Chapter XV: Act II: , Scene 1. George and Xenia

_Xenia._ Blessed in the world is that purple-bearing man who does not suppress the freedom of our souls, who elevates himself for society’s good, and with leniency adorns his royal dignity, who gives his subjects auspicious days, and whom evildoers alone have cause to fear.

_George._ O thou sad Kremlin! Thou art this day a witness how that virtue was cast down from the throne. Languishing Moscow trembles in despair; happiness flees its walls in sorrow; the bright days seem darker than dense night; the fair groves about Moscow are clad in sombreness. When the solemn bell rings in the city, it seems to us that it repeats the city’s general groan and that it proclaims our Church’s fall through the machinations of the pope. O Lord, remove that terror from the Russians! Already the report flies through the square that Clement has promised reward in heaven to the rebels, the foes of our country’s city, and that he in advance forgives them all their sins. Moscow will suffer as suffers the New World! There the papists have stained with blood the earth, have slaughtered its inhabitants, have plundered the surviving, have burnt the innocent in their own land, holding the cross in one hand, in the other--the bloody sword. What has happened to them in their dire fate will now, O Russia, be done to you!

_Xenia._ All powers of evil,--Demetrius, Clement, Hell,--will not efface you from my heart! O Heaven, remove the fury of the papal power, and with it Xenia’s unbearable distress, that Russia might raise its head, and I might be my sweetheart’s wife! Grant us to see the monarch on the throne, subject to truth, not arbitrary will! All truth has withered; the tyrant’s law is only what he wants; but on the happiness of their subjects are based the laws of righteous kings, for their immortal glory. God’s vicar is to be the Tsar. Strike me, destroy me, merciless Tsar! Megæra has swept you from Tartarus, the Caucasus has borne you, Hyrcania has nurtured you. The heretic, with his crowd of slaves, will, cursing, oust the bodies of saintly men from their graves. Their names will in Russia for ever perish, and the houses of God will in Moscow be deserted. Nation, tear the crown from the creator of dire torments; hasten, wrest the sceptre from the barbarian’s hands!

SCENE 7

_Demetrius_ (_alone_). My crown lies not firmly upon my head, and the end of my greatness is at hand. Each moment I expect a sudden change. O Kremlin’s walls that frighten me! Meseems each hour you announce to me: “Villain, you are a foe, a foe to us and the whole land!” The citizens proclaim: “You have ruined us!” And the temples weep: “We are stained with blood!” The fair places about Moscow are deserted, and Hell from its abyss has oped its jaws at me; I see the sombre steps that lead to the infernal regions, and the tormented shades of Tartarus: I am already in Gehenna, and burn in the flame; I cast my glance to heaven, and see the celestial regions: there are good kings in all the beauty of their natures, and angels besprinkle them with dew of paradise; but what hope have I to-day in my despair? I shall be tormented in eternity even as I suffer now. I am not a crowned potentate in a magnificent city, but an evil malefactor, in hell tormented. I perish, dragging a multitude of the people to destruction. Flee, tyrant, flee! From whom?--From myself, for I see no one else before me. Run! But whither? Your hell is ever with you! The assassin is here, run! But I am that assassin! I tremble before myself, and before my shade. I shall avenge myself! On whom? Myself. Do I hate myself? I love myself! For what? I see it not. All cry against me: rapine, unfair justice, all terrible things,--they cry together against me. I live to the misfortune, shall die to the fortune of my nearest. The fate of men, the lowliest, I envy: even the mendicant is sometimes happy in his poverty. But I rule here,--and am always tormented. Endure and perish, having ascended the throne by deceit! Drive, and be driven! Live and die a tyrant!

INSTRUCTION TO A SON

Perceiving his tearful end near at hand, a father thus instructed his beloved, only begotten son:

“My son, beloved son! I am old to-day; my mind grows dull, my fervour is all gone; I am preparing to go before the Judge, and shall soon pass to eternity, the immeasurable abode of mortals. So I wish to tell you how you may live, and to show you the road to happiness. You will travel over a slippery path: though all in the world is vanity, yet why should one disdain happiness in life? Our whole mind ought to be bent upon obtaining it, and our endeavour should be to get all we need.

“Give up that chimera which men call honour; of what good is it when you have nothing to eat? It is impossible to get along in commerce without cheating, and in poverty without dishonesty and theft. By hook and by crook I have scraped together a fortune for you; now, if you should squander it all, I shall have sold my soul in vain. Whenever I think of that, my rest is gone.

“Increase your income, keep indolence from your heart, and keep your money against an evil day. Steal, if you can steal, but do it secretly,--by all means increase your income every year! The eye is not satisfied with mere looking on. If you can cheat, cheat artfully, for ’tis a shame to be caught in the act, and it often leads to the gallows. Make no acquaintances for the mere sake of knowing them, but put your spoon there where the jam is thickest! Revere the rich, to get your tribute from them. Never tire praising them with condescension; but if they be distinguished people, subdue them by creeping!

“Be humble with all men, and simulate! If a mighty person chides anyone, together with the mighty chide him! Praise those whom the powerful praise, and belittle those they belittle! Keep your eyes wide open and watch whom great boyárs are angry with.

“If you walk upon the straight road, you will find no fortune. Swim there where favourable winds carry you! Against men whom the people honour speak not a word; and let your soul be ever ready to thank them, though you receive nothing from them! Endeavour to speak like them. Whatever the puissant man says are sacred words; never contradict him, for you are a small man! If he say red of that which is black, say too: ‘’Tis rather red!’ Before low-born men rave like a devil; for if you do not, they will forget who you are, and will not respect you: the common people honour those who are haughty. But before the high-born leap like a frog, and remember that a farthing is as nothing in comparison with a rouble. Big souls have they, but we, my beloved son, have only little souls! Be profuse in thanks, if you expect some favour from your benefactor; spare your thanks where you have nothing to gain, for your grateful spirit will be lost.

“Do yourself no injury, and remain honest to yourself, loving yourself most sincerely! Do no injury to yourself, but for others have only appearances, and remember how little wisdom there is in the world, and how many fools. Satisfy them with empty words: honour yourself with your heart, but others with your lips, for you will have to pay no toll for fondling them. Let others think that you place yourself much lower than them, and that you have little regard for yourself; but do not forget that your shirt is nearer to your body than your caftan!

“I will allow you to play cards, provided you know how to handle them. A game without cunning has no interest, and playing you must not sacrifice yourself to others. Whatever game you play, my son, remember not to be always honest!--Have contempt for peasants, seeing them below your feet, but let your lips proclaim the puissant as gods, and speak no surly word to them. But love none of them, no matter what their worth, though their deeds be trumpeted through the subsolar world! Give bribes, and yourself accept them! When there are no witnesses, steal and cheat as much as you please, but be wary with your misdoings in presence of witnesses! Change the good that there is in people into evil, and never say a good word of another! For what are you to gain from praising them? Indeed, their virtues put you only in a bad light. Go not out of the way to serve another, where there is no gain for you.

“Hate the learned, and despise the ignorant, and ever keep your thoughts fresh for your own advantage! Above all, beware of getting into the satire of impudent scribblers! Disturb and break the ties of families, friendship and marriage, for ’tis more convenient to fish in muddy waters. Know no love, family nor friends, for ever holding yourself alone in mind! Deceive your friends, and let them suffer through you sorrow and misfortune, if you are the winner thereby! Garner your fruits wherever you can! There are some who foolishly call it dishonest to bring woes to your friends, but they do not see that duty teaches me only to love myself, and that it is not at all dishonourable when necessity demands that others perish: it is contrary to nature not to love yourself best. Let misfortune befall my country, let it go to the nethermost regions; let everything that is not mine be ruined,--provided I have peace.

“Forget not my rules! I have left you my fortune and my wisdom. Live, my son, live as your father has lived!”

He had barely uttered these words, when he was struck by lightning, and he departed from his child and home; and the soul that had for so long been disseminating poison flew out of the body and took its flight to hell.

TO THE CORRUPTERS OF LANGUAGE

In a strange land there lived a dog in a thick forest. He deemed his citizens to be uncultured, so passed his days in the country of the wolves and bears. The dog no longer barked, but growled like a bear, and sang the songs of wolves. When he returned to the dogs, he out of reason adorned his native tongue. He mixed the growl of bears and howl of wolves into his bark, and began to speak unintelligibly to dogs. The dogs said: “We need not your new-fangled music--you only spoil our language with it”; and they began to bite him, until they killed him.

I have read the tombstone of that dog: “Never disdain your native speech, and introduce into it nothing foreign, but adorn yourself with your own beauty.”

THE HELPFUL GNAT

Six fine horses were pulling an immense carriage. The carriage would have been a heavy one without any people in it; but this enormous carriage was filled with people, and was in size a haystack. It slowly moved along, travelling not over boards, but carrying the master and his wife through heavy sand, in which it finally stuck fast. The horses’ strength gave out; the lackeys on the footboard, to save the horses and wheels, stepped down; but yet the rick did not move. The driver called to the horses: “Get up, get up!” and struck them with the whip, as if it was their guilt. He struck them hard and yelled and yelled, until he grew hoarse, while the horses were covered with foam, and steam rose from them.

A gnat flew by, perceived the plight of the carriage, and was anxious to do it a good turn, and help it out. So it began to goad the horses and the driver, to make the driver on his box more agile, and that the horses might draw with more vim. Now it stung the driver, now the horses; it perspired, worked with might and main, but all in vain; it buzzed and buzzed, but all its songs were useless; there was not the slightest sign that the carriage would move; so after having laboured hard, it flew away. In the meanwhile, the horses had rested themselves, and dragged the huge mass out of the sand. The gnat saw the carriage from afar, and said: “How foolish it all was of me to abandon the carriage just as it was to move! ’Tis true I have worked hard in the sand, but at least I have moved the carriage.”

FOUR ANSWERS

You ask me, my friend, what I would do: (1) if I were a small man and a small gentleman; (2) if I were a great man and a small gentleman; (3) if I were a great man and a great gentleman; (4) if I were a small man and a great gentleman. To the first question I answer: I should use all my endeavour to become acquainted in the houses of distinguished people and men of power; I would not allow a single holiday to pass, without making the round of the city, in order to give the compliments of the season; I would walk on tiptoes in the antechambers of the mighty, and would treat their valets to tobacco; I would learn to play all kinds of games, for when you play cards you can sit down shoulder to shoulder with the most distinguished people, and then bend over to them and say in a low tone: “I have the honour to report to your Excellency such and such an affair,” or again become bolder and exclaim: “You have thirteen and I fourteen.” I would not dispute anything, but would only say: “Just so; certainly so; most certainly so; absolutely so.” I would tell the whole world that such and such a distinguished gentleman had condescended to speak to me, and if I could not say so truthfully, I would lie about it, for nothing so adorns speech as a lie, to which poets are witnesses.

Finally, I would obtain by humility and flattery a profitable place, but above all I would strive to become a governor, for that place is profitable, honourable and easy. It is profitable, because everybody brings gifts; it is honourable, because everybody bows before a governor; it is easy, because there is very little work to do, and that is done by a secretary or scribe, and, they being sworn people, one may entirely rely upon them. A scribe has been created by God by whom man has been created, and that opinion is foolish which assumes that a scribe’s soul is devoid of virtue. I believe there is little difference between a man and a scribe, much less difference than between a scribe and any other creature.

If I were a great man and a small gentleman, I would, in my constant attempt to be useful to my country and the world at large, never become burdensome to anyone, and would put all my reliance upon my worth and my deserts to my country; and if I should find myself deceived in this, I should become insane from so much patience, and should be a man who not only does nothing, but even thinks nothing.

If I were a great man and a great gentleman, I would without cessation think of the welfare of my country, of incitements to virtue and dignity, the reward of merit, the suppression of vice and lawlessness, the increase of learning, the cheapening of the necessaries of life, the preservation of justice, the punishment for taking bribes, for grasping, robbery and theft, the diminution of lying, flattery, hypocrisy and drunkenness, the expulsion of superstition, the abatement of unnecessary luxury, the limitation of games at cards which rob people of their valuable time, the education, the founding and maintenance of schools, the maintenance of a well-organised army, the scorn of rudeness, and the eradication of parasitism.

But if I were a small man and a great gentleman, I would live in great magnificence, for such magnificence is rarely to be found in a great soul; but I will not say what else I would do.

Vasíli Ivánovich Máykov. (1728-1778.)

Máykov was the son of a landed proprietor. He entered military service, in 1766 was made Associate Governor of Moscow, and occupied other high offices. He began to write early and, being an admirer of Sumarókov,--like all the other writers of his day,--he wrote odes, eulogies, fables, tragedies, all of them in the pseudo-classic style. He knew no foreign languages, and his imitations are at second hand. This, however, gave him a great advantage over his contemporaries, in that he was better acquainted with Russian reality than with foreign models. His mock-heroic poem _Eliséy, or Excited Bacchus_, from which “The Battle of the Zimogórans and Valdáyans,” given below, is an extract, is far superior for real humour, Russian environment and good popular diction to anything else produced by the Russian writers of the eighteenth century; and the undisputed popularity of the _Eliséy_, which was not dimmed even by Bogdanóvich’s _Psyche_, was well merited.

THE BATTLE OF THE ZIMOGÓRANS AND VALDÁYANS

The field was all ploughed and sowed in oats, and after these labours all the cattle and we were resting. Already had the grain sprouted a quarter of an inch, and our time had come to cut the hay. Our meadow, as all know well, bordered on the meadow of the Valdáyans; no one could tell where the line between them was but a surveyor, so the strongest hand mowed the grass there, and the meadows were always a cause of quarrels; even then they were the cause of our terrible battle.

The day had come, and we went into the meadow, taking with us milk, eggs and whey-cheese, loading ourselves with kvas, beets, dumplings, brandy and buckwheat cakes. No sooner had we appeared with our provender in the meadow, than we espied the host before us: the proud Valdáyans were standing there with arms of war. We became frightened and ran away like rabbits, and running we looked for weapons resembling theirs: withes, pales, poles, cudgels and clubs. We vied with each other to arm ourselves with sticks and to prepare ourselves for the fray. The chief of our village, foreseeing a terrible calamity, seated himself on his horse and gathered us all together; having gotten us together, he took a pen and began to scribble. Though he was not a Frenchman nor a Greek, but a Russian, yet he was a government official and wore a crimson uniform. God forfend that a scribe should be a military commander! He took out his pen, and began to write down the names, while our backs were already smarting from the descent of a hail of stones upon them. Is it possible Pallas was with the scribe? For he was still writing down names, while the Valdáyans were drubbing us. Old women in the huts were lamenting to heaven; small children, all the girls and women, and chickens hid behind the stove and underneath it.

Seeing that there was to be no end to his writing, we no longer listened to the scribe, but like a whirlwind swept down from all sides and, pressing forward in a mass, hastened to the fight. Neither fences nor water could keep us back, and the only salvation for the Valdáyans was in flight; but they stood out stubbornly against us, and with agility swung their wooden arms at us. We could not break asunder the order of their ranks, and from both sides there flew upon us stones and mud, the implements of war of furious men. We were bespattering and striking each other down without mercy, but ours stood like a firm wall.

Forgive me for mentioning names which it would not be otherwise proper to utter here, except that without them we would not have been victorious. Even if our scribe had been much wiser, he would not have broken that wall with his skull, which we barely smashed with our clubs. We had for some time been striking each other mightily with stones, when our Stépka the intrepid (he was not very clever, but a powerful man) rushed with grim rage into the thickest fight among the Valdáyans: he struck them down with a cudgel, and they raised a cry, but Stépka hacked among them like a butcher. Then his nephew, too, took a club, flew at them, but lost courage and showed them his back, whereupon a frisky Valdáyan jumped upon it and was on top of our hero. In the very midst of the sanguinary fray he had jumped upon the hero’s shoulder, and boasted before his whole horde that he had begun with a battle and had ended with leapfrog. But the jest ended badly for him, for the Valdáyan had not yet thanked us for the ride, when Stépka’s nephew grabbed the Valdáyan by the girdle and so hurled him to the ground that he broke his nose and so flattened it that he now has to wear a plaster upon it.

Then, lo, we all suddenly noticed in the distance a rider all covered with dust: that was the proud leader of the Valdáyans; that beast was a worthy likeness of our own manager. Raging with an internal fire against us, he galloped upon his steed towards our hero. All thought that they would end the terrible battle by a duel; we all stood in quiet expectancy, and terror seized us all. Already the heroes approached each other on their horses, but suddenly, it seemed, they changed their minds: they did not fight, they only cursed each other, leaving us alone to finish the battle, while their horses took them back to their homes.

In the meantime, if you wish to know it, the sun shone so that it was time for us to dine; if the accursed battle had not taken place, I, no doubt, would have swallowed two or three bites by that time; but, under the circumstances, I thought neither of beet soup nor buckwheat mush.

When the horses had taken away the commanders, we carried on a real war: all order was suddenly gone, and at the same time all distinction of great and small disappeared; we were all mixed up, and all were equal. Suddenly my brother swooped down like a hawk, to aid us, and he mixed up the battle, like wheat mush in a vat. Accuse me not of lying in what I am going to tell of my brother: holding a heavy club in his hand, he carried terror to all our enemies: wherever he passed there was a street, and where he turned about, there was a square. He had been vanquishing the Valdáyans for an hour, and they had all been running away from him, when all at once there appeared his adversary. My brother’s exploit was stopped, for that Valdáyan hung upon his neck, and bit off my brother’s right ear. And thus my beloved brother Ilyúkha, who had come to the battle with ears, went away with but one. He dragged himself along, bleeding like a pig, maimed, torn, but above all, disgraced.

Think of my loss! He lost an ear, and I a brother! Since then I no longer recognise him as my brother. Do not imagine that I have spoken this in vain: when he was possessed of both ears, he was easily moved by the words of the unfortunate; but now that door is entirely locked, and he hears only when one says: “Here, take this!” but he no longer hears the word “give,” and with his left ear accepts nobody’s prayers. In an empty well it is not likely you will find a treasure, and without it I do not care even for my brother.

Having lost such a hero, we were bereft of all means of victory; the Valdáyans henceforth got the better of us, struck us down, pressed hard upon us and drove us from the field. We should have been that day entirely undone, had not Stépka saved us from our dire distress: like a bolt of lightning he suddenly rushed upon us from behind, and stopped us, who were then in full flight. “Stand still, good fellows!” he yelled, “stand still! Come together in close array, and begin anew the battle!” All was changed. O most happy hour! At Stépka’s voice crowds of men came together, came, bore down the adversary, defeated them, and wrung the victory they held from their hands. They rushed together, correcting their disorder, and hotter than before the battle was renewed.

Already we were driving our enemy back to their village, and depriving them of their cudgels and sticks, and our battle would have been at an end, if a monk had not appeared to their aid. This new Balaam was urging on his beast and beating it with a stick for its sluggishness; but all his beating of his dobbin moved her not a step ahead. He somehow managed to reach the top of the hill, and there his holy lips uttered curses against us. But neither these, nor the wooden arms, kept us back, and we flew against our enemy, and did our work among them. That worthy man, seeing our stubbornness, leaped from his horse, and showed the swiftness of his feet, which was greater than when he first had come, and, showing us his back, fled to his house.

Dark night had already put out its veil, when all were worn out with fighting. The Valdáyans being vanquished, we all went from the field, and reached home, though hungry, yet alive.

THE COOK AND THE TAILOR

’Tis easier for a cook to roast and stew than for a tailor to talk of cookery. It was, I know not where, in Lithuania or Poland,--he knows of it who knows more than I; all I know is that a lord was travelling, and as he was returning from a visit he was, naturally, drunk. A man came from the opposite direction, and he met the lord, phiz to phiz. The lord was blown up with conceit and liquor, and two servants led his horse for him. The horse strutted proudly along, and the lord was steeped in arrogance like a cock. The man that met him was poorly clad. The lord interrogated him, like a man of sense:

“What handicraft have you?”

“A cook, my lord, stands before you.”

“If so, then answer me, before I spit into your face: you are a cook, so you know what dainties are; what then is the greatest dainty?”

“A roast pig’s hide,” the cook answered without hesitation.

“You, cook, are not a fool,” the lord said to him, “and gave me readily an answer, from which I conclude that you know your business.”

With these words, the lord gave him a generous reward, just like a father, though he had begot no children. My cook, for joy, tripped lightly along and was soon out of sight. Whom should he meet but a tailor, an old acquaintance, nay, a friend,--not to the grave, yet a friend.

“Whither do you hurry so fast, friend Ilyá?”

The other replied: “Now, my friend, I can boldly assure you that the cook’s profession is better than yours. You, drunken Petrúshka, do not even guess that Ilyá is going to have a big celebration! Look at my pocket. I and my wife will be satisfied with what we now have; we cannot unto our deaths spend all the lord, who just passed me drunk upon the road, has given me.”

And he pulled out his purse that was filled with gold coins: “That’s what I got for a pig!”

And he showed his money in his bag, and told his friend all that had happened. The tailor was melting with envy, as he tried to count the money, and he thought: “Of course the lord is a fool for having given a bag full of money for a pig; I will run after him, and overtake him, and if all the wisdom is only in a pig’s hide, I’ll shave him clean, like a scribe.”

Having said this, the senseless man started on the road. The lord was riding leisurely along, and as the tailor was running fast, he soon overtook him. He cried to him:

“Wait, lord! I am not a Tartar, and I will not cut you down; I have no sword, and I will not injure you. I am all worn out with running; I am a cook, and not a thief.”

The lord heard the words and, looking back, saw that it was not a robber with a club, so he reined in his horse. The tailor ran up to him, panting like a dog, and barely breathing, having lost his strength in running. The lord asked him:

“Why, beast, have you been running so senselessly after me? You have only frightened me: I thought it was a robber with a club that was after me.”

The tailor said: “I am not a thief, my lord!”

To which the lord: “What manner of creature are you, then?”

“I am a cook by trade, and know how to stew and roast well.”

The lord asked him at once: “What is the sweetest part of the ox?”

The rash man said: “The hide.”

No sooner said than the cook’s sides and face, and belly and back were swollen, being struck with a whip. The tailor walked slowly off, weeping disconsolately, and cursing the lord and the trade of a cook.

Mikhaíl Vasílevich Danílov. (1722-1790.)

The _Memoirs_ of Danílov are interesting for the reason that they indicate the sources from real life from which Catherine II., Fon-Vízin and others drew the characters for their comedies. Thus, Matréna Petróvna of Danílov’s _Memoirs_ is the prototype of Mávra’s mistress in _O Tempora_ (p. 272) and of Mrs. Uncouth in _The Minor_, p. 342.

FROM HIS “MEMOIRS”

I was my father’s favourite son. When I was about seven years old, or more, I was turned over, in the village of Kharín where my father lived, to the sexton Philip, named Brudásty, for instruction. The sexton was of low stature, broad in his shoulders; a large round beard covered his chest, his head of thick hair came down to his shoulders, and gave the appearance of having no neck. There studied with him at the same time two of my cousins, Eliséy and Borís. Our teacher Brudásty lived alone with his wife in a very small hut; I used to come to Brudásty for my lessons early in the morning, and I never dared to open his door, until I had said aloud my prayer, and he answered “Amen.” I remember to the present day the instruction I received from Brudásty, probably for the reason that he often whipped me with a switch. I cannot in all faithfulness say that I was then guilty of indolence or stubbornness; on the contrary I studied very well for my years, and my teacher gave me lessons of moderate length and not above my strength, so that I readily memorised them. But we were not allowed to leave Brudásty for a moment, except for dinner; we had to sit uninterruptedly on the bench, and during the long summer days I suffered greatly from this continuous sitting, and grew so faint that my memory left me, and when it came to reciting my lesson in the evening, I had forgotten all I knew, and could not read half of it, for which the final resolve was that I was to be whipped for my stupidity. I grew to believe that punishment was an indispensable accompaniment of study. Brudásty’s wife kept on inciting us, during the absence of her husband, that we should yell louder, even if it was not our lesson. We felt some relief in our tedious sitting when Brudásty was away in the field working. Whenever Brudásty returned I recited my lessons correctly and without breaking down, just as I did in the morning when my thoughts were not yet tired out. From this I conclude that compulsory study is useless to the child, because the mental powers weaken from bodily labour and become languid. This truth becomes apparent when we compel a child to play beyond its pleasure: both the game and toys become wearisome to the child from mere ennui, and it will rarely play with them, if not altogether hate them.... Such is the fruit of senseless and worthless teachers, like Brudásty: from mere weary sitting, I got into the habit of inventing all kinds of accidents and diseases, which, in reality, I never had.

Having learned the A B C from Brudásty, my father took me near the city of Túla to a widow, Matréna Petróvna, who had married a relative of ours, Afanási Denísovich Danílov. Matréna Petróvna had at her house a nephew of hers and heir to her property, Epishkóv. It was for his sake that she had asked my father to bring me to her house to study, that her nephew might have a companion. As the widow loved her nephew very much and fondled him, we were never compelled to study; but being left to my choice in the matter, and fearing no punishment, I soon finished my oral instruction, which consisted only of the two books: the Book of the Hours and the Psalter.

The widow was a very pious woman: hardly a day passed without having divine services in her house, either with a priest, or sometimes a servant acted in his capacity. I was employed to read the prayers during these services, and as the widow’s favourite cousin had not yet learned to read, he, from great envy and anger, used to come to the table where I was reading the psalms, and kick me so painfully with his boots that I could not repress my tears. Though the widow saw her nephew’s naughtiness, she never said anything more than in a drawling voice, as if against her will: “Ványa, you have had enough fun!” as though she did not see that Ványa’s fun had caused tears to flow from my eyes. She could not read; but she used to open every day a large book on her table, and pretended to read loudly the prayer of the Holy Virgin to her people. The widow was very fond of cabbage soup with mutton at dinner, and I must confess that as long as I lived at her house I do not remember a single day that passed without a drubbing. The moment she seated herself at the table to eat her favourite soup, some of the servants dragged the cook that had cooked the soup into the dining-room, put her on the floor and mercilessly beat her with rods, and the widow never stopped eating as long as they beat the cook and she cried with pain; that had become a regular custom and evidently served to heighten her appetite. The widow was so stout that her width was only a trifle less than her height.

One day her nephew and I took a walk, and there was with us a young servant of hers who taught us to read and was at the same time studying himself. Her nephew and prospective heir led us to an apple-tree that grew outside the enclosure, and he began to knock down some apples, without having first asked his aunt’s permission. This crime was reported to his aunt. She ordered all three of us to be brought into her presence for a just punishment. She ordered in great anger to take up at once our innocent servant and teacher and to place him on a wooden horse, and he was unmercifully whipped for a long time, while they kept on repeating: “Don’t knock the apples off the tree!” Then came my turn: the widow ordered to have me put on the horse, and I received three blows on my back, though I, like the teacher, had not knocked down any apples. Her nephew was frightened, and he thought that his turn would now come to be punished, but his fear was groundless; all the widow did was to reprimand him as follows: “It is wrong, it is not proper, sir, to knock down apples without having received my permission,” and then she kissed him and said: “I suppose, Ványa, you were frightened as they whipped your companions; don’t be afraid, my darling! I’ll not have you whipped.”

Catherine the Great. (1729-1796.)

The French culture, which had held sway in Russia before Catherine II., became even more pronounced when she ascended the throne. She corresponded with Voltaire, offered d’Alembert the place of tutor to her son, paid Diderot a salary as keeper of his own library, which she had purchased from him, and, in the first part of her reign, laboured, at least platonically, for the introduction of new laws in the spirit of Rousseau and Montesquieu. She planned to build schools and academies, encouraged the establishment of printing presses, by making them free from government control, and by her own example did much to foster literature. One of her earliest ventures is her famous _Instruction_ for the commission that had been called to present a project for a new code of laws. She composed a large number of comedies, tragedies and operas, wrote a work on Russian proverbs and a number of fairy tales. Of the latter her _Prince Khlor_ gave Derzhávin an occasion to immortalise her as _Felítsa_, and to inaugurate a new style of ode. Catherine was the first to found a satirical journal, the _All Kinds of Things_ (see p. 326), the prototype of a number of similar periodical publications. The latter part of her reign is characterised by a reactionary tendency, due to her general distrust of the Masons, who had taken a firm foothold in Russia and whom she suspected of favouring the French Revolution. She then put literature under a ban, and caused much annoyance to men like Nóvikov and Radíshchev.

Her _Prince Khlor_ has been translated into English under the title: _Ivan Czarovitz; or, The Rose Without Prickles That Stings Not, A Tale_, written by her Imperial Majesty, translated from the Russian Language, London, 1793. It had previously appeared in a periodical paper, _The Bee_, published at Edinburgh. It is reproduced here.

Act I., Scene 4, of _Mrs. Grumble’s Birthday_, in C. E. Turner’s _Studies in Russian Literature_, and the same, in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.

There is also a translation of Catherine’s _Memoirs_, originally written by her in French, under the title: _Memoirs of the Empress Catherine II., Written by Herself_, with a Preface by A. Herzen, translated from the French, London and New York, 1859.

O TEMPORA