Chapter II: Introduction (1)

History is in a certain sense the sacred book of the nations, their most important and indispensable book, the mirror of their being and activities, the tables of their revelation and of their laws, the injunction of the ancestors to their posterity, the complement, the exposition of the present, and the example for the future.

Rulers and lawgivers act according to the lessons of history, and look upon its pages as the mariner looks upon his ocean charts. Human wisdom is in need of experience, and life is short. It is necessary to know how riotous passions have of yore agitated civil society, and in what manner the beneficent dominion of reason has bridled its tempestuous onrush, in order to establish order, harmonise the interests of men, and give them the best attainable happiness upon earth.

But even a simple citizen must read history. It reconciles him to the imperfection of the visible order of things, as to a common phenomenon in all ages; consoles him in his country’s calamities, by certifying to former similar, even more ominous misfortunes, by which the country did not perish; it fosters a moral sense, and by its equitable judgment inclines the soul to justice, by which our well-being and the concord of society are confirmed.

Such is its usefulness, and many are the pleasures of heart and mind that are derived from it. Curiosity is an innate feeling with the man of culture and with the savage. At the famous Olympic games the noise died down, and the masses preserved silence around Herodotus reading the traditions of the ages. Even before knowing the use of letters, the nations love history: the old man points out to the youth the elevated tomb and narrates to him the deeds of the hero resting in it. The first experiments of our ancestors in the art of writing were devoted to religion and history; shrouded by a dense cloud of ignorance, the people listened eagerly to the accounts of the chroniclers. Even fiction pleases, but to get a full pleasure out of it we must deceive ourselves and imagine that it is true. By opening the graves, raising the dead, putting life into their hearts and words upon their lips, by recreating kingdoms from the dust and presenting to the imagination a series of the ages with their several passions, customs, acts,--history expands the limits of our own existence. By its creative power we live with the men of all times, see and hear them, love and hate them; before we think of usefulness, we revel in the contemplation of the various occurrences and of the characters that entertain the mind or nurture our sensibilities.

If every history, even the inartistically written, may be pleasing, as Pliny says,--how much more that of our native land! A true cosmopolite is a metaphysical being or so unusual a phenomenon that there is no need of speaking of him, neither to praise nor to condemn him. We are all citizens,--in Europe and in India, in Mexico and in Abyssinia; the personality of each is closely bound up with his country: we love it because we love ourselves. The Greeks and the Romans may captivate our imagination: they belong to the family of the human race and are no strangers to us in their virtues and in their weaknesses, in their glory and in their calamities; but the name of a Russian has a special attraction for us: my heart beats more strongly for Pozhárski[2] than for Themistocles or Scipio. Universal history by its great recollections embellishes the world in our eyes, but Russian history embellishes our country in which we live and feel. How attractive are to us the banks of the Vólkhov, Dnieper, Don, when we know what has taken place upon them in remote antiquity! Not only Nóvgorod, Kíev, Vladímir, but even the cabins of Eléts, Kozélsk, Gálich, become interesting monuments, and mute objects grow eloquent. The shadows of bygone centuries everywhere draw pictures before us.

Outside of their special value for us, sons of Russia, its annals have an universal interest. Let us cast a glance at this unique Empire: thought staggers! Rome in all her majesty, ruling from the Tiber to the Caucasus, to the Elbe and to the African sands, could never equal it. Is it not wonderful how a land that is disrupted by eternal barriers of Nature, by immeasurable deserts and impenetrable forests, by cold and hot climates, how Astrakhán and Lapland, Siberia and Bessarabia, could have formed one empire with Moscow? And is that mixture of its inhabitants less wonderful, that composite and heterogeneous mass of varying degrees of civilisation? Like America, Russia has its savages; like other countries of Europe, it displays the fruits of a protracted civil existence. One need not be a Russian, one need only think, in order to read with curiosity the traditions of a nation that by daring and courage has obtained the dominion over the ninth part of the world, has discovered countries, heretofore unknown, has entered them in the universal system of geography and history, and has enlightened them through God-sent faith, without violence, without atrocities practised by the other devotees of Christianity in Europe and America, but merely by dint of good example.

We shall admit that the deeds described by Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy, are in general more interesting to others than to Russians, representing as they do more force of character and a more vivid play of the passions, since Greece and Rome were world powers and more enlightened than Russia; yet we may boldly assert that certain incidents, pictures, characters, of our history are not less curious than those of antiquity. Such are the exploits of Svyatosláv, the scourge of Batý, the popular rising under Donskóy, the fall of Nóvgorod, the taking of Kazán, the victory of the civic virtues in the time of the interregnum. The giants of the early dawn, Olég and the son of Ígor; the simple-minded knight, blind Vasílko; the friend of his country, virtuous Monomákh; the brave Mstislávs, terrible in war and an example of meekness in peace; Mikhaíl of Tver, so famed for his magnanimous death; the ill-fated, truly courageous Aleksándr Névski; the youthful hero, the vanquisher of Mamáy,--the slightest sketch of them acts powerfully on the imagination and on the heart. The reign of Iván III. alone is a rare treasure of history; at least I know of no monarch more worthy to live and shine in its sanctuary. The rays of his glory fall upon the cradle of Peter, and between these two autocrats are the remarkable Iván IV. and Godunóv, who merited his good fortune and his reverses; the strange False Demetrius; and, after a host of valiant patriots, boyárs, and citizens, the mentor of the enthroned, Patriarch Filarét with his august son, the light-bearer in the darkness of our country’s woes; and Tsar Alexis, the wise father of the Emperor whom Europe has called the Great. Either all modern history must be silent, or that of Russia has a right to be heard.

[2] The liberator of Russia, during the interregnum of the False
Demetrius.

Iván Andréevich Krylóv. (1768-1844.)

Krylóv’s biography is not satisfactory. It is known that he was the
son of a poor army officer, and that he lost his father early in life.
He received only the scantiest education, and while still a boy became
acquainted with practical life. He served in various capacities in the
government offices of St. Petersburg and the province. Then he
disappeared from public view for a number of years, though it is
surmised that he passed much of that time gambling at cards, to which
he was passionately addicted. In 1812 he received an appointment at
the Imperial (later the Public) Library, which gave him ample leisure
to devote himself to literature, though his innate laziness made him
very unproductive. Krylóv first entered the literary career before the
age of twenty, by a series of mediocre comedies. From 1789 he edited a
number of periodicals, the first of which, _The Spirit Post_, was in
the manner of the older satirical journals. It was here that he began
to develop the fine satirical vein for which his fables later became
so famous. In 1809 appeared the first small collection of his fables.
Most of his subjects he borrowed from the older writers, especially
from La Fontaine, but he not only gave them a Russian surrounding, but
invested them with such an artistic atmosphere as to make them the
possession of all times and all nations. His fables have been
translated into all the European and some of the Asiatic languages.

There are several translations of Krylóv in English: _Krilof and his
Fables_, by W. R. S. Ralston, London, 1869 (4th edition, 1883; several
of the poems had been published before, in 1868 and 1870, in _Good
Words_); _Krilof’s Fables, Illustrating Russian Social Life_,
translated from the Russian for the Calcutta Weekly “Englishman” [by
J. Long], Calcutta, 1869; _Kriloff’s Original Fables_, translated by
I. H. Harrison, London, 1883. Separate fables have been translated by
Sir John Bowring in his _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.
(from the manuscript furnished him by Krylóv); three poems, given
below [by W. D. Lewis] in the National Gazette and Literary Register,
Philadelphia, 1825; in _Russian Fabulists, with Specimens_, in
Fraser’s Magazine, 1839 and 1842; in Chambers’s Journal, vol. V.,
1856; by Sutherland Edwards, in _The Russians at Home_, London, 1861;
by R. Garnett, in The University Magazine, 1879 (_Fables from
Krilof_); by C. T. Wilson, in _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; by John
Pollen, in _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891.

THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE

Chancing a Nightingale to meet,
Thus did an Ass the songstress greet:--
“Whither in such a hurry winging?
I ’m told, my dear, you ’re famed for singing.
My curiosity I fain would satisfy,
So if you ’ll condescend to gratify,--
Come! for a specimen of your rare skill,
And let me hear how featly you can trill!”
Forthwith the Nightingale began,
And through her cadences she ran,
Now tender and most soft,
Anon her voice she raised aloft;
While all around in silence hushed
Listened to her melting strain,
As its music sweetly gushed,
And floated over dale and plain;
Hardly breathed the enraptured swain
As drank his ear of sound the stream,
And as he mused on the varying theme.
Ceased the songstress, the critic Ass
His sentence thus began to pass:--
“Upon my word, ’t is not amiss!
Yet you should hear
Friend Chanticleer.
From him some lessons you ’d do well to take.
His mode of singing well I know,
Nor can there finer be, I trow.
Yes! He is clever;
And you, my dear, should by all means endeavour
Like him to crow!
He has a voice--a shake--
That really keeps folks quite awake.
Yet after all you do not sing amiss.”
On hearing this,
Far away the song-bird flew.

--From _Russian Fabulists, with Specimens_, in Fraser’s Magazine,
1842.

THE QUARTETTE

The tricksy Monkey, the Goat, the Ass, and bandy-legged Míshka the Bear, determine to play a quartette. They provide themselves with the necessary pieces of music--with two fiddles, and with an alto and counter-bass. Then they sit down on a meadow under a lime-tree, prepared to enchant the world by their skill. They work away at their fiddlesticks with a will; and they make a noise, but there is no music in it.

“Stop, brothers, stop!” cried the Monkey, “wait a little! How can we get our music right? It ’s plain, you must n’t sit as you are. You, Míshka, with your counter-bass, face the alto. I will sit opposite the fiddle. Then a different sort of music will begin: we shall set the very hills and forests dancing.”

So they changed places, and recommenced; but the music is just as discordant as ever.

“Stop a little!” exclaims the Ass; “I have found out the secret. We shall be sure to play in tune if we sit in a row.”

They follow its advice, and form in an orderly line. But the quartette is as unmusical as ever. Louder than before there arose among them squabbling and wrangling as to how they ought to be seated. It happened that a Nightingale came flying that way, attracted by their noise. At once they all entreat it to solve their difficulty.

“Be so kind,” they say, “as to bear with us a little, in order that our quartette may come off properly. Music we have; instruments we have: tell us only how we ought to place ourselves.”

But the Nightingale replies:

“To be a musician, one must have a quicker intelligence and finer ear than you possess. You, my friends, may place yourselves just as you like, but you will never become musicians.”

--From W. R. S. Ralston’s _Krilof and his Fables_.

DAMIAN’S FISHSOUP

“Well, neighbour, now you are a brick! Come, try some more.” “Neighbour, I ’m bursting quite.”--“No humbug, quick-- One plateful let me pour: Real fishsoup, see what soup, done to a _t_.”-- “But that ’s my third.”--“Hush! here we count nor plates nor glasses-- With a good appetite all passes: Digestion ’s good for sleep, you see. ’T is tempting, ’t is a very jelly; Look at the amber that its surface coats, Indulge, old chum, unto thy heart’s content! See there, ’t is bream, here sterlet choice that floats! That liver there for thee was meant. Another spoonful!--Wife, thy reverence make!-- One small one more, and for my sake!” Thus feasted Damian once his old friend Neddy; No time to breathe or talk, kept to it steady. Down Neddy’s face had long been trickling rain, But, yielding unto fate, his plate he hands again; And, summoning his strength remaining, He swallows all.--“Now, that a friend I call,” Exulting Damian cries; “why on excuses fall To spare my cheer? Then once more show your training!” Then hapless Neddy, who Doted on fish, at this aggression new, Seizing his coat, Stick, and capote, Ran straight and swiftly to his own street door, And ne’er set foot in Damian’s parlour more.

Good author, happy thou in gift beyond dispute; But, if thou hast not learned yet to be mute, Boring unwilling ears to suit Nor time nor place, be sure--thy verse or prose More sickening e’en than Damian’s fishsoup grows.

--From I. H. Harrison’s _Kriloff’s Original Fables_.

THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB

Whene’er companions don’t agree,
They work without accord;
And naught but trouble doth result,
Although they all work hard.

One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab,
Resolved a load to haul.
All three were harnessed to the cart,
And pulled together all.
But though they pulled with all their might,
That cart-load on the bank stuck tight.

The Swan pulled upwards to the skies,
The Crab did backwards crawl,
The Pike made for the water straight:
This proved no use at all.

Now, which of them was most to blame
’T is not for me to say,
But this I know,--the load is there
Unto this very day.

--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.

THE LION AND THE WOLF

A hungry Lion on a lamb was feeding,
When a poor dog passed by,
And, with a patient look of meekness pleading,
Shared in the banquet, while the royal beast
Smiled at his ignorant simplicity.
A Wolf looked on, and said: “And surely I
May have a portion of the prey,--at least,
Indeed, I ’ll try.”
He came,--came boldly: when the Lion saw
His purpose, he upraised his kingly paw,
Smote him to earth, and left him there to die.
There ’s some excuse for inexperience;
But none for daring, insolent pretence.

--From National Gazette and Literary Register, Philadelphia,
September 3, 1825.

THE CLOUD

Over the thirsty plains a pregnant Cloud
Rolled on its forward way;
Scorning the cliffs whose summit proud
Beneath it lay;
While to the overflowing sea
It poured its waters forth rejoicingly.
“Am I not liberal?” to the Mountain cried
The Cloud, while the swift torrents swelled the tide.
“Liberal! The panting field and sun-dried plain
Asked for one drop, one single drop, in vain,”
Exclaimed the Mountain; “liberal, indeed,
To those who asked no favour,--felt no need!”

--_Ib._

THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR AND THE SEA.

The waves had whelmed the venturous bark,
And dashed the shipwrecked seaman to the shore;
He turned himself, impatient at the roar,
And cried, “Perfidious Sea!
Why didst thou lure me, smiling tranquilly,
To such a fate, so desolate and dark?”
The Ocean-god awoke, and frowning said:
“Hurl not thy vain reproaches at my head;
My waters calmly ebb and flow,
Till the land-warring tempests break their rest,
Go! to the storm-winds be thy plaints addressed,
Go! to the whirlwind, go!”

--_Ib._

Aleksándr Efímovich Izmáylov. (1779-1831.)

Izmáylov was for a short time vice-governor of Tver and Arkhángelsk.
He published several periodicals, to which he contributed sentimental
novels in Karamzín’s style. He wrote a number of fables in a somewhat
coarse manner, which earned for him the title of “an author not for
ladies.”

_The Drunkard’s Vow_ is given in _Russian Fabulists_, in Fraser’s
Magazine, vol. xxv., 1842; _The Drunkard’s Answer_, _The Ladder_, _The
Donkey and the Horse_ are given in Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. An
epigram is translated by V. E. Marsden in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 9.

THE DRUNKARD’S VOW

A toper made a solemn vow he never more would touch,
Or punch, or grog, or spirits mixed, or any compounds such.
Yet though to make ’t was easy, to keep so strict a vow,
To prove an easy matter was not likely, you ’ll allow.
Soon after was our tippler seen reeling ’long the street.
“How now!” a neighbour cried, “why, you scarce can keep your feet.
I thought you had forsworn for ever punch and grog?”
“And so I have, nor do I now touch either, you dull dog;
But I keep my vow unbroken by drinking spirits _neat_.”

--From _Russian Fabulists_, in Fraser’s Magazine, vol. xxv.

THE CANARY AND THE NIGHTINGALE

In a beautiful cage near the window in the garden was a Canary who sang the livelong day alone. At some distance, where an avenue of birches led to a bramble bush, a lonely Nightingale sang through the nights and early in the mornings. Both man and beast and bird, and all that have blood, feel all-powerful love in spring. The two singers made each other’s acquaintance, and forthwith the Canary forgot the naughty Parrot in his foppish green uniform for the sake of the Nightingale. No sweeter bird, in all the world, for her than the Nightingale, and what a charming voice he had!

The Nightingale, the favourite of the roses, frequently left at night his fragrant birches, and flitted near the window over the flower bed, and in the hope of a reward serenaded her in the lilac bushes, for he loved the Canary with all his heart. At first, like the artist he was, he appeared awkward and timid, but at last he made up his mind and, sighing, explained his burning passion for her. The sentimental daughter of the Canary Islands, who was yellower than straw and lemons, blinking, sang out in semitones that the best of singers was dear to her. The lovers agreed to fly into the distant forest (they had forgotten to close the cage); so, the heavens favouring them, the bridegroom and bride started for the wished-for woods. They flew for a long while, and at last, late in the evening, alighted in a thicket; they kissed each other and began to sing,--but they had not eaten since morning. So the bride said to her husband:

“How nice it is to listen to your singing! But, could I not have a bite of something?”

“Right away, my angel!” and the Nightingale flew away, as if pursued by a hawk, and returned a minute later:

“O friend of my soul! Here are little ants, they are very good! Here are some ant eggs----”

“Sir, that is no food for a bird brought up in the capital! Bring me crackers and candy!”

“Alas, there are none in the woods!”

“No? Do you expect me to starve?”

“Maybe I shall find some kernels in the field!”

“What? Do you expect me to peck kernels?”

And she began to scold her husband, broke her relations with him, and transferred herself to the Parrot in the garden.

Inexperienced bridegrooms! If you are charmed by a _cultivated_ maiden who has never been away from the luxurious capital,--read with her my verses; if she will agree to eat _forget-me-not soup_, you may safely marry her.

THE TWO CATS

Vánka the Cat and Váska were two brothers; they were both born and lived in the same house. Vánka was so lean that it would frighten you to look at him,--in truth, he was not rounder than a plank; whereas Váska was as fat as the steward, and could barely waddle on account of his obesity; his fur had the sheen of velvet.

“We have not the same luck, though we are of one mother,” said the skeleton to him. “You know no cares; you are never without meat, not even on week-days. You are free to eat meat, while with me it is always Lent; you sleep long, while I hardly know of sleep, preserving the whole house from mice and rats,--yet, with all my zeal, I am hungry----”

“And stupid!” the fat one interrupted him. “Brother, come to your senses! Take me for an example, if you want to be fatter.”

“Pray, what am I to do?”

“Amuse your master, walk on your hind legs in his presence, dance, leap over his arm when he stretches it out, and learn all my amusing tricks. Believe me, you will be loved as well as have your hunger satisfied. Know, silly one, that he who pleases people in trifles and foolish things never loses by doing so; but he who labours for their benefit and passes sleepless nights often stays hungry.”

Vasíli Trofímovich Naryézhny. (1780-1825.)

Naryézhny was born but a short distance from Gógol’s native place. In
1801 he graduated from the Moscow University, and entered the army.
After that he served in various departments, rising to the post of
Chief of Department. He wrote a tragedy, _The False Demetrius_, which
was published in 1804; in 1814 appeared the first three volumes of
_The Russian Gil Blas_: the last three volumes did not get the
censor’s imprimatur. There is much in the manner of this
Little-Russian author that reminds of Gógol, who availed himself not
only of the genre of his predecessor, but also of the very
subject-matter for his classical creations. The very titles of
Naryézhny’s later works, _The Seminarist: A Little-Russian Story_, and
_The Two Iváns; or, The Passion for Litigation_, recur in a modified
form in Gógol’s works. It was only a short time ago that this relation
of the two authors was pointed out.

FROM “THE TWO IVÁNS; OR, THE PASSION FOR LITIGATION”

The day was inclining to its fall, but the merriment in the house of the hospitable host did not abate. A large number of visitors were not a burden to him. He feasted the men, and his wife the women. Pan Kharitón took the guests around in the garden, though the September winds had already brought half of the leaves to the ground; to the barn, where he figured out how much brandy every stack of rye would give him; to the cattle yard, where he had occasion to boast of his bulls and cows, goats and wethers. His spouse showed her friends from the window the flocks of chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, telling them in detail of the peculiarities of every cock and hen. Is not that charming?

When all had gathered again in the room, where the table was set with earthen wine-jugs filled with steaming spiced brandy, and the host and guests had placed their cups at random before them, they heard in the yard the rattle of wheels and the tramp of horses, and soon appeared in the assembly a thick-set man of some fifty years, expansive about his abdomen and broad in his shoulders. His bald head shone like the full moon. Who was that guest? The scribe of the hundred-court, Pan Anúri. All rose respectfully, and the host gave him a friendly embrace, offered him his seat, and set before him his cup of mulled brandy. They all looked into his eyes, eagerly caught every word of his, and laughed uproariously when that fool smiled at his own witticisms.

When three cups had found their way into his entrails, he stood up akimbo and announced: “What will you give me, Pan Kharitón, for the good news which I bring you from town? The judge of the hundred-court said to me, as he handed me this batch of papers: ‘Go, my friend, and place these papers into the personal hands of Pan Kharitón!’ From this I conclude,” proceeded Anúri, “that they are favourable, for I am seldom wrong in my conclusions.”

“I understand, I understand!” said Pan Kharitón, and went out smiling. Anúri had barely gotten away with the fourth cup, when Pan Kharitón appeared with some gifts and offered him a new hat of the best cowhide, new boots, permeated by the purest tar, and a clay pipe, the work of the first Poltáva potter. Pan Anúri received the offerings with condescension and hastened to his two-wheeled cart to deposit them there, after which he entered the room with a large sealed batch of papers, handed it respectfully to Pan Kharitón, and seated himself in his old place. Pan Kharitón cursorily glanced at every paper and said: “After all the troubles I have had, my eyes have grown dim. Be so kind, Pan Anúri, as to read them. The decree of the hundred-court is no secret.”

Pan Anúri took the documents with much dignity, selected from them the judgment, put on his eyeglasses, and began to read: “Pan Kharitón Zanóza appears as the plaintiff against Pan Iván Zúbar and Pan Iván Khtára, claiming that they had burnt down his dove-cots with all the pigeons, of which there were more than two hundred; the two Pans Iván, however, declare that the apiary of the elder Iván, containing not less than fifty hives, has been destroyed.

“The hundred-court, having taken into consideration all circumstances, as is meet, decrees:

1. “Granting that during the fire of Pan Kharitón’s dove-cot all the pigeons, of which there were more than two hundred, _i. e._, two hundred and one, have perished, and estimating the price of each pigeon at the maximum of a farthing, his damage amounts to fifty kopeks and a farthing. But since the two Pans Iván declare under oath that they have used as food only twenty birds, the real damage which they have done amounts only to five kopeks; the rest of the pigeons either flew away, or were burnt. Whereas nobody tied any of the aforesaid pigeons or cut their wings, they might have flown away, and thus they were roasted by their own free will.

2. “Pan Iván the elder has lost fifty hives that at the time were full of honey. Upon inquiry it is found that such a hive is worth sixty kopeks, and thus his damage amounts to thirty roubles. Excluding from that sum five kopeks, Pan Kharitón has caused to Pan Iván the elder a real damage of twenty-nine roubles and ninety-five kopeks, which sum is without delay to be turned over within three days to Scribe Anúri. Of this sum twenty-eight roubles and ninety-five kopeks will be retained for the necessary expenses of the hundred-court; the remaining rouble is to be turned over to Pan Iván the elder, he signing a receipt for it.”

Who will describe Pan Kharitón’s fury! He cracked the knuckles of his fingers, stamped the floor with his feet, and rolled his eyes terribly. Finally he jumped up like one beside himself, ran to the perplexed scribe, grabbed the fatal judgment out of his hands, tore it to shreds, and threw it into the eyes of the ambassador of the hundred-court. On all sides was heard a noise and murmuring. Pan Kharitón paid no attention to anything; he shouted to the scribe: “Why have you been riding about upon my horses? Eh? Why have you been tilling your soil with my steers, and sowing it with my grain? Eh? Why have you been devouring my sheep and wethers, and making fur coats out of their hides? Eh? Why have you been taking my money, you destroyers of souls, good-for-nothings, robbers? Why have you been extorting money from me, I say, if you had no intention to stand by me? Eh?”

With these words, to the horror of all the guests and their families,--for at the thunderous roar of Pan Kharitón all the women and daughters of the guests had made their appearance,--he pulled Pan Anúri by his collar, dragged him out into the yard, lifted him up, banged him into his cart, jammed the reins into his hands, gave him two mighty blows in his occiput, raised from the ground a birch club and began to belabour, now the horse, now Anúri. The poor animal flew out of the yard into the road as fast as it could, and Pan Kharitón ran out after the cart and shouted to the scribe: “Tell the fool of a hundred-judge and the good-for-nothing members of the hundred-court that they are transgressors of the law, and that I shall go to-morrow to Poltáva to cite them before the regimental chancery!”

Having obtained such a famous victory over their worst enemy in the matter of the burnt-down dove-cot and destroyed apiary, the two Pans Iván were travelling in triumph from the town to their abode, when they espied in the middle of the road near the tavern the cart, and they immediately knew to whom it belonged.

“That ’s fortunate,” said Iván the elder: “we ’ll take the rouble that belongs to us from Anúri and will give him a good treat.”

They entered the tavern and sure enough saw Pan Anúri sitting over a cup, but in a most dejected attitude. “What ’s the matter, Pan Anúri?” cried out Iván the elder: “The cup is at your very mouth, and you look so sad,--those things do not fit together. Jew, give us two more cups, of anything you please, so it ’s of the best spirits! Really, you, Pan Anúri, are a great fellow and pretty slick! Who would have thought you could manage in so short a time that riotous head of worthless Zanóza?”

“I should say I did manage!” said Anúri with a bitter smile and, filling his cup, drank from it with unmistakable disgust. The two Iváns looked at his strange action in wonderment, and pressed him with all kinds of questions.

Anúri told them all in detail. Having listened with undisguised attention to this incident which had been unheard of in Little-Russia from its beginning, the two Iváns were heartily glad, and the elder one clapped his hands. Anúri showed a very dissatisfied look and asked:

“Is it possible that you, whom I regarded as my friends, can rejoice at my having had my occiput boxed and at the descent of full-weighted blows upon my back?”

“Not at all,” answered Iván the elder: “we rejoice and are merry not because you, our friend and go-between, have received a fine drubbing, but because it has been administered to the worshipful scribe of the hundred-court by the bold hand of furious Zanóza. We hope that this wrongdoing will be his surer undoing than massacred coneys, maimed geese, ducks, sheep and, finally, the destroyed apiary! It is no trifling matter to dare box the occiput and warm up ten times with a birch rod Pan Anúri, a man grown grey and bald among papers, ink, and pens!”

“He ’s warmed me up just twelve times,” said Pan Anúri proudly, “and though he missed me the thirteenth time, it ought to be counted a blow all the same. Besides, he has disgraced the judge and the hundred-court with the foulest curses, and in the presence of an immense throng of noblemen and ladies; he dragged me through the whole room, which is the same as if he dragged me through the whole house;--then by my collar which reaches up to my occiput, hence it is the same as if he had pulled me along by my hair. O Pans Iván! If you rejoice because Kharitón Zanóza will be repaid for this godless deed with interest, I am glad! Oh, if he had twice the property he possesses, it would not be enough to pay me for the disgrace and battery. No! he will have to become acquainted with the city prison and find out the taste of stale bread and water. I give you my hand that this will happen, and before long!”

Vasíli Andréevich Zhukóvski. (1783-1852.)

Zhukóvski was the son of a landed proprietor of Túla, by the name of
Búnin, and of a captive Turkish woman, but received his own name from
his godfather, who happened to be living at Búnin’s house. After the
death of his father he was adopted by Mrs. Búnin, who cared for him as
for her own son. He was first educated in the public school of Túla,
but was requested to be removed on account of dulness. He was then
privately brought up in the house of his godmother, where, at the age
of twelve, he composed and acted two dramas--one of them from Roman
history. In 1796 he was taken to Moscow to be placed in the
boarding-school that was connected with the Moscow University. He
there came in contact with a number of talented young men who later
made their mark in literature, and under the inspiring influence of
the school began, at the early age of fourteen, to contribute poems to
the periodical press. His earliest verses contained frequent
references to death and the cemetery, and when, a few years later, he
lost a friend, he remembered him by translating Gray’s _Elegy_. That
was the beginning of his literary fame. He then translated a large
number of poetical productions from the German, French, and English,
invariably choosing melancholy subjects, as more adapted to his
sentimental, reflective nature.

It was chiefly Zhukóvski who transplanted the German Romanticism to
Russia, but his deserts are not only in having abandoned the
pseudo-classic style of poetry: he was the first to recognise the
important educational value of poetry, and its moral power, which made
it the equal of religion, or, as Zhukóvski put it, “Poetry is the
terrestrial sister of heavenly religion,” and “Poetry is virtue.” He
achieved his fame by his ballad _Svyetlána_. The _Minstrel of the
Russian Camp_ was written by him at the campfires during the War of
1812: it produced a tremendous outburst of enthusiasm among the whole
army. He soon became a great favourite at the Court, and in 1817 was
chosen as teacher of Russian to the German bride of Crown Prince
Nicholas. In 1841 he left Russia never to return, and died in
Baden-Baden in 1852. His body was taken to Russia, where he was buried
by the side of Karamzín.

Sir John Bowring gives in _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.:
_The Mariner_, _Æolus’s Harp Song (Say, ye gentle breezes, say)_,
_Romance_; in Part II.: _The Minstrel in the Russian Camp_,
_Svyetlána_ (under the name of _Catherine_), _Theon and Æschines_,
_The Bard_; a prose version of _Svyetlána_, under the name of
_Christmas Omens_, by W. D. Lewis, was given in The Atlantic Souvenir,
Philadelphia, 1828; another translation, under the title of _The Eve
of St. Silvester_, from the Russian of Tzobovsk (?), by J. C. M., was
given in Dublin University Magazine, vol. xxxi., 1848; C. T. Wilson,
in _Russian Lyrics_, gives _The Flower_, extract from _The Minstrel in
the Russian Camp, Svyetlána_; in the Library of the World’s Best
Literature are given N. H. Dole’s translations of _Happiness in
Slumber_ and _The Coming of Spring Night_.

SVYETLÁNA[3]

St. Silvester’s evening hour
Calls the maidens round:
Shoes to throw behind the door,
Delve the snowy ground.
Peep behind the window there,
Burning wax to pour;
And the corn for chanticleer
Reckon three times o’er.
In the water-fountain fling
Solemnly the golden ring,
Earrings, too, of gold;
Kerchief white must cover them
While we ’re chanting over them
Magic songs of old.

Feebly through the vapours shine
Moonbeams on the hill;
Silently sat Catherine,
Sorrowful and still.
“Maiden, why so pensive? We
Fain thy voice would hear--
Come and join our revelry!
Take the ring, thou dear!
Sing, ‘Make haste and melt, and bring,
Goldsmith! Come with golden ring,
Golden wreath for Kate!
Ring to deck her hand of snow,
Wreath to bloom upon her brow
At the altar-gate.’”

“I can sing no choral song
While my love ’s away,
For my days are sad and long,--
Gloomier every day.
Left alone,--a year is past,--
Not a line to send,--
Oh, my life is but a waste,
Severed from my friend!
Hast thou then forgotten me?
Tell me, wanderer! can it be?
Where ’s thy dwelling, where?
See, I pine ’neath secret smart:
Guardian angel! Watch my heart,--
Listen to my prayer!”

Covered with a napkin white,
Stood a table there,
Where a mirror, clear and bright,
Shone amidst the glare.
Vacant seats for two were placed,--
“Look within, O look!
’T is the hour of spirits,--haste!
Read Fate’s opening book:
To the mirror turn thy eye,
And the door shall silently
Open,--list, ’t is he!
Gently shall thy lover glide,
Seat him by his maiden’s side,
And shall sup with thee.”

Cath’rine sat before the glass,--
All alone was she,
Watching all the shades that pass,
Shuddering inwardly.
But the glass is dark and drear,
Still as death the room;
Scarce a fading taper there
Flitted midst the gloom.
Oh, how fear her bosom shook!
Backwards then she dared not look!
Dread had dimmed her sight:
And the dying taper’s noise,
And the cricket’s chirping voice,
Cried,--“’T is middle-night!”

Breathless terror chilled her o’er,
And she shades her brow:--
List! a knock is at the door,
And it opens now:
To the mirror then she turned,
Stupefied with fear;
There two brilliant eyeballs burned,
Ever bent on her.
Horror heaved her breast, when lo!
Gentle accents, sweet and slow,
Glided on her ear:
“All thy wishes are fulfilled,--
All thy spirit’s sighs be stilled,--
’T is thy lover, dear!”

Cath’rine looked--her lover’s arm
Was around her thrown:
“Maiden! Banish all alarm,
We are ever one!
Come! the priest is waiting now,
Life with life to blend;
Torches in the chapel glow,
Bridal songs ascend.”
Cath’rine smiled,--her lover led,--
O’er the snow-clad court they sped,
And the portals gain;
There a ready sledge they found,--
Two fleet coursers stamp the ground,
Struggling with the rein.

Onwards! Like the wind they go,
When the storm awakes,
Scattering round them clouds of snow,
While the pathway shakes.
All was dark and wild as night,
Terrible and new;
Mist-wreaths dimmed the pale moon’s light,
Plains were drenched in dew.
Fear again possessed the maid,
And in gentlest tones she said,
“Speak, my lover true!”
He was silent then, but soon
Turned him to the wintry moon,--
Pale and paler grew.

Through the snow, a mountain’s height,
Next the wild steeds passed;
And a church appeared in sight,
Midst a gloomy waste;
Then a whirlwind burst the door--
Men are there who mourn;
Clouds of incense rolling o’er,
Wax and taper burn.
Lo! a black sepulchral shroud--
“Dust to dust!” the priest aloud
Chants,--the horses flew
Tow’rds the door,--her agony
Rose,--he spoke no word,--but he
Pale and paler grew.

Clouds of snow ascend again--
Lo! the coursers fly;
And a raven on the plain
Croaks and passes by;
’T was an awful, ominous sound!
And the moonlight wanes;
Darkness wraps the desert round
O’er the steaming manes.
See! a glimmering light is there,
And upon the heather bare
Stands a humble shed.
Swifter, swifter flew the car,
Whirled the snow around it far,
But no farther sped.

At the door they stopped anon,
There, a moment stood:--
Steeds, sledge, bridegroom,--all are gone:
All is solitude.
Cath’rine on the waste was left,
Midst dense clouds of snow,
Of her lover now bereft,
To commune with woe:
But she hears a footstep now,
Turns, and sees a taper glow,
Crosses her, and stalks
Trembling to the door, and knocks:--
Of itself the door unlocks,--
In the maiden walks.

There, upon a winding-sheet,
Lay a mortal bier;
Christ’s bright image at its feet
Shone resplendent there.
Whither, whither art thou come,
Maiden, all unblest?
Thou hast sought a wretched home,
Art a hapless guest!
Cath’rine to the image flies,
Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes,
Bends her down and weeps;
Presses to her breast the cross,--
Thoughts of heaven her soul engross,
And she silence keeps.

All is still!--The storm is hushed,
Faint the tapers beam,
Light across the chamber rushed,--
Momentary gleam:--
All is wrapped in silence deep
As when visions come.
List! what gentle rustlings sweep
Through the hallowed room:
Lo! a dart of silvery white,
Soft and still, with eyes of light,
Tow’rds the mourners springs:
For a moment hovers there,
Then upon her bosom fair
Flaps its beauteous wings.

Silence reigned again.--Can all,
All illusion be?
Lo! the corpse beneath the pall
Shudders fearfully:
Burst the mantling bier of death,
Throws his shroudings by:
On his brow he wore a wreath,
Frozen was his eye:
From his lips a murmur breaks,
With his hand a sign he makes,
Pointing to the maid:
Trembling she,--she dared not move,--
But the bright and silver dove
On her bosom played;

Fanned her with its gentle wing:--
To the dead man’s breast
Then she saw her sweet dove spring,--
There it seemed to rest.
Heaved the icy corpse a sigh,
As in dark despair,
Gnashed his teeth in agony,
Turned his eyes on her.
Paler waxed those lips so pale;
And the fixed eye told the tale
That life’s film was broke.
Cath’rine! Lift thy drooping head!
All is o’er,--thy lover’s dead!--
God!--and she awoke.

Where?--within the selfsame room
Where the mirror stood:--
Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom
With its golden flood;
Chanticleer had clapped his wing,
Sung his early song:
All is bright,--the matin rings,--
Oh, thy dream was long!
Long indeed, and dreadful too;
And my spirit long shall rue
The dread prophecy!
Tell me, Future’s misty night,
Shall my fate be dark or bright,
Bliss or misery?

Cath’rine in the window sat,
Sorrowful and still:
Tell me, tell me what is that?--
Mist-cloud on the hill?
In the sunbeams shines the snow;
Leaps the frozen dew:
List! I hear the bells below,
And the horses too.
Lo! they come, the sledge is near,--
Now the driver’s voice I hear,--
They have passed the grove:--
Fling the gates wide open, fling--
Who ’s the guest the coursers bring?
Who?--’T is thou, my love!

Cath’rine, tell me now! The dream--
Is the dream forgot?
Youths may faithful be who seem
Faithless,--may they not?
When the light of love hath lent
Brightness to his eye;
When his lips are eloquent;--
Timid maid! Reply!
Open now the temple-gate,
Spring on wings of joy elate,
Truth, we honour thee!
Pour the glass, and join the hymn,
Ne’er may days of darkness dim
Youth’s fidelity.

Thou dost smile, sweet maid! But deem,
Deem it worth a thought,
For that memorable dream
Stores of wisdom brought.
Thou dost smile again,--but know,
It had lessons holy:
Fame, it told thee, was but--show;
Worldly wisdom--folly.
This my song was meant to say,
Hope and trust should guide our way,
Maid! there ’s no mistaking:
This the genuine moral seems,
Miseries are only dreams.
Joy--is the awaking.

O my Cath’rine! never dwell
On that dream of gloom:
Heaven! build up her citadel,
There may grief ne’er come,
Not a cloud her joy o’ershade,
Not a joy decay;
Holy is that gentle maid
As the light of day.
Ne’er be it obscured by woe,
Let her days of comfort flow
Like a forest river!
And let joy, with smiles serene,
Be as it hath ever been,
Her bright guide for ever!

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

[3] Changed by Sir John Bowring in the poem to Catherine.

THE MINSTREL IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP

Now silence wraps the battlefield!
The tents with lights are gleaming;
And lo! the bright moon’s silver shield
In the calm heaven is beaming.
Fill, fill the glass of rapture yet
In unity full-hearted;
In wine the bloody strife forget,
The grief for the departed!
The glasses’ ruby stream to drain
Is glory’s pride and pleasure--
Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
Thou art the hero’s treasure.

Now to the warriors of old time,
The strong in fight and glory!
These warriors and their deeds sublime
Are lost in distant story!
The grave hath gathered up their dust,
Their homes,--the storm hath razed them;
Their helmets are devoured by rust,
And silent those who praised them:
But in their children live their fires,
We tread the land that bore them,
And see the shadows of our sires
With all their triumphs o’er them.

Oh, come! in all your brightness, come,
And smile complacent, near us;
Look from your high and misty home,
Encourage us and hear us.
O Svyatosláv! time’s injured son,
Thy path an eagle’s flying:
“There is no shame in dying--On!
There is no shame in dying!”
And Donskóy, thou! courageous man,
Midst heathen foes we find thee;
Destruction leading in thy van,
And naught but death behind thee.

Thou, Peter! thou, the hero’s crown,
“Poltáva!” is repeated:
Thy foes have thrown their sabres down,
Thee, all the world has greeted.
What? Robbers, would you build your throne
Upon our cities’ ruin?
Thy horse and rider fell--begone!
For vengeance is pursuing.
Go hide thee in thy native woods,
There by ambition smother;
Fate drives thee to their solitudes,
Yes! thou, the rebel’s brother.

Who is that white-haired hero, who
That northern more than Roman?
His penetrating glance looks through
The phalanx of the foeman;
From yonder clouds what shadowy rows
Are tow’rds his footsteps turning?
The spirits of the Alpine snows
Are wailing loud and mourning.
Franks and Sarmatians, at his view,
Death’s icy paleness borrow;
Well they may fear him, well may rue,--
It is the great Suvórov!

Hail, sons of ages long gone by!
Your glories are recorded;
We follow you to victory,
Like you to be rewarded.
We see your ranks,--they lead us on,--
The foe retreats before us;
We scatter death, as ye have done,
While ye are smiling o’er us.
Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate
We look to our Creator!
“And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor.”

This glass then to our country’s joys,
Ne’er may our hearts feel colder;
The scenes of mirth while we were boys,
Of love, when we grew older!
Our country’s plains, our country’s sky,
The streams that flow beneath it;
The memories of infancy,
And all the thoughts that wreathe it
With joyous hopes and visions blest,--
Dear shrine of our affection,
How glows our heart, how beats our breast,
When beams the recollection!

That is our country, there our home,
There wife and babes attend us;
And oft their prayers towards us roam,
And oft to Heaven commend us!
There dwell our plighted, chosen ones;
How bright their memory flashes!
Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones,
And there our fathers’ ashes.
For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our land’s undying love
In our sons’ breasts awaken!

Now to the Tsar that rules the Russ,
And be his sceptre glorious;
His throne an altar is to us,--
We swear to be victorious.
The oath is heard,--’t is stamped in blood,--
’T is sworn,--there ’s no returning;
Our swords shall make our promise good,
Our hearts with love are burning.
Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty’s ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne’er among us.

────────────────────────────────────

One glass to vengeance! In the fray
“Heaven for the right!” our voices,
And “death or victory!” proudly say;
And victory’s self rejoices.
Oh, count not on your numbers, foe!
In vain ye boast your numbers;
Our march is like the torrent’s flow,
Which never, never slumbers.
We have no treasures, but we bring
Our arrows and our lances,
And round us desolation fling,
And death is in our glances.

The Robber! he had spread his power
Around our Moskvá’s borders;
And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower
He issued forth his orders.
“I trample on the base-born clay,
Which folly’s pride assembles,
And prince and subject both obey.”
Insulting one!--he trembles.
For Vengeance wakes her from her rest,
And arms her with her torches,
Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast,
And drives him from our porches.

Now bring thy slavish princes, now,
To our ice-girded nation;
And lead them o’er our paths of snow
To horror and starvation.
Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed,
And close our country’s portals.
Oh, see! he strews the land with dead,
With piles of frozen mortals.
Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own,--
God’s vengeance, wretch, is near thee!

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

Iván Ivánovich Kozlóv. (1779-1840.)

After having served for some time in the army, Kozlóv in 1798 entered
the Civil Service, living in Moscow and later in St. Petersburg. In
1818 he was struck by paralysis, which deprived him of the use of his
legs, and three years later he became totally blind. Though he had
long been on friendly terms with Zhukóvski, he never thought of
devoting himself to literature. But the calamity that had overtaken
him compelled him to concentrate himself, and the result was the
evolution of his poetical genius. He had learned French and Italian
before, and, though blind, acquired the German and English languages
so perfectly that he could recite by heart whole pages from the great
writers, whom he also translated into Russian. His first poetical
efforts were some verses in praise of Zhukóvski and Byron, but he
gained his great reputation by his _The Black Monk_, written in 1824,
which enjoyed the same popularity among the sentimental souls of the
twenties that _Poor Líza_ (see p. 27) had had in the beginning of the
century. This was soon followed by _Princess Natálya Borísovna
Dolgorúki_ (see vol. i., p. 233) and a large number of minor poems
that are distinguished for their elegiac and deep religious tone.

In W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_, Philadelphia, 1841, is
given his _Solitude_; T. B. Shaw translated his _Kíev_ in Blackwood’s
Edinburgh Magazine, 1844; in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given
_The Village Orphan_, _The Wreck_, _The Dream of the Betrothed_, and
_Chernetz (The Black Monk)_; in the Library of the World’s Best
Literature is N. H. Dole’s translation of _The Vesper Bells_.

SOLITUDE

Upon a hill, which rears itself midst plains extending wide, Fair flourishes a lofty oak in beauty’s blooming pride; This lofty oak in solitude its branches wide expands, All lonesome on the cheerless height like sentinel it stands. Whom can it lend its friendly shade, should Sol with fervour glow? And who can shelter it from harm, should tempests rudely blow? No bushes green, entwining close, here deck the neighbouring ground, No tufted pines beside it grow, no osiers thrive around. Sad e’en to trees their cheerless fate in solitude if grown, And bitter, bitter is the lot for youth to live alone! Though gold and silver much is his, how vain the selfish pride! Though crowned with glory’s laurelled wreath, with whom that crown divide? When I with an acquaintance meet he scarce a bow affords, And beauties, half saluting me, but grant some transient words. On some I look myself with dread, whilst others from me fly, But sadder still the uncherished soul when Fate’s dark hour draws nigh; Oh! where my aching heart relieve when griefs assail me sore? My friend, who sleeps in the cold earth, comes to my aid no more! No relatives, alas! of mine in this strange clime appear, No wife imparts love’s fond caress, sweet smile, or pitying tear; No father feels joy’s thrilling throb, as he our transport sees; No gay and sportive little ones come clambering on my knees;-- Take back all honours, wealth and fame, the heart they cannot move, And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of love!

--From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_.

KÍEV

O Kíev! where religion ever seemeth
To light existence in our native land;
Where o’er Pechérski’s dome the bright cross gleameth,
Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand;
Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth
Thy plain, and meads that far away expand;
And by thy hoary well, with ceaseless motion,
Old Dnieper’s foaming swell sweeps on to ocean.

How oft to thee in spirit have I panted,
O holy city, country of my heart!
How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted
On thy fair towers,--a sainted thing thou art!--
By Lávra’s[4] walls or Dnieper’s wave, nor wanted
A spell to draw me from this life apart;
In thee my country I behold, victorious,
Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.