Of the Affections of Fathers to their Childrenleads him to "utterly condemne all manner of violence in the education of a young spirit, brought up to honour and libertie ... if it lay in my power to make my selfe feared, I had rather make my selfe beloved." But with regard to children generally "I wot not well, whether my selfe should not much rather desire to beget and produce a perfectly-well-shaped and excellently-qualified infant, by the acquaintance of the Muses than by the acquaintance of my wife.... There are few men given unto Poesie that would not esteeme it for a greater honour to be the father of Virgils Aeneidos than of the goodliest boy in Rome and that would not rather endure the losse of the one than the perishing of the other.... Nay, I make a great question whether Phidias would as highly esteeme and dearely love the preservation and successfull continuance of his naturall children, as he would an exquisite and matchlesse-wrought Image, that with long study and diligent care he had perfected according unto art."
In chapter ten,Of Bookes, he comes back yet again to his own writing: "Let that which I borrow be survaied, and then tell me whether I have made good choice of ornaments to beautifie and set forth the invention which ever comes from mee ... I number not my borrowings, but weight them ... my intention is to passe the remainder of my life quietly and not laboriously, in rest and not in care. There is nothing I will trouble or vex myself about, no not for science it selfe, what esteeme soever it be of ... if I studie, I only endevour to find out the knowledge thatteacheth or handleth the knowledge of my selfe, and which may instruct me how to die well and how to live well.... I doe nothing without blithnesse ... if one booke seeme tedious unto me I take another, which I follow not with any earnestnesse, except it be at such houres as I am idle, or that I am weary with doing nothing. I am not greatly affected to new books, because ancient Authors are, in my judgement, more full and pithy.... I esteeme Bocace his Decameron and Rabelais worth the paines-taking to reade them.... I speake my minde freely of all things." He goes on to indulge in panegyrics of the classics, specially his beloved "Plutarke," who is "everywhere free and open hearted ... stuft with matters." ... "I am wonderfull curious to discover and know the minde, the soul, the genuine disposition and naturall judgement of my authors." He objects to the "remisse niceness" of Cicero. "Concerning his eloquence," however, "it is beyond all comparison, and I verily beleeve that none shall ever equall it." "Historians are my right hand, for they are pleasant and easie ... they ammuse and busie themselves more about counsels than events ... they are fittest for me; and that's the reason why Plutarke above all in that kinde doth best please me." "The subject of an historie should be naked, bare and formelesse.... I have a while since accustomed my selfe to note at the end of my booke the time I made an end to read it, and to set downe what censure or judgement I gave of it."
Chapter eleven,Of Crueltie, contains this typical bit of common sense: "Amongst all other vices, there is none I hate more than Crueltie.... I cannot well endure a seelie dew bedabled hare to groane when she is seized upon by the houndes, although hunting be a violent pleasure ... I seldom take any beast alive but I give him his libertie." But he well realises that "Nature hath of her own selfe added unto man a certaine instinct to inhumanitie."
He has a wonderful chapter on the habits of animals, and comes to this conclusion: "Touching trust and faithfulnesse, there is no creature in the world so trecherous as man ... as for warre, which is the greatest and most glorious of all humane actions ... it seemeth it hath not much to make itselfe to be wished for in beasts.... We have not muchmore need of offices, of rules, and lawes how to live in our common-wealth than the cranes and ants have in theirs. Which notwithstanding, we see how orderly and without instruction they maintaine themselves." It is in this very long chapter that he dives most deeply into philosophy. "To a pensive and heart-grieved man a cleare day seemes gloomie and duskie. Our senses are not only altered, but many times dulled, by the passions of the mind.... Those which have compared our life unto a dreame, have happily had more reason so to doe than they were aware. When we dreame, our soule liveth, worketh and exerciseth all her faculties, even and as much as when it waketh ... we wake sleeping, and sleep waking." In the chapter entitledThat our Desires are encreased by Difficultiewe read: "To forbid us anything is the ready way to make us long for it ... that which so long held mariages in honour and safety in Rome was the liberty to break them who list. They kept their wives the better, forsomuch as they might leave them: and when divorces might freely be had, there past five hundred years and more before any would ever make use of them." In the essayOf Presumptionwe hear yet more of his idiosyncrasies: "As for musicke, were it either in voice, which I have most harsh, and very unapt, or in instruments, I could never be taught any part of it. As for dancing, playing at tennis, or wrestling, I could never attaine to any indifferent sufficiencie, but none at all in swimming, in fencing, in vaulting, or in leaping. My hands are so stiffe and nummie, that I can hardly write for my selfe, so that what I have once scribled, I had rather frame it a new than take the paines to correct it: and I reade but little better ... I cannot very wel close up a letter, nor could I ever make a pen. I was never good carver at the table. I could never make ready nor arme a horse; nor handsomely array a hawke upon my fist, nor cast her off ... nor could I ever speake to dogges, to birds, or to horses. The conditions of my body are, in fine, very well agreeing with those of my minde, wherein is nothing lively, but onely a compleate and constant vigour.... I am extreamlie lazie and idle, and exceedingly free, both my nature and art. I would as willingly lend my blood as my care." A noble and amazing confession. "In events, I carry myselfe man-like; in the conduct childishly. Thehorror of a fall doth more hurt me than the blow. The play is not worth the candle ... touching this new-found vertue of faining and dissimulation, which is now so much in credit, I hate it to the death ... it is for free-men to speake truth. It is the chief and fundamentall part of Vertue.... I eschew commandement, duty, and compulsion. What I doe easily and naturally, if I resolve to doe it by expresse and prescribed appointment, I can then doe it no more.... I helpe myselfe to loose what I particularly locke up.... In games wherein wit may beare a part, as of chesse, of cards, of tables ... I could never conceive but the common and plainest draughts. My apprehension is very sluggish and gloomy; but what it once holdeth, the same it keepeth fast.... There are divers of our French coines I know not: nor can I distinguish of one graine from another: nor do I scarcely know the difference between the cabige or lettice in my garden. I understand not the names of the most usuall tooles about husbandry ... I was never skilfull in mechanicall arts ... nor in the diversitie and nature of fruits, wines, or cakes ... let me have all that may belong to a kitchin, yet shall I be ready to starve for hunger."
He picks out as his three "worthiest and most excellent men," Homer, Alexander the Great and Epaminondas. In one of his latest chapters he lashes the physicians in no uncertain tones: "The most ignorant and bungling horseleech is fitter for a man that hath confidence in him than the skilfullest and learnedest physitian. The very choyce of most of their drugges is somewhat mysterious and divine." This attack is obviously induced by his own troublous complaint of stone-colic. "I am growne elder by seven or eight yeares since I beganne these essays; nor hath it beene without some new purchase. I have by the liberality of years acquainted my selfe with the stone-chollike." And he ends the book with a letterTo my Lady of Duras: "My study and endevour to doe, and not to write.... I am a lesse maker of bookes then of anything else. Whosoever hath any worth in him, let him shew it in his behaviour, maners and ordinary discourses: be it to treat of love or of quarrels; of sport and play or bed-matters, at board or elsewhere ... those whom I see make good bookes, having tattered hosen and ragged clothes on, hadthey believed me they should first have gotten themselves good clothes."
This is perhaps a good note to part company with him on. There is really no limit to the number of quotations that one could cull to give a picture of this most lovable man. I have tried to do what he would have wanted me to do, describe him by letting him describe himself. For it is the man's own personality that we want to dig into when we read Montaigne'sEssays, not the multitudinous anecdotes, not the splendid apophthegms which have become household proverbs, not the philosophy. He is the most human man who ever wrote a book, and the highest praise we can give him is that which would also please him most. He succeeded in writing the most human book that has ever been written. And we love him not least of all for his very vices.
Listen to Sainte-Beuve's praise of him: "There is something for every age, for every hour of life: you cannot read in it for any time without having the mind filled and lined as it were, or, to put it better, fully armed and clothed."
Nekrassov was the poet of the proletariat, of suffering in general and of Russian woman's suffering in particular, but denouncing rather than sentimental, a realist from start to finish. He followed in the direct succession of Gogol as an apostle of a "To-the-People" movement.
For the first time in Russian poetry we read in his work of the life stories of cabmen, carters, gardeners, printers, sweating journalists, soldiers, hawkers, prostitutes, convicts and peasants, descriptions of street scenes, fires, funerals, tragic weddings, cruel dissipations, vulgarity, platitudes of town life, and so on.
He was as interested in the common life of the people as a newspaper reporter, as satiric in his outlook as Byron and Burns; with Dostoievsky his passion for Russia connoted unbearable suffering: he is pellucidly clear and writes down what he sees without moralising.
He was a member of an aristocratic family which had fallen on evil days at the time of his birth. His early education was in the hands of a devoted Polish mother. When later he developed a turn for satiric verse at school he was requested to leave and went to Petrograd at the age of fifteen. On threepence three farthings per day, which had to be shared with another young man and his boy-serf, he managed just to exist, but he nearly died of starvation. He sought for work of any kind and in the meanwhile learnt much of low life that was afterwards to prove of inestimable value to him. His wit and general brightness of manner brought him to the notice of the well-to-do and lazy, and among them too he found valuable copy. He then attempted to gain a living as a journalist and among his multitudinous duties managed to spare a little time for the pursuit of his own art. He became the editor ofThe Contemporary, and spent twenty years of hard, continuouswork in attempting to attract the best literary giants of his day to write for it.
In 1866 his first volume was published and met with instantaneous recognition, which deeply touched him, though he was always a severe critic of his own work.
"Thou hast none of poetry's light freedom,My severe and clumsy, rustic verse."
"Thou hast none of poetry's light freedom,My severe and clumsy, rustic verse."
After the publication of these, his best poems, his health gave way, and he spent much time on his brother's estate, where he got to know the peasantry intimately. Owing to his geniality, honesty and common sense the country people felt quite at home with him and did not mind recounting all their experiences to him. Consequently his peasant stories have a genuine ring about them that is unmistakable. He died in Petrograd in 1877, hard-worked to the end. He was a true representative of the best Russian Intelligentzia: not an extremist, but responsive (like Dostoievsky) at once to all suffering. His most famous poem,Who Can be Happy and Free in Russia?is the only one that I can attempt to deal with at any length here, but from it one may gauge the humanity and interest-rousing qualities of the poet.
It begins by the chance meeting of seven peasants on a country roadway. They immediately begin to argue over the question of who in Russia is happy and free.
"Lukà cries, 'The Pope,'And Romàn, 'the Pomyèschick.'And Prov shouts, 'The Tsar,'And Demyàn, 'The official.''The round-bellied merchant,'Bawl both brothers Goobin,Mitròdor and Ìvan.Pakhòm shrieks, 'His Lordship,His most mighty Highness,The Tsar's chief adviser.'"
"Lukà cries, 'The Pope,'And Romàn, 'the Pomyèschick.'And Prov shouts, 'The Tsar,'And Demyàn, 'The official.''The round-bellied merchant,'Bawl both brothers Goobin,Mitròdor and Ìvan.Pakhòm shrieks, 'His Lordship,His most mighty Highness,The Tsar's chief adviser.'"
Unable to settle the question among themselves, they begin to fight. At last, with their ribs aching, they come to their senses, drink some water from a pool, wash in itand lie down to rest. A little bird, thankful to one of them for having shown pity to her little one, gives them a fantastic tablecloth "that would bedeck itself with food and drink."
"'Go straight down the road,Count the poles until thirty;Then enter the forestAnd walk for a verst.By then you'll have comeTo a smooth little lawnWith two pine-trees upon it.Beneath these two pine-treesLies buried a casketWhich you must discover.The casket is magic,And in it there liesAn enchanted white napkin.Whenever you wish itThis napkin will serve youWith food and with vodka:You need but say softly,"O napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants."But one thing remember:Food, summon at pleasureAs much as you fancy,But vodka, no moreThan a bucket a day.If once, even twiceYou neglect my injunctionYour wish shall be granted;The third time, take warning:Misfortune will follow.'"
"'Go straight down the road,Count the poles until thirty;Then enter the forestAnd walk for a verst.By then you'll have comeTo a smooth little lawnWith two pine-trees upon it.Beneath these two pine-treesLies buried a casketWhich you must discover.The casket is magic,And in it there liesAn enchanted white napkin.Whenever you wish itThis napkin will serve youWith food and with vodka:You need but say softly,"O napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants."But one thing remember:Food, summon at pleasureAs much as you fancy,But vodka, no moreThan a bucket a day.If once, even twiceYou neglect my injunctionYour wish shall be granted;The third time, take warning:Misfortune will follow.'"
They first meet the pope, or village priest, and ask him whether he is not the happiest man in Russia, to which he replies:
"'Of whom do you makeLittle scandalous stories?Of whom do you singRhymes and songs most indecent?The pope's honoured wife,And his innocent daughters,Come, how do you treat them?At whom do you shoutHo, ho, ho in derisionWhen once you are past him?'The peasants cast downwardsTheir eyes and keep silent...."
"'Of whom do you makeLittle scandalous stories?Of whom do you singRhymes and songs most indecent?The pope's honoured wife,And his innocent daughters,Come, how do you treat them?At whom do you shoutHo, ho, ho in derisionWhen once you are past him?'The peasants cast downwardsTheir eyes and keep silent...."
There follows a description of scenery, a charming lyric which I cannot forbear from quoting:
"The cloudlets in springtimePlay round the great sunLike small grandchildren friskingAround a hale grandsire,And now, on his right sideA bright little cloudHas grown suddenly dismal,Begins to shed tears.The grey thread is hangingIn rows to the earth,While the red sun is laughingAnd beaming upon itThrough torn fleecy clouds,Like a merry young girlPeeping out from the corn."
"The cloudlets in springtimePlay round the great sunLike small grandchildren friskingAround a hale grandsire,And now, on his right sideA bright little cloudHas grown suddenly dismal,Begins to shed tears.The grey thread is hangingIn rows to the earth,While the red sun is laughingAnd beaming upon itThrough torn fleecy clouds,Like a merry young girlPeeping out from the corn."
The priest goes on to sketch the sort of life he is condemned to lead and concludes on this note:
"'At times you are sent forTo pray by the dying,But Death is not reallyThe awful thing present,But rather the living,—The family losingTheir only support.You pray by the dead,Words of comfort you utter,To calm the bereavèd ones;And then the old motherComes tottering towards you,And stretching her bonyAnd toil-blistered hand out;You feel your heart sicken,For there in the palmLie the precious brass farthings.Of course it is onlyThe price of your praying.You take it, becauseIt is what you must live on;Your words of condolenceAre frozen, and blindly,Like one deeply insulted,You make your way homeward.'"
"'At times you are sent forTo pray by the dying,But Death is not reallyThe awful thing present,But rather the living,—The family losingTheir only support.You pray by the dead,Words of comfort you utter,To calm the bereavèd ones;And then the old motherComes tottering towards you,And stretching her bonyAnd toil-blistered hand out;You feel your heart sicken,For there in the palmLie the precious brass farthings.Of course it is onlyThe price of your praying.You take it, becauseIt is what you must live on;Your words of condolenceAre frozen, and blindly,Like one deeply insulted,You make your way homeward.'"
In chapter two we are taken to the village fair.
"The spring sun is playingOn heads hot and drunken,On boisterous revels,On bright mixing colours;The men wear wide breechesOf corduroy velvet,With gaudy striped waistcoatsAnd shirts of all colours;The women wear scarlet;The girls' plaited tressesAre decked with bright ribbons;They glide about proudly,Like swans on the water."
"The spring sun is playingOn heads hot and drunken,On boisterous revels,On bright mixing colours;The men wear wide breechesOf corduroy velvet,With gaudy striped waistcoatsAnd shirts of all colours;The women wear scarlet;The girls' plaited tressesAre decked with bright ribbons;They glide about proudly,Like swans on the water."
In chapter three, "The Drunken Night," occurs the exquisite metaphor:
"The moon is in Heaven,And God is commencingTo write His great letterOf gold on blue velvet....Then suddenly singingIs heard in a chorusHarmonious and bold,A row of young fellows,Half drunk, but not falling,Come staggering onwards,All lustily singing:They sing of the Volga,The daring of youthsAnd the beauty of maidens ...A hush falls all overThe road, and it listens:And only the singingIs heard, sweet and tuneful,Like wind-ruffled corn."
"The moon is in Heaven,And God is commencingTo write His great letterOf gold on blue velvet....Then suddenly singingIs heard in a chorusHarmonious and bold,A row of young fellows,Half drunk, but not falling,Come staggering onwards,All lustily singing:They sing of the Volga,The daring of youthsAnd the beauty of maidens ...A hush falls all overThe road, and it listens:And only the singingIs heard, sweet and tuneful,Like wind-ruffled corn."
They then accost the pomyèschick (the landowner) and inquire of him whether he is not the happiest of all the Russians, to which he answers:
"'The joy and the beauty,The pride of all Russia—The Lord's holy churches—Which brighten the hill-sidesAnd gleam like great jewelsOn the slopes of the valleys,Were rivalled by one thingIn glory, and thatWas the nobleman's manor.Adjoining the manorWere glass-houses sparkling,And bright Chinese arbours,While parks spread around it.On each of the buildingsGay banners displayingTheir radiant colours,And beckoning softly,Invited the guestTo partake of the pleasuresOf rich hospitality.Never did FrenchmenIn dreams even pictureSuch sumptuous revelsAs we used to hold.Not only for one day,Or two, did they last—But for two months together!We fattened great turkeys,We brewed our own liquors,We kept our own actors,And troupes of musicians,And legions of servants!Why, I kept five cooks,Besides pastry-cooks, working,Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,Eighteen musicians,And twenty-one-huntsmen ...My God ...'The afflictedPomyèschick broke down here,And hastened to buryHis face in the cushion....[And now—] 'What has happened?When in the airYou can smell a rank graveyard,You know you are passingA nobleman's manor!The axe of the robberResounds in the forest,It maddens your heart,But you cannot prevent it.'"
"'The joy and the beauty,The pride of all Russia—The Lord's holy churches—Which brighten the hill-sidesAnd gleam like great jewelsOn the slopes of the valleys,Were rivalled by one thingIn glory, and thatWas the nobleman's manor.Adjoining the manorWere glass-houses sparkling,And bright Chinese arbours,While parks spread around it.On each of the buildingsGay banners displayingTheir radiant colours,And beckoning softly,Invited the guestTo partake of the pleasuresOf rich hospitality.Never did FrenchmenIn dreams even pictureSuch sumptuous revelsAs we used to hold.Not only for one day,Or two, did they last—But for two months together!
We fattened great turkeys,We brewed our own liquors,We kept our own actors,And troupes of musicians,And legions of servants!Why, I kept five cooks,Besides pastry-cooks, working,Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,Eighteen musicians,And twenty-one-huntsmen ...My God ...'
The afflictedPomyèschick broke down here,And hastened to buryHis face in the cushion....[And now—] 'What has happened?When in the airYou can smell a rank graveyard,You know you are passingA nobleman's manor!The axe of the robberResounds in the forest,It maddens your heart,But you cannot prevent it.'"
Part II. deals charmingly with the story of the last pomyèschick:
"A very old manWearing long white moustaches(He seems to be all white);His cap, broad and high-crowned,Is white, with a peak,In the front, of red satin.His body is leanAs a hare's in the winter,His nose like a hawk's beak.His eyes—well, they differ:The one, sharp and shining,The other—the left eye—Is sightless and blank,Like a dull leaden farthing.Some woolly white poodlesWith tufts on their anklesAre in the boat too."
"A very old manWearing long white moustaches(He seems to be all white);His cap, broad and high-crowned,Is white, with a peak,In the front, of red satin.His body is leanAs a hare's in the winter,His nose like a hawk's beak.His eyes—well, they differ:The one, sharp and shining,The other—the left eye—Is sightless and blank,Like a dull leaden farthing.Some woolly white poodlesWith tufts on their anklesAre in the boat too."
This venerable barin Prince Yutiàtin believes that the old regime still exists and his serfs have agreed to humour him in order to keep him alive.
They agree to
"'Keep silent and act stillAs if all this troubleHad never existed:Give way to him, bow to himJust as in old days.'"
"'Keep silent and act stillAs if all this troubleHad never existed:Give way to him, bow to himJust as in old days.'"
So the Prince has all his whims satisfied and peasants are beaten (voluntarily) at his pleasure. He orders his sons to dance and girls to sing.
"The golden-haired ladyDoes not want to sing,But the old man will have it.The lady is singingA song low and tender,It sounds like the breezeOn a soft summer eveningIn velvety grassesAstray, like spring raindropsThat kiss the young leaves,And it soothes the Pomyèschick,The feeble old man:He is falling asleep now ...And gently they carry himDown to the water,And into the boat.And he lies there, still sleeping.Above him stands, holdingA big green umbrella,The faithful old servant,His other hand guardingThe sleeping PomyèschickFrom gnats and mosquitoes.The oarsmen are silent,The faint-sounding musicCan hardly be heardAs the boat moving gentlyGlides on through the water...."
"The golden-haired ladyDoes not want to sing,But the old man will have it.The lady is singingA song low and tender,It sounds like the breezeOn a soft summer eveningIn velvety grassesAstray, like spring raindropsThat kiss the young leaves,And it soothes the Pomyèschick,The feeble old man:He is falling asleep now ...And gently they carry himDown to the water,And into the boat.And he lies there, still sleeping.Above him stands, holdingA big green umbrella,The faithful old servant,His other hand guardingThe sleeping PomyèschickFrom gnats and mosquitoes.The oarsmen are silent,The faint-sounding musicCan hardly be heardAs the boat moving gentlyGlides on through the water...."
In Part III., having failed to elicit a satisfactory answer to their question from the men, they decide to try the women. They go to the woman Matròna
[Who] "Is tall, finely moulded,Majestic in bearing,And strikingly handsome.Of thirty-eight yearsShe appears, and her black hairIs mingled with grey.Her complexion is swarthy,Her eyes large and darkAnd severe, with rich lashes."
[Who] "Is tall, finely moulded,Majestic in bearing,And strikingly handsome.Of thirty-eight yearsShe appears, and her black hairIs mingled with grey.Her complexion is swarthy,Her eyes large and darkAnd severe, with rich lashes."
They manage to prevail upon her to tell her life story:
"'My girl-hood was happy,For we were a thriftyAnd diligent household:And I, the young maiden,With father and motherKnew nothing but joy.My father got upAnd went out before sunrise,He woke me with kissesAnd tender caresses:My brother, while dressing,Would sing little verses:"Get up, little sister,Get up, little sister,In no little beds nowAre people delaying,In all little churchesThe peasants are praying;Get up, now, get up,It is time, little sister.The shepherd has goneTo the field with the sheep,And no little maidensAre lying asleep,They've gone to pick raspberries,Merrily singing...."I never ran afterThe youths, and the forwardI checked very sharply.To those who were gentleAnd shy, I would whisper:"My cheeks will grow hot,And sharp eyes has my mother:Be wise, now, and leave meAlone" ... and they left me.'"
"'My girl-hood was happy,For we were a thriftyAnd diligent household:And I, the young maiden,With father and motherKnew nothing but joy.My father got upAnd went out before sunrise,He woke me with kissesAnd tender caresses:My brother, while dressing,Would sing little verses:"Get up, little sister,Get up, little sister,In no little beds nowAre people delaying,In all little churchesThe peasants are praying;Get up, now, get up,It is time, little sister.The shepherd has goneTo the field with the sheep,And no little maidensAre lying asleep,They've gone to pick raspberries,Merrily singing...."
I never ran afterThe youths, and the forwardI checked very sharply.To those who were gentleAnd shy, I would whisper:"My cheeks will grow hot,And sharp eyes has my mother:Be wise, now, and leave meAlone" ... and they left me.'"
At last came the man to whom she was destined to give her heart:
"'And Philip was handsome,Was rosy and lusty,Was strong and broad-shouldered,With fair curling hair,With a voice low and tender....Ah, well ... I was won...."Don't fear, little pigeon,We shall not regret it,"Said Philip, but stillI was timid and doubtful.Of course I was fairerAnd sweeter and dearerThan any that lived,And his arms were about me....Then all of a suddenI made a sharp effortTo wrench myself free."How now? What's the matter?You're strong, little pigeon!"Said Philip, astonished,But still held me tight."Ah, Philip, if you hadNot held me so firmlyYou would not have won me:I did it to try you,To measure your strength:You were strong and it pleased me."We must have been happyIn those fleeting momentsWhen softly we whisperedAnd argued together:I think that we neverWere happy again....'"
"'And Philip was handsome,Was rosy and lusty,Was strong and broad-shouldered,With fair curling hair,With a voice low and tender....Ah, well ... I was won....
"Don't fear, little pigeon,We shall not regret it,"Said Philip, but stillI was timid and doubtful.Of course I was fairerAnd sweeter and dearerThan any that lived,And his arms were about me....Then all of a suddenI made a sharp effortTo wrench myself free."How now? What's the matter?You're strong, little pigeon!"Said Philip, astonished,But still held me tight."Ah, Philip, if you hadNot held me so firmlyYou would not have won me:I did it to try you,To measure your strength:You were strong and it pleased me."We must have been happyIn those fleeting momentsWhen softly we whisperedAnd argued together:I think that we neverWere happy again....'"
She marries Philip and joins his family.
"'A quarrelsome householdIt was—that of Philip'sTo which I belonged now:And I from my girlhoodStepped straight into Hell.My husband departedTo work in the city,And leaving, advised meTo work and be silent,To yield and be patient:"Don't splash the red ironWith cold water—it hisses."With father and motherAnd sisters-in-law heNow left me alone:Not a soul was among themTo love or to shield me,But many to scold....Well, you know yourselves, friends,How quarrels ariseIn the homes of the peasants.A young married sisterOf Philip's one dayCame to visit her parents.She found she had holesIn her boots, and it vexed her.Then Philip said, "Wife,Fetch some boots for my sister."And I did not answerAt once: I was liftingA large wooden tub,So, of course, couldn't speak.But Philip was angryWith me, and he waitedUntil I had hoistedThe tub to the ovenThen struck me a blowWith his fist, on my temple....Again Philip struck me ...And again Philip struck me ...Well, that is the story.'Tis surely not fittingFor wives to sit countingThe blows of their husbands,But then I had promisedTo keep nothing back.'"
"'A quarrelsome householdIt was—that of Philip'sTo which I belonged now:And I from my girlhoodStepped straight into Hell.My husband departedTo work in the city,And leaving, advised meTo work and be silent,To yield and be patient:"Don't splash the red ironWith cold water—it hisses."With father and motherAnd sisters-in-law heNow left me alone:Not a soul was among themTo love or to shield me,But many to scold....Well, you know yourselves, friends,How quarrels ariseIn the homes of the peasants.A young married sisterOf Philip's one dayCame to visit her parents.She found she had holesIn her boots, and it vexed her.Then Philip said, "Wife,Fetch some boots for my sister."And I did not answerAt once: I was liftingA large wooden tub,So, of course, couldn't speak.But Philip was angryWith me, and he waitedUntil I had hoistedThe tub to the ovenThen struck me a blowWith his fist, on my temple....Again Philip struck me ...And again Philip struck me ...Well, that is the story.'Tis surely not fittingFor wives to sit countingThe blows of their husbands,But then I had promisedTo keep nothing back.'"
A baby is born to her, and her life becomes more and more of a burden to her: one friend alone of Philip's relatives, an old man called Savyèli, has pity on her. Savyèli has been branded as a convict for burying a German alive. She relates now the story of his life and more particularly the account of his crime:
"'"He (the German) started to nag us,Quite coolly and slowly,Without heat or hurry;For that was his way.And we, tired and hungry,Stood listening in silence.He kicked the wet earthWith his boot while he scolded,Not far from the edgeOf the pit. I stood near him,And happened to give himA push with my shoulder:Then somehow a secondAnd third pushed him gently....We spoke not a word,Gave no sign to each other,But silently, slowly,Drew closer together,And edging the GermanRespectfully forward,We brought him at lastTo the brink of the hollow ...He tumbled in headlong!'A ladder,' he bellows:Nine shovels reply.'Heave-to'—the words fellFrom my lips on the instant,The word to which peopleWork gaily in Russia:'Heave-to,' and 'Heave-to,'And we laboured so bravelyThat soon not a traceOf the pit was remaining,The earth was as smoothAs before we had touched it:And then we stopped shortAnd we looked at each other."'"
"'"He (the German) started to nag us,Quite coolly and slowly,Without heat or hurry;For that was his way.And we, tired and hungry,Stood listening in silence.He kicked the wet earthWith his boot while he scolded,Not far from the edgeOf the pit. I stood near him,And happened to give himA push with my shoulder:Then somehow a secondAnd third pushed him gently....We spoke not a word,Gave no sign to each other,But silently, slowly,Drew closer together,And edging the GermanRespectfully forward,We brought him at lastTo the brink of the hollow ...He tumbled in headlong!'A ladder,' he bellows:Nine shovels reply.'Heave-to'—the words fellFrom my lips on the instant,The word to which peopleWork gaily in Russia:'Heave-to,' and 'Heave-to,'And we laboured so bravelyThat soon not a traceOf the pit was remaining,The earth was as smoothAs before we had touched it:And then we stopped shortAnd we looked at each other."'"
Matròna gets Savyèli to look after her infant Djòma, and while she is away the pigs attacked and killed him. The country police as the custom is in Russia threatened to hold an inquest unless they were bribed: this Matròna could not afford.
"'"My God, give me patience,And let me not strangleThe wicked blasphemer!"I looked at the doctorAnd shuddered in terror;Before him lay lancets,Sharp scissors and knives.I conquered myself,For I knew why they lay there.I answered him trembling,"I loved little Djòma,I would not have harmed him.""And did you not poison him,Give him some powder?"'"
"'"My God, give me patience,And let me not strangleThe wicked blasphemer!"I looked at the doctorAnd shuddered in terror;Before him lay lancets,Sharp scissors and knives.I conquered myself,For I knew why they lay there.I answered him trembling,"I loved little Djòma,I would not have harmed him.""And did you not poison him,Give him some powder?"'"
They refuse to listen to her piteous cries:
"'They have lifted the napkinWhich covered my baby:His little white bodyWith scissors and lancetsThey worry and torture ...The room has grown darker,I'm struggling and screaming,You butchers! You fiends!Oh, hear me, just God!May thy curse fall and strike them!Ordain that their garmentsMay rot on their bodies!Their eyes be struck blind,And their brains scorch in madness!Their wives be unfaithful,Their children be crippled!...The pope lit his pipeAnd sat watching the doctor.He said, 'You are rendingA heart with a knife.'I started up wildly:I knew that the doctorWas piercing the heartOf my little dead baby."
"'They have lifted the napkinWhich covered my baby:His little white bodyWith scissors and lancetsThey worry and torture ...The room has grown darker,I'm struggling and screaming,You butchers! You fiends!Oh, hear me, just God!May thy curse fall and strike them!Ordain that their garmentsMay rot on their bodies!Their eyes be struck blind,And their brains scorch in madness!Their wives be unfaithful,Their children be crippled!...The pope lit his pipeAnd sat watching the doctor.He said, 'You are rendingA heart with a knife.'I started up wildly:I knew that the doctorWas piercing the heartOf my little dead baby."
Her husband is taken for the army, and Matròna goes, although her time is on her to bring to birth another baby, to plead for him to the Governor's lady. Somewhat to our surprise she wins her cause and gets her husband back again, but the peasants are cured after hearing her story of imagining that any woman could be happy in Russia.
"'The Tsar, little Father,But never a woman:God knows, among womenYour search will be endless.'"
"'The Tsar, little Father,But never a woman:God knows, among womenYour search will be endless.'"
So they continue their wanderings, and having heard many grim stories of all sorts, they remain without asolution to their problem, and the only consolation suggested by the author comes in a subtle touch: a son of a psalm-singer, with a knowledge of, and deep sympathy for, all the down-trodden ones, finds exaltation in putting together songs about their pains and greatness:
"In his breast rose throbbingly powers unembraceable,In his ears rang melody—henceforth undefaceable:Words of azure radiance, noble in benignity.Hailing coming happiness and the People's dignity."
"In his breast rose throbbingly powers unembraceable,In his ears rang melody—henceforth undefaceable:Words of azure radiance, noble in benignity.Hailing coming happiness and the People's dignity."
Happiness, Nekrassov concludes, can only be won in doing creative work.
I have, I think, by my copious quotations from his most popular poem at any rate proved his claim to be considered "the Russian Crabbe," the uncompromising realist who can depict the sorrows of the poor with undeflected trueness of aim.
It is habitual with critics, especially critics of Russian literature, to probe with a microscopic accuracy into the work of the subject they undertake to explain: they search for psychological phenomena untiringly, and are not content unless they can wrest a secret from the author which the author himself would certainly in many cases never have realised that he possessed. We see this in our own tongue in many of the critical essays on Shakespeare. We see it applied to Pushkin equally unnecessarily; for Pushkin needs no interpreter: he is delightfully human, clear, sincere, impulsive, vital and vivifying, as far removed as possible from any artfulness, the least of a digger in the depths of his own soul imaginable. He is the type of artist who sees Beauty in her naked blaze and straightway reincarnates her because he cannot help it. He is of the earth, earthy in the best sense of the word. The final word about him is that he accepted life open-heartedly and as a consequence requires in his readers an equal open-heartedness and nothing else.
He was brought up as a boy in an atmosphere of that sparkling elegance which we associate with the French, and himself wrote verses in that tongue, by the age of twelve acquiring a real taste in French literature. He revelled in Plutarch, Voltaire, Rousseau and Molière, imitated the French comedies and acted them before his sister. As was customary in Russia, he was, as a boy, allowed free access to the society of the literary and artistic people who frequented his father's house. Here he entered into that life of boundless hospitality, disorderliness, whimsical jollity, and revelry, of erotic and bacchanalian orgies, which were typical of the upper classes of his time.
From his nurse, a life-long friend, he learnt to love the world of Russian folklore.
For five years, from twelve to seventeen, he was at the Lyceum, just then opened at the Tsàrskoye Selò, whichreflected among its youthful pupils the same passions of illicit amours, drink, and literature which characterised the parents. They became a sort of jovial anarchists. Like the Elizabethans, they were as often intoxicated with poetry as with wine. Pushkin early became the leader, as was only natural: he was already the best-read man in Russia; he was enthusiastic over the work of his younger contemporaries; he was an ideal companion. Like Milton and most other geniuses of a high order, he recognised hismétiervery early in his life. He wrote in his teens:
"I am a poet too. My new and modest roadIs now bestrewn with flowers by goddesses of singing,And gods have poured into my breastThe names, elating visions bringing...."
"I am a poet too. My new and modest roadIs now bestrewn with flowers by goddesses of singing,And gods have poured into my breastThe names, elating visions bringing...."
Not only so, but—
"My pen revels in findingIn it the ends of lines.Exactness of expressionsThrough hallowed crystal shines."
"My pen revels in findingIn it the ends of lines.Exactness of expressionsThrough hallowed crystal shines."
Exactness of expression is as important to Pushkin as it was to Pope, just as fearless honesty was the keystone of his personality.
It was at the public examination of the Lyceists in Russian literature in 1815 that he first came before the public eye. Together with other competitors he had to read his work before the old ode-writer D'erjàvin, who was so thrilled byThe Reminiscences of the Tsàrskoye Selòthat he wanted to rush forward and embrace the young poet.
Jukòvski, then at the height of his fame, would read his verses to Pushkin and rely on his judgment. When in return Pushkin readRuslàn and Ludmìla, Jukòvski gave the boy his portrait with this inscription: "To the victorious pupil from his conquered teacher."
Such treatment might well be expected to turn the head of the youth, but Pushkin was then, as ever, modest and extremely critical of his own work. He was, as I have said, always searching for hidden genius in others: he it waswho first discovered Gogol, and when that Dickens of Russia publishedDead SoulsandThe Inspector-General, the subjects in each case being suggested to him by Pushkin, the poet said delightedly: "The rascal robs me in such a bewitching way that it is impossible to be angry with him."
Pushkin's father declined to allow him to take a commission in the Hussars, and at eighteen the poet obtained a post in the Foreign Office, where he had much leisure, and plunged deeper than ever into the excesses common to his time, with the result that, though he swam, rode, fenced and walked to keep himself fit, twice in his nineteenth and twentieth years he nearly lost his health. Nor did his riotous living prevent him from working hard at his poetry.
In 1820 the long fairy taleRuslàn and Ludmìlaappeared. The nearest approach to it in England isHero and Leander—sensuous yet cold. Everywhere it was read, copied out and learnt by heart by tradesman and noble alike. The story was founded on the national folklore. A wicked, humped dwarf carries away the only daughter of Prince Vladimir of Kiev from her nuptial bed to his castle: Ruslàn, the bridegroom, and three disappointed lovers give chase. The adventures of the four warriors, Ludmìla's seclusion in the wizard's castle and Ruslàn's ultimate victory by hanging on to the long beard of the dwarf as he flies over seas and forests form the plot of the story.
The method of handling the story was fascinating, and quite new to Russia. It was vigorous, whimsical, absolutely natural and human: it was this last characteristic in particular which captivated the hearts of the whole race. Russia always loves the natural—but she did not yet recognise why it was that Pushkin especially appealed to her: there had been hitherto no realistic school.
No one realised, Pushkin least of all, thatRuslàn and Ludmìlalaid the foundation-stone of all future Russian literature.
The two schools then in existence, the pseudo-classical and the romantic, debated savagely as to which category Pushkin belonged. They were unable to grasp the significance of this bubbling over of human fun, this directness of detail; indignation at such ideas as "Ruslàn's ticklingwith his spear the nostrils of the giant's head," as bringing the national element into poetry at all, and so on, spread fast.
In the same year Pushkin threw himself heart and soul into the movement of young reformers, and joined the "Society of Welfare," which somewhat naturally roused the Government to action.
Alexander I. was for banishing him; Karamzin, however, pleaded for him with such effect that he was only sent to Bessarabia for a year. His banishment only accentuated his popularity. He took advantage of his retirement to writeThe Prisoner of the Caucasusin eight hundred lines, the main feature of which is the first appearance in his work ofthat grand reverence for womenwhich is one of Pushkin's greatest charms.
A man in a Circassian village brings home one day as prisoner a young Russian, who has left his usual world to find freedom in the wilderness: being captured, he is put in irons and left to drag out his days in a cave. A young Circassian girl falls in love with him; he responds out of pity, being in love with another girl at home who did not, however, return his affection. The girl, struck with grief, yet understands, and gives up visiting him secretly, and while the tribe are away raiding she comes with a saw and dagger and gives him his freedom. They part with a kiss of greathumanlove. The young man, touched to the heart, looks back after he has swum the river, but the girl is nowhere to be seen and "only a circle widens on the face of the water, in the gentle shine of the moon." ... The public swallowed the poem greedily, the description of the manners of the Circassians especially attracting them. In another poem Pushkin uses a legend which he came across while visiting the ancient capital of the Crimean Tartars.
The young Tartar Khan, Givèy, captures in a raid on Poland a young Christian princess, Mary, and conceals her in his harem. Her purity and saintly beauty so work upon him that he remains in awe before her. Another beauty, Zarèma, once a favourite of Givèy, implores Mary to make her man come back to her: failing, of course, Zarèma kills her and is herself drowned. The Khan in despair leaves his harem and goes out to wage wars, and returns in the end tobuild a fountain in memory of Mary, over which he erects a crescent crowned with a cross.
It was at this time that Pushkin fell under the influence of Byron and learned English to do so: not that he imitated Byron, but he was braced up to do something equally good in another way. This was in Kishinòv, a hot-bed of noisy, passionate freethinking blended with Asiatic aboriginality. He fought three duels, one of them resulting from a quarrel at a ball as to whether a waltz or a mazurka should be next on the programme. He then fell in love with a gipsy and joined the camp to which the girl belonged. The result was another poem calledThe Gipsies.
The hero, a man of society, comes to join the free life of a gipsy tribe because he despises the degenerating effect of civilisation. He has had enough of people in cities.