Chapter IX: Act I: (room in the Burgomaster’s house). SCENE 1. THE BURGOMASTER, (2)

Nature is the eternal model of art, and the greatest and noblest subject in nature is man. And is a peasant not a man? But what can there be of interest in a coarse, untutored man? Why, his soul, mind, heart, passions, inclinations,--in short, the same as in the cultured man. Granted, the latter is more interesting than the first; but is the botanist interested only in artfully improved garden plants, and does he neglect their wild-growing field prototypes? Is not for the anatomist and physiologist the organism of a wild Australian as interesting as the organism of an enlightened European? For what reason should art, in this respect, differ so much from science? Then you say that a cultured man is higher than an uncultured one. One has to agree with you in that, but not unconditionally. Of course, the most frivolous worldly man stands incomparably higher than a peasant, but in what respect? Only in worldly education, but that in no way interferes with many a peasant’s being higher than he, for example, as regards his mind, feelings, character. Education only develops the moral powers of man, it does not give them; Nature gives them to man. In this distribution of her precious gifts, she acts blindly, without considering the classes. If from the educated class of society there issues a greater number of remarkable men, it is only because there are there more means for development, and not at all because Nature has been more niggardly with the men of the lower classes in the distribution of her gifts.

“What can one learn from a book in which is described some miserable wretch who has drunk himself to perdition?” say again these second-hand aristocrats. Why, certainly not worldly manners and refinement, but the knowledge of man under certain conditions. One man gets drunk through indolence, through bad bringing up, through weakness of character, another through unfortunate circumstances in life for which he may not bear the least blame. In either case, they are instructive and curious examples for observation. Of course, it is much easier to turn away with disgust from a fallen man than to stretch out to him a consoling and helpful hand, just as it is much easier to judge him severely in the name of morality than with sympathy and love to enter into his situation, to probe the cause of his fall, and to pity him as a man, even when he appears much to blame for his fall.

The Redeemer of the human race came into the world for all men; not wise and educated men, but simple-minded and simple-hearted fishermen He called to be “fishers of men”; not rich and happy men, but poor, suffering, fallen men He sought, in order to console some, and encourage and raise others. Festering sores on a body that was hardly covered with unclean rags did not offend His eyes, which shone with love and charity. He, the son of God, loved men humanely and sympathised with them in their misery, dirt, shame, debauch, vices, wrongdoings. He bid those throw a stone at the adulteress who could not in any way accuse their own consciences, and put the hard-hearted judges to shame, and gave the fallen woman a word of consolation,--and the robber, who breathed his last on the cross as a well-deserved punishment, for one moment of repentance, heard from Him the word of forgiveness and peace. But we, the sons of men, we want to love only those of our brothers who are like us, we turn away from the lower classes as from pariahs, fallen ones, lepers. What virtues and deserts have given us the right to do so? Is it not rather the very absence of all virtues and deserts? But the divine word of love and brotherhood has not in vain been proclaimed to the world.

That which formerly was only the duty of persons who had been called to serve at the altar, or the virtue of the chosen few, has now become the obligation of societies, and no longer serves as a token of mere virtue, but also of culture of private individuals. See, how in our century everybody is interested in the lot of the lower classes, how private philanthropy is everywhere being changed into state institutions, how on all sides are formed well-organised, richly endowed societies for the aid of the needy and suffering, for the suppression and prevention of misery and its inevitable consequence--immorality and debauch. This universal movement, so noble, so humane, so Christian, meets its detractors in the persons of the worshippers of a dull and stark patriarchalism. They say that fashion, whim, vainglory, and not philanthropy, are active here. Suppose it is so, but when and where have similar trifling impulses not taken part in the best of human actions? But how can one assert that only such impulses have been the cause of these phenomena? How can one think that the chief creators of these phenomena, who by their example have influenced the masses, are not inspired by nobler and higher impulses? Naturally, there is no cause for admiring the virtue of people who throw themselves into charity not from a sense of neighbourly love, but from fashion, from imitation, from vainglory. But it is a virtue as regards society which is so full of the spirit that it can direct the activities of trivial people towards the good! Is it not an extremely encouraging phenomenon of modern civilisation, of progress of mind, education, and culture?

Entirely admitting that art must above all be art, we nevertheless think that the idea of some kind of a pure, exclusive art that lives in its own sphere, that has nothing in common with the other sides of life, is an abstract, visionary idea. There has never and nowhere existed such an art. No doubt, life is divided and subdivided into a multitude of sides that have their separate existences; but these sides continually interact in a living organism, and there is between them no sharply drawn line. No matter how you may parcel out life, it is always one and inseparable. They say: for science we need mind and reason, for art, fancy, and they think that they have thus once and for all settled the matter, and that it is fit to go in that shape into the archives. Does not art need mind and reason as well? And can the savant get along without fancy? No! The truth is that in art fancy plays the most active and important part, while in science, mind and reason. There are, to be sure, productions of poetry in which nothing is to be seen except a strong, brilliant fancy; but that is not a common rule for artistic productions.

Sergyéy Timoféevich Aksákov. (1791-1859.)

Aksákov represents the rare example in Russian literature of an author
who passed from the pseudo-classic style to the realistic school of
Gógol without taking part in the intervening Romantic movement. He was
born at Ufá, and graduated from what was then the Kazán University at
sixteen years of age. He then served as a government translator, and
devoted himself to literature, mainly to translations from the French.
His sympathies were entirely with Shishkóv, Karamzín’s opponent. In
1827 he was made a censor, in which capacity he gained an unenviable
reputation as an unscrupulous partisan. In the thirties he came under
the influence of Gógol, and in 1833 he wrote _The Snowstorm_, which
was later followed by an admirable series of sketches on angling and
on hunting, containing charming pictures of animal life. In 1856
appeared his great work, _The Family Chronicle_, in which he gives
vivid descriptions from the life of a landed proprietor in the
Orenbúrg country, abounding in exquisite landscape pictures. _The
Family Chronicle_ differs from all the other productions of the
realistic school in that there is not a word of fiction in it, but
that it is based entirely on actual facts.

FROM “THE FAMILY CHRONICLE”

Towards the end of June the heat was oppressive. After a sultry night there blew, at daybreak, a fresh eastern breeze, but it subsided as soon as the sun grew warmer. Grandfather awoke at sunrise. He found it warm sleeping in a small upper room, even though the old-fashioned window frame with its tiny panes was lifted up to its fullest capacity, because his bed was curtained with a bar of homespun netting. This was a necessary precaution, for without the bar the pestering mosquitoes would have eaten him up and would have kept him from falling asleep. The winged musicians swarmed around in clouds and stuck their long stings through the thin screen, and they hummed all night their wearisome serenades. It is funny for me to say so, but I can’t help confessing that I like the descant buzz and even the biting of the mosquitoes; I hear in it the oppressive summer, the luxurious, sleepless nights, the shores of the Buguruslán that are overgrown with green bushes, from which resound on all sides the songs of the nightingales; I recall the rapture of my young heart and the sweet, unaccountable pining for which I would now gladly give the rest of my flickering life.

Grandfather awoke, with his warm hand wiped the sweat from his straight, high forehead, put his head out from under the bar, and began to laugh. Vánka Mazán and Nikánorka Tanaychénok were snoring on the floor on which they were stretched out in laughable, though artistic, postures. “I declare, the dog’s children are snoring!” said grandfather and smiled again.

Stepán Mikháylovich was an enigmatic man. After such a strong verbal exordium one would have expected a poke in the side of the sleeper, with the viburnum cane which always stood by his bed, or a kick with the foot, or even a greeting with the chair; but grandfather only laughed out loud as he awoke, and thus, as they say, got into a good humour for the whole day.

He rose without any noise, made one or two signs of the cross, stepped with his bare feet into leather slippers that were worn red, and, dressed in nothing but a shirt of peasant homespun (grandmother would not let him have loom-woven linen for shirts), he went out on the porch where he was refreshed by a whiff of the morning moisture. I just said that Arína Vasílevna did not give him any loom-woven linen for shirts, and every reader would be right in remarking that this was not in keeping with the character of the wedded pair. But really I can’t help it, and I beg you not to be angry with me, it was as I said: feminine nature carried the day over the male, as is always the case! Though she was frequently beaten for giving him coarse underwear, she continued to offer him the same, until the old man took it as a matter of course. Once grandfather made use of the last and the most efficacious means: he chopped up with an axe, on the threshold of his room, all the underwear that had been made of peasant homespun, in spite of grandmother’s wail, who kept on imploring that Stepán Mikháylovich might strike her, but should spare his own property, but even this means was of no avail; the coarse underwear made its appearance again,--and the old man surrendered.

I am much to be blamed for interrupting the story about “my grandfather’s good day,” in order to contradict the reader’s possible remark. Without disturbing anyone, he took down a felt blanket which always lay in the storeroom, spread it out on the upper step of the porch, and sat down upon it, to receive, as was his custom, the rising sun.

Before sunrise a man’s heart experiences unconsciously a happy feeling; but grandfather had the additional pleasure of looking at his estate which was then already well provided with all necessary farm buildings. It is true, the yard was not fenced in, and the cattle from the peasant yards, which were gathering into a common herd before being driven out into the pasture, made a call upon him in passing, just as on that morning and as always happened in the evenings. A few dirty pigs rubbed and scratched themselves against the very porch on which grandfather was sitting, and, grunting, feasted on lobster shells and all kinds of remnants from the dinner which were unceremoniously thrown out near the same porch. Cows and sheep made their visits too. Naturally there were left indecent traces of their calls, but grandfather saw nothing disagreeable in all that, but on the contrary took his delight in watching the healthy cattle, which were to him a sure sign of the sufficiency and well-being of his peasants.

Soon the loud snapping of a long shepherd whip drove the visitors away. The servants began to rise. The tall groom Spiridón, who was called Spírka to a good old age, led out one after another two roan colts and one bay, hitched them to a post, groomed them, and then walked them around by a long rope, while grandfather admired their stature, as he also took delight in the breed he expected to raise from them (he was later completely successful in that). Then awoke also the old stewardess who slept in the loft of the cellar; she came out of the cellar, went to the Buguruslán to get washed, sighed, sobbed (that was her unchangeable custom), prayed to God while turning to the east, and began to wash, rinse, and clean the pots and dishes.

The swallows and martins chirped and sang, circling merrily in the sky; the quails called loudly in the fields; the songs of the skylarks rang out in the air; the crake cried hoarsely, sitting in the bushes; the whistling of waterhens, and the tocking and bleating of wild snipes were borne thither from the nearby swamp, and the blue-throated warblers vied in mocking the nightingales.--The bright sun rolled out from beyond the hill.

Smoke rose from the peasants’ huts, bending with the wind in light grey columns, like a procession of river boats flaunting their flags; the peasants started for the field.

Grandfather wanted to wash himself in cold water, and then to drink tea. He awoke his disgracefully sleeping servants. They leaped up, like half-witted people, in fright, but Stepán Mikháylovich’s merry voice reassured them: “Mazán, fetch me some water! Tanaychénok, wake Aksyútka and the lady,--and tea!” There was no need of repeating the commands: awkward Mazán was running as fast as his feet could carry him with a bright brass wash-basin to get some water at the spring; and agile Tanaychénok awoke the homely servant girl Aksyútka who only fixed the kerchief that had slipped from her head and at once went to wake the good old lady Arína Vasílevna. A few minutes later the whole house was on its feet, and everybody knew that the old gentleman had gotten up in a good humour. Fifteen minutes later a table was placed near the porch, and it was covered with a fine white cloth of home make; upon it boiled a samovár in the shape of a huge brass tea-pot, and Aksyútka was busy attending to it; the old lady, Arína Vasílevna, bade Stepán Mikháylovich good-morning, without sighing and groaning, as would be proper on other mornings, and loudly and merrily asked his health: “How did you rest yourself, and what kind of dreams did you have?”

Grandfather greeted his wife kindly and called her Arísha; he never kissed her hand, but gave her his hand to kiss as a token of his favour. Arína Vasílevna bloomed out and grew younger. Her obesity and clumsiness disappeared as if by magic! She brought a little stool and seated herself on the porch near grandfather, which she never dared to do if he did not receive her graciously.

“Let us have tea together, Arísha!” said Stepán Mikháylovich, “before it is hot. Though it was sultry to sleep, I slept so well that I had no dreams? And you?”

Such a question was an unusual favour, and grandmother speedily replied that she slept well every time Stepán Mikháylovich passed a good night, but that Tanyúsha had tossed a great deal. Tanyúsha was the youngest daughter, and the old man loved her more than his other daughters, as is often the case. These words disquieted him, and he ordered not to wake Tanyúsha, but let her awaken herself. Tatyána Stepánovna had been wakened together with Aleksándra and Elizavéta Stepánovna and they were all dressed, but they did not dare tell him that. Tanyúsha immediately undressed herself, went back to bed, ordered to close the shutters in her room and, though she could not fall asleep, lay for two hours in the dark; grandfather was satisfied because Tatyána had had a good rest. His only son, who was nine years old, was never made to get up early.

The elder daughters appeared at once. Stepán Mikháylovich graciously gave them his hand to kiss and called one Lizánka and the other Leksána. Neither of them was a silly girl. Aleksándra united her father’s vivacity and excitability with her cunning mind, but she did not have his good qualities. Grandmother was a very simple woman and was completely controlled by her daughters. If she ever undertook to outwit Stepán Mikháylovich, she did so solely by their instigation, which the old man knew all by heart and for which, on account of her simple-mindedness, she had often to pay dearly. He also knew that his daughters were ready to deceive him at any convenient moment, and only from ennui, or in order to preserve his own peace, that is, only when he was in good humour, did he allow them to think that they were really deceiving him; but in the first fit of anger he told them all without mercy, in the most unceremonious words, and sometimes he even beat them. But the daughters, like Eve’s real grandchildren, did not lose their courage: the moment the hour of anger passed and their father’s face was becalmed, they set out once more to try their old tricks, and they were often successful.

Having drunk his tea and talked over all kinds of things with his family, grandfather got ready for the field. He had told Mazán long before: “The horse!” and an old greyish brown gelding was already at the porch; it was hitched to a long peasant waggon that was very comfortable, being woven with a close rope netting and having a long seat in the middle that was covered with a blanket. Groom Spiridón was seated in the waggon as a coachman; his livery was quite simple, that is, it consisted only of his shirt; he was barefooted and was girded with a red woollen girdle from which hung a key and a brass comb. On a previous occasion Spiridón had ventured out on such an expedition even without a hat; but grandfather scolded him for it, so he had prepared this time something in the shape of a hat out of broad bast bands. Grandfather made fun of his headgear and, putting on his field coat of unbleached homespun and a cap, and placing under him a cloak against rainy weather, seated himself in the waggon. Spiridón placed under himself his common gabardine, having folded it three times; it was made of white cloth but was painted blood-red with madder, which grew very profusely in the fields. This red colour was so customary with our old men that the neighbours called the Bagróv servants “madderlings”; I heard that nickname myself some fifteen years after my grandfather’s death.

Stepán Mikháylovich was satisfied with everything in the field. He looked at the deflorated rye which stood like a wall and as high as a man’s stature. A soft breeze was blowing, and bluish waves passed over it, appearing now lighter, now darker in the sun. It was a joy for the master to look at such a field! Grandfather surveyed also the young oats and all the summer crops; then he went to the untilled field, and had himself taken up and down his ploughed-up acres. That was his usual way of judging how well the ploughing had been done; every clod of earth which had been untouched by the plough gave a jerk to the shaky waggon, and if grandfather happened to be out of sorts, he stuck a small stick or a withe into such a place, sent for the village elder, if he was not with him, and the inquest began right on the spot. This time everything went off favourably; there may have been some untouched spots, only Stepán Mikháylovich did not notice them, or did not wish to notice them.

He cast also a glance at his prairie meadows, and looked with delight at the dense high grass that was to be mowed in a few days. He visited also the peasant fields, in order to find out for himself who was going to have a good harvest and who not. He also looked at their untilled ground, investigated matters closely, and forgot nothing. Passing by a fallow field and noticing ripe strawberries, grandfather stopped and with the aid of Mazán gathered a fine bunch full of fine, large berries which he took home as a present for his Arísha. In spite of the heat he was away until noon. The moment they noticed grandfather’s waggon coming down the hill, the dinner stood on the table, and the whole family waited for him on the porch.

“Well, Arísha,” merrily spoke grandfather, “it is a fine harvest God is giving us! The Lord’s mercy is great! Here are some strawberries for you!”

Grandmother beamed with joy.

“The berries are nearly all ripe,” he continued, “so let them begin picking to-morrow!”

Saying these words, he went into the ante-chamber; the odour of warm cabbage soup was wafted to him from the hall. “Ah, it is ready!” Stepán Mikháylovich said with a happier mien, “thanks!” and without going to his room, he went straight into the hall and seated himself at the table. I must mention that it was grandfather’s custom, when he returned from the field, whether it was early or late, to find the dinner on the table, and God preserve them if they did not get ready with the meal upon his return. Such mishaps had brought about some sad results. But on that lucky day everything went as if greased, without a hitch. A sturdy fellow, Nikólka Ruzán, stood behind grandfather with a large birch-branch, in order to drive away the flies. The hot cabbage soup, which a Russian will not refuse in the hottest weather, grandfather sipped from a wooden spoon, because a silver spoon burned his lips. Then followed cold beet soup with ice, with transparent sterlet, with salted sturgeon, which was as yellow as wax, and with shelled crawfishes, and similar light dishes. All that was washed down by home-brewed beer and kvas, also with ice. It was a very jolly dinner. All spoke aloud, jested, laughed. There were, however, dinners that passed in terrible silence and in speechless expectation of some outbreak. All the boys and girls of the estate knew that the master was dining in a good mood, and they packed the hall, expecting to catch some dainties. Grandfather treated them lavishly, because there was always prepared five times as much food as was necessary. After dinner he at once lay down to sleep. The flies were driven out from under the bar which was let down over grandfather and tucked down under the feather mattress. Soon a mighty snore gave evidence that the master was sleeping a heroic sleep.

Everybody went to his place to take a nap. Mazán and Tanaychénok, having had a solid meal from the remnants of the master’s table, stretched themselves out on the floor of the ante-chamber, near the very door into grandfather’s sleeping-room. They had already had a nap in the forenoon, which did not keep them from falling asleep again; but the stifling air and burning sun which shone through the window woke them up soon. The sleep and the heat had dried up their throats. They wanted to cool their burning throats with the master’s iced home-brew, so these bold lazybones had recourse to the following trick. Through the open door they reached for grandfather’s morning gown and sleeping-cap which lay on a chair, near the door. Tanaychénok put on his master’s garment and seated himself on the porch, and Mazán ran with a pitcher to the cellar, woke the stewardess, who, like everybody else in the house, slept the sleep of the dead, and asked in a hurry for some iced beer for the master who had just risen. When the stewardess expressed her doubt about the master’s waking, Mazán pointed to Tanaychénok’s figure that was sitting on the porch in morning gown and night-cap. The pitcher was filled with beer, ice was put into it, and Mazán ran speedily away with his booty. They divided the contents in a brotherly way, put the morning gown and night cap in the old place, and had to wait for a whole hour before grandfather awoke.

The master awoke in even a better frame of mind than upon the previous day, and his first words were: “Cold beer!” The servants were frightened out of their wits. Tanaychénok ran to the stewardess who saw immediately that they had themselves drunk the first pitcher. She gave the liquor, but followed the messenger to the porch where the real master was now sitting in his morning gown. The deception was made evident from her first words, and Mazán and Tanaychénok, trembling with fear, fell down before the master’s feet, and what do you suppose grandfather did? He laughed out loud, sent for Arísha and his daughters, and laughing loud, told them the trick of his servants. The poor fellows breathed more freely, and one of them even smiled. Stepán Mikháylovich noticed that and came very near getting angry. His brows began to be furrowed, but his soul was so full of calm restfulness from the whole merry day, that his forehead cleared off right away, and he only looked angrily and said: “Well, God will forgive you this time; but if it happens another time--” It was not necessary to finish the sentence.

One can’t help marvelling how it is that the servants had dared to practise such a sharp trick upon their master who was senselessly excitable and who during his excitement became very cruel. I have frequently noticed in the course of my life that the severer the master, the more daring were the acts of their servants. That was not an exceptional case with my grandfather. The same Vánka Mazán, having once swept the sleeping room of Stepán Mikháylovich and just getting ready to make the bed, was so seduced by the soft feather beds and pillows that he took it into his head to pamper himself; so he lay down upon the master’s bed and fell asleep. Grandfather found him sleeping in that bed, and he only laughed out loud. It is true, he gave him a blow with his viburnum stick, but that was only for fun, to have a good laugh at Mazán’s fright.

He awoke about five o’clock in the afternoon, drank some iced homebrew, and, in spite of the stifling heat, wanted to drink some tea, believing that a hot drink would make the heat more bearable. He went down to take a swim in the cool Buguruslán which flowed under the very windows of the house, and, upon returning, found his whole family waiting for him at the same tea table, which was now placed in the shade, with the same boiling teapot-samovár, and with the same Aksyútka. Having had his fill of his favourite sweat-producing drink, with thick cream and its browned skin, grandfather proposed to all a ride to the mill. Of course, all gladly consented, and two of my aunts, Aleksándra and Tatyána Stepánovna, took some fishing rods with them, for they were very fond of angling. In a minute two long waggons were hitched up: in one of them seated themselves grandfather and grandmother, placing between them their only heir, the precious scion of their ancient noble race. In the other sat my three aunts and the lad Nikoláshka Ruzán, who was taken along, in order to dig for worms in the dam and to put them on the ladies’ hooks.

At the mill they brought a bench for grandmother, and she seated herself in the shade of the mill barn, not far from the mill trough, near which her younger daughters were fishing. The elder daughter, Elizavéta Stepánovna, went, as much to please her father as from her own love of farming, with Stepán Mikháylovich to look at the mill and the grinding. The young boy now looked at the sister’s angling (he was not yet allowed to fish in deep places), now played near his mother who did not turn her eyes away from him, fearing that he might somehow roll into the water.

Both millstones were at work: in one of them they were grinding wheat for the master’s table; in the other, rye for strangers; the stamping mill was crushing millet. Grandfather was an expert in every part of the farm; he knew well the mechanism of the mill, and was explaining all its details to his clever and attentive daughter. He saw at a glance all the imperfections in the gearing, or all the mistakes in the position of the millstones. He ordered to let one down half a notch, and the flour came out much finer, which pleased the customer very much. In the other grinding apparatus he discovered by the sound that one pin in the wheel was beginning to be worn out. He ordered to shut off the water, and miller Boltunénok jumped down to examine the wheel. He said:

“You are right, Father Stepán Mikháylovich! One pin is a little worn off.”

“Yes, yes, a little,” replied grandfather without any displeasure. “If I had not come, the wheel would have broken over night.”

“It is my fault, Stepán Mikháylovich, I did not notice it.”

“God forgive you! Let us have a new wheel, and get a new pin made for the old wheel; see to it that the new wheel is not any wider, nor narrower than the rest, that is the main point.”

They brought a new wheel, which had been fitted before, and put it in place; they oiled it, let in the water,--not all at once, but by degrees (also by order of grandfather),--and the millstone started to hum and grind, without interruption or rattling, but smoothly and evenly. Then grandfather went with his daughter to the stamping mill, took out of the stamp a handful of crushed millet, blew the dust away from the palm of his hand, and said to the customer, a neighbouring Mordvínian: “Look here, neighbour Vasyúkha! Don’t you see there is not a single unbroken grain? If you let the stamping go on, there will be less of flour.” Vasyúkha tried it himself, and he convinced himself that grandfather was telling the truth. He thanked him and bowed, that is, he only shook his head, and ran away to shut off the water.

From there grandfather went with his pupil to the barnyard. He found everything in excellent order. There was a large number of geese, ducks, turkeys, and hens, and an old woman and her grandchild looked after them all. As a special favour, grandfather let them both kiss his hand, and he ordered that the fowlkeeper should receive, in addition to the usual allowance, twenty pounds of wheat flour a month for cakes. Stepán Mikháylovich returned in good spirits to Arína Vasílevna, and he was satisfied with everything: his daughter was clever, the mill was grinding well, and the fowlkeeper Tatyána Gorozhána was looking well after the fowls.

The heat had long subsided. The coolness from the water increased the freshness of the approaching evening; a long cloud of dust rose along the road and came nearer to the village; one could hear in it the bleating and lowing of the farm animals; the declining sun disappeared behind a steep hill. Standing on the dam, Stepán looked with delight at the broad pond which lay immovable like a mirror between its low banks; fishes kept on playing in the water and leaping up, but Stepán Mikháylovich was not fond of fishing.

“Arísha, it is time to start home; the elder, I suppose, is waiting for me,” said he. Seeing him in a happy frame of mind, the younger daughters began to beg him to let them stay a little longer, saying that at sundown the fish bite better, and that they would walk home in half an hour. Grandfather consented and drove away in his waggon with grandmother, while Elizavéta Stepánovna seated herself with her brother in the other waggon. Stepán Mikháylovich was not mistaken. The elder was waiting for him at the porch, and he was not alone, but several peasants and their wives were there also. The elder had seen the master, and he knew that he was in good humour, and he had told some peasants about it. Some of them who had some special request to make, such as exceeded any usual favour, made use of the favourable opportunity, and they were all satisfied. Grandfather gave some grain to a peasant who had not yet paid off his old debt, though he could have done so; he permitted another one to marry off his son, without waiting for winter, and not to the girl which he had himself selected; he permitted a guilty soldier’s widow, whom he had ordered to be driven out of the village, to live with her father, and so forth.

More than that. They were treated each to a silver cup of strong home-made brandy, and this cup held more than a beakerful. Grandfather gave short and clear orders to the elder, and hastened to the supper which had been waiting for him for some time. The supper table differed little from dinner, and undoubtedly they ate a more solid meal, because it was not so hot. After supper Stepán Mikháylovich was in the habit of sitting up another half an hour in his shirt and cooling himself on the porch, after his family had been excused to retire. This time he jested and laughed a little longer than usual with his servants. He ordered Mazán and Tanaychénok to have a boxing match, and he urged them on in such a way that they belaboured each other not in jest and tore each other’s hair. Having had all the fun he wanted, grandfather gave the command for them to come to their senses and stop.

A short, marvellous summer night lay over all Nature. The evening twilight had not yet all disappeared! The azure of the sky grew darker from hour to hour, and from hour to hour the stars shone more brilliantly. Louder and louder became the voices and calls of the birds of the night, as if they were getting nearer to man! The mill sounded nearer, and the stamping mill stamped in the damp night mist---- Grandfather rose from his porch, made one or two signs of the cross towards the starry heavens, and lay down to sleep, in spite of the closeness of the room, on the hot feather bed, and he ordered the servants to lower the mosquito bar over him.

Aleksyéy Stepánovich Khomyakóv. (1804-1860.)

Khomyakóv was born in Moscow, where he passed his early childhood and
youth, and there early came in contact with some of the representative
men of letters. In 1821 he was fired with enthusiasm for the Greek
struggle for independence, and ran away from home to join the Greek
patriots. He was, however, overtaken in time by his father, and
entered the Russian army, which he left in 1825. Soon after began to
appear his patriotic and religious songs that attracted the public
attention by their artistic perfection. He again joined the army
during the Turkish campaign of 1828. A few years later he wrote two
tragedies, but they were a complete failure. He then devoted himself
to prose, devoting all his energies to the cause of Slavophilism and
the propagation of Greek-Catholic theology.

Into English have been translated: _Kiev_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian
Lyrics_, London, 1887; _To My Children_, in _Short Poems and Hymns_,
the latter mostly translations, by W. Palmer, Oxford, 1845 (reprinted
in _Russia and the English Church during the Last Fifty Years_, vol.
i., London, 1895, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 17,
and in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv., Moscow, 1900); _The
Island_ and _To Russia_, in _Russia and the English Church_, vol. i.
(reprinted in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv.); _The Eagle_ and
several extracts, by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 17; _Russian Song_, by N. H. Dole, in Library of the
World’s Best Literature.

TO MY CHILDREN

Time was when I loved at still midnight to come,
My children, to see you asleep in your room;
The cross, holy sign on your foreheads to trace,
And commend you in prayer to the love and the grace
Of our gracious and merciful God.

To keep gentle guard, and watch over your rest,
To think how your spirits were sinless and blest,
In hope to look forward to long happy years
Of blithe, merry youth, without sorrows or fears,
Oh, how sweet, how delicious it was!

But now, if I go, all is silence, all gloom;
None sleep in that crib, nothing breathes in that room;
The light that should burn at the image is gone:
Alas! so it is, children now I have none,
And my heart, how it painfully throbs!

Dear children, at that same midnight do ye,
As I once prayed for you, now in turn pray for me;
Me who loved well the cross on your foreheads to trace;
Now commend me in turn to the mercy and grace
Of our gracious and merciful God.

--Transl. by Rev. W. Palmer, in _Short Poems and Hymns_, Oxford,
1845.

THE EAGLE

High hast thou built thine eyrie,
Eagle of the Northern Slavs,
Wide hast thou spread thy wings,
High into heaven hast thou soared.
Fly! But in the lofty deep of ether,
Where thy scarce-breathing breast
Is warmed by the passage of Freedom,
Forget not thy younger kin!
Look to the Southern Steppe,
Look to the far-off West:
Many are there, where the Danube rages,
Where the Alpine clouds gather way,
In the mountain dells, in the dark Carpathians,
In the Balkan defiles wood-clothed,
In the clutches of faithless Teutons,
In the steely chains of the Tartar,
And thy brothers walk in fetters
Till thy voice shall sound in their ears,
Till thy wings thou shalt spread protecting
O’er their heads grown feeble with bondage.
Forget them not, Northern Eagle,
Send them thy resonant call
And in slavery’s night console them
With thy free and cheering light.
Feed them with thoughts elating,
With the hope of happier days,
And warm with loving kindness
These hearts whose blood is as thine.
Their hour shall come: their pinions
Wax strong, and their talons sharp,
They shall cry, full-grown, and shall sunder
At a breath the bonds that now bind.

--Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 17.

KIEV

Kiev! upon the Dnieper built,
Thy lofty walls above me tower;
Like silver from the furnace pure,
The river gleams where dark hills lour.

All hail to thee, thou ancient town!
The cradle thou of Russia’s fame!
And hail to thee, O Dnieper swift,
The bath, whence glorious Russia came!

In the calm air the songs resound,
The evening bells ring out their note;
“Whence come ye, Pilgrim-Brothers, say,
Your homage who to God devote?”

“I come from where the quiet Don
Glides forth, the beauty of our homes”;
“I come where stern Yenisey
In boundless waters proudly foams.”

“My home is on the Euxine shore.”
“Mine in those distant realms is found
Where wide-extending ice-fields hold
The sea within their rigid bound.”

“Savage the view of Altay’s ridge,
Eternal is the snowy glare;
My native town time-honoured Pskov,
My own dear home is there, is there.”

“I come from cold Ladoga’s Lake”;
“I from the Neva’s soft blue face”;
“I come from Kama’s flowing stream”;
“And I from Moscow’s fond embrace.”

All hail, Kiev! most wondrous town,
With turbid stream which Dnieper laves!
Grander than seats imperial are
The silent shadows of thy caves.

We know in night of times gone by,
In darkness of antiquity,
The brightly shining Eastern sun
Glowed ever, Russia, over thee.

And now, from strange, and distant, lands,
From far-off steppes,--from unknown homes,--
From deepest rivers of the North,--
A crowd of praying children comes.

In loving company well met,
We gather in thy sanctuary;
Where are thy sons, Volhynia?
Galich, where is thy progeny?

Woe! woe! as though by savage fires,
They all by Poles consumèd are;
By noisy banquetings deceived,
They yield to festive charm and glare.

Captives to sword and treachery,
They are ensnared by falsehood’s flame;
They move beneath a foreign flag,
They bow unto a stranger’s name.

Awake, Kiev! again arise,
Upon thy fallen children call,
On them let father’s tenderness,
With voice of supplication, fall.

Thy sons, erst ravished from thy breast,
Will listen to thy soothing cry;
Will tear asunder cunning chain,
The foreign flag will pass it by;

Will come again, as in past days,
Will in thy love themselves disport,
Will lay their faces in thy lap,
Will bring their vessels to thy port.

And all around their native flag
Thy strong commands they will await;
Their life’s full spirit,--spirit’s life,--
Will be by thee regenerate!

--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.

Fédor Ivánovich Tyútchev. (1803-1873.)

Born almost at the same time with Púshkin, Tyútchev continued the
tradition of Púshkin’s school until the seventies. When only fourteen
years of age, he was chosen a member of the Society of Lovers of
Russian Literature for his masterly translation of poems from Horace.
In 1823 he was attached to the Russian embassy at Munich; then, after
serving in various capacities, he was made president of the Commission
of Foreign Censorship, which office he held to his death. Though
frequently contributing to the periodicals, Tyútchev remained unknown
to the middle of the century, when Nekrásov and Turgénev rediscovered
him. His verses are very melodious and tunable, but rather narrow of
scope.

In English translation are to be found: _Scarce cooled from midday
heat_ and _The Spring-Storm_, by John Pollen, in _Rhymes from the
Russian_, London, 1891; _I suffer still from anguished longing_, by A.
C. Coolidge, in Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895, and The Anglo-Russian
Literary Society, No. 15; _Spring Waters_, _Sunrise_, _Evening_, _The
Leaves_, by N. H. Dole, in the Library of the World’s Best Literature.
A few poems, translated by N. H. Dole, are given in G. Schirmer’s
Octavo Choruses for Mixed Voices, New York; the _Sunrise_, by Dole,
was also given in the Ladysmith Leader and Wellington Extension News,
Nov. 6, 1901.

Scarce cooled from midday heat
Sparkles the summer night;
O’er sinful earth a threatening cloud
Trembles with lightnings bright.
Heaven’s sleepy eyelids ope,
And through its distant gleam,
The threatening orbs of One above
O’er earth to kindle seem.

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

THE SPRING-STORM

I love the storm in early May,
When spring’s first maiden thunder peals,
And, laughing in its frolic play,
Across the blue sky softly steals.

The little rumblings roll and reel;
The rain-shower glistens; flies the dust;
The rain-drop pearls in clusters cling,
And golden gleams the fields encrust.

From hillside headlong speeds the rill,
In groves the birds keep twittering,
And chattering wood and murmuring hill
Echo with joy the thundering.

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

───────

I suffer still from anguished longing,
For towards thee still my spirit strives.
In a twilight of memories thronging
E’en now thine image still survives.

Thine image sweet, forgotten never,
Before me always, near and far,
Unreachable, unchanging ever
As in the sky of night, a star.

--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge.

SUNRISE

In solemn calm the Orient waits,
A deep, mysterious silence keeping;
No sign to tell if Day be sleeping
Or if he halt before her gates.

Now, now the mountain tops grow white,
The mists the vales below still cumber,
Still towns and peaceful hamlets slumber--
But heavenward turn your eager sight!

Behold it! Now a gleam awakes
And like young Passion’s timid blushes
The red glow brighter, rosier flushes,
Then high above the zenith breaks!

A moment passes: swift the light
Throughout the Ether’s vast dominions
Sweeps onward on her glittering pinions
And conquers all the hosts of Night.

--Transl. by N. H. Dole, in Schirmer’s Octavo Choruses, No. 623.

Aleksándr Ivánovich Gértsen (Herzen). (1812-1870.)

Gértsen was the son of a rich landed proprietor by the name of
Yákovlev, and of a German mother (Herzen). He was brought up in the
house of his father, where he early acquired several languages and a
love for the German literature of the period, especially for Schiller
and Goethe. He later devoted himself entirely to the exact sciences
and graduated in 1833 from the University of Moscow with a silver
medal for his thesis, _The Historical Evolution of the System of
Copernicus_. While attending the university, Gértsen was the soul of
one of those circles of the thirties where all kinds of philosophical
and social themes were discussed with great wit and enthusiasm. He
later served in several government capacities, chiefly in St.
Petersburg, where he continued to be a centre around which gathered
all the progressive forces of the younger generations. In 1844 the two
extreme literary camps completely severed their connections: the
Slavophiles rallied around Khomyakóv and the Aksákovs, while the
Westerners gathered around Gértsen and Ogarév. In 1847 Gértsen went
abroad never to return. In the last few years of his residence in St.
Petersburg he had evinced great literary talent: his best known
stories are _The Thieving Magpie_ and _Who is to be Blamed?_ During
his long residence abroad he published the famous _Bell_, in which
periodical he carried on a relentless propaganda for constitutionalism
in Russia. In _From the Other Shore_ (originally published in German)
he expressed his disenchantment with the West, and in _Past and
Reflections_ he has given a series of vivid pictures of his times. His
influence as a political agitator and as a man of letters may be
traced through several generations in Russia.

Gértsen wrote two of his works in English: _My Exile in Siberia_, 2
vols., London, 1855, and _The Russian People and Their Socialism_, _A
Letter to M. Jules Michelet_, Brantwood, 1855.

SLAVOPHILES AND PANSLAVISM

Side by side with our circle were our opponents, _nos amis les ennemis_, or, more correctly, _nos ennemis les amis_,--the Moscow Slavophiles.

The war between us has long been ended, and we have shaken each others hands; but in the beginning of the forties we had to meet as enemies,--so a consistent adherence to our principles demanded. We might have avoided quarrelling with them for their childish adoration of the childish period of our history; but accepting their Orthodoxy at full value, and seeing their ecclesiastic intolerance in both directions,--in the direction of science and in the direction of the schism,--we had to assume a hostile attitude towards them. We saw in their doctrine a new oil with which to anoint the Tsar, a new chain imposed upon thought, a new subordination of conscience to the servile Byzantine Church.

It is the Slavophiles’ fault that for a long time we did not understand the Russian people, or their history: their iconographic ideals and incense smoke have hindered our discerning the national life and the foundations of the village commune.

The Orthodoxy of the Slavophiles, their historical patriotism and exaggerated, irritating feeling of nationality were provoked by extremes in the other direction. The importance of their view, its truth and essential part are not in Orthodoxy and not in national exclusiveness, but in those elements of Russian life which they have discovered beneath the fertiliser of the artificial civilisation.

The idea of nationality is in itself a conservative idea, based on the exclusiveness of its rights and the clannishness of its associations; there are in it the Judaic conception of the superiority of race, and the aristocratic pretensions of purity of blood and entailment. Nationality, as a banner, as a battle-cry, only then is surrounded by a revolutionary aureole when the nation fights for independence, when it throws off a foreign yoke. It is for this reason that national sentiments, with all their exaggerations, are full of poetry in Italy and in Poland, and at the same time banal in Germany.

It would be even more ridiculous than with the Germans to prove our nationality, for even those do not doubt it who curse us. They hate us from fear, but do not deny us, as Metternich denied Italy. We ought to have opposed our nationality to our Germanised government and to its renegades. This domestic war could not be raised to an epos. The appearance of the Slavophiles as a school and as a separate doctrine was quite proper; but if they had found no other flag than the Orthodox banner, and no other ideal than the _Domostróy_ and the extremely Russian, but exceedingly harsh, period before Peter, they would have passed for a curious party of transmogrified odd people who belonged to another time. The strength and the future of Slavophilism lay in another direction. It may be that their treasure was really hid in church vessels of ancient workmanship, but its value was neither in the vessel, nor in the form. They did not separate them at first.

To the historical recollections proper were added the memories of all the related nations. Our Slavophiles assumed the sympathy for the Western Panslavism to be identical in fact and in direction, forgetting that there the exclusive nationalism was at the same time the lament of a people that was oppressed by a foreign yoke. Western Panslavism was, upon its appearance, regarded by the Austrian government as a conservative step. It was evolved during the sad epoch of the Vienna Congress. It was, in general, the time of all kinds of resurrections and rehabilitations, the time of all kinds of Lazaruses,--fresh and stinking ones. The Bohemian Panslavism arose by the side of the _Deutschthum_, which was marching to the resurrection of the _happy_ days of Barbarossa and the Hohenstaufens. The governments hailed this new tendency, and at first encouraged the development of international hatred; the masses again clung to their tribal interrelation, of which the knot was being drawn tighter, and again were departing from the common demands for the improvement of their existence; borders became ever more impassable, and the tie and sympathy between nations were loosened. It goes without saying that only weak, apathetic nations were allowed to awaken, and that only so long as their activities were limited to scientific, archeographic labours and etymological quarrels. In Milan and in Poland, where nationality would not rest at grammar, it was held down with spiked hands.

The Bohemian Panslavism incited the Slavic sympathies in Russia.

Slavism, or Russism, not as a theory, not as a doctrine, but as an offended national feeling, as an indistinct recollection and correct instinct, as a resistance to an exclusively foreign influence, has existed since the shearing of the first beard by Peter the Great.

The resistance to the St. Petersburg terrorism of education has never stopped: tortured and quartered and hung out on the spikes of the Kremlin, to be shot at by Ménshikov and the other royal _jesters_ in the shape of savage hunters, poisoned in the ravelin of the St. Petersburg fortress, in the shape of Tsarévich Alexis, it appeared as the party of the Dolgorúkis during the reign of Peter II., as the hatred of the Germans under Birón, as Pugachév under Catherine II., as Catherine II. herself, an Orthodox German, under the Prussian Holsteinian Peter III., as Elizabeth, who leaned on the Slavophiles of her day, in order to seat herself on the throne (the people of Moscow were waiting for all the Germans to be killed at her coronation).

All the dissenters are Slavophiles.

All the white and black clergy are Slavophiles of a different sort.

The soldiers who demanded the removal of Barclay de Tolly for his foreign name were the predecessors of Khomyakóv and his friends.

The war of 1812 developed a strong feeling of national consciousness and patriotism, but the patriotism of 1812 had no Orthodox, Slavic character. We see it in Karamzín and Púshkin, and in Emperor Alexander himself. It was practically an expression of that instinct of force which all mighty nations feel when they are attacked by a foreign people; and then it was a solemn feeling of victory, a proud consciousness of a successful defence. But that theory was weak; in order to love Russian history, the patriots transformed it according to European models; they in general translated the Græco-Roman patriotism from French into Russian, and did not go beyond the verse

_Pour un cœur bien né, que la patrie est chère!_