Chapter XXIII: Act IV: , Scene 6. Casetwister, Fékla and Talon

_Casetwister_ (_to Talon_). But hear, my dear. The rumour must be false that some meddler has denounced us to the Senate for taking bribes and for deciding wrongly cases at law.

_Talon._ I declare! What bad luck is that?

_Casetwister._ I could not find out all. But you, my friend, tell me in truth what case it was we decided so wrongly that we did not cover our tracks? I can’t think of any.

_Talon_ (_scratching his spine_). Even if I were to go to confession, I could not think of any.

_Fékla._ But that’s impossible.

_Casetwister._ I beg you, wife, leave us alone! We know affairs better than you.

_Fékla._ Indeed, I know as well as you. Is it not my business to receive things and look after them? But may the wrath of the Lord strike me on the spot, if my right hand knows what my left hand takes.

_Casetwister_ (_to Talon_). Say: it just occurs to me that there was quite a disturbance about the note whose endorsement I ordered to have scratched.

_Talon._ O sir, there is no cause for your worry there. I myself did the scratching. The defendant suspected the plaintiff of changing the endorsement. You decided the case properly according to the laws, and ordered the note to be destroyed.

_Fékla_ (_to Casetwister_). Well, you have done no more wrong there than I.

_Talon._ Besides, you did not scratch the note, but only clean paper.

_Fékla._ Then where is your guilt? What sin is there in scratching mere paper? None at all.

_Casetwister._ So much the better.

_Talon._ There is something else that occurs to me. Do you remember the lawsuit for Simple’s estate? Pettifog, who had really nothing to do with the case and had forgotten the name of Simple in the lawsuit, contrived cunningly to sue Trickster, who had also not the slightest right to the estate. We did not bother about finding out whose the village in question was, and without further investigation, in the absence of Simple, disposed of the lawsuit by adjudging another’s property to the contending parties, which they proceeded at once to divide among themselves. I can’t imagine what Simple is going to say about it.

_Casetwister._ Let him say whatever he pleases, since he has paid so little attention to it. Why should we worry about him now? We are the judges. ’Tis our duty to know only that which is presented for our consideration on paper. What right have we to know that the estate under contention does not belong to the contending parties, but to someone else? We should have to have some written proof of that; in absence of the same, we simply must decide a lawsuit between two parties strictly according to the laws. We cannot help it if both were contending for something that did not belong to them.

OBÚKHOVKA

At peace with my neighbours and relatives, at peace with my conscience, in love with my beloved family, I here with my joys alone measure the stream of quiet days.

My cosey house with straw-thatched roof is all I want, neither too low, nor too high; there is a nook in it for friendship, and indolence has forgot to put a lock on the door, to notabilities unknown.

By a mount from the north protected, it stands upon a grassy hill, and looks into groves and distant meadows, while Psel, winding like a serpent, babbles as it tends towards the mills.

Nearby, the favourite child of nature, a vast shadowy forest, surrounds it on all sides with its thick tree-tops, without encroachment on the free expanse.

Before it, and on a small eminence, art, to please our eyes, having given a gentle slope to abrupt mounds, has on a modest elevation raised a modest temple to moderation.

Moderation, O heavenly friend, be ever my companion! You lead men to happiness; but your altar, not known to all, is hidden from the boastful rich.

You have taught me from earliest youth not to seek honour nor gold, without pinions not to fly upwards, and in the glowworm not to show the light to the wonderment of the world.

With you, the dearest one to me in the world, I treasure my fate; whithersoever I glance with you, in every object I discover a new charm.

As I walk down the hill, the arbour covered by the dense shade of trees calls the tired one, through the forest that bends into a vault, to rest, and mirrors itself in the crystal stream below.

Coolness reigns here for ever and refreshes the feelings and the mind, while the gentle, incessant murmur of the impetuous waterfall induces sleep amidst sweet thoughts.

There suddenly twenty wheels begin to turn, and circle hastens after circle; diamonds, opals, hyacinths, rain down from gleaming bows, while pearls beat underneath in clouds.

Thus the vision of happiness moves the passions, and with them the whole world is in motion. Fortunate he who gets away from them, for they crush all, tear all in pieces that passes under their millstone.

Let us go, before it grows dark, to rest upon the nearby island; a covered way leads to it, where the rays of the sun dare not glide through the dark foliage.

There I shall sit down under a mossy elm, leaning against a mighty trunk. Alas, not long, upon a hot day, will its leafy top carpet for me a hospitable shade!

Already it has inclined its brow upon the water that has undermined the steep bank; already it looks into the gloomy depth,--and soon, in stormy weather, it will fall with upturned roots into the water.

Thus in the world all is carried away by the stream of time amidst an eternal strife; thus ancient altars have fallen; thus kingdoms and kings have fallen, with the pillars of their thrones.

But to disperse painful thoughts, let us walk the path to the forest-covered hill where Phœbus with brilliant beam reflects from the zenith a mighty shade.

I see a modest plain with a hedge of crimson bushes: there Flora, the tender mother of the gardens, has scattered her basket full of fragrant flowers.

Farther off, in the realm of Pomona, fruit burdens the trees; beyond is the vineyard of Bacchus, where, filled with nectar juice, gleam amber clusters.

Is it possible to picture all the beauties of nature, and all its charm? To weld there the distance with the horizon, to adorn here the vales with flocks, and nap it with the golden harvest?

No, no! Abandon the vain endeavour! Already the sun has disappeared behind the mountain; already above the ethereal azure, ’twixt clouds, twinkle bright stars and glisten on the waves of the river.

I ascend the hill. The golden moon has swum out on a gentle cloud, and, glinting through the bluish cirrus, leaves behind it a gleaming path above the liquid glass.

Oh, how dear that place is to me when the satellite of the night comes, in all her beauty, to weld with the dream of a pining soul the remembrance of bright days!

ON JULIA’S DEATH

The evening darkness shrouds
The slumbering world in peace,
And from her throne of clouds
Shines Luna through the trees.
My thoughts in silence blend,
But gathered all to thee:
Thou moon! the mourner’s friend,
Oh, come and mourn with me!

Upon her grave I bow,
The green grave where she lies:
Oh, hear my sorrows now,
And consecrate my sighs!
This is her ashes’ bed,--
Here her cold relics sleep,--
Where I my tears shall shed,
While this torn heart can weep.

O Julia! Never rose
Had half the charms of thee!
My comfort, my repose,--
Oh, thou wert all to me!
But thou art gone, and I
Must bear life’s load of clay,--
And pray, and long to die,
Though dying day by day.

But I must cease to sing,
My lyre all mute appears.
Alas! Its plaintive string
Is wetted with my tears.
Oh! Misery’s song must end,--
My thoughts all fly to thee:--
Thou moon! The mourner’s friend,
Oh, come and mourn with me!

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

Adrián Moyséevich Gribóvski. (1766-1833.)

Gribóvski was a Little-Russian by birth. In 1784 he was secretary to Derzhávin, the poet, who was then Governor of Olónetsk. Then he served under Potémkin, and after his death in 1791 he entered the service of Count Zúbov, Catherine’s favourite. In 1795 he was Catherine’s Secretary of State. Like so many Russian Memoirs of the eighteenth century, Gribóvski’s _Memoirs_ not only throw light on contemporary events, but are of great importance for a correct appreciation of the literature of the time. What Gribóvski reports of the simplicity of Catherine’s private life forms the subject of Derzhávin’s _Felítsa_ (see p. 385 _et seq._).

FROM HIS “MEMOIRS”

The Empress’s [Catherine II.] manner of life was of late years the same: In the winter she resided in the large Winter Palace, in the middle story, above the right, smaller entrance. Her own rooms were few. Upon ascending a small staircase, one entered into a room where, for the immediate dispatch of the Empress’s orders, there stood behind a screen a writing table with writing material for the secretaries of state and other officers. This room faced a small court, and from it you passed into the boudoir, with its windows on the Palace Square. Here stood a toilet table. Of the two doors in this room, the one to the right led into the diamond room, the other, to the left, into the sleeping-room, where the Empress generally received her reports. From the sleeping-room one passed straight into the interior boudoir, and to the left--into the study and mirror room, from which one way led into the lower apartments, and the other, over a gallery, into the so-called Neighbouring House. In these apartments the Empress lived until spring, but sometimes she removed earlier to the Tauric Palace, which had been built by Prince Potémkin on the bank of the Nevá.

The main building of this latter palace was only one story high, on purpose, it seems, that the Empress should not be annoyed by staircases. Here her rooms were larger than in the Winter Palace, especially the study in which she received the reports. In the first days of May she always went incognito to Tsárskoe Seló, and from there she returned, also incognito, in September to the Winter Palace. Her apartments in Tsárskoe Seló were quite large and tastefully furnished. All know the magnificent gallery in which the Empress frequently took a walk, particularly on Sundays when the park was filled with a large crowd of people that used to come down from St. Petersburg. She received the reports in the cabinet, or in the sleeping-room.

The Empress’s time and occupations were arranged in the following manner: She rose at seven, and was busy writing in her cabinet until nine (her last work was on the Senate Regulations). She once remarked in her conversation that she could not live a day without writing something. During that time she drank one cup of coffee, without cream. At nine o’clock she passed into the sleeping-room, where almost in the entrance from the boudoir she seated herself in a chair near the wall. Before her stood a table that slanted towards her and also to the opposite direction, where there was also a chair. She then generally wore a sleeping-gown, or capote, of white gros de Tours, and on her head a white crêpe bonnet which was poised a little towards the left. In spite of her sixty-five years, the Empress’s face was still fresh, her hands beautiful, her teeth all well preserved, so that she spoke distinctly, without lisping, only a little masculinely. She read with eyeglasses and a magnifying glass. Having once been called in with my reports, I found her reading in this way. She smiled and said to me: “You, no doubt, do not need this apparatus! How old are you?” And when I said: “Twenty-six,” she added: “But we have, in our long service to the Empire, dulled our vision, and now we are of necessity compelled to use glasses.” It appeared to me that “we” was used by her not as an expression of majesty, but in the ordinary sense.

Upon another occasion she handed me an autograph note which contained some references for her Senate Regulations for verification, and said: “Laugh not at my Russian orthography. I will tell you why I have not succeeded in mastering it. When I came here, I applied myself diligently to the study of Russian. When my aunt, Elizabeth Petróvna, heard of this, she told my Court mistress that I ought not to be taught any more,--that I was clever enough anyway. Thus, I could learn Russian only from books, without a teacher, and that is the cause of my insufficient knowledge of orthography.” However, the Empress spoke quite correct Russian, and was fond of using simple native words, of which she knew a great number. “I am very happy,” she said to me, “that you know the order of the Chancery. You will be the first executor of my Regulations before the Senate. But I caution you that the Chancery of the Senate has overpowered the Senate, and that I wish to free it from the Chancery. For any unjust decisions, my punishment for the Senate shall be: let them be ashamed!” I remarked that not only the Senate, but also other bureaus that are guided by the General Reglement, are hampered in the transaction of their business by great inconveniences and difficulties that demand correction. “I should like very much to see those inconveniences and difficulties of which you speak to me in such strong terms. The General Reglement is one of the best institutions of Peter the Great.” Later on, I presented to her Highness my notes upon the General Reglement, which I read to her almost every afternoon of her residence in Tsárskoe Seló in 1796, and which were honoured by her undivided august approval. (These notes must be deposited with other affairs in the Archives of the Foreign College.)

After occupying her seat, of which I spoke above, the Empress rang a bell, and the valet of the day, who uninterruptedly remained outside the door, entered and, having received his order, called in the persons. At that time of the day, the Chief Master of Police and the Secretary of State waited daily in the boudoir; at eleven o’clock there arrived Count Bezboródko; for the other officers certain days in the week were set apart: for the Vice-Chancellor, Governor, Government Procurator of the Government of St. Petersburg, Saturday; for the Procurator-General, Monday and Thursday; Wednesday for the Superior Procurator of the Synod and Master General of Requests; Thursday for the Commander-in-Chief of St. Petersburg. But in important and urgent cases, all these officers could come any other time to report.

The first one to be called in to the Empress was the Chief Master of Police, Brigadier Glázov. He made a verbal report on the safety of the capital and other occurrences, and presented a note, written at the office irregularly and badly on a sheet of paper, containing the names of arrivals and departures on the previous day of people of all conditions who had taken the trouble to announce their names at the toll-house, for the sentinels stopped no one at the toll-house, nor inquired anything of them,--in fact there existed then no toll-gates; anybody received a passport from the Governor at any time he asked for it, and without any pay, and could leave the city whenever he wished: for this reason the list of arrivals and departures never could be very long. After the Chief Master of Police left, the Secretaries of State who had any business had themselves announced by the valet, and were let in one by one. I was one of them. Upon entering the sleeping-room, I observed the following ceremony: I made a low obeisance to the Empress, to which she responded with a nod of her head, and smilingly gave me her hand, which I took and kissed, and I felt the pressure of my own hand; then she commanded me to take a seat. Having seated myself on the chair opposite, I placed my papers on the slanting table, and began to read. I suppose the other reporting officers acted in the same way, when they entered the room of the Empress, and that they met with the same reception.

About eleven o’clock the other officers arrived with their reports, as mentioned above, and sometimes there came Field-Marshal Count Suvórov Rýmnikski, who then, after the conquest of Poland, resided at St. Petersburg. When he entered, he first prostrated himself three times before the image of the Holy Virgin of Kazán, which stood in the corner, to the right of the door, and before which there burned an undying lamp; then he turned to the Empress, prostrated himself once before her, though she tried to keep him from it, and, taking him by the hand, lifted him and said: “Mercy! Alexander Vasílevich, are you not ashamed to act like that?” But the hero worshipped her and regarded it as his sacred duty to express his devotion to her in that manner. The Empress gave him her hand, which he kissed as a relic, and asked him to seat himself on the chair opposite her; two minutes later she dismissed him. They used to tell that Count Bezboródko and a few others prostrated themselves in the same way before her, but not before the Holy Virgin.

At these audiences in the Winter and Tauric Palaces, the military officers wore uniforms, with their swords and shoes, but boots on holidays; civil officers wore during week-days simple French coats, but on holidays gala dresses; but at Tsárskoe Seló, both the military and civilians wore dress-coats on week-days, and only on holidays the former put on uniforms, and the latter French coats with their swords.

The Empress was busy until noon, after which her old hair-dresser, Kozlóv, dressed her hair in her interior boudoir. She wore her hair low and very simple; it was done up in the old fashion, with small locks behind her ears. Then she went into the boudoir, where we all waited for her; our society was then increased by four spinsters who came to serve the Empress at her toilet. One of them, M. S. Aleksyéev, passed some ice to the Empress, who rubbed her face with it, probably in order to show that she did not like any other washes; another, A. A. Polokúchi, pinned a crêpe ornament to her hair, and the two sisters Zvyerév handed her the pins. This toilet lasted not more than ten minutes, and during that time the Empress conversed with some one of the persons present, among whom there was often the Chief Equerry, Lev Sergyéevich Narýshkin, and sometimes Count Strogonóv, who were her favourite society. Having bid the company good-bye, the Empress returned with her maids into the sleeping-room, where she dressed herself for dinner, with their aid and with the aid of Márya Sávishna, while we all went home. On week-days the Empress wore simple silk dresses, which were all made almost according to the same pattern, and which were known as Moldavian; the upper garment was usually of lilac or greyish colour, and without her decorations,--her lower garment white; on holidays she wore a brocade gown, with three decorations--the crosses of St. Andrew, St. George and St. Vladímir, and sometimes she put on all the sashes that belong to these decorations, and a small crown; she wore not very high-heeled shoes.

Her dinner was set for two o’clock. During the week there were generally invited to dinner, of ladies, the Maid of Honour Protásov and Countess Branítski; of gentlemen, Adjutant-General P. V. Pássek, A. A. Narýshkin, Count Strogonóv, the two French emigrants, the good Count Esterházy and the black Marquis de Lambert, at times Vice-Admiral Ribas, Governor-General of the Polish provinces Tutolmín, and finally the Marshal of the Court, Prince Baryatínski. On holidays there were invited also other military and civil officers who lived in St. Petersburg, down to the fourth class, and, on special celebrations, down to the sixth class. The ordinary dinner of the Empress did not last more than an hour. She was very abstemious in her food: she never breakfasted, and at dinner she tasted with moderation of not more than three or four courses; she drank only a glass of Rhine or Hungarian wine; she never ate supper. For this reason she was, in spite of her sixty-five years and industrious habits, quite well and lively. At times, indeed, her legs swelled and sores were opened up, but that only served to purify her humours, consequently was advantageous for her health. It is asserted that her death took place solely through the closing up of these sores.

After dinner all the guests immediately departed. The Empress was left alone: in summer she sometimes took a nap, but in winter never. She sometimes listened, until the evening assembly, to the foreign mail which arrived twice a week; sometimes she read a book, or made cameo imprints on paper; this she did also during the reading of her mail by P. A., or Count Markóv, or Popóv; but the latter was rarely invited to read, on account of his poor pronunciation of French, though he was nearly always present in the secretary’s room. At six o’clock there assembled the aforementioned persons, and others of the Empress’s acquaintance whom she specially designated, in order to pass the evening hours. On Hermitage days, which were generally on Thursdays, there was a performance, to which many ladies and gentlemen were invited; after the performance they all went home. On other days the reception was in the Empress’s apartments. She played rocambole or whist, generally with P. A., E. V. Chertkóv and Count Strogonóv; there were also card-tables for the other guests. At ten o’clock the Empress retired to her inner apartments; at eleven she was in bed, and in all the rooms reigned a deep silence.

Gavrílo Petróvich Kámenev. (1772-1803.)

Kámenev wrote very few poems, and his reputation rests on his ballad _Gromvál_, which is remarkable for its flowing verse, the first two lines being in dactylic measure, and the last two lines of each stanza in anapests. Its main importance, however, lies in the fact that it was the first successful attempt at Romantic verse in the Russian language. Púshkin said of him: “Kámenev was the first in Russia who had the courage to abandon the classic school, and we Russian Romantic poets must bring a fitting tribute to his memory.”

GROMVÁL

In my mind’s eye I rapidly fly, rapidly piercing the dimness of time; I lift the veil of hoary antiquity, and I see Gromvál on his good horse.

The plumes wave upon his helmet, the tempered arrows clang in his quiver; he is borne over the clear field like a whirlwind, in burnished armour with his sharp spear.

The sun is setting behind the mountains of flint, the evening is descending from the aërial heights. The hero arrives in the murky forest, and only through its tops he sees the sky.

The storm, shrouded in sullen night, hastens to the west on sable pinions; the waters groan, the oak woods rustle, and centennial oaks creak and crack.

There is no place to protect oneself against the storm and rain; there is no cave, no house is seen; only through the dense darkness now glistens, now goes out, through the branches of the trees, a little fire in the distance.

With hope in his heart, with daring in his soul, slowly travelling through the forest towards the fire, the hero arrives at the bank of a brook, and suddenly he sees nearby and in front of him a castle.

A blue flame gleams within and reflects the light in the flowing stream; shadows pass to and fro in the windows, and howls and groans issue dully from them.

The knight swiftly dismounts from his horse and goes to the grass-covered gate; he strikes mightily against it with his steel spear, but only echoes in the forest respond to the knocking.

Immediately the fire within the castle goes out, and the light dies in the embrace of darkness; the howls and groans grow silent, too; the storm increases, the rain is doubled.

At the powerful stroke of his mighty hand the firmness of the iron gates gives way: the latches are broken, the hinges creak, and fearless Gromvál goes in.

He unsheathes his sword, ready to strike, and, groping, goes into the castle. Quiet and gloom lie over all, only through the windows and chinks the whirlwind whistles.

The knight cries out in anger and in grief: “Ferocious wizard, greedy Zlomár! You have compelled Gromvál to wander over the world, you have stolen Rognyéda, his companion!

“Many a kingdom and land have I passed, have struck down mighty knights and monsters, have vanquished giants with my mighty hand, but have not yet found my beloved Rognyéda!

“Where do you dwell, evil Zlomár? In wild mountain fastnesses, in caves, in forests, in murky underground passages, in the depth of the sea do you hide her from my view?

“If I find your habitation, wicked magician, evil sorcerer, I will drag Rognyéda out of her captivity, I will pull out your black heart from your breast.”

The knight grows silent, and sleep comes over him. Fatigue and night make him a bed. Without taking off his armour, in the breastplate and helmet, he kneels down and falls into a deep sleep.

The clouds hurry away, and the storm dies down, the stars grow dim, the east grows light; the morning star awakes, Zimtsérla blooms like a crimson rose, but Gromvál is still asleep.

The sun rolls over the vault of heaven, at noon glows with its heated rays, and the pitch of the pines waters through the bark, but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.

The forerunner of the night with olive brow glances from the east upon the forest and fields, and from an urn sprinkles dew upon the sward; but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.

Night, with cypress crown upon its head, in a garment woven of darkness and stars, walks frowning, over stairs, to its throne; but sleep still keeps Gromvál in its embrace.

Clouds congest in the vault of heaven, darkness grows thick, midnight comes on; the hero, awakening from his deep sleep, wonders when he sees not the crimson dawn.

Suddenly peals roar in the castle like thunder; the walls shake, the windows rattle, and, as lightnings rapidly flash in the darkness, the hall is made bright with a terrible fire.

All the doors bang loud as they open: in white shrouds, with candles in their hands, shadows appear; behind them skeletons carry in their bony hands an iron coffin.

They place the coffin in the vast hall; immediately the lid flies off, and the wizard Zlomár, O horrible sight! lies breathless within, with open eyes.

The floor opens wide, and a hellish fire rises up in a howling whirlwind and thunder, and, embracing the iron coffin, heats it to a white glow; Zlomár sighs the heavy sigh of Gehenna.

In his wild, fierce, bloodshot eyes terror is painted, despair and grief; from his mouth black foam boils in a cloud, but the magician lies motionless, like a corpse.

The ghosts and skeletons, taking each other’s hands, yell, howl, laugh, whistle; raving in rapturous orgy, they dance a hellish dance around his coffin.

Midnight passes in a terrible entertainment, and their groans and howls thunder ever more horrible. But scarcely has the herald of morning crowed three times, when ghosts, skeletons and coffin suddenly disappear.

There is darkness as in the grave, and quiet all around; in the forest nearby is silence and gloom. Gromvál perplexed, marvels at the appearance, and wondering does not believe himself.

Suddenly a magic flute is heard, and the sound of the harp strikes his ears: the vault of the hall bursts open, and a rose-coloured beam, with its soft light, dispels dense night.

In a light cloud of fragrant vapours, as if a fresh breeze were blowing and a swan gently gliding high up in the air, a sorceress softly descends into the hall.

Purer than the lily is her garment; her girdle shines on her waist like hyacinth; like the twinkle of the gold-gleaming eastern star, merriment beams in her eyes.

With a pleasant voice Dobráda speaks: “Sad knight, submit to your fate! Zlomár is no longer; fate has for ever cleared the world from that wrongdoer.

“Into the abyss of hell he has been hurled for ever; the jaws of Gehenna have swallowed him; with the gurgling of the lava and the roar of the fire, the abyss alone will hear his howl and groan.

“Death, transgressing the law of nature, has not deprived the magician’s body of feeling: the shades of persons by him destroyed nightly torment him here in the castle.

“Knight, hasten to your Rognyéda! To the south of the forest, in a sandy plain, in a steel prison of Zlomár’s castle, two winged Zilants watch her.

“Accept this magic horn from me; it has the power to close the jaws of monsters. But listen! You cannot save Rognyéda without shedding her blood,--thus the fates have decreed.”

The magic strings sound again; the cloud is wafted upwards with Dobráda. Struck dumb by this speech, and beside himself, Gromvál, like a statue of stone, follows her with his glances.

Holding the emerald horn in his hand, in bitter resentment, the hero exclaims: “Ill-starred gift of the faithless sorceress, you promise happiness to me by the death of Rognyéda!

“No! I tremble at the very thought, and my heart flies a sacrifice to her. But, Gromvál, obey the dictum of fate, and hasten to destroy Zlomár’s sorcery.

“If you cannot save Rognyéda, lay the castle in ruins, vanquish the Zilants,--shed your heroic blood for her, and crown your love with an heroic death!”

A beautiful morning with radiant beam gilds the tops of century oaks. Turning his horse to the midday sun, our knight leaves both the castle and forest.

Ravines, cliffs, rapids, crags, groan under the heavy beats of the hoofs; dense dust like a cloud and whirling in a pillar flies upwards where Gromvál races.

Through the gloomy pass of a rocky mount the knight rides into a vast steppe: an ocean of sand spreads before his view, and in the distance, it seems mingled with the sky.

No wind stirs the sandy waves; heat breathes there its pestiferous breath; no shrubs rustle there, nor brooks babble: all is quiet and still as in the cemetery at midnight.

Through that wilderness, those terrible fields, no road leads, no tracks are seen; only in the east one can discern a steep mountain, and upon it a mighty castle stands out black in the distance.

Struggling three days with thirst and heat, the hero passes the barrier of death; on his worn-out steed, and in a bloody perspiration, he slowly reaches the foot of the mountain.

Over slippery paths on overhanging cliffs that threaten to crash down into the valley, slowly ascending the narrow footpath above an abyss, Gromvál reaches the top and castle.

Zlomár has built this castle with the power of Gehenna and the spirits of Hell. The turrets that tower above black cliffs announce destruction and evil death.

With Rognyéda in his heart, with bravery in his soul, Gromvál, like a fierce storm, breaks the hinges of the cast-iron doors, and with his tempered spear enters the terrible castle.

Furious he advances,--under his mighty heel dead bones and skulls crack; ravens, birds of the night and bats are awakened in the mossy crevices of the walls.

They hover like a cloud above the castle, and their terrible cries shake the air; the Zilants, hearing Gromvál’s arrival, begin to howl and whistle, and flap their wings.

Opening their jaws, they fly against him; their stings issue from their mouths like spears; they rattle their scales, bending their tails, and stretch out their destructive claws from their feet.

The hero blows his emerald horn,--the sound deafens them, and they fall like rocks; their wings are clipt, their jaws are closed; falling into a sleep of death, they lie in mounds.

In rapture the knight flies to the dungeon to embrace Rognyéda with flaming heart; but instead, an enormous door is opened, and a giant, mailed in armour, comes to meet him.

His furious glances are comets in the dark; brass is his corselet, lead his warclub; grey moss of the bog is his beard, a black forest after the storm the hair on his head.

Swinging his club with a terrible might, the giant lets it fall on Gromvál and strikes his valiant head: the echo shakes, reverberating through the castle.

The helmet clangs and is shattered to pieces; sparks issue from his dark eyes. From the stroke the club is bent as a bow, but Gromvál, like a rock, does not move from the spot.

The sword flashes in his heroic hand, and strikes the wretch like a thunderbolt; his strong brass would have broken to splinters, but the blade glides down his magic coat of mail.

The giant roars in evil madness, breathes flames, trembles with anger; he swells the muscles of his powerful shoulders, and threatens to crush Gromvál in his claws.

Death is unavoidable, destruction near; his terrible hands touch his corselet; but Gromvál, seizing his leg like an oak, makes him totter, and brings him to his fall.

The giant falls like a crumbling tower, and shakes all the castle with his terrible cry; the walls recede, the battlements fall; he is prostrate on the ground, and has dug a grave in the damp earth.

Grasping his throat with his mighty hand, Gromvál thrusts his sword into his jaws; the giant’s teeth gnash against the steel; he roars and groans, and writhes in convulsions.

Black foam and crimson blood lash and gush from his mouth; furious with suffering, battling with death, he digs the earth with his feet, trembles, lies in the agony of death.

Mingling in a boiling stream the giant’s blood wells up; a gentle vapour, rising from it in a cloud, forms the outline of fair Rognyéda.

The roses in her cheeks, the charm in her eyes, the crimson lips beckon for a kiss; her hair, falling like velvet over her shoulders, veils her swan’s breast.

Gromvál marvels at this miracle: does he see a vision or a real being? Approaching her with hope and hesitation, he presses not a dream, but Rognyéda to his breast.

Filled with passionate rapture, Gromvál addresses his love with tender words: “Long, oh, long have I sought you, Rognyéda, and have, like a shadow, wandered over the wide world!”

Drawing a deep breath, she says: “The evil magician, the cunning Zlomár, impelled by his despicable passion, brought me to this enchanted castle.

“Here he touched me with his magic wand, and deprived me of memory and feelings. Falling immediately into a mysterious trance, I have ever since been shrouded in deepest darkness.”

Taking Rognyéda by her hand, Gromvál softly descends to the foot of the mountain. He seats her behind him on his steed, and like an arrow flies back on the road.

Deep darkness covers the castle; thunders roar furiously in the night; stormy whirlwinds, tearing themselves away from their chains, howl, and the flinty ribs of the rock tremble.

With a terrible roar the earth bursts open, and the towers fall into the bottomless abyss; the Zilants, dungeon, giants are overthrown: Gromvál has vanquished the magic of Zlomár.

Vladisláv Aleksándrovich Ózerov. (1770-1816.)

Ózerov entered the military school when a child, left it as a lieutenant in 1788, and then was made adjutant to the director of the school, Count Anhalt, who died in 1794. His first literary venture was an _In Memoriam_ to the director, written in French. He then tried himself in odes and shorter songs, of which only the _Hymn to the God of Love_ rises above mediocrity. He scored his first great success in his tragedy _Œdipus at Athens_, which produced a stirring effect upon the audience. This was followed by _Fingal_, the subject being from Ossian. But the drama that most affected his generation was _Dimítri Donskóy_, which appeared opportunely on the eve of Napoleon’s invasion, in 1807. The element of tearfulness, or “sentimentality,” as Karamzín called it, which Ózerov was the first to introduce into the Russian tragedy, and the patriotic subject which he developed in his _Dimítri Donskóy_ combined to make his plays very popular, though his verse is rather heavy and artificial.

DIMÍTRI DONSKÓY