper room, even though the old-fashioned window frame with its tiny panes was lifted up to its fullest capacity, because his bed was curtained with a bar of homespun netting. This was a necessary precaution, for without the bar the pestering mosquitoes would have eaten him up and would have kept him from falling asleep. The winged musicians swarmed around in clouds and stuck their long stings through the thin screen, and they hummed all night their wearisome serenades. It is funny for me to say so, but I can’t help confessing that I like the descant buzz and even the biting of the mosquitoes; I hear in it the oppressive summer, the luxurious, sleepless nights, the shores of the Buguruslán that are overgrown with green bushes, from which resound on all sides the songs of the nightingales; I recall the rapture of my young heart and the sweet, unaccountable pining for which I would now gladly give the rest of my flickering life.
Grandfather awoke, with his warm hand wiped the sweat from his straight, high forehead, put his head out from under the bar, and began to laugh. Vánka Mazán and Nikánorka Tanaychénok were snoring on the floor on which they were stretched out in laughable, though artistic, postures. “I declare, the dog’s children are snoring!” said grandfather and smiled again.
Stepán Mikháylovich was an enigmatic man. After such a strong verbal exordium one would have expected a poke in the side of the sleeper, with the viburnum cane which always stood by his bed, or a kick with the foot, or even a greeting with the chair; but grandfather only laughed out loud as he awoke, and thus, as they say, got into a good humour for the whole day.
He rose without any noise, made one or two signs of the cross, stepped with his bare feet into leather slippers that were worn red, and, dressed in nothing but a shirt of peasant homespun (grandmother would not let him have loom-woven linen for shirts), he went out on the porch where he was refreshed by a whiff of the morning moisture. I just said that Arína Vasílevna did not give him any loom-woven linen for shirts, and every reader would be right in remarking that this was not in keeping with the character of the wedded pair. But really I can’t help it, and I beg you not to be angry with me, it was as I said: feminine nature carried the day over the male, as is always the case! Though she was frequently beaten for giving him coarse underwear, she continued to offer him the same, until the old man took it as a matter of course. Once grandfather made use of the last and the most efficacious means: he chopped up with an axe, on the threshold of his room, all the underwear that had been made of peasant homespun, in spite of grandmother’s wail, who kept on imploring that Stepán Mikháylovich might strike her, but should spare his own property, but even this means was of no avail; the coarse underwear made its appearance again,--and the old man surrendered.
I am much to be blamed for interrupting the story about “my grandfather’s good day,” in order to contradict the reader’s possible remark. Without disturbing anyone, he took down a felt blanket which always lay in the storeroom, spread it out on the upper step of the porch, and sat down upon it, to receive, as was his custom, the rising sun.
Before sunrise a man’s heart experiences unconsciously a happy feeling; but grandfather had the additional pleasure of looking at his estate which was then already well provided with all necessary farm buildings. It is true, the yard was not fenced in, and the cattle from the peasant yards, which were gathering into a common herd before being driven out into the pasture, made a call upon him in passing, just as on that morning and as always happened in the evenings. A few dirty pigs rubbed and scratched themselves against the very porch on which grandfather was sitting, and, grunting, feasted on lobster shells and all kinds of remnants from the dinner which were unceremoniously thrown out near the same porch. Cows and sheep made their visits too. Naturally there were left indecent traces of their calls, but grandfather saw nothing disagreeable in all that, but on the contrary took his delight in watching the healthy cattle, which were to him a sure sign of the sufficiency and well-being of his peasants.
Soon the loud snapping of a long shepherd whip drove the visitors away. The servants began to rise. The tall groom Spiridón, who was called Spírka to a good old age, led out one after another two roan colts and one bay, hitched them to a post, groomed them, and then walked them around by a long rope, while grandfather admired their stature, as he also took delight in the breed he expected to raise from them (he was later completely successful in that). Then awoke also the old stewardess who slept in the loft of the cellar; she came out of the cellar, went to the Buguruslán to get washed, sighed, sobbed (that was her unchangeable custom), prayed to God while turning to the east, and began to wash, rinse, and clean the pots and dishes.
The swallows and martins chirped and sang, circling merrily in the sky; the quails called loudly in the fields; the songs of the skylarks rang out in the air; the crake cried hoarsely, sitting in the bushes; the whistling of waterhens, and the tocking and bleating of wild snipes were borne thither from the nearby swamp, and the blue-throated warblers vied in mocking the nightingales.--The bright sun rolled out from beyond the hill.
Smoke rose from the peasants’ huts, bending with the wind in light grey columns, like a procession of river boats flaunting their flags; the peasants started for the field.
Grandfather wanted to wash himself in cold water, and then to drink tea. He awoke his disgracefully sleeping servants. They leaped up, like half-witted people, in fright, but Stepán Mikháylovich’s merry voice reassured them: “Mazán, fetch me some water! Tanaychénok, wake Aksyútka and the lady,--and tea!” There was no need of repeating the commands: awkward Mazán was running as fast as his feet could carry him with a bright brass wash-basin to get some water at the spring; and agile Tanaychénok awoke the homely servant girl Aksyútka who only fixed the kerchief that had slipped from her head and at once went to wake the good old lady Arína Vasílevna. A few minutes later the whole house was on its feet, and everybody knew that the old gentleman had gotten up in a good humour. Fifteen minutes later a table was placed near the porch, and it was covered with a fine white cloth of home make; upon it boiled a samovár in the shape of a huge brass tea-pot, and Aksyútka was busy attending to it; the old lady, Arína Vasílevna, bade Stepán Mikháylovich good-morning, without sighing and groaning, as would be proper on other mornings, and loudly and merrily asked his health: “How did you rest yourself, and what kind of dreams did you have?”
Grandfather greeted his wife kindly and called her Arísha; he never kissed her hand, but gave her his hand to kiss as a token of his favour. Arína Vasílevna bloomed out and grew younger. Her obesity and clumsiness disappeared as if by magic! She brought a little stool and seated herself on the porch near grandfather, which she never dared to do if he did not receive her graciously.
“Let us have tea together, Arísha!” said Stepán Mikháylovich, “before it is hot. Though it was sultry to sleep, I slept so well that I had no dreams? And you?”
Such a question was an unusual favour, and grandmother speedily replied that she slept well every time Stepán Mikháylovich passed a good night, but that Tanyúsha had tossed a great deal. Tanyúsha was the youngest daughter, and the old man loved her more than his other daughters, as is often the case. These words disquieted him, and he ordered not to wake Tanyúsha, but let her awaken herself. Tatyána Stepánovna had been wakened together with Aleksándra and Elizavéta Stepánovna and they were all dressed, but they did not dare tell him that. Tanyúsha immediately undressed herself, went back to bed, ordered to close the shutters in her room and, though she could not fall asleep, lay for two hours in the dark; grandfather was satisfied because Tatyána had had a good rest. His only son, who was nine years old, was never made to get up early.
The elder daughters appeared at once. Stepán Mikháylovich graciously gave them his hand to kiss and called one Lizánka and the other Leksána. Neither of them was a silly girl. Aleksándra united her father’s vivacity and excitability with her cunning mind, but she did not have his good qualities. Grandmother was a very simple woman and was completely controlled by her daughters. If she ever undertook to outwit Stepán Mikháylovich, she did so solely by their instigation, which the old man knew all by heart and for which, on account of her simple-mindedness, she had often to pay dearly. He also knew that his daughters were ready to deceive him at any convenient moment, and only from ennui, or in order to preserve his own peace, that is, only when he was in good humour, did he allow them to think that they were really deceiving him; but in the first fit of anger he told them all without mercy, in the most unceremonious words, and sometimes he even beat them. But the daughters, like Eve’s real grandchildren, did not lose their courage: the moment the hour of anger passed and their father’s face was becalmed, they set out once more to try their old tricks, and they were often successful.
Having drunk his tea and talked over all kinds of things with his family, grandfather got ready for the field. He had told Mazán long before: “The horse!” and an old greyish brown gelding was already at the porch; it was hitched to a long peasant waggon that was very comfortable, being woven with a close rope netting and having a long seat in the middle that was covered with a blanket. Groom Spiridón was seated in the waggon as a coachman; his livery was quite simple, that is, it consisted only of his shirt; he was barefooted and was girded with a red woollen girdle from which hung a key and a brass comb. On a previous occasion Spiridón had ventured out on such an expedition even without a hat; but grandfather scolded him for it, so he had prepared this time something in the shape of a hat out of broad bast bands. Grandfather made fun of his headgear and, putting on his field coat of unbleached homespun and a cap, and placing under him a cloak against rainy weather, seated himself in the waggon. Spiridón placed under himself his common gabardine, having folded it three times; it was made of white cloth but was painted blood-red with madder, which grew very profusely in the fields. This red colour was so customary with our old men that the neighbours called the Bagróv servants “madderlings”; I heard that nickname myself some fifteen years after my grandfather’s death.
Stepán Mikháylovich was satisfied with everything in the field. He looked at the deflorated rye which stood like a wall and as high as a man’s stature. A soft breeze was blowing, and bluish waves passed over it, appearing now lighter, now darker in the sun. It was a joy for the master to look at such a field! Grandfather surveyed also the young oats and all the summer crops; then he went to the untilled field, and had himself taken up and down his ploughed-up acres. That was his usual way of judging how well the ploughing had been done; every clod of earth which had been untouched by the plough gave a jerk to the shaky waggon, and if grandfather happened to be out of sorts, he stuck a small stick or a withe into such a place, sent for the village elder, if he was not with him, and the inquest began right on the spot. This time everything went off favourably; there may have been some untouched spots, only Stepán Mikháylovich did not notice them, or did not wish to notice them.
He cast also a glance at his prairie meadows, and looked with delight at the dense high grass that was to be mowed in a few days. He visited also the peasant fields, in order to find out for himself who was going to have a good harvest and who not. He also looked at their untilled ground, investigated matters closely, and forgot nothing. Passing by a fallow field and noticing ripe strawberries, grandfather stopped and with the aid of Mazán gathered a fine bunch full of fine, large berries which he took home as a present for his Arísha. In spite of the heat he was away until noon. The moment they noticed grandfather’s waggon coming down the hill, the dinner stood on the table, and the whole family waited for him on the porch.
“Well, Arísha,” merrily spoke grandfather, “it is a fine harvest God is giving us! The Lord’s mercy is great! Here are some strawberries for you!”
Grandmother beamed with joy.
“The berries are nearly all ripe,” he continued, “so let them begin picking to-morrow!”
Saying these words, he went into the ante-chamber; the odour of warm cabbage soup was wafted to him from the hall. “Ah, it is ready!” Stepán Mikháylovich said with a happier mien, “thanks!” and without going to his room, he went straight into the hall and seated himself at the table. I must mention that it was grandfather’s custom, when he returned from the field, whether it was early or late, to find the dinner on the table, and God preserve them if they did not get ready with the meal upon his return. Such mishaps had brought about some sad results. But on that lucky day everything went as if greased, without a hitch. A sturdy fellow, Nikólka Ruzán, stood behind grandfather with a large birch-branch, in order to drive away the flies. The hot cabbage soup, which a Russian will not refuse in the hottest weather, grandfather sipped from a wooden spoon, because a silver spoon burned his lips. Then followed cold beet soup with ice, with transparent sterlet, with salted sturgeon, which was as yellow as wax, and with shelled crawfishes, and similar light dishes. All that was washed down by home-brewed beer and kvas, also with ice. It was a very jolly dinner. All spoke aloud, jested, laughed. There were, however, dinners that passed in terrible silence and in speechless expectation of some outbreak. All the boys and girls of the estate knew that the master was dining in a good mood, and they packed the hall, expecting to catch some dainties. Grandfather treated them lavishly, because there was always prepared five times as much food as was necessary. After dinner he at once lay down to sleep. The flies were driven out from under the bar which was let down over grandfather and tucked down under the feather mattress. Soon a mighty snore gave evidence that the master was sleeping a heroic sleep.
Everybody went to his place to take a nap. Mazán and Tanaychénok, having had a solid meal from the remnants of the master’s table, stretched themselves out on the floor of the ante-chamber, near the very door into grandfather’s sleeping-room. They had already had a nap in the forenoon, which did not keep them from falling asleep again; but the stifling air and burning sun which shone through the window woke them up soon. The sleep and the heat had dried up their throats. They wanted to cool their burning throats with the master’s iced home-brew, so these bold lazybones had recourse to the following trick. Through the open door they reached for grandfather’s morning gown and sleeping-cap which lay on a chair, near the door. Tanaychénok put on his master’s garment and seated himself on the porch, and Mazán ran with a pitcher to the cellar, woke the stewardess, who, like everybody else in the house, slept the sleep of the dead, and asked in a hurry for some iced beer for the master who had just risen. When the stewardess expressed her doubt about the master’s waking, Mazán pointed to Tanaychénok’s figure that was sitting on the porch in morning gown and night-cap. The pitcher was filled with beer, ice was put into it, and Mazán ran speedily away with his booty. They divided the contents in a brotherly way, put the morning gown and night cap in the old place, and had to wait for a whole hour before grandfather awoke.
The master awoke in even a better frame of mind than upon the previous day, and his first words were: “Cold beer!” The servants were frightened out of their wits. Tanaychénok ran to the stewardess who saw immediately that they had themselves drunk the first pitcher. She gave the liquor, but followed the messenger to the porch where the real master was now sitting in his morning gown. The deception was made evident from her first words, and Mazán and Tanaychénok, trembling with fear, fell down before the master’s feet, and what do you suppose grandfather did? He laughed out loud, sent for Arísha and his daughters, and laughing loud, told them the trick of his servants. The poor fellows breathed more freely, and one of them even smiled. Stepán Mikháylovich noticed that and came very near getting angry. His brows began to be furrowed, but his soul was so full of calm restfulness from the whole merry day, that his forehead cleared off right away, and he only looked angrily and said: “Well, God will forgive you this time; but if it happens another time--” It was not necessary to finish the sentence.
One can’t help marvelling how it is that the servants had dared to practise such a sharp trick upon their master who was senselessly excitable and who during his excitement became very cruel. I have frequently noticed in the course of my life that the severer the master, the more daring were the acts of their servants. That was not an exceptional case with my grandfather. The same Vánka Mazán, having once swept the sleeping room of Stepán Mikháylovich and just getting ready to make the bed, was so seduced by the soft feather beds and pillows that he took it into his head to pamper himself; so he lay down upon the master’s bed and fell asleep. Grandfather found him sleeping in that bed, and he only laughed out loud. It is true, he gave him a blow with his viburnum stick, but that was only for fun, to have a good laugh at Mazán’s fright.
He awoke about five o’clock in the afternoon, drank some iced homebrew, and, in spite of the stifling heat, wanted to drink some tea, believing that a hot drink would make the heat more bearable. He went down to take a swim in the cool Buguruslán which flowed under the very windows of the house, and, upon returning, found his whole family waiting for him at the same tea table, which was now placed in the shade, with the same boiling teapot-samovár, and with the same Aksyútka. Having had his fill of his favourite sweat-producing drink, with thick cream and its browned skin, grandfather proposed to all a ride to the mill. Of course, all gladly consented, and two of my aunts, Aleksándra and Tatyána Stepánovna, took some fishing rods with them, for they were very fond of angling. In a minute two long waggons were hitched up: in one of them seated themselves grandfather and grandmother, placing between them their only heir, the precious scion of their ancient noble race. In the other sat my three aunts and the lad Nikoláshka Ruzán, who was taken along, in order to dig for worms in the dam and to put them on the ladies’ hooks.
At the mill they brought a bench for grandmother, and she seated herself in the shade of the mill barn, not far from the mill trough, near which her younger daughters were fishing. The elder daughter, Elizavéta Stepánovna, went, as much to please her father as from her own love of farming, with Stepán Mikháylovich to look at the mill and the grinding. The young boy now looked at the sister’s angling (he was not yet allowed to fish in deep places), now played near his mother who did not turn her eyes away from him, fearing that he might somehow roll into the water.
Both millstones were at work: in one of them they were grinding wheat for the master’s table; in the other, rye for strangers; the stamping mill was crushing millet. Grandfather was an expert in every part of the farm; he knew well the mechanism of the mill, and was explaining all its details to his clever and attentive daughter. He saw at a glance all the imperfections in the gearing, or all the mistakes in the position of the millstones. He ordered to let one down half a notch, and the flour came out much finer, which pleased the customer very much. In the other grinding apparatus he discovered by the sound that one pin in the wheel was beginning to be worn out. He ordered to shut off the water, and miller Boltunénok jumped down to examine the wheel. He said:
“You are right, Father Stepán Mikháylovich! One pin is a little worn off.”
“Yes, yes, a little,” replied grandfather without any displeasure. “If I had not come, the wheel would have broken over night.”
“It is my fault, Stepán Mikháylovich, I did not notice it.”
“God forgive you! Let us have a new wheel, and get a new pin made for the old wheel; see to it that the new wheel is not any wider, nor narrower than the rest, that is the main point.”
They brought a new wheel, which had been fitted before, and put it in place; they oiled it, let in the water,--not all at once, but by degrees (also by order of grandfather),--and the millstone started to hum and grind, without interruption or rattling, but smoothly and evenly. Then grandfather went with his daughter to the stamping mill, took out of the stamp a handful of crushed millet, blew the dust away from the palm of his hand, and said to the customer, a neighbouring Mordvínian: “Look here, neighbour Vasyúkha! Don’t you see there is not a single unbroken grain? If you let the stamping go on, there will be less of flour.” Vasyúkha tried it himself, and he convinced himself that grandfather was telling the truth. He thanked him and bowed, that is, he only shook his head, and ran away to shut off the water.
From there grandfather went with his pupil to the barnyard. He found everything in excellent order. There was a large number of geese, ducks, turkeys, and hens, and an old woman and her grandchild looked after them all. As a special favour, grandfather let them both kiss his hand, and he ordered that the fowlkeeper should receive, in addition to the usual allowance, twenty pounds of wheat flour a month for cakes. Stepán Mikháylovich returned in good spirits to Arína Vasílevna, and he was satisfied with everything: his daughter was clever, the mill was grinding well, and the fowlkeeper Tatyána Gorozhána was looking well after the fowls.
The heat had long subsided. The coolness from the water increased the freshness of the approaching evening; a long cloud of dust rose along the road and came nearer to the village; one could hear in it the bleating and lowing of the farm animals; the declining sun disappeared behind a steep hill. Standing on the dam, Stepán looked with delight at the broad pond which lay immovable like a mirror between its low banks; fishes kept on playing in the water and leaping up, but Stepán Mikháylovich was not fond of fishing.
“Arísha, it is time to start home; the elder, I suppose, is waiting for me,” said he. Seeing him in a happy frame of mind, the younger daughters began to beg him to let them stay a little longer, saying that at sundown the fish bite better, and that they would walk home in half an hour. Grandfather consented and drove away in his waggon with grandmother, while Elizavéta Stepánovna seated herself with her brother in the other waggon. Stepán Mikháylovich was not mistaken. The elder was waiting for him at the porch, and he was not alone, but several peasants and their wives were there also. The elder had seen the master, and he knew that he was in good humour, and he had told some peasants about it. Some of them who had some special request to make, such as exceeded any usual favour, made use of the favourable opportunity, and they were all satisfied. Grandfather gave some grain to a peasant who had not yet paid off his old debt, though he could have done so; he permitted another one to marry off his son, without waiting for winter, and not to the girl which he had himself selected; he permitted a guilty soldier’s widow, whom he had ordered to be driven out of the village, to live with her father, and so forth.
More than that. They were treated each to a silver cup of strong home-made brandy, and this cup held more than a beakerful. Grandfather gave short and clear orders to the elder, and hastened to the supper which had been waiting for him for some time. The supper table differed little from dinner, and undoubtedly they ate a more solid meal, because it was not so hot. After supper Stepán Mikháylovich was in the habit of sitting up another half an hour in his shirt and cooling himself on the porch, after his family had been excused to retire. This time he jested and laughed a little longer than usual with his servants. He ordered Mazán and Tanaychénok to have a boxing match, and he urged them on in such a way that they belaboured each other not in jest and tore each other’s hair. Having had all the fun he wanted, grandfather gave the command for them to come to their senses and stop.
A short, marvellous summer night lay over all Nature. The evening twilight had not yet all disappeared! The azure of the sky grew darker from hour to hour, and from hour to hour the stars shone more brilliantly. Louder and louder became the voices and calls of the birds of the night, as if they were getting nearer to man! The mill sounded nearer, and the stamping mill stamped in the damp night mist---- Grandfather rose from his porch, made one or two signs of the cross towards the starry heavens, and lay down to sleep, in spite of the closeness of the room, on the hot feather bed, and he ordered the servants to lower the mosquito bar over him.
Aleksyéy Stepánovich Khomyakóv. (1804-1860.)
Khomyakóv was born in Moscow, where he passed his early childhood and youth, and there early came in contact with some of the representative men of letters. In 1821 he was fired with enthusiasm for the Greek struggle for independence, and ran away from home to join the Greek patriots. He was, however, overtaken in time by his father, and entered the Russian army, which he left in 1825. Soon after began to appear his patriotic and religious songs that attracted the public attention by their artistic perfection. He again joined the army during the Turkish campaign of 1828. A few years later he wrote two tragedies, but they were a complete failure. He then devoted himself to prose, devoting all his energies to the cause of Slavophilism and the propagation of Greek-Catholic theology.
Into English have been translated: _Kiev_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _To My Children_, in _Short Poems and Hymns_, the latter mostly translations, by W. Palmer, Oxford, 1845 (reprinted in _Russia and the English Church during the Last Fifty Years_, vol. i., London, 1895, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 17, and in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv., Moscow, 1900); _The Island_ and _To Russia_, in _Russia and the English Church_, vol. i. (reprinted in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv.); _The Eagle_ and several extracts, by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 17; _Russian Song_, by N. H. Dole, in Library of the World’s Best Literature.
TO MY CHILDREN
Time was when I loved at still midnight to come, My children, to see you asleep in your room; The cross, holy sign on your foreheads to trace, And commend you in prayer to the love and the grace Of our gracious and merciful God.
To keep gentle guard, and watch over your rest, To think how your spirits were sinless and blest, In hope to look forward to long happy years Of blithe, merry youth, without sorrows or fears, Oh, how sweet, how delicious it was!
But now, if I go, all is silence, all gloom; None sleep in that crib, nothing breathes in that room; The light that should burn at the image is gone: Alas! so it is, children now I have none, And my heart, how it painfully throbs!
Dear children, at that same midnight do ye, As I once prayed for you, now in turn pray for me; Me who loved well the cross on your foreheads to trace; Now commend me in turn to the mercy and grace Of our gracious and merciful God.
--Transl. by Rev. W. Palmer, in _Short Poems and Hymns_, Oxford, 1845.
THE EAGLE
High hast thou built thine eyrie, Eagle of the Northern Slavs, Wide hast thou spread thy wings, High into heaven hast thou soared. Fly! But in the lofty deep of ether, Where thy scarce-breathing breast Is warmed by the passage of Freedom, Forget not thy younger kin! Look to the Southern Steppe, Look to the far-off West: Many are there, where the Danube rages, Where the Alpine clouds gather way, In the mountain dells, in the dark Carpathians, In the Balkan defiles wood-clothed, In the clutches of faithless Teutons, In the steely chains of the Tartar, And thy brothers walk in fetters Till thy voice shall sound in their ears, Till thy wings thou shalt spread protecting O’er their heads grown feeble with bondage. Forget them not, Northern Eagle, Send them thy resonant call And in slavery’s night console them With thy free and cheering light. Feed them with thoughts elating, With the hope of happier days, And warm with loving kindness These hearts whose blood is as thine. Their hour shall come: their pinions Wax strong, and their talons sharp, They shall cry, full-grown, and shall sunder At a breath the bonds that now bind.
--Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 17.
KIEV
Kiev! upon the Dnieper built, Thy lofty walls above me tower; Like silver from the furnace pure, The river gleams where dark hills lour.
All hail to thee, thou ancient town! The cradle thou of Russia’s fame! And hail to thee, O Dnieper swift, The bath, whence glorious Russia came!
In the calm air the songs resound, The evening bells ring out their note; “Whence come ye, Pilgrim-Brothers, say, Your homage who to God devote?”
“I come from where the quiet Don Glides forth, the beauty of our homes”; “I come where stern Yenisey In boundless waters proudly foams.”
“My home is on the Euxine shore.” “Mine in those distant realms is found Where wide-extending ice-fields hold The sea within their rigid bound.”
“Savage the view of Altay’s ridge, Eternal is the snowy glare; My native town time-honoured Pskov, My own dear home is there, is there.”
“I come from cold Ladoga’s Lake”; “I from the Neva’s soft blue face”; “I come from Kama’s flowing stream”; “And I from Moscow’s fond embrace.”
All hail, Kiev! most wondrous town, With turbid stream which Dnieper laves! Grander than seats imperial are The silent shadows of thy caves.
We know in night of times gone by, In darkness of antiquity, The brightly shining Eastern sun Glowed ever, Russia, over thee.
And now, from strange, and distant, lands, From far-off steppes,--from unknown homes,-- From deepest rivers of the North,-- A crowd of praying children comes.
In loving company well met, We gather in thy sanctuary; Where are thy sons, Volhynia? Galich, where is thy progeny?
Woe! woe! as though by savage fires, They all by Poles consumèd are; By noisy banquetings deceived, They yield to festive charm and glare.
Captives to sword and treachery, They are ensnared by falsehood’s flame; They move beneath a foreign flag, They bow unto a stranger’s name.
Awake, Kiev! again arise, Upon thy fallen children call, On them let father’s tenderness, With voice of supplication, fall.
Thy sons, erst ravished from thy breast, Will listen to thy soothing cry; Will tear asunder cunning chain, The foreign flag will pass it by;
Will come again, as in past days, Will in thy love themselves disport, Will lay their faces in thy lap, Will bring their vessels to thy port.
And all around their native flag Thy strong commands they will await; Their life’s full spirit,--spirit’s life,-- Will be by thee regenerate!
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
Fédor Ivánovich Tyútchev. (1803-1873.)
Born almost at the same time with Púshkin, Tyútchev continued the tradition of Púshkin’s school until the seventies. When only fourteen years of age, he was chosen a member of the Society of Lovers of Russian Literature for his masterly translation of poems from Horace. In 1823 he was attached to the Russian embassy at Munich; then, after serving in various capacities, he was made president of the Commission of Foreign Censorship, which office he held to his death. Though frequently contributing to the periodicals, Tyútchev remained unknown to the middle of the century, when Nekrásov and Turgénev rediscovered him. His verses are very melodious and tunable, but rather narrow of scope.
In English translation are to be found: _Scarce cooled from midday heat_ and _The Spring-Storm_, by John Pollen, in _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891; _I suffer still from anguished longing_, by A. C. Coolidge, in Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895, and The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 15; _Spring Waters_, _Sunrise_, _Evening_, _The Leaves_, by N. H. Dole, in the Library of the World’s Best Literature. A few poems, translated by N. H. Dole, are given in G. Schirmer’s Octavo Choruses for Mixed Voices, New York; the _Sunrise_, by Dole, was also given in the Ladysmith Leader and Wellington Extension News, Nov. 6, 1901.
Scarce cooled from midday heat Sparkles the summer night; O’er sinful earth a threatening cloud Trembles with lightnings bright. Heaven’s sleepy eyelids ope, And through its distant gleam, The threatening orbs of One above O’er earth to kindle seem.
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
THE SPRING-STORM
I love the storm in early May, When spring’s first maiden thunder peals, And, laughing in its frolic play, Across the blue sky softly steals.
The little rumblings roll and reel; The rain-shower glistens; flies the dust; The rain-drop pearls in clusters cling, And golden gleams the fields encrust.
From hillside headlong speeds the rill, In groves the birds keep twittering, And chattering wood and murmuring hill Echo with joy the thundering.
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
───────
I suffer still from anguished longing, For towards thee still my spirit strives. In a twilight of memories thronging E’en now thine image still survives.
Thine image sweet, forgotten never, Before me always, near and far, Unreachable, unchanging ever As in the sky of night, a star.
--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge.
SUNRISE
In solemn calm the Orient waits, A deep, mysterious silence keeping; No sign to tell if Day be sleeping Or if he halt before her gates.
Now, now the mountain tops grow white, The mists the vales below still cumber, Still towns and peaceful hamlets slumber-- But heavenward turn your eager sight!
Behold it! Now a gleam awakes And like young Passion’s timid blushes The red glow brighter, rosier flushes, Then high above the zenith breaks!
A moment passes: swift the light Throughout the Ether’s vast dominions Sweeps onward on her glittering pinions And conquers all the hosts of Night.
--Transl. by N. H. Dole, in Schirmer’s Octavo Choruses, No. 623.
Aleksándr Ivánovich Gértsen (Herzen). (1812-1870.)
Gértsen was the son of a rich landed proprietor by the name of Yákovlev, and of a German mother (Herzen). He was brought up in the house of his father, where he early acquired several languages and a love for the German literature of the period, especially for Schiller and Goethe. He later devoted himself entirely to the exact sciences and graduated in 1833 from the University of Moscow with a silver medal for his thesis, _The Historical Evolution of the System of Copernicus_. While attending the university, Gértsen was the soul of one of those circles of the thirties where all kinds of philosophical and social themes were discussed with great wit and enthusiasm. He later served in several government capacities, chiefly in St. Petersburg, where he continued to be a centre around which gathered all the progressive forces of the younger generations. In 1844 the two extreme literary camps completely severed their connections: the Slavophiles rallied around Khomyakóv and the Aksákovs, while the Westerners gathered around Gértsen and Ogarév. In 1847 Gértsen went abroad never to return. In the last few years of his residence in St. Petersburg he had evinced great literary talent: his best known stories are _The Thieving Magpie_ and _Who is to be Blamed?_ During his long residence abroad he published the famous _Bell_, in which periodical he carried on a relentless propaganda for constitutionalism in Russia. In _From the Other Shore_ (originally published in German) he expressed his disenchantment with the West, and in _Past and Reflections_ he has given a series of vivid pictures of his times. His influence as a political agitator and as a man of letters may be traced through several generations in Russia.
Gértsen wrote two of his works in English: _My Exile in Siberia_, 2 vols., London, 1855, and _The Russian People and Their Socialism_, _A Letter to M. Jules Michelet_, Brantwood, 1855.
SLAVOPHILES AND PANSLAVISM
Side by side with our circle were our opponents, _nos amis les ennemis_, or, more correctly, _nos ennemis les amis_,--the Moscow Slavophiles.
The war between us has long been ended, and we have shaken each others hands; but in the beginning of the forties we had to meet as enemies,--so a consistent adherence to our principles demanded. We might have avoided quarrelling with them for their childish adoration of the childish period of our history; but accepting their Orthodoxy at full value, and seeing their ecclesiastic intolerance in both directions,--in the direction of science and in the direction of the schism,--we had to assume a hostile attitude towards them. We saw in their doctrine a new oil with which to anoint the Tsar, a new chain imposed upon thought, a new subordination of conscience to the servile Byzantine Church.
It is the Slavophiles’ fault that for a long time we did not understand the Russian people, or their history: their iconographic ideals and incense smoke have hindered our discerning the national life and the foundations of the village commune.
The Orthodoxy of the Slavophiles, their historical patriotism and exaggerated, irritating feeling of nationality were provoked by extremes in the other direction. The importance of their view, its truth and essential part are not in Orthodoxy and not in national exclusiveness, but in those elements of Russian life which they have discovered beneath the fertiliser of the artificial civilisation.
The idea of nationality is in itself a conservative idea, based on the exclusiveness of its rights and the clannishness of its associations; there are in it the Judaic conception of the superiority of race, and the aristocratic pretensions of purity of blood and entailment. Nationality, as a banner, as a battle-cry, only then is surrounded by a revolutionary aureole when the nation fights for independence, when it throws off a foreign yoke. It is for this reason that national sentiments, with all their exaggerations, are full of poetry in Italy and in Poland, and at the same time banal in Germany.
It would be even more ridiculous than with the Germans to prove our nationality, for even those do not doubt it who curse us. They hate us from fear, but do not deny us, as Metternich denied Italy. We ought to have opposed our nationality to our Germanised government and to its renegades. This domestic war could not be raised to an epos. The appearance of the Slavophiles as a school and as a separate doctrine was quite proper; but if they had found no other flag than the Orthodox banner, and no other ideal than the _Domostróy_ and the extremely Russian, but exceedingly harsh, period before Peter, they would have passed for a curious party of transmogrified odd people who belonged to another time. The strength and the future of Slavophilism lay in another direction. It may be that their treasure was really hid in church vessels of ancient workmanship, but its value was neither in the vessel, nor in the form. They did not separate them at first.
To the historical recollections proper were added the memories of all the related nations. Our Slavophiles assumed the sympathy for the Western Panslavism to be identical in fact and in direction, forgetting that there the exclusive nationalism was at the same time the lament of a people that was oppressed by a foreign yoke. Western Panslavism was, upon its appearance, regarded by the Austrian government as a conservative step. It was evolved during the sad epoch of the Vienna Congress. It was, in general, the time of all kinds of resurrections and rehabilitations, the time of all kinds of Lazaruses,--fresh and stinking ones. The Bohemian Panslavism arose by the side of the _Deutschthum_, which was marching to the resurrection of the _happy_ days of Barbarossa and the Hohenstaufens. The governments hailed this new tendency, and at first encouraged the development of international hatred; the masses again clung to their tribal interrelation, of which the knot was being drawn tighter, and again were departing from the common demands for the improvement of their existence; borders became ever more impassable, and the tie and sympathy between nations were loosened. It goes without saying that only weak, apathetic nations were allowed to awaken, and that only so long as their activities were limited to scientific, archeographic labours and etymological quarrels. In Milan and in Poland, where nationality would not rest at grammar, it was held down with spiked hands.
The Bohemian Panslavism incited the Slavic sympathies in Russia.
Slavism, or Russism, not as a theory, not as a doctrine, but as an offended national feeling, as an indistinct recollection and correct instinct, as a resistance to an exclusively foreign influence, has existed since the shearing of the first beard by Peter the Great.
The resistance to the St. Petersburg terrorism of education has never stopped: tortured and quartered and hung out on the spikes of the Kremlin, to be shot at by Ménshikov and the other royal _jesters_ in the shape of savage hunters, poisoned in the ravelin of the St. Petersburg fortress, in the shape of Tsarévich Alexis, it appeared as the party of the Dolgorúkis during the reign of Peter II., as the hatred of the Germans under Birón, as Pugachév under Catherine II., as Catherine II. herself, an Orthodox German, under the Prussian Holsteinian Peter III., as Elizabeth, who leaned on the Slavophiles of her day, in order to seat herself on the throne (the people of Moscow were waiting for all the Germans to be killed at her coronation).
All the dissenters are Slavophiles.
All the white and black clergy are Slavophiles of a different sort.
The soldiers who demanded the removal of Barclay de Tolly for his foreign name were the predecessors of Khomyakóv and his friends.
The war of 1812 developed a strong feeling of national consciousness and patriotism, but the patriotism of 1812 had no Orthodox, Slavic character. We see it in Karamzín and Púshkin, and in Emperor Alexander himself. It was practically an expression of that instinct of force which all mighty nations feel when they are attacked by a foreign people; and then it was a solemn feeling of victory, a proud consciousness of a successful defence. But that theory was weak; in order to love Russian history, the patriots transformed it according to European models; they in general translated the Græco-Roman patriotism from French into Russian, and did not go beyond the verse
_Pour un cœur bien né, que la patrie est chère!_
It is true, Shishkóv even then raved of reëstablishing the ancient style, but his influence was limited. The real popular diction was used only by the Frenchified Count Rostopchín in his proclamations and appeals.
In measure as the war was being forgotten, this patriotism cooled down and finally deteriorated, on the one hand, into a low, cynical flattery of _The Northern Bee_, on the other, into the trivial patriotism of Zagóskin,[9] who called Shúya,[10] Manchester and Shebúyev, a Raphael, and who boasted of the bayonets and the expanse from the ice of Torneå to the Tauric Mountains----
In the reign of Nicholas the patriotism was transformed into something knout-like and official, especially in St. Petersburg, where this uncouth tendency ended, according to the cosmopolitan character of the city, in the _invention_ of a national hymn from Sebastian Bach, and, by Prokópi Lyapunóv, from Schiller.
To cut loose from Europe, from enlightenment, and from revolution, which kept him in terror ever since the 14th of December, Nicholas, on his side, raised the banner of _Orthodoxy_, _autocracy_, and _nationality_, which was worked out in the manner of a Prussian standard, and supported by any thing and everything: by the uncouth novels of Zagóskin, the uncouth iconography, the uncouth architecture, by Uvárov, by the persecution of the Uniates, and by _The hand of the Almighty has saved the fatherland_.[11]
The meeting of the Moscow Slavophiles with the Petersburgian Slavophilism of Nicholas was a great misfortune for them. Nicholas took refuge in nationality and Orthodoxy from revolutionary ideas. There was nothing in common between them but words. Their extremes and insipidities were all unselfishly insipid, without any relation whatsoever to the Third Division,--which, of course, did not in the least hinder their insipidities from being exceedingly insipid.
Thus, for instance, there passed through Moscow, at the end of the thirties, the Panslavist Gaj, who later played some indefinite rôle as a Croatian agitator and at the same time was near to Ban Jelačić. Muscovites believe in foreigners in general; Gaj was more than a foreigner, and more than one of their own,--he was both. He, consequently, had no difficulty in engaging the sympathy of our Slavs for the fate of their suffering Orthodox brothers in Dalmatia and Croatia; an enormous subscription was taken up in a few days, and in addition to that Gaj was given a dinner in the name of all the Servian and Ruthenian sympathies. At the dinner one of the Slavophiles, who by his voice and by his profession was more gentle than the rest, a man of _red_ Orthodoxy, who, no doubt, was heated by the toasts for the Montenegrin ruler, and for all kinds of great Bosnians, Bohemians, and Slovaks, improvised a poem in which occurred the following not quite Christian expression:
“I shall drink the blood of Magyars and of Germans.”
All who were still in their senses heard this phrase in disgust. Fortunately the witty statistician Andrósov saved the bloodthirsty bard: he jumped up from his chair, grabbed a fruit knife, and said: “Gentlemen, pardon me, I shall leave you for a moment; it has just occurred to me that my landlord, the old piano-tuner Diez, is a German; I ’ll just run down to cut his throat, and I ’ll be back in a trice.”
A thunderous laughter drowned the indignation.
[9] Russian novelist of the beginning of the century.
[10] Manufacturing town in the Government of Vladímir; famous for its raw sheepskins.
[11] A line in Ózerov’s tragedy _Dimítri Donskóy_ (see vol. i., p. 418).
Nikoláy Platónovich Ogarév. (1813-1877.)
Ogarév was born in the Government of Pénza, in the estate of his father, where he was educated till his fourteenth year. He then attended the Moscow University, but before he finished his course he was arrested for singing some revolutionary songs, and was exiled to his father’s estate. He later passed his life abroad, aiding Herzen in his revolutionary propaganda. Though mainly known as a propagandist, he excels even more as a poet. His tender verses remind of Lérmontov, with whom he has much in common. Among his best poems are his _Monologues_, _The Village Watchman_, _The Sea of Life_.
In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given: _Notturno_, _The Old House_, _The Village Watchman_, _The Child_, _Hidden Love_, and _Death_; in Free Russia: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. xi., No. 11, _To Iskander_, in vol. xii., Nos. 6-7, _Summer_; by J. E. Lewis, in