Chapter VI: Prologue (2)

Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow:
“O man, what can magic avail thee!
A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:
Our rage and contempt shall assail thee.
My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee!”
Then the bones of his charger Olég went to see.

Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside;
At his bridle Prince Ígor he hurried:
And they see on a hillock by Dnieper’s swift tide
Where the steed’s noble bones lie unburied:
They are washed by the rain, the dust o’er them is cast,
And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.

Then the Prince set his foot on the courser’s white skull,
Saying: “Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!
Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:
At his funeral feast, red and gory,
’T is not thou ’neath the axe that shall redden the sod,
That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood.

“And am I to find my destruction in this?
My death in a skeleton seeking?”
From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,
Crept forth as the hero was speaking:
Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;
And the Prince shrieked aloud as he felt the keen sting.

The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around,--
At Olég’s mighty Death-Feast they ’re ringing;
Prince Ígor and Ólga they sit on the mound;
The war-men the death-song are singing:
And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.

--From T. B. Shaw’s _Pushkin, the Russian Poet_, in Blackwood’s
Magazine, 1845.

TO THE SLANDERERS OF RUSSIA

Why rave ye, babblers, so--ye lords of popular wonder?
Why such anathemas ’gainst Russia do you thunder?
What moves your idle rage? Is ’t Poland’s fallen pride?
’T is but Slavonic kin among themselves contending,
An ancient household strife, oft judged but still unending,
A question which, be sure, _ye_ never can decide.
For ages past still have contended
These races, though so near allied:
And oft ’neath Victory’s storm has bended
Now Poland’s, and now Russia’s side.
Which shall stand fast in such commotion,
The haughty Pole, or faithful Russ?
And shall Slavonic streams meet in a Russian ocean--
Or _that_ dry up? This is point for us.

Peace, peace! your eyes are all unable
To read our history’s bloody table;
Strange in your sight and dark must be
Our springs of household enmity!
To you the Kreml and Prága’s tower
Are voiceless all,--you mark the fate
And daring of the battle-hour,--
And understand us not, but hate----

What stirs ye? Is it that this nation
On Moscow’s flaming wall, blood-slaked and ruin-quenched,
Spurned back the insolent dictation
Of Him before whose nod ye blenched?
Is it that into dust we shattered
The Dagon that weighed down the earth so wearily?
And our best blood so freely scattered
To buy for Europe peace and liberty?

Ye ’re bold of tongue--but hard, would ye in deed but try it.
Or is the hero, now reclined in laurelled quiet,
Too weak to fix once more Izmail’s red bayonet?
Or hath the Russian Tsar ever in vain commanded?
Or must we meet all Europe banded?
Have we forgot to conquer yet?
Or rather, shall they not, from Perm to Tauris’ fountains,
From the hot Colchian steppes to Finland’s icy mountains,
From the grey Kreml’s half-shattered wall,
To far Kathay, in dotage buried,--
A steely rampart close and serried,
Rise, Russia’s warriors, one and all?
Then send your numbers without number,
Your maddened sons, your goaded slaves,
In Russia’s plains there ’s room to slumber,
And well they ’ll know their brethren’s graves!

--From T. B. Shaw’s _Pushkin, the Russian Poet_, in Blackwood’s
Magazine, 1845.

FROM “BORÍS GODUNÓV”

I

Night: _A cell in the Chúdov monastery_

FATHER PÍMEN, GRIGÓRI (sleeping).

_Pímen (writing before a lamp)._ Once more, one final anecdote, and then My manuscript will be complete, the task On me, a sinner, laid by God, fulfilled. ’T is not for naught that during all these years The Lord hath made me witness many things, And taught me all the art of writing books. When in the future some industrious monk Shall find my hard-accomplished, nameless work, He will, like me, illume his little lamp, And, brushing off the dust of centuries, Will copy down my truthful chronicle. Then will the children of believers true Read all the story of their native land, Recall the labours of their mighty Tsars, Performed for them, for glory and for right, And humbly offer prayers that God will blot The crimes, though dark, of him who wrought for them. Thus, bent for many years I live anew. The past before me rose its hurrying flood. Is ’t long ago that like the angry sea Time’s fateful surges broke in great events? And now it rests in motionless repose! Not many men my memory preserves, Not many words are in my mind engrossed, And all the rest for ever now are gone. But day is nigh, my little lamp burns dim, One more, one final story of the past! (_Writes._) _Grigóri_ (_wakes_). That dream again? How strange! That cursèd dream! Thrice have I dreamed it! But the aged man Still sits before his little lamp and writes. He hath not closed his eyes the livelong night In slumber: how I love his peaceful mien, As, deeply buried in the past, his soul Broods o’er the secret of his manuscript. How gladly would I scan his precious line. What writeth he: the Tatars’ bloody reign,-- The cruel deeds of John the Terrible? The stormy council of old Nóvgorod? The glories of the fatherland? In vain! Nor in his glance nor in his lofty brow Can one discern the secrets of his mind: His mien is calm and full of majesty, As well becomes an aged priest who looks With cloudless eye on good and evil men Impartially, detecting right and wrong Or hatred or compassion knowing not. _Pímen._ Art thou awake? _Grigóri._ Thy blessing, honoured sire. _Pímen._ The Lord His blessing grant thee, oh, my son, To-day, hereafter, and for evermore! _Grigóri._ Long has thy pen been busy, nor has sleep Once brought thee sweet oblivion this night; But some strange, diabolic vision hath disturbed My rest: my enemy hath tormented me. I dreamed that up the winding narrow stairs I mounted to the windy tower alone; Before me from the top all Moscow lay Diminished like an ant-hill. Far below The people swarmed and babbled in the square And jeered at me with senseless ridicule. Shame mastered me and terror overwhelmed, And, falling headlong on my face, I waked. ’T is thrice that I have dreamed the selfsame dream. Is ’t not a marvel? _Pímen._ ’T is thy youthful blood Makes sport of thee: by prayer and strenuous fast Thy dreams will be with peaceful visions filled. ’T is e’en not otherwise with me when I, Dazed with involuntary drowsiness, E’er fail my soul with earnest prayer to guard-- My aged dreams are then disturbed with sin: While scenes of banqueting torment me oft, Now warlike camps or surging battles rude, Now senseless dissipations of wild youth. _Grigóri._ How gaily must have passed thy youthful days! Thou wast in battle ’neath Kazán’s high walls; Hast shared the wars in Lithuania’s plains; Hast seen the wanton court of John the Great. How fortunate! But I from earliest years Have been immured in cells a needy monk! Why should not I have had delight in war And feasted at the table of the Tsar? Then, when I reached like thee the term of life, I might have turned me gladly from the world And all its vanities, and shut myself Within the calm retirement of a cell To meditate upon my holy vows. _Pímen._ Lament not, brother, that thou hast so soon The world abandoned, that a loving God Hath little of temptation sent to thee. Take thou my word, a fascination strong Is exercised upon us from afar, By glory, luxury, and woman’s wiles. Long have I lived and much have I enjoyed; But only true enjoyment have I known Since to the cloister God hath led my steps. Recall the mightiest Tsars that have ever lived. Who stands above them? God alone! And who Would venture to oppose them? None! What then? On them so sorely weighs the golden crown They would exchange it gladly for the cowl. E’en John the Tsar sought comfort and relief Within the semblance of monastic rule. His court, where swarmed his haughty favourites, The novel aspect of a cloister took; His body-guard, in sackcloth and in stole, Appeared like docile monks, the while the Tsar, Himself, the cruel Tsar, an abbot mild. Myself have seen, here in this very cell-- (’T was then the abode of that most just of men, Kiríll, who suffered much, and even then I also had been led by God to see The folly of the world)--myself have seen, Here in this very cell, the mighty Tsar, Grown weary of his mad designs and wrath, Repenting, sit amongst us, meek and mild. We stood before him silent, motionless, And quietly he would converse with us, Would hold the abbot and the brotherhood: “Ye fathers, soon the wished-for hour will come, When I ’ll appear with hunger to be saved; Thou Nikodím, thou Sérgi, thou Kiríll, And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow! I ’ll come to you a sinner in despair; I ’ll take upon myself the monk’s harsh garb, I ’ll fall, O holy father, at thy feet!” Thus spoke the mighty ruler of the realm; And gentle words flowed from his cruel lips, And tears bedewed his cheeks; and we in tears Would pray our Lord his sinful, suffering soul To fill with everlasting love and peace. But his son Feódor? Upon the throne Vowed to perpetual silence, like a monk; He sighed to lead a life of easy peace. He straightway changed the royal palace-halls To cloistered cells, the heavy cares of state Did not at all disturb his saintly soul. God mercifully gave the Tsar his peace; And while he lived, our Russia, undisturbed In taintless glory, owned his gentle sway. But when he died, a miracle was wrought, Unheard of: at his couch appeared a man With face of flame, seen by the Tsar alone. Feódor talked with him, and called him “Sire,”-- “Great Patriarch.” All around were filled with fear To see the heavenly apparition there, Because the holy father was not then Within the chamber where the Tsar was laid. When he appeared sweet fragrance filled the halls, And like the sun his holy visage shone.

--From _Shakespeare and the Russian Drama_, by N. H. Dole, in
Poet-lore, vol. i., No. 11.

DEMONS

Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying,
Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light
On the drifting snow is lying,--
Wild the heavens, wild the night.
Swiftly o’er the stormswept lowland--
Jingle, jingle bells amain!
Swiftly still, though heavy-hearted,
Drive I o’er the frozen main.

“Ho there! driver, onward!” “Faster,
Good my lord, we may not go,
For the stormwind blinds me, master,
And the road is choked with snow.”
Useless all! the track is hidden;
We are lost to help and home;
From afar the demon spies us--
Closer circling see him come!

Ha! beside us he ’s careering,
Hissing, spitting,--now, I ween,
Round the steeds so madly veering
On the brink of yon ravine.
There--if near or far I know not--
He was whirling in my sight.
There again he pined and dwindled,
Vanished into empty night!

Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying,
Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light
On the drifting snow is lying,--
Wild the heavens, wild the night.
Courage fails to struggle longer,
Suddenly the sleigh bells cease--
Pause the team--Declare thou yonder--
Wolf or tree-stem--is it peace?

Hark, the wind is wailing sadly,
Loudly snort the startled team.
There, see there he gambols madly,
Through the murk his eyeballs gleam.
Once again the team has started--
Jingle, jingle bells amain!
Lo, the spirit-hosts assemble
O’er the faintly gleaming plain!

Form they have not, have no number,
Lightly whirling round, they seem
Like the dead leaves of November
In the moon’s uncertain beam.
Are they endless? whither fly they?
Why this wailful chanting, say!
Mourn they now their dead? In marriage
Give they, else, some witch away?

Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying,
Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light
On the drifting snow is lying,--
Wild the heavens, wild the night.
Still they come and still they vanish
In the darkness o’er the plain,
Still their moaning and imploring
Rends my very heart in twain!

--Transl. by Miss H. Frank, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 34.

Evgéni Abrámovich Baratýnski. (1800-1844.)

Baratýnski was the most talented of all the contemporary poets of
Púshkin. He came of a distinguished family in the Government of
Tambóv. At fifteen years he entered the Corps of Pages, but was soon
expelled for some misdemeanour. This compelled his enlisting as a
common soldier in St. Petersburg, where he came at once in contact
with the leading poets of the day, and he began himself writing
verses. The following six years he passed in Finland, the austere
nature of which much impressed his mind and gave him ample material
for his melancholy Muse. After rising to the rank of a commissioned
officer, he retired and settled in Moscow. In 1843 he went abroad, and
the next year he suddenly died in Naples. His best production, _The
Gipsy Girl_, was at one time preferred to Púshkin’s poems, but he is
now chiefly remembered as the earliest and most brilliant of Russian
pessimistic poets.

In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887, is given _Faith
Rewarded_; the same, under the title _The Madonna_, translated by F.
P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28.

FINLAND

Into your clefts you have received the poet, granite rocks of Finland, eternal granites, guardian heroes of the land of the glacial crown. With the lyre he is among you. His greeting is a greeting to the masses of the rock, contemporaneous with the world. Like them may he for ever be unchangeable!

How wondrously everything about me charms my eye: there with its immeasurable waters the sea is welded with the heavens; here the dreamy pine-forest has descended with heavy tread from the mountain rock, and mirrors itself in the smooth waters! ’T is late: day is out, but the vault of heaven is bright; night comes without darkness upon the Finnish cliffs, and only for its own adornment it leads out upon the horizon a useless choir of diamond stars. This is the country of Odin’s children,--the distant nations of the storm! This is the cradle of their restless days, consecrated to famous warrings!

Silent is the sounding shield, not heard the voice of the skald; the flaming oak is extinguished; the stormy wind has scattered the solemn calls, the sons know not the exploits of their fathers, and prone in the dust lie the prostrate forms of their gods,--and all around me is deep silence. O ye who carried war from shore to shore, where are ye, heroes of the north? Your vestige has disappeared from your native land. Do ye press your grieving eyes against the cliffs and swim, a misty host, up in the clouds? Do ye? Give me answer, listen to my voice calling to you in the silence of the night. Mighty sons of these threatening, eternal cliffs! How were ye severed from your rocky fatherland? Why are ye sad? Why have I read upon your melancholy faces the smile of chiding? And ye have hid yourselves in the abode of shades! And time has not spared your names! What are our exploits, what the glory of our days, what is our windy tribe? Oh, everything will in its turn disappear in the abyss of years! For all there is one law,--the law of annihilation. In all I hear the mysterious greeting of sought-for forgetfulness.

But I,--for life’s sake loving life in ingloriousness,--shall I with careless soul tremble before destiny? Though not eternal in time, I am eternal for myself: does not the storm of time speak to imagination alone? The moment belongs to me, as I belong to the moment. What care I for past or future races? Not for them do I strum the soft-voiced strings: though not listened to, I am sufficiently rewarded with sounds for sounds, and with dreams for dreams.

SPRING

Spring, O spring! How pure the air, how clear the vault of heaven! With its bright azure it blinds my eyes.

Spring, O spring! How, upon the pinions of the wind, caressing the sunbeams, the clouds flit upon high!

The rivulets babble, the rivulets sparkle; roaring the river carries on its triumphant back the uplifted ice.

The trees are still bare, but in the grove the old leaves, as before, rustle under foot and emit fragrance.

Rising to the very sun and invisible in the clear height, the lark sings the song of welcome to the spring.

What has happened to my soul? With the brook it is a brook, and with the bird a bird: with one it babbles, with the other flies into heaven.

Why do sun and spring give it such joy? Does it, as a daughter of the elements, make merry at their banquet?

Well, happy is he who there drinks oblivion from thought, who there is carried far away from it!

TRUTH

Yearning since childhood for happiness, I have ever been poor in happiness! Or shall I never attain it in the wilderness of existence?

My young dreams have flitted from the heart,--I do not recognise the world: I am deprived of my former aim of hopes, but have no new aim.

“Senseless are you and all your wishes!” spoke to me a secret voice, and I cast off for ever the best creations of my dreams.

But wherefore has the disappointment of the soul not been complete? Why lives within me the blind pity of my youthful dreams?

Thus I once murmured, meditating about my heavy lot: suddenly I saw--it was no dream--Truth before me.

“My light will show the path to happiness!” said she. “Let me but wish,--and I will teach you, impassioned one, joyful dispassionateness:

“Though through me you may lose the heat of your heart; though, learning to know people, you, perchance, frightened, may cease to love your neighbours and your friends.

“I shall destroy all the charms of existence, but shall put your mind aright; I shall pour an austere cold over your soul, but shall give it calm.”

I trembled, as I listened to her words, and grievously I replied to her: “O unearthly guest, sad is your visitation!

“Your light is the funereal light of all earthly joys! Your peace, alas! is the melancholy peace of the grave, and it is terrible to the living!

“No, I am not yours: in your severe science I shall not find happiness! Leave me: I will somehow manage to wander upon my path.

“Good-bye! or no: when my luminary in the starry height will begin to grow dim, and when the time will come to forget all that to my heart is dear,--

“Appear then! Open then my eyes, enlighten my mind, that, despising life, I may without murmuring descend into the abode of night!”

Nikoláy Mikháylovich Yazýkov. (1803-1846.)

Yazýkov was born in Simbírsk, where he remained to his twelfth year.
In 1820 he entered the School of Mines at St. Petersburg, but before
graduating went to the university at Dorpat, from which he also failed
to get a diploma. He passed his student days in riotous bouts that
completely undermined his health. His anacreontic poems early
attracted the attention of Zhukóvski and Púshkin, and the latter
became a warm friend of his. He then settled in Moscow, where he
served in one of the governmental offices, and wrote a series of
poems, among which _To the Poet_, _The Conflagration_, and _A Spring
Night_ are his best. Ill health soon drove him abroad, and there he
composed his famous _To the Rhine_; his other poems of the same period
have a religious and patriotic tinge. Yazýkov’s poetry has been the
subject of much controversy: some deny the intrinsic value of his
productions, though all unite in extolling the exquisite musicalness
and harmony of his verse.

N. H. Dole has translated his _The Sailor_ (publication
unascertainable). In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887,
are given _The Earthquake_, _Evening_, _Prayer_.

THE SAILOR

Cruel is our lonely ocean,
Roaring always day and night;
Buried ’neath its wild commotion
Many a wreck lies, far from sight.

Courage, comrades! I, confiding,
To the free winds give my barque;
Forth it hastens, swiftly riding
O’er the billows grim and dark.

Thick the clouds fly o’er the heaven,
Fierce the gale grows,--black the waves;
Hither, thither we are driven,
While the waking whirlwind raves.

Courage, comrades! Peals the thunder,
High the watery heaps arise,
Yawning gulfs now draw us under,
Now we ’re lifted to the skies.

Yet behold, our ship is nearing
Through the storm the wished-for land;
See, the vaults of heaven are clearing,
See, the port is near at hand.

Thither but brave hearts and ready
Will the billows speed along!
Courage, comrades! straight and steady
Flies our vessel, stanch and strong.

--Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication not ascertainable).

THE STORM

Lo! behind the distant mountains is concealed the beautiful day; under the protection of the woods above the waters the tremulous shade grows ever longer in wavelike rows. In the river gleams the evening star,--hills, vales, and shores are deserted: long processions of carts, having left the fields, drive into the village. Now and then a watchdog barks, or the breeze makes the leaves rustle in the darkling oak-forest, or a bird flies timidly by, or a heavy, creaking waggon, drawn by a tired horse, and counting off each plank with its wheels, crosses the lightly poised bridge. And suddenly a broken, dull rattling is borne over the river, already silent and dreamy,--and all is quiet again.

But in the distance, at the edge of the heavens, large, cloudy waves have on all sides veiled the full moon: now they part, now they come together again; now the silent clouds threateningly merge into one mass that, lightning-bearing and black, steals from the east upon the azure vault. Already is the speechlessness of the woods disturbed by the encroachment of the wind; no longer is the nightly flowing of the river peaceful and dark. In broad ripples flash upon it the far-stretched groves of shadows,--just as a sail, trembling in the air and almost furled by the sailor, when suddenly a storm arises, and rolling the noisy floods, seizes the pinion of his barque and stretches it above the whirling waters.

Darkness has drowned the heavens; rain pours down; the storm agitates and stirs the waters and the woods.--it lightens, thunders, and raves. Wondrous moments! When from end to end, through the stormy clouds a furrow of toothed lightning gleams in purple fire,--then everything is seen: the chain of the distant mountains and the variegated pictures of the windings of the Sorót, the lakes, the villages, the banks, and the vales. Suddenly the darkness grows more grim and murky, the thunder claps are louder; noisier, thicker, faster are the torrents of the rain. But to-morrow the luminary of the day will, in luxurious silence, appear in the light-blue heaven, and will re-establish a golden morning in the storm-washed country.

TO THE POET

When inspiration has grown one with you, and your breast heaves mightily with it, and you perceive your consecration and know your God-blest path, when all, by which the heavenly gift is patent upon earth, is ready for your deeds,--the light and heat of mighty thought and the fire-breathing word,--then go into the world, that it may hear the prophet! But in the world be holy and majestic, kiss not the sugared lips of vice, beg not, take no reward,--whether the morning star invite you with its glow, or terrible be the tyranny of fate: be innocent as the dove, and bold and brave as the eagle!

And harmonious and soothing sounds will rise from your thundering strings; in these sounds the slave will forget his torments, and King Saul will listen to them, and you will bloom in life of high solemnity, and for ever bright will be your open brow and piercing, flaming eye!

But if you are filled with the earthly desire of praise and pleasure,--gather not rich gifts upon the altar of your God: He will ungraciously look upon you, will not accept your cunning offerings; smoke and thunder will disperse them,--and the priest will recede, trembling with fear and shame.

Mikhaíl Yúrevich Lérmontov. (1814-1841.)

Lérmontov was born in the house of his grandmother, who brought him up
after the early death of his mother. Up to his tenth year he was
educated at home, in the country, studying several modern languages
and Greek. In 1826 he was taken to Moscow and placed in the Boarding
School for Young Noblemen, which was connected with the university. He
here distinguished himself as a student, but was much ridiculed by his
mates on account of his awkward manner and unattractive exterior. This
led him to withdraw from their company as much as possible, and to
frequent solitary spots. He read a great deal, but his favourite
author was Byron, whose life he set up as an example for himself to
follow. Having been expelled from the university for some scandalous
pranks, he entered in 1832 the School of the Guard Cadets at St
Petersburg, where he soon gained the reputation of a clever poet of
immodest verses. After graduation he passed his life in a whirl of
society pleasures at St. Petersburg and at Tsárskoe Seló. Púshkin’s
death, in 1837, roused Lérmontov from his inactivity. The poem, _On
the Death of the Poet_, which he then wrote, and which was spread over
Russia in a large number of manuscript copies, caused a sensation in
higher society, and he was banished for it to the Caucasus, but was
soon returned to the army. Lérmontov was at that time little known to
the public at large, though his poem “Borodinó” had just appeared, as
he kept himself aloof from the literary coteries. He first attracted
universal attention by his _Ballad of the Tsar Iván Vasílevich_, after
which followed a long series of his famous poems, and the prose novel
_The Hero of our Time_. In 1840 he was again banished to the Caucasus
for having fought a duel, but the next year he was killed in another
duel with a fellow-officer.

Lérmontov had displayed unusual talent before the age of twenty, and
before his twenty-eighth year he had achieved a reputation that is
hardly second to Púshkin’s. His fervid imagination led him to add to
his fashionable Byronian mood a charm entirely his own: his melancholy
and pessimism, which find their most beautiful expression in his long
poem, _The Demon_, do not leave the reader disheartened and
disappointed, but rather invite to pensive meditation. His poetry
gives the impression of having no relation to active life; it seems as
though the questions of the day did not exist for him. This is partly
due to the fact that he stood aside from the literary circles, but
more especially because he wrote at a time when the application of art
to life had not yet become the watchword of Russian poets. He
therefore characterises the transition period from Púshkin to Gógol.
He was entirely under the influence of Byron, without, however,
inheriting his political and humanitarian ideals.

There are several translations of his prose tale: _Sketches of Russian
Life in the Caucasus_, by a Russe (a literary forgery), London, 1853;
_A Hero of Our Times_, now first translated into English, London,
1854; _The Hero of Our Days_, from the Russian, by T. Pulszky (in The
Parlour Library), London, [1854]; _A Hero of Our Time_, from the
Russian, by R. I. Lipmann, London, [1886]; Russian Reader:
_Lermontoff’s Modern Hero_, with English translation and biographical
sketch, by Ivan Nestor-Schnurmann, Cambridge University Press, 1899.
_Taman_ (part of _Hero of Our Time_) was also given in Railway and
General Automatic Library, London, [1892]. _The Demon_ has been
translated twice: _The Demon_, translated from the Russian, by A.
Condie Stephen, London, 1875, 2nd ed., 1881, 3rd ed., 1886; _The Demon
of Lermontoff_, translated from the Russian, by Francis Storr, London,
1894. The _Mtsyri_ has appeared under the name, _The Circassian Boy_,
translated through the German, by S. S. Conant, Boston, 1875.

The following separate poems have been translated into English: _The
Gifts of Terek_, by T. B. Shaw, in Edinburgh Blackwood Magazine, vol.
liv.; _Rememberest thou the day_, by W. R. Alger, in _The Poetry of
the Orient_, Boston, 1865; _Gifts of the Terek_, _The Cup of Life_,
_Cossack Cradlesong_, _The Prisoner_, by A. E. Staley, in Blackwood’s
Magazine, vol. cxxxvi.; _God’s Presence in Nature_, _Clouds_, _The Cup
of Life_, _The Bark_, _The Dispute_, _Circassian Song_, _Cossack
Cradlesong_, _The Prisoner_, _The Deserter_, _The Dream_, _Stanzas_,
_The Nun’s Song_, _Prayer_, _The Branch from Palestine_, by C. T.
Wilson, in _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _The Angel_, _The Voyage_,
_Prayer_, _Thanksgiving_, _On Death of Púshkin_, _Dream_, _Clouds_,
_How Weary_, _Alone I pass along the lonely road_, _Men and Waves_,
_The Queen of the Sea_, _The Prophet_, _When my native land_, _To
----_, _The Dagger_, _Not for Thee_, _Dispute_, _“Why?” Moscow_, in J.
Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891; in Free Russia have
appeared: by G. R. Tomson, _The Poet_, in vol. i., No. 6; by Mary
Grace Walker, _The Death of Pushkin_, in vol. x., Nos. 6 and 7, _My
Neighbour_, in vol. xi., No. 1, _My Country_, ib., No. 4; by Mrs. Ch.
Sidgwick, _At a Ball_, ib., No. 2; in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society have been published: by F. P. Marchant, _The Angel_, _The
Prayer_, in No. 11, _The Branch from Palestine_, and _Gratitude_, in
No. 16, _Cossack Cradlesong_, in No. 25, _Ballad of the Tsar Ivan
Vasilevich_, in No. 26; by Miss G. Shepherd, _Oh, he was born for
happiness, for hope_, in No. 13; by A. C. Coolidge, _Alone I wander
out along the road_ and _The Angel_, in No. 14 (given before in
Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895); by Mrs. Heath, _The Sail_, in No. 19;
by J. Pollen, _The Gifts of the Terek_, in No. 20; by Anna Laura K.
Bezant, _On life’s road I wander, lone and dreaming_, in No. 21; in
the Library of the World’s Best Literature is given _The Cloud_, by N.
H. Dole, and are reprinted _The Prisoner_ and _The Cup of Life_, by
Staley, and _The Angel_, by Pollen.

FROM “A HERO OF OUR TIMES”

MAKSÍM MAKSÍMYCH

Leaving Maksím Maksímych, I rode at a rapid gait through the Térek and Daryál cañons, breakfasted in Kazbék, drank tea at Lára, and hastened away for supper to Vladikavkáz.

I stopped at the inn where all passengers stop----I was told that I should have to pass three days longer here, since the chance-team had not yet returned from Ekaterinográd and, consequently, could not start on its return journey.

The first day I passed lonely. Early in the morning of the next day a vehicle drove into the yard. “Ah, Maksím Maksímych!” We met like old friends. I offered him my room; he accepted it without ceremony, even clapped me on my shoulder and curved his mouth in the manner of a smile. What a queer fellow!

Maksím Maksímych was well versed in the culinary art: he could broil a pheasant remarkably well, superbly seasoned it with cucumber sauce, and I must confess that without him I should have been obliged to live on dry food. A bottle of Kakhetine wine helped us to forget the modest number of our dishes, of which there was but one, and lighting our pipes we seated ourselves,--I at the window, he at the stove, for it was a damp and cold day. We were silent.

We sat for a long time. A few vehicles with dirty Armenians drove into the yard of the inn, and behind them--an empty carriage.

“Thank the Lord!” said Maksím Maksímych, approaching the window. “What a fine carriage!” he added----“Who can it be? Let us go and find out.”

We went into the corridor. A lackey was dragging, with the help of the driver, some portmanteaus into a room.

“Listen, friend,” the staff-captain asked him, “to whom does this magnificent carriage belong?----Eh? A fine carriage!”

The lackey did not turn around, but muttered something as he opened the portmanteau. Maksím Maksímych grew angry. He touched the rude fellow on the shoulder and said to him: “I ’m talking to you, my dear fellow.”

“To whom the carriage belongs? To my master?”

“And who is your master?”

“Pechórin.”

“You don’t say? Pechórin? Oh, good God! Did n’t he serve in the Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksím Maksímych, pulling me by the sleeve. Joy glistened in his eyes.

“I think he did, but I have not been long with him.”

“Well, that ’s it! Grigóri Aleksándrovich? That ’s his name? Your master and I have been friends,” he added, giving the lackey a friendly slap on the shoulder that made him stagger.

“Excuse me, sir, you are in my way,” he said, knitting his brow.

“How funny you are, friend! You must know that your master and I have been bosom friends and have lived together. But what has become of him?”

The servant announced that Pechórin would remain for supper and the night at Colonel N.’s.

“Won’t he come here in the evening?” said Maksím Maksímych. “Or, are n’t you going down to see him for something or other? If you are, tell him that Maksím Maksímych is here,--he knows,--I ’ll give you eight grívenniks[7] for vódka.”[8]

The lackey made a scornful grimace when he heard of such a modest promise, but he assured Maksím Maksímych that he would carry out his order.

“He ’ll come right away!” Maksím Maksímych said to me, with a radiant look. “I ’ll wait for him outside the gate. Oh, what a pity I don’t know Colonel N.”

Maksím Maksímych sat down on a bench in front of the gate, and I went to my room.

An hour later an invalid brought a boiling samovár and a teapot. “Maksím Maksímych, don’t you want any tea?” I cried to him through the window.

“Thank you, I don’t feel like it.”

“Do take a glass! Look, it is already late and cold.”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, as you please!” I began to drink tea myself; some ten minutes later the old fellow came into the room.

“You are right: it will be better to take some tea. I have been waiting, but his man went to him long ago; evidently something has detained him.”

He hurriedly sipped a cup, declined a second, and went again outside the gate, somewhat disturbed. It was clear that Pechórin’s negligence annoyed the old fellow, especially since he had only lately been telling me of his friendship, and since he was so sure an hour ago that Pechórin would hurry to see him, the moment he heard his name.

It was late and dark when I again opened the window and began to call Maksím Maksímych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered something through his teeth. I repeated the invitation, but he did not answer.

I lay down on the divan and covered myself with my cloak. I left a candle on the oven-bench and fell asleep. I should have slept quietly if Maksím Maksímych had not entered very late into the room and awakened me. He threw down his pipe on the table, began to pace over the room and to poke the fire; finally he lay down, but he coughed, spit, and tossed for a long time.

“Are bugs biting you?” I asked him.

“Yes, bugs,” he answered, drawing a deep sigh.

I awoke very early the next morning, but Maksím Maksímych had anticipated me. I found him in front of the gate, seated on the bench.

“I must go down to the Commandant,” he said, “so please send for me if Pechórin should come.”

I promised I would. He ran away as if his limbs had regained their youthful vigour and flexibility.

Less than ten minutes had passed when at the end of the square appeared the man we were waiting for. He was walking with Colonel N., who brought him to the inn, bade him good-bye, and returned to the fort. I immediately sent the invalid for Maksím Maksímych.

The horses were already hitched. The bells now and then tinkled over the yoke, and the lackey had already twice approached Pechórin with the report that all was ready, but Maksím Maksímych had not yet made his appearance. Fortunately Pechórin was buried in meditation and was looking at the blue crags of the Caucasus, and did not seem to be in a hurry to leave. I went up to him.

“If you will wait a little,” I said, “you will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend of yours.”

“Oh, that ’s so!” he answered rapidly. “I was told so yesterday; but where is he?”

I turned to the square and saw Maksím Maksímych running at full speed. A few minutes later he was near us; he could hardly breathe; perspiration ran down his face; wet tufts of grey hair stood out from under his cap and stuck to his brow; his knees were trembling. He wanted to throw himself on Pechórin’s neck, but the latter quite coldly, though with a pleasant smile, stretched out his hand to him. The staff-captain was stupefied for a moment, but then eagerly grasped his hand with both of his: he could not speak.

“How glad I am, dear Maksím Maksímych! Well, how are you getting along?” Pechórin asked.

“And thou? and you?” the old man muttered with tears in his eyes. “How many years--how many days--but where are you going to?”

“I am going to Persia, and still farther.”

“Right away? Do stay here a while, my friend! Are we really going to separate at once? We have not seen each other for so long.”

“I must, Maksím Maksímych,” was his answer.

“O Lord! Where are you hurrying so? I should like to tell you so much, and ask you so much! Well, have you retired? What have you been doing?”

“Having ennui!” Pechórin answered, smiling.

“Do you remember our life in the fort? ’T was a fine country for hunting! You were a passionate hunter! And Béla?”

Pechórin grew slightly pale and turned away.

“Yes, I remember!” he said, yawning forcedly.

Maksím Maksímych began to entreat him to stay an hour or two with him.

“We shall have a fine dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants, and the Kakhetine wine is excellent,--of course not what it is in Georgia, yet of the best sort. We shall talk. You will tell me of your life in St. Petersburg. Well, what do you say?”

“Really, I have nothing to tell, dear Maksím Maksímych. Now good-bye, I must go, I am in a hurry. Thank you for remembering me,” he added, taking his hand.

The old man knit his eyebrows. He was sad and angry, though he tried to hide it.

“Forget? No, I have forgotten nothing. Well, God be with you! I hoped to meet you differently.”

“Well, well!” said Pechórin, embracing him in a friendly manner. “Am I not the same? What ’s to be done? Each one has his road laid out. God knows if we shall ever meet again!”

He was already in the carriage when he said this, and the driver was arranging the reins.

“Wait, wait!” Maksím Maksímych suddenly shouted, catching hold of the door of the carriage: “I almost forgot. I have your papers, Grigóri Aleksándrovich, and I have been dragging them along with me. I had hoped to find you in Georgia, but by the will of God we have met here. What shall I do with them?”

“Whatever you please!” answered Pechórin. “Good-bye!”

“So you are making for Persia? When will you be back?” Maksím Maksímych cried after him.

The vehicle was far off, but Pechórin made a sign with his hand which could be interpreted as follows: “Hardly! And there is no reason why I should!”

The tinkling of the bell and the rattling of the wheels on the flinty road had long died away, but the poor old man was still standing in the same place, buried in meditation.

“Yes,” he said at last, trying to assume an indifferent look, though from time to time a tear of indignation glittered on his eyelashes. “We have been friends, but what does friendship nowadays mean? What interest can he have in me? I am not rich, have no title, and am not a match for him as to age. What a swell he has become since he has been in St. Petersburg. What a carriage! How much luggage! And what a proud lackey!” These words were pronounced with an ironical smile. “Tell me,” he continued, turning towards me: “What do you think about it? What demon carries him now to Persia? It ’s ridiculous, upon my word, ridiculous! I always knew that he was a flighty man upon whom one could not rely. But, really, it ’s a pity he should end so badly,--it can’t be otherwise! I always said it does no good to forget old friends!”

Here he turned away to conceal his agitation, and began to pace up and down the yard, near his vehicle, as if to examine the wheels, while his eyes kept filling with tears.

“Maksím Maksímych,” I said, walking over to him, “what kind of papers are those that Pechórin has left with you?”

“God knows! Some memoirs.”

“What will you do with them?”

“What! I ’ll have them made into cartridges.”

“You had better give them to me.”

He looked at me in wonderment, muttered something through his teeth, and began to rummage through his portmanteau. Then he took out a notebook, threw it contemptuously on the floor, then another, a third, a tenth, and they had all the same fate: there was something childish in his anger; I was amused, and I pitied him.

“Here they are,” said he. “I congratulate you with your find.”

“And I may do with them what I wish?”

“As far as I am concerned, you may print them in newspapers. What do I care? What am I to him? Neither a friend, nor a relative. It is true, we have lived a long time together under the same roof. But there are many others with whom I have lived!”

I grabbed the books and carried them quickly away, fearing that the captain might regret his action. They announced to us soon after that the carriage would start in an hour. I gave orders to pack. The captain entered the room as I was putting on my cap. He was evidently not getting ready to travel; he had a kind of a forced, cold look.

“Are n’t you going, Maksím Maksímych?”

“No, sir.”

“How so?”

“I have not yet seen the Commandant, and I have to hand over to him some Crown goods.”

“But you have been with him?”

“Yes, I have, that ’s so,” he said, hesitatingly, “but he was not at home, and I did not wait for his return.”

I understood him--the poor old man had, probably for the first time in his life, neglected his official duties for private reasons, as they say in chancery language, and how he was rewarded for it!

“Very sorry, Maksím Maksímych, that we are to part before our time.”

“We uncouth old men can’t keep up with you! You are a worldly, proud young set. As long as you are under Circassian bullets, you are passable, but when you meet one of our kind later, you are ashamed to stretch out your hand to him.

“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksím Maksímych.”

“I should not have mentioned it, if I had not been egged on. As for you, I wish you good luck and a happy journey.”

We parted quite dryly. Good Maksím Maksímych became a stubborn, quarrelsome staff-captain! Why? Because Pechórin, in his absent-mindedness or for some other reason, stretched out his hand to him, when he was ready to fall around his neck. It is sad to see a young man lose all his best hopes and dreams, when the rose-coloured glass is taken away from him through which he had been looking at human acts and feelings, though there is hope that he will exchange his old illusions for new ones, not less transitory, but also not less sweet. But what is to take their place in a man of Maksím Maksímych’s years? The heart involuntarily becomes hardened, and the soul closes up.

I travelled by myself.

[7] A grívennik is equal to ten kopeks, or about five cents.

[8] Native brandy.

FROM “THE DEMON”

I

A sombre fiend, a spirit banished,
Was flying o’er this world of sin;
While thoughts of better days, now vanished,
Upon his brain were crowding in--
Those days, when in the home of light
Midst cherubim he too was bright.
The time was when the comet fleeting,
Its soft caressing smile of greeting
To interchange with him was proud;
When, through the never-ending cloud,
He followed curiously the trace
Of where the caravans had moved
Of stars, whose paths were lost in space,--
When he believed and when he loved.
A happy first-born of creation,
He knew no thought of fear or doubt:
Existence then was his, without
The weight of ages of damnation----
And much and much,--but no, not all,
Had he the strength that dared recall.

II

Through earthly deserts long he sped,
Without a refuge or an aim.
The ages after ages fled;
Like minute after minute, came
Recurring ceaselessly the same.
In this mean world o’er which he lorded
No ill he sowed, relief afforded;
For nowhere he resistance met
That stood against the snares he set.
Sin did but weariness beget.

III

Now, o’er the Caucasus, on high,
Was Eden’s outcast flying by.
Kazbék, beneath, with diamond light
Of everlasting snow shines blinding;
And deep below, a streak of night,
Like some dark cleft, the snake’s delight,
In endless curves the Daryál’s winding
And Térek like a lion springing,
With bristling mane, in fury roars;
The beast of prey, the bird, high winding
Its flight in azure where it soars,
Have heard the cry his waves give forth,
And little golden clouds there are
From southern lands,--ay, from afar,
To follow on the journey north.
The cliffs in serried masses seem,
Replete with some mysterious dream,
To bend their heads above the stream,
And watch his waters as they gleam
Perched on the rock, the castle tower,
That stands on Caucasus to wait,
A giant guardian at the gate,
Seems sternly through the mist to glower,
And wild and wonderful about
Was all God’s world; but that proud sprite
With but a glance of scorn looked out
On all his God had wrought in might;
His lofty brow did naught express
Except the void of nothingness.

IV

Before him now another scene
Had living beauties to display,
Where Georgian valleys robed in green,
Stretched outward like a carpet, lay.
One of earth’s happy fertile nooks
Where column-like the ruins stand;
O’er stones of every hue, the brooks
Run downward babbling through the land.
The nightingales among the roses
Sing tuneful love in accents fond
To graceful mates that ne’er respond;
The plane-tree’s spreading shade discloses
The spot where ivy thick reposes;
Here gorges where from burning day
The timid deer lie hid away;
And light, and life, and leaves that rustle,
And voices’ hundred-sounding bustle,
And plants whose thousand breaths compete,
And fierce voluptuous noonday heat;
And nights whose aromatic dew
Distils a freshness ever new;
And stars that are as bright as eyes,
As glances of the Georgian maid.
But nature in all charm arrayed
To no new throb of life gave rise
Within that outlaw’s sterile breast,
Save for a hostile, cold unrest;
And that which here he contemplated,
He looked with scorn upon and hated.

--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge (unpublished).

DISPUTE

Once, before a tribal meeting
Of the mountain throng,
Kazbék-hill with Shat-the-mountain
Wrangled loud and long.
“Have a care, Kazbék, my brother,”
Shat, the grey-haired, spoke;
“Not for naught hath human cunning
Bent thee to the yoke.
Man will build his smoky cabins
On thy hillside steep;
Up thy valley’s deep recesses
Ringing axe will creep;
Iron pick will tear a pathway
To thy stony heart,
Delving yellow gold and copper
For the human mart.
Caravans, e’en now, are wending
O’er thy stately heights,
Where the mists and kingly eagles
Wheeled alone their flights.
Men are crafty; what though trying
Proved the first ascent!--
Many-peopled, mark, and mighty
Is the Orient.”

“Nay, I do not dread the Orient,”
Kazbék, answering, jeers;
“There mankind has spent in slumber
Just nine hundred years.
Look, where ’neath the shade of plane-trees
Sleepy Georgians gape,
Spilling o’er their broidered clothing
Foam of luscious grape!
See, ’mid wreaths of pipe-smoke, lying
On his flowered divan,
By the sparkling pearly fountain
Dozeth Teheran!
Lo! around Jerusalem’s city,
Burned by God’s command
Motionless, in voiceless stillness,
Deathlike, lies the land.

“Farther off, to shade a stranger,
Yellow Nilus laves,
Glowing in the glare of noonday,
Steps of royal graves.
Bedouins forget their sorties
For brocaded tents,
While they count the stars and sing of
Ancestral events.
All that there the vision greeteth
Sleeps in prized repose;
No! the East will ne’er subdue me!
Feeble are such foes!”
“Do not boast thyself so early,”
Answered ancient Shat;
“In the North, look! ’mid the vapours,
Something rises! What?”

Secretly the mighty Kazbék
At this warning shook,
And, in trouble, towards the nor’ward
Cast a hurried look.
As he looks in perturbation,
Filled with anxious care,
He beholds a strange commotion,
Hears a tumult there.
Lo! from Ural to the Danube,
To the mighty stream,
Tossing, sparkling in the sunlight,
Moving regiments gleam;
Glancing wave the white-plumed helmets
Like the prairie grass,
While, ’mid clouds of dust careering,
Flashing Uhlans pass.
Crowded close in serried phalanx
War battalions come;
In the van they bear the standards,
Thunders loud the drum;
Streaming forth like molten copper
Batteries, rumbling, bound;
Smoking just before the battle
Torches flare around;
Skilled in toils of stormy warfare,
Heading the advance,
See! a grey-haired general guides them,
Threat’ning in his glance.
Onwards move the mighty regiments
With a torrent’s roar;
Terrible, like gathering storm-clouds,
East, due east, they pour.

Then, oppressed with dire forebodings,
Filled with gloomy dreams,
Strove Kazbék to count the foemen,
Failed to count their streams.
Glancing on his tribal mountains,
Sadly gloomed the hill;
Drew across his brows the mistcap,
And for aye was still.

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

───────

Alone I wander out along the road;
The stony way gleams through the mist afar;
The night is calm; the waste lists to its God;
And star is speaking unto star.

In heaven wondrousness and grandeur reign;
The earth sleeps in a glow of soft blue sky.
Then why do I feel such distress, such pain?
What have I to await? or what regret have I?

Already I await no more from life;
And nothing in the past do I regret.
I seek for freedom, and an end to strife;
I only wish to sleep and to forget.

But not as in the tomb’s too chilly rest,
My slumber through the ages I conceive
With all Life’s vigour throbbing in my breast--
That with my breathing it should gently heave,--

That all the day and night, to soothe my ear,
A tender voice to me of love should sing;
And I must have, in green for ever near,
A dark oak bending o’er me, murmuring.

--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, 1895, and in
The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 14.

THE SAIL

A solitary sail is gleaming,
While, through the haze of th’ azure, she,
In chase of chance’s fortune seeming,
Far from a cherished home may be.

The waves leap up,--the wind is blowing,
The mast is bending low and creaks,--
Alas! from happiness not going,
It is not happiness she seeks.

Beneath her prow blue floods are swelling,
Above her glides the sunlit fleece,
But still she prays for storms, rebelling--
As if in storms there can be peace.

--Transl. by Mrs. Heath, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 19.

THE PRAYER

In life’s hard, trying moments,
With sorrow in my breast,
I breathe a prayer most wonderful,
Which ever brings me rest.

There is a power of blessedness
In those sweet words enshrined,
Thought cannot grasp their sacred charm
That calms the anxious mind.

Doubt stays no more, the soul is free,
Her burden rolls away,
Her faith renewed, tears bring relief,
When this sweet prayer I pray.

--Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 11.

THE BRANCH OF PALESTINE

Branch of Palestine, the story
Of thy birth and beauty, say
Of what hill and vale the glory
Were thy leaves and blossoms gay?