The gloom which had spread over literature at the end of Catherine’s reign was lifted at the very opening of the nineteenth century by the accession of the liberal Alexander I. Instead of continuing the persecution of the Free Masons and suppressing literature, the Emperor himself favoured all kinds of mystic societies, and carried his liberalism to the greatest extreme. He associated with Quakers, and Jesuits were left unmolested in the capital. He proposed to reorganise the country on Western models, and did not think it unwise to ask Thomas Jefferson for a sketch of the American Constitution. He surrounded himself with men of pronounced progressive tendencies, and heaped honours on the author of the _Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow_, whose advanced ideas had so displeased Catherine.

Yet only the end of his reign saw the fruition of the new spirit in literature, when Púshkin with his mighty genius for ever settled the direction Russian letters were to take. There could have been no sudden change. No new ideals had taken the place of the literary traditions of the eighteenth century, which looked upon authorship as a pleasant pastime and profitable exercise of wit, but did not invest the authors with the dignity of social factors. Though Romanticism was rapidly displacing the older pseudo-classicism, many authors of the former style were still active among the changing surroundings. Ózerov produced his thunderous dramas and found a ready audience, and Derzhávin not only continued his writing of odes, but was able to maintain a coterie of literary men who would not listen to the innovations of Karamzín.

The most persistent stickler for the old conventions was Shishkóv. He had no ear for the subtler beauties of verse, and identified poetry with high-sounding epithets and well-turned phrases. His admiration for the older bards led him to seek in their language, with the strange admixture of Church-Slavic words, the proper norm for all time, and to abhor the introduction of foreign words, which Karamzín so dexterously applied in his formation of a new literary style. As President of the Russian Academy Shishkóv exercised a certain influence, and the discussion of the two styles agitated society for some time. There was just a spark of truth in his contention. Like Shcherbátov before him, and the Slavophiles thirty years later, he was anxious to see a greater approach to the national spirit. Like his predecessor, he did not fail to recognise that the colourless imitation of foreign models was not bringing literature any nearer to the people, and, like the older historian, he receded as far as possible into the past in his search for native elements. Writers were at that time not yet prepared to look for a common bond with the people in a living intercourse with them.

In the meanwhile Karamzín proceeded to find his models for composition in the West, and to base his literary style on a close imitation of French and English writers. He freely introduced such words and turns as would mould Russian into a simpler and more harmonious instrument. His example has been followed ever since. He was led by personal predilection and a natural pensiveness to father that sentimentalism which had found such a ready soil in Europe. How unnatural for Russian that sentimentalism was, may be seen in the gentle transformation the peasants have suffered in his novels. But in his day no one took exception to such a treatment, and many affected that exotic sentiment themselves.

In general, the particular direction of any author was very much a matter of chance. Not the necessities of the time, not the spiritual needs of any class of society decided what the poet was to sing and the novelist was to write about,--indeed, society had not yet risen to a well-defined spiritual life,--but the temporary whim of the author, the accidental acquaintance with this or that manifestation in the foreign literatures were the only reasons for transplanting the foreign models upon Russian soil. The adroitness with which extraneous themes have been handled by many of the writers is truly remarkable. In Bátyushkov it reached masterly perfection. Having tried himself in imitations of German, French, and classical models, his interest finally centred on the Italian poets, especially Tasso. The result of his especial predilection was that faultless poem, _The Dying Tasso_, which combines epic calm and majesty of language as probably no other production in Russian literature. But he had no contemporary audience that could follow him in his exquisite interpretation of the Italian classical spirit, just as Gnyédich, the famous translator of the Iliad, felt aggrieved at the indifference with which society met his great undertaking.

While a select number of authors, separating themselves from the life that surrounded them, found inspiration in the distant past, Zhukóvski devoted himself to familiarising his nation with the productions of the German Romantic Muse. But, while in Europe Romanticism was the logical outcome of the period of storm and stress through which it had just passed, it bore no relation to actual spiritual needs in Russia. Consequently only the external form and the technique, and not the inner meaning was transplanted by Zhukóvski to his native soil. It is true, he all the time preached a high ideal for poetry, but that ideal was only superficially related to the fashionable Romantic verse in which he enunciated it.

More original than these was Krylóv who, basing his fables on those of La Fontaine, clad them in an idiomatic form and adorned them with an art peculiarly his own. It would be, however, a mistake to suppose that he, at least, fell back on the native element for his subjects. There is absolutely nothing Russian in his fables. Not only do the popular animal stories differ widely from those employed by him for illustration, but he did not hesitate to introduce classical allusions whenever a chance offered itself. The same method, though in a coarser vein, was also pursued by Izmáylov.

The year 1812 had its immediate effects upon literature. It gave rise to patriotic songs, like Zhukóvski’s _In the Camp of Russian Warriors_, and to the patriotic series by Rylyéev. It led to a closer study of Russian history, and Karamzín’s monumental work could not have come at a more auspicious period. The consequences were even greater. Many young officers who had formed their ideals of life through the imitations of their native literature took part in the campaign in Germany and France, and there came in contact with all the living movements that agitated the best minds. They brought home with them a new enthusiasm, formed secret societies in imitation of the German _Tugendbund_, and dreamed of a violent reorganisation of Russia. All the best young forces were directly or indirectly affected by the new ideal. In the meanwhile the Government entered into its phase of reaction, and obscurantism became rampant. University professors were watched by the secret police, and instruction was carried on under great difficulties. The slightest expression of independence or freedom led to banishment and imprisonment. The strained relations between the youthful idealists and the reactionaries culminated in the unfortunate and impossible Decembrist conspiracy in 1825, when Rylyéev, among others, paid the penalty of death for his rashness.

But the accumulated literary force could no longer be dispersed. A galaxy of poets had with wonderful skill reproduced every imaginable aspect of European verse, even though they did not enter into a full understanding of the meaning and duty of their art. The language had been polished by Karamzín and his followers to its utmost extent and was now capable of every literary form. It only needed a subtle genius to breathe a soul into that fair body. That genius was Púshkin.