For his criticism he
selected
the form of old Russian ballads:
this gives a very peculiar character to his satires where the novelty
of the subject is combined with an archaism of folk-lore.
this gives a very peculiar character to his satires where the novelty
of the subject is combined with an archaism of folk-lore.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 to v25 - Rab to Tur
" I shouted.
"Now then, my lad, catch hold
of me with one hand, and the line with the other. "
a
The fellow took a firm grip of my monkey-jacket, and I made
for the door. The water washed up to my knees, but I soon
inserted my fingers in the crevice of the door and thrust it
open.
The house was a single compartment, though I had expected
to find it divided into two. In the centre was a table that trav-
eled on stanchions from the roof to the deck. On either side
were a couple of bunks. The girl stood near the door. In a
bunk to the left of the door lay an old man with white hair.
Prostrate on his back, on the deck, with his arms stretched
against his ears, was the corpse of a man, well dressed; and in
a bunk on the right sat a sailor, who, when he saw me, yelled
out and snapped his fingers, making horrible grimaces.
Such, in brief, was the coup d'œil of that weird interior as it
met my eyes.
I seized the girl by the arm.
"You first," said I. "Come; there is no time to be lost. "
But she shrunk back, pressing against the door with her hand
to prevent me from pulling her, crying in a husky voice, and
looking at the old man with the white hair, "My father first!
my father first! "
## p. 12579 (#639) ##########################################
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
12579
"You shall all be saved, but you must obey me. Quickly,
now! " I exclaimed passionately; for a heavy sea at that moment
flooded the ship, and a rush of water swamped the house through
the open door and washed the corpse on the deck up into a
corner.
Grasping her firmly, I lifted her off her feet, and went stag-
gering to the life-rope, slinging her light body over my shoul-
der as I went. Assisted by my man, I gained the bow of the
wreck, and hailing the boat, ordered it alongside.
"One of you," cried I, "stand ready to receive this lady when
I give the signal. "
I then told the man who was with me to jump into the fore-
chains, which he instantly did. The wreck lurched heavily to
port. "Stand by, my lads! " I shouted. Over she came again,
with the water swooping along the main-deck. The boat rose
high, and the fore-chains were submerged to the height of the
man's knees. "Now! " I called, and lifted the girl over. She
was seized by the man in the chains, and pushed toward the
boat; the fellow standing in the bow of the boat caught her,
and at the same moment down sunk the boat, and the wreck
rolled wearily over. But the girl was safe.
"Hurrah, my lad! " I sung out. "Up with you,- there are
others remaining;" and I went sprawling along the line to the
deck-house, there to encounter another rush of water, which
washed as high as my thighs, and fetched me such a thump in
the stomach that thought I must have died of suffocation.
I was glad to find that the old man had got out of his bunk,
and was standing at the door.
"Is my poor girl safe, sir? " he exclaimed, with the same.
huskiness of voice that had grated so unpleasantly in the girl's
tone.
"Quite safe: come along. "
"Thanks be to Almighty God! " he ejaculated, and burst into
tears.
I seized hold of his thin cold hands, but shifted my fingers
to catch him by the coat collar, so as to exert more power over
him; and handed him along the deck, telling my companion to
lay hold of the seaman and fetch him away smartly. We man-
aged to escape the water, for the poor old gentleman bestirred
himself very nimbly, and I helped him over the fore-chains; and
when the boat rose, tumbled him into her without ceremony. I
## p. 12580 (#640) ##########################################
12580
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
saw the daughter leap toward him and clasp him in her arms;
but I was soon again scrambling on to the deck, having heard
cries from my man, accompanied with several loud curses, min-
gled with dreadful yells.
"He's bitten me, sir! " cried my companion, hauling himself
away from the deck-house. "He's roaring mad. "
"It can't be helped," I answered. "We must get him out. ”
He saw me pushing along the life-line, plucked up heart, and
went with myself through a sousing sea to the door. I caught
a glimpse of a white face glaring at me from the interior: in a
second a figure shot out, fled with incredible speed toward the
bow, and leaped into the sea just where our boat lay.
"They'll pick him up," I exclaimed. "Stop a second;" and
I entered the house and stooped over the figure of the man on
the deck.
I was not familiar with death, and yet I knew it was here. I
cannot describe the signs in his face; but such as they were, they
told me the truth. I noticed a ring upon his finger, and that
his clothes were good. His hair was black, and his features
well shaped, though his face had a half-convulsed expression, as
if something frightful had appeared to him, and he had died of
the sight of it.
"He is a corpse.
"This wreck must be his coffin," I said.
We can do no more. "
We scrambled for the last time along the life-line and got
into the fore-chains; but to our consternation, saw the boat row-
ing away from the wreck. However, the fit of rage and terror
that possessed me lasted but a moment or two; for I now saw
they were giving chase to the madman, who was swimming stead-
ily away. Two of the men rowed, and the third hung over the
bows, ready to grasp the miserable wretch. The Grosvenor stood
steady, about a mile off, with her mainyards backed; and just as
the fellow over the boat's bows caught hold of the swimmer's
hair, the ensign was run up on board the ship and dipped three
times.
"Bring him along! " I shouted. "They'll be off without us if
we don't bear a hand. "
They nearly capsized the boat as they dragged the lunatic,
streaming like a drowned rat, out of the water; and one of the
sailors tumbled him over on his back, and knelt upon him, while
he took some turns with the boat's painter round his body, arms
## p. 12581 (#641) ##########################################
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
12581
and legs.
The boat then came alongside; and watching our
opportunity, we jumped into her and shoved off.
I had now leisure to examine the persons whom we had saved.
They-father and daughter, as I judged them by the girl's
exclamation on the wreck-sat in the stern-sheets, their hands
locked. The old man seemed nearly insensible; leaning backward
with his chin on his breast and his eyes partially closed. I feared
he was dying, but could do no good until we reached the Gros-
venor, as we had no spirits in the boat.
The girl appeared to be about twenty years of age; very fair,
her hair of golden straw color, which hung wet and streaky down
her back and over her shoulders, though a portion of it was held
by a comb. She was deadly pale, and her lips blue; and in her
fine eyes was such a look of mingled horror and rapture as she
cast them around her,- first glancing at me, then at the wreck,
then at the Grosvenor,—that the memory of it will last me to
my death.
Her dress, of some dark material, was soaked with
salt water up to her hips, and she shivered and moaned inces-
santly, though the sun beat so warmly upon us that the thwarts
were hot to the hand.
The mad sailor lay at the bottom of the boat, looking straight
into the sky. He was a horrid-looking object, with his streaming
hair, pasty features, and red beard, his naked shanks and feet
protruding through his soaking, clinging trousers, which figured
his shin-bones as though they clothed a skeleton. Now and again
he would give himself a wild twirl and yelp out fiercely; but he
was well-nigh spent with his swim, and on the whole was quiet
enough.
I said to the girl, "How long have you been in this dreadful
position ? »
"Since yesterday morning," she answered, in a choking voice
painful to hear, and gulping after each word. "We have not had
a drop of water to drink since the night before last. He is mad
with thirst, for he drank the water on the deck;" and she pointed.
to the man in the bottom of the boat.
"My God! " I cried to the men, <<
do you
hear her? They
have not drunk water for two days! For the love of God, give
way! "
They bent their backs to the oars, and the boat foamed over
the long swell. The wind was astern and helped us. I did
not speak again to the poor girl; for it was cruel to make her
I
## p. 12582 (#642) ##########################################
12582
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
talk, when the words lacerated her throat as though they were
pieces of burning iron.
After twenty minutes, which seemed as many hours, we
reached the vessel. The crew pressing round the gangway
cheered when they saw we had brought people from the wreck.
Duckling and the skipper watched us grimly from the poop.
"Now then, my lads," I cried, "up with this lady first. Some
of you on deck get water ready, as these people are dying of
thirst. "
In a few minutes, both the girl and the old man were handed
over the gangway. I cut the boat's painter adrift from the ring-
bolt so that we could ship the madman without loosening his
bonds, and he was hoisted up like a bale of goods. Then four
of us got out of the boat, leaving one to drop her under the
davits and hook on the falls.
At this moment a horrible scene took place.
The old man, tottering on the arms of two seamen, was be-
ing led into the cuddy, followed by the girl, who walked unaided.
The madman, in the grasp of the big sailor named Johnson,
stood near the gangway; and as I scrambled on deck, one of the
men was holding a pannikin full of water to his face. The poor
wretch was shrinking away from it, with his eyes half out of
their sockets: but suddenly tearing his arm with a violent effort
from the rope that bound him, he seized the pannikin and bit
clean through the tin; after which, throwing back his head, he
swallowed the whole draught, dashed the pannikin down, his face
turned black, and he fell dead on the deck.
The big sailor sprung aside with an oath, forced from him by
his terror; and from every looker-on there broke a groan. They
all shrunk away and stood staring with blanched faces. Such
a piteous sight as it was, lying doubled up, with the rope pin-
ioning the miserable limbs, the teeth locked, and the right arm
uptossed!
"Aft here and get the quarter-boat hoisted up! " shouted Duck-
ling, advancing on the poop; and seeing the man dead on the
deck, he added, "Get a tarpaulin and cover him up, and let him
lie on the fore-hatch. "
"Shall I tell the steward to serve out grog to the men who
went with me? " I asked him.
He stared at me contemptuously, and walked away without
answering.
## p. 12583 (#643) ##########################################
12583
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
BY PRINCE SERGE WOLKONSKY
OTHER branch of literature is better fitted than lyric poetry
to affirm the two principles which seem to constitute the
chief acquisition of our modern culture: individualism and
cosmopolitism. In no other kind of poetry do the great variety of
individuals and the great equality of mankind find more concise nor
more simultaneous expression. The two apparently contradictory ele-
ments are combined: the endless variety of feeling and expression is
covered by the unchangeable eternity of the subject, of that "old
story which is always new," - the story of man's inner life. The
poets of the world are, as it were, the irradiation of the universal
human soul; the poetry of every one of them is the irradiation of
the poet's individuality; yet every single poem, though itself the
result of individualism, is a focus which gathers all other individuali-
ties and makes them meet on the common ground of their identity
and similitude. Passing over all barriers erected by national distinc-
tions, a Frenchman, for instance, and an Englishman will recognize
in a German poem their identity and similitude with the author,
hence with each other, consequently with all mankind. The cosmo-
politan importance of the most individual of all arts appears clearly
enough, and the circumference of its humanitarian influence stands
in exact proportion with the depth of the poet's individualism. If
measured by this standard, Russian lyricism will count among the
most precious contributors to universal poetry: the human soul in our
lyric songs, like a harp with palpitating chords, vibrates and responds.
to every touch of life.
The blossoming of Russian lyric poetry was sudden, and devel-
oped with a wonderful rapidity, if we consider that its beginning and
its finest bloom are contained in the first eighty years of the present
century. The eighteenth century, or, as it is more specifically called
in the history of Russian literature, the "century of Catherine the
Great," struck in fact no lyrical chords; and this is comprehensible.
Lyricism is not possible without genuine feeling nor without genuine.
ways of expressing it: Russian literature of the eighteenth century
was, per contra, all imitative. Under the impulse of Peter the Great's
reform, the Russian intellect awakens to literary interests; at the
touch of French literature and philosophy of the time, a number of
## p. 12584 (#644) ##########################################
12584
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
poets and writers arise and bring forth that imitative literature which
is known as "Russian pseudo-classicism»: Russian subjects, draped
in the mantle of Greek and Roman antiquity, seen through French
spectacles, and sung in Russian verses. The latter, we must acknowl-
edge, attain a wonderful sonority; and however artificial the whole
gait of that pompous and often ridiculous poetry, the beauty of the
language it had worked out constitutes its everlasting merit for
Russian poetry. But with the exception of the language there was
scarcely anything genuine; for even genuine subjects seemed to lose
their reality through being forced into unsuitable foreign forms.
Poets did not compose because they felt a psychological necessity of
doing so their productiveness was stimulated not by inner inspi-
ration, but by the simple desire of living up to patterns created by
foreign writers, consecrated by public opinion. Our poetry of the
eighteenth century is not so much the result of feeling, as the result
of a deliberate decision on the part of writers to possess a Russian
literature because other nations possessed theirs: it is imbued rather
with a spirit of international competition than with that of national
expression. It is easy to conceive that such conditions could offer no
propitious ground for the blossoming of lyricism. In the first years
of our century the Russian intellect emancipates itself from its pass-
ive acceptance of European influences. The seeds of foreign culture
had germinated in the national soil; writers apply themselves to the
study of national questions, they give up their attitude of confiding
pupils, and consciously and deliberately join the great stream of uni-
versal literature. Russian poetry gives up its spirit of competition;
poets begin to sing because they want to sing, and not because they
want to sing as well as others.
This was just at the time when the romantic flood which inun-
dated Europe stood at its highest. The romantic stream makes irrup-
tion into our country, and fructifies the virgin soil which had been
slumbering for so many centuries. Among the brilliant pleiad of
poets who brought about the vigorous offspring of Russian poetry in
the twenties and thirties of our century, three figures arise, though
with different literary importance, yet each with strong individual
coloring. These are Zoukovsky, the poet of romantic melancholy;
Poushkin, the poet of romantic epicurism; and Lermontov, the poet
of romantic pessimism. Zoukovsky (1783-1852) was the first among
Russian poets who made the human soul the object of poetry, not
without a certain exaggeration and one-sidedness. After the cold
stiffness of the French pseudo-classical style, the new romantic breeze
which came from Germany and England entirely took hold of the
young poet, who seemed by nature the most fitted man to navigate
on the waves of sentimental and fantastic romanticism. His ballads,
## p. 12585 (#645) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12585
either original, or translated from German and English, became the
funnel through which romanticism inundated Russian poetry. The
main tonality of his lyre is elegy. Simplicity, genuineness, a quiet
melancholy, a serene resignation to the troubles of real life, belief
and hope in the future, a constant thought of death and compensa-
tion in eternity, are, with the extreme charm of their musical fasci-
nation, the chief characteristics of Zoukovsky's poems. In his verses
did for the first time those gentle chords resound which Christianity
made to vibrate in the human soul. "His romantic lyre," says a
critic, "gave soul and heart to Russian poetry: it taught the mys-
tery of suffering, of loss, of mystic relations, and of anxious strivings
towards the mysterious world which has no name, no place, and yet
in which a young soul feels its sacred native land. " This "striving"
towards unknown, unreachable regions is what communicates to Zou-
kovsky's poetry its exaggeratedly idealistic character: earth and real
life to him are but a starting-point; reality seems to present no
interest by itself, to possess no other capacity but that of provoking
sorrow, no other value but that of contrasting with the happiness
which exists somewhere- which cannot be attained in this life, and
undoubtedly will be reached some day.
The absolute intrinsic value of Zoukovsky's poems is not of an
everlasting character, yet his merits toward national poetry are
great: for those qualities of his lyre we mentioned above, he is the
founder of Russian lyricism; for the beauty of his language and the
simplicity of means by which he obtained it, he is the precursor of
Poushkin. His influence was great on the generation, in the first
decades of our century, when Byronism pervaded our literary life: the
serene tranquillity of Zoukovsky's elegy was enforced by the storm
and gloom of the British poet, and this combined influence produced
that kind of poetry which we characterized as romantic pessimism,
and which found its final intensified expression in Lermontov. In the
minor harmony of these poetical lamentations, the powerful lyre of
Poushkin strikes the chords of the major triton in all its plenitude.
Poushkin (1799-1837) is among our poets the most difficult figure
to be retraced; for the sublime excellency of his poetry comes just
from the fact that he has no predominating coloring. Every poet
has his favorite element, his beloved subjects, his own particular
moods: this makes it easy for the critic,-as a matter of fact, the
more one-sided a poet the easier it is to retrace his portrait. Poush-
kin has no predominating element: his chief particularity is that he
The most many-chorded responsiveness, the greatest vari-
ety of moods and expressions, are fused in a general harmony; if we
may say so, of a "spherical" equilibrium. In another place we charac-
terized Poushkin's lyricism as "pouring rain with brilliant sunshine. "
has none.
## p. 12586 (#646) ##########################################
12586
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
>>
We find no other words for expressing its completeness: the whole
scale of feelings has been touched by the poet, from the abysses of
sorrow to the summits of joy; and yet none of his lyrical poems can
be classified into one of these extremes, for in his artistic contempla-
tion of life, human happiness and human misery are to him so equal,
that even in the given moment when he depicts one of them, the
other is present to his mind. Thus never does a feeling appear
single in his verses: joy never goes without regret, sorrow without a
ray of hope; a vague idea of death floats in the background of those
poems which give way to the most boundless gayety, and a smile is
shining from behind the bitterest of his tears. The striking differ-
ence from Zoukovsky's poetry is the absence of sterile strivings in
unreal regions, and a vigorous healthy love of real life: our greatest
romanticist was at the same time our first realist. This combination
is the very quality which assigns to Poushkin's poetry its individual
place in the concert of the poets of the world. Prosper Mérimée
could not conceive how it was possible to make such beautiful poetry
with every-day-life subjects, nor to write such beautiful verses with
words taken from the very heart of every-day-life speech; and the
French writer envies the language which can raise its "spoken
speech to such a degree of beauty as to introduce it into the high-
est regions of poetry. Zoukovsky had proclaimed that "poetry and
life are one" yet in his verses he did not live up to this principle;
his romantic aspirations drew him away from life into a world of
dreams. Poushkin proves and realizes that which Zoukovsky pro-
claimed his is the real "poetry of life. " "It is not a poetical lie
which inflames the imagination," says the critic Belinsky, "not one
of those lies which make man hostile at his first encounter with
reality, and exhaust his forces in early useless struggle. " Life and
dream, real and ideal, are combined and fused into each other in that
poetry which the same critic characterizes as "earth imbued with
heaven. » Poushkin's place in Russian literature is unique. He
marks the culminating point in the ascending curve of our poetical
evolution, and at the same time he is the literary contemporary of
all those writers who came after him: for not only are all kinds of
our poetry contained in his, but all branches of prose, all shadow-
ings of style. He marks the central point of our literature: the pre-
ceding writers converge towards Poushkin, those who come after
radiate from Poushkin. Of no less importance than his literary
influence was Poushkin's personal prestige: he had become a sort of
literary ferment amidst his generation. A pleiad of talented poets
group themselves round their young leader, and cast over the first
four decades of the present century a quite peculiar charm of roman-
tic youthfulness.
## p. 12587 (#647) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12587
Among these poets, who are all more or less a reflection of Poush-
kin, only one is powerful enough to stand as an independent individ-
uality: this is the already mentioned Lermontov (1814-1841). It is
hard for a critic to speak of Lermontov's poetry without mentioning
the poet's age; it is almost impossible for a Russian to consider as
an accomplished cycle the work of a man who died at the age of
twenty-seven. And yet it is certainly not as an extenuating circum-
stance we mention the fact: no one can guess what might have
become of the poet had he lived longer, but that which he left is as
excellent as the productions of a genius in its full maturity. We
are far from Poushkin's harmony and many-sidedness in Lermontov's
lyricism. Poushkin's serenity, his inner equilibrium, appear almost as
if they belonged to some distant world,—so painfully do the chords
of Lermontov's lyre resound at the contact of life. His is the poetry
of longing, of hopeless expectations; disenchantment, indignation,
accesses of moral fatigue, revolt and resignation, alternate in his
beautiful verses with a painful intensity of feeling. How far the
bitterness of this romantic pessimism from Zoukovsky's sentimental
melancholy! The world of dreams is left behind: with Poushkin
and Lermontov, poetry abandons phantoms, visions, sterile strivings
into unreachable regions; it confines itself to the human soul, and
finds the greatest beauty in expressing reality of feeling. In this
respect Lermontov's merit towards Russian lyricism can stand the
comparison with Poushkin: though his individuality was not as vast,
not as comprehensive, yet the circumference in which he moved
was a different one from Poushkin's, and his poetry therefore is an
independent and important contribution; his lyre was not as many-
chorded, but if added to Poushkin's, his chords would not be out of
tune, - they would only introduce into the limpid harmony of his ma-
jor triton, the melancholy of minor tones and the hopeless bitterness
of dissonances longing for resolution. Thus the works of the two
great poets complete each other, and establish the whole scale of
Russian lyricism. After Poushkin and Lermontov, Russian poetry is
but a working out: no new chords will be added; the individuality of
poets will express itself in diversity of styles, of coloring, of moods,
of intensity; there will be different kinds of poetry, matter of poetry
will be one.
Since the forties of the present century we enter into the second
period of Russian modern literature. The representatives of the first
pleiad of poets, like their leaders, all die very young: the last writer
who belonged to the Poushkin circle, the novelist Gogol, dies in 1852;
under his influence romanticism expires, naturalism definitely takes
root in the soil, and the Russian naturalistic novel brings its power-
ful contribution to the stream of universal literature. The names of
## p. 12588 (#648) ##########################################
12588
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
Tourgenev, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, rise as embodiers of Russia's intel-
lectual activity, as representatives of the country's inner life. Yet
behind these names there is a series of others, which until to-day
remain screened from the eyes of the reader of universal literature.
It is one of the most remarkable features of Russia's literary develop-
ment, that just in the fifties and sixties, at the very time when the
naturalistic novel was debating the most burning problems of practi-
cal life, a chorus of poets raised their voices to give as it were a
lyrical echo to the demands of reality. Their participation with the
intellectual, social, and political movement of their time was very
different, and influenced their lyricism in a very different way; yet
the general spirit of their poetry was more contemplative than act-
ive. Only two poets did in a considerable part of their productions
enter the way of deliberate didacticism, and impressed upon their
literary activity a character of belligerency.
These are Nekrassov (1821-1877) and Count Alexis Tolstoy (1817-
1875). The former was the poet of "civic sorrows"; bureaucratic
indifference, epicurism of the rich, are the objects of his venomous
sarcasm. His poetical gifts were great; unfortunately they were
stimulated not so much with love for the lower people as with
hatred for the upper classes, and hatred has never been a creative
element in art (nor in anything). His lyricism, when it appears pure,
without any alloy of sarcastic didacticism, attains a great intensity of
bitterness and grief. Count Alexis Tolstoy's didacticism was directed
against the materialistic tendencies of his time, especially against the
habit of measuring works of art by the standard of practical useful-
ness.
For his criticism he selected the form of old Russian ballads:
this gives a very peculiar character to his satires where the novelty
of the subject is combined with an archaism of folk-lore. When
expressing pure feeling, Count Tolstoy's lyre is serene, ethereal,
seraphic: he is the only poet after Poushkin who is entirely major;
the minor tones in his harmony are transitory, and never leave any
bitterness behind them. Strange as it may appear, in spite of the
above-mentioned belligerent character of his poetry, peace is the pre-
dominating element of his lyricism; peaceful are his joys, peaceful
his sorrows: no extremes; he dives into no abysses; he takes the
æsthetical surface, rather the expression than the substance of feel-
ing; his love is dreamy, his anger indulgent; there is much light in
his poetry, its rays vibrate and sparkle in multiple combinations
of coloring and shadowing,- but they are not burning, their heat is
mild, and they remind one of the long caressing beams of the sunset,
whose glow is all color.
Two poets have communicated to their poetry a strong coloring
of the political and scientific parties to which they belonged these
## p. 12589 (#649) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12589
are the two poets-Slavophiles, Homiakov (1804-1860) and Tutchev
(1803-1873). The characteristic feature of the Slavophiles' doctrine-
the ardent belief in the sacred mission of their fatherland, in its
being predestined by Providence to be the instrument for the fulfill-
ment of its plans-finds more or less decisive expression in Homi-
akov's and Tutchev's verses. The high qualities of their personal
character preserved them from entering the direction of bombastic
spread-eagleism, and communicate to their poetry a sort of religious
gravity, which commands respect even to those who do not share
their ideas: we may contest opinions, we always bow before faith.
Homiakov's lyricism moves in the field of religious thought. Tutchev
has a refined sense of nature; and his lyricism— differently from others
who treat the same subject - is not so much a reflection of nature
in the poet's personality as a participation with the phenomena, an
infusion of the poet into nature. These are the poets in whose works
the intellectual, political, and social currents of their time find active
responsiveness; others give but a few occasional echoes to the prob-
lems of their time, and are all more or less contemplative.
Maykov (born in 1821), the Alma-Tadema of Russian poetry, resus-
citates pictures of Greek and Roman antiquity; a lofty spirit ema-
nates from his philosophical juxtapositions. His lyricism is cold: his
lyric poems do not seem an immediate expression of feeling; the
process of incarnation seems to remove the work from the artist;
perhaps an exaggerated propensity towards antiquity has dried up
the source of genuine feeling, which cannot gush but out of the soil
of reality. Polonsky (born in 1820) is the poet of "psychological
landscape": the outside world is either reflected by the poet's per-
sonality, or participates with his feelings in a peaceful harmony of
mood; nature seems to have no proper life nor any sense by itself,—
it exists simply as man's perception. Quite different is the landscape
of Count Golenischev-Koutousov (born in 1848): he is an observer, a
spectator, not a participant of nature, and the latter has a complex
and multiple life of its own, independently from man; she pursues
her own way, with her own direction, and leaves man the choice of
joining her after his death in a nirvanic fusion with impersonal cos-
The most lyric of lyric poets is Fet (1820-1893): pure feeling,
impalpable, immaterial, like effect without cause; imagine a picture
without canvas, a sound without the chord which produces it, the
perfume of a flower without the flower itself,-so free of matter is
his poetry. He is the poet of indefinite emotions, unseizable shadow-
ings; where others enter into silence, there he begins to talk; with a
wonderful subtlety, and at the same time a great audacity of expres-
sion, he becomes the singer of lyrical twilight, of fugitive impressions,
fading memories, vanishing sounds. For the usual chords of a poet's
mos.
## p. 12590 (#650) ##########################################
12590
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
lyre he substituted the palpitating rays of the moonlight and the
rainbow.
Such is in brief lines the evolution of Russian lyricism to the pres-
ent moment, and such is in concise formulas the character of its
chief representatives.
Mathand
THE BLACK SHAWL
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN: 1799-1837)
IKE a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl:
L
Remorse, fear, and anguish,- this heart knows them all.
When believing and fond, in the springtime of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.
That fair one caressed me. my life! oh, 'twas bright;
But it set, that fair day, in a hurricane night.
-
One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knocked at my gate a vile Jew.
"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And she hath betrayed thee-thy young Grecian maid. "
I cursed him and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And called me a slave that was trusty and bold.
"Ho! my charger - my charger! " - We mount, we depart,
And soft pity whispered in vain at my heart.
On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood:
I was faint, and the sun seemed as darkened with blood.
By the maiden's low window I listen, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.
The light darkened round me; then flashed my good blade-
The minion ne'er finished the kiss that betrayed.
On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.
## p. 12591 (#651) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12591
I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream.
Thus perished the maiden - thus perished my dream.
This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore -
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.
The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurled the corpses of both in the Danube's dark wave.
Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light,
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.
Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl:
Remorse, fear, and anguish,- this heart knows them all.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
THE ROSE
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
HERE is our rose, friends?
Tell if ye may!
Faded the rose, friends,
The Dawn-child of Day.
YES!
WHE
Ah, do not say,
Such is life's fleetness!
No, rather say,
I mourn thee, rose,- farewell!
Now to the lily-bell
Flit we away.
ΤΟ
-
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
ES! I remember well our meeting
When first thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
By weary agonies surrounded
'Mid toil, 'mid mean and noisy care,
Long in mine ear thy soft voice sounded,
Long dreamed I of thy features fair.
## p. 12592 (#652) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12592
Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger,
Scattering mine early dreams to air,
And thy soft voice I heard no longer -
No longer saw thy features fair.
In exile's silent desolation
Slowly dragged on the days for me,-
Orphaned of life, of inspiration,
Of tears, of love, of deity.
I woke once more my heart was beating-
Once more thou dawnèdst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
My heart has found its consolation;
All has revived once more for me,
And vanished life, and inspiration,
And tears, and love, and deity.
---
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
MY STUDIES
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
N SOLITUDE my soul, my wayward inspiration
I
I've schooled to quiet toil, to fervent meditation.
I'm master of my days; order is reason's friend;
On graver thoughts I've learned my spirit's powers to bend:
I seek to compensate, in freedom's calm embraces,
For the warm years of youth, its joys and vanished graces,
And to keep equal step with an enlightened age.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
CAUCASUS
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
ENEATH me the peaks of the Caucasus lie;
B My gaze from the snow-bordered cliff I am bending:
From her sun-lighted eyrie the eagle ascending
Floats movelessly on in a line with mine eye.
I see the young torrent's first leaps towards the ocean,
And the cliff-cradled lawine essay its first motion.
## p. 12593 (#653) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12593
Beneath me the clouds in their silentness go,
The cataracts through them in thunder down-dashing,
Far beneath them bare peaks in the sunny ray flashing;
Weak moss and dry shrubs I can mark yet below,
Dark thickets still lower; green meadows are blooming
Where the throstle is singing and reindeer are roaming.
Here man, too, has nested his hut, and the flocks
On the long grassy slopes in their quiet are feeding,
And down to the valley the shepherd is speeding,
Where Arágva gleams out from her wood-crested rocks.
And there in his crags the poor robber is hiding,
And Térek in anger is wrestling and chiding.
Like a fierce young wild beast, how he bellows and raves,
Like that beast from his cage when his prey he espieth;
'Gainst the bank, like a wrestler, he struggleth and plieth,
And licks at the rocks with his ravening waves.
In vain, thou wild river! dumb cliffs are around thee,
And sternly and grimly their bondage hath bound thee!
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
THE BARD
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
SAYT
AY, have you heard by night in woodland depths
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow,
And when the fields at morning-hour were silent,
The plaintive simple accents of his pipe,-
Say, have you heard?
Say, have you met in empty forest shades
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow?
Have you remarked his recent tears, his smiling,
His gentle eyes so full of pathos mild,—
Say, have you seen?
XXI-788
Say, have you sighed to hear his gentle voice,—
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow?
When in the grove you saw the youthful poet
And met the glance of his pathetic eyes,—
Say, have you sighed?
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
---
## p. 12594 (#654) ##########################################
12594
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
A MONUMENT
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
'VE raised myself no statue made with hands,-
The people's path to it no weeds will hide.
Rising with no submissive head, it stands
Above the pillar of Napoleon's pride.
No! I shall never die: in sacred strains
My soul survives my dust and flees decay;
And famous shall I be, while there remains
A single poet 'neath the light of day.
Through all great Russia will go forth my fame,
And every tongue in it will name my name;
And by the nation long shall I be loved,
Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved:
Because I strove to serve them with my song,
And called forth mercy for the fallen throng.
Hear God's command, O Muse, obediently,
Nor dread reproach, nor claim the poet's bay;
To praise and blame alike indifferent be,
And let fools say their say!
Translation of John Pollen.
YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
'VE overlived aspirings,
I
My fancies I disdain;
The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.
'Neath cruel storms of Fate
With my crown of bay,
A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.
Thus, struck by latter cold
While howls the wintry wind,
Trembles upon the naked bough
The last leaf left behind.
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12595 (#655) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12595
THE FREE LIFE OF THE BIRD
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
AINFUL labors, grievous sorrows,
P Never on God's birdling rest,
And it fears no dark to-morrows,
Builds itself no lasting nest.
On the bough it sleeps and swings
Till the ruddy sun appears;
Then it shakes its wings and sings,
For the voice of God it hears.
After spring's delightful weather,
When the burning summer's fled,
And the autumn brings together
For men's sorrow, for men's dread,
Mists and storms in gloomy legions,-
Then the bird across the main
Flies to far-off southern regions,
Till the spring returns again.
AⓇ
THE ANGEL
-
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
T EDEN'S gates an angel holy
Was shining with bowed reverent head,
While o'er the abyss of hell soared slowly
A demon with black pinions dread.
The rebel spirit of doubt and lying
Beheld the sinless one; and then
The glow of tenderness, fast dying,
Awoke within his breast again!
"Farewell! my eyes have seen the vision:
Thou dost not shine in vain! " he cries.
"Not all on earth draws my derision,
Not all in heaven do I despise! "
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12596 (#656) ##########################################
12596
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
THE PRISONER
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV: 1814-41)
AWAY
WAY from the prison shade!
Give me the broad daylight;
Bring me a black-eyed maid,
A steed dark-maned as night.
First the maiden fair
Will I kiss on her ruddy lips,
Then the dark steed shall bear
Me, like the wind, to the steppes.
T
But the heavy door hath a bar,
The prison window is high;
The black-eyed maiden afar
In her own soft bed doth lie;
In meadow green the horse,
Unbridled, alone, at ease,
Gallops a playful course
And tosses his tail to the breeze.
Lonely am I, unjoying
Amid bare prison walls;
The light in the lamp is dying,
Dimmer the shadow falls;
And only, without my room,
I hear the measured ring
Of the sentry's steps in the gloom,
As he treads unanswering.
THE CLOUD
Translation of A. E. Staley.
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
THE giant cliff's wide bosom straying
Came a golden cloud, and soon was sleeping.
In the early dawn it woke, and leaping,
Hurried down the blue sky, gayly playing.
On the old cliff's wrinkled breast remaining,
Was a humid trace of dew-drops only.
Lost in thought the cliff stands, silent, lonely;
In the wilderness its tears are raining!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12597 (#657) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12597
THE CUP OF LIFE
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
-
E QUAFF life's cup with dim,
With covered eyes;
WE
-1
We blur its golden rim
With tears and sighs.
When from our brows at death
The bonds shall fall,
And with them vanisheth
False festival,—
Then shall we see that naught
The cup outpours;
A dream the draught so sought,
And that- not ours.
THE ANGEL
He sang of the bliss of sinless souls
Translation of A. E. Staley.
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
THROU
HROUGH the midnight heavens an angel flew,
And a soft low song sang he,
And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds
Heard that holy melody.
'Neath the tents of Eden-bowers;
Of God the Great One- he sang; and unfeigned
Was his praise of the Godhead's powers.
A little babe in his arms he bore,
For this world of woe and tears;
And the sound of his song in the soul of the child
Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.
And long languished she on this earth below,
With a wondrous longing filled,
But the world's harsh songs could not change for her
The notes which that angel trilled.
Translation of John Pollen.
4
## p. 12598 (#658) ##########################################
12598
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER
(M. Y. NEKRASSOV: 1821-77)
HEN up there comes a veteran,
With medals on his breast:
He scarcely lives, but yet he strives
To drink with all the rest.
TH
"A lucky man am I," he cries,
And thus to prove the fact he tries:
"In what consists a soldier's luck?
Pray listen while I tell.
In twenty fights or more I've been,
And yet I never fell.
And what is more, in peaceful times
Full weal I never knew;
Yet all the same, I have contrived
Not to give Death his due.
Again, for sins both great and small
Full many a time they've me
With sticks unmercifully flogged,
Yet I'm alive, you see! "
Translation of John Pollen.
THE PROPHET
(M. Y. NEKRASSOV)
H! TELL me not he prudence quite forgot;
A
That he himself for his own fate's to blame.
Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot
Both serve the good and save himself from flame.
But men he loved with higher, broader glow;
His soul for worldly honors did not sigh;
For self alone he could not live below,
But for the sake of others he could die.
Thus thought he and to die, for him, was gain.
He will not say that "life to him was dear";
He will not say that "death was useless pain":
To him long since his destiny was clear.
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12599 (#659) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12599
HAPPINESS IN SLUMBER
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY: 1783-1852)
A
LONG the road the maiden
Walked with her faithful youth;
Their eyes with grief were laden,
Their faces pale with ruth.
ALO:
Α
On eyes and lips with yearning
Their tender kisses rain;
And life and beauty returning
Bloom in their hearts again.
Their joy was quickly reckoned:
Twice rang a solemn bell!
She in a convent wakened
He, in a prison cell!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE COMING OF SPRING
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY)
D
EEP silence in the sky;
The moon mysteriously
Through filmy haze is sinking;
The Star of Love is winking
Above the darkling hill,
And in the abyss so still
Things formless, fascinating,
Come flying, animating
The silence of the night,-
They bring the Spring's delight.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
NIGHT
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY)
LREADY now the weary day
Has through the purple waves descended;
The cooling shades have fast extended;
The azure arch of heaven grows gray!
## p. 12600 (#660) ##########################################
12600
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
And solemn Night with peaceful pinions
Comes winging through her vast dominions,
And Hesper with his glittering star
Is herald of her flight afar!
To us, O heavenly Night, draw near
With Slumber's welcome chalice hovering,
With magic curtain all things covering,
To weary hearts bring peace and cheer!
Soothe with thy presence so pacific,
With thy sweet music soporific,
As mothers soothe their babes to rest,
The soul by sorrow's pangs distrest.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE VESPER BELLS
(IVAN IVANOVICH KOZLOV: 1779-1840)
VESPER bells, O vesper bells!
My heart with sweet remembrance swells.
Ye bring me back to days of yore;
I see my father's home once more,
As when I left it for all time,
And heard your last, your parting chime.
The bright days of my traitorous spring,
How little profit did ye bring!
How many, once so young and gay,
No longer see the light of day.
Their sleep is deep where silence dwells,-
They do not hear the vesper bells!
Lay me too in the damp cold ground!
A song of melancholy sound
The breeze above my grave shall sigh;
Another singer shall pass by,-
Not I but he it is who tells
The meaning of the vesper bells!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12601 (#661) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12601
SPRING WATERS
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV: 1803-73)
STIL
TILL on the fields the snow lies white,
But spring-like founts already spout:
Adown the banks in sunshine bright
They dash and gleam and shout!
They shout aloud to every side:
"The Spring is near, the Spring is near!
Her couriers, we have hither hied;
She sent us forward we are here! »
The Spring is near, the Spring is near!
And in a ruddy brilliant throng
The warm sweet days of May appear,
To cheer her train with joy and song.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
SUNRISE
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
THE
HE East grew white-fast flew the shallop;
The joyous sails were full distended;
And like a heaven beneath us stretching,
The sea with misty light was blended.
The East grew red- the maiden worshipt,
Her veil from off her locks untying.
Heaven seemed to glow upon her features,
As on her lips the prayer was sighing.
The East grew fire. in adoration
She knelt, her beauteous head inclining.
And on her young cheeks, fresh and blooming,
The tear-drops stood like jewels shining.
-
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12602 (#662) ##########################################
12602
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
H
EVENING
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
wow sweetly o'er the silent valley
The distant solemn bell-tones fly!
Like rustling flights of cranes they dally,
Then in the sighing of leaves they die.
And like a spring tide overflowing
The day grows bright, then slowly fades;
And swifter and more silent going,
Adown the valley creep the shades.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
L
THE LEAVES
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
ET pine-trees and cedars
All winter make show,
And sleep 'mid the snow-storms,
Wrapt fast in the snow.
Their needles are pallid
Like grass that is transient;
Though they never turn yellow
They always look ancient.
But we, tribes of lightness,
Though brief our abiding,
Are blooming with brightness.
On our branches residing.
All the long lovely summer
In beauty we grew;
We played with the sunbeams,
We bathed in the dew.
But the birds have ceased singing,
The blossoms are dead,
The meadows are yellow,
The south wind has fled.
What use then in clinging
To the boughs all in vain ?
'Twere best we should follow
O'er valley and plain.
of me with one hand, and the line with the other. "
a
The fellow took a firm grip of my monkey-jacket, and I made
for the door. The water washed up to my knees, but I soon
inserted my fingers in the crevice of the door and thrust it
open.
The house was a single compartment, though I had expected
to find it divided into two. In the centre was a table that trav-
eled on stanchions from the roof to the deck. On either side
were a couple of bunks. The girl stood near the door. In a
bunk to the left of the door lay an old man with white hair.
Prostrate on his back, on the deck, with his arms stretched
against his ears, was the corpse of a man, well dressed; and in
a bunk on the right sat a sailor, who, when he saw me, yelled
out and snapped his fingers, making horrible grimaces.
Such, in brief, was the coup d'œil of that weird interior as it
met my eyes.
I seized the girl by the arm.
"You first," said I. "Come; there is no time to be lost. "
But she shrunk back, pressing against the door with her hand
to prevent me from pulling her, crying in a husky voice, and
looking at the old man with the white hair, "My father first!
my father first! "
## p. 12579 (#639) ##########################################
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
12579
"You shall all be saved, but you must obey me. Quickly,
now! " I exclaimed passionately; for a heavy sea at that moment
flooded the ship, and a rush of water swamped the house through
the open door and washed the corpse on the deck up into a
corner.
Grasping her firmly, I lifted her off her feet, and went stag-
gering to the life-rope, slinging her light body over my shoul-
der as I went. Assisted by my man, I gained the bow of the
wreck, and hailing the boat, ordered it alongside.
"One of you," cried I, "stand ready to receive this lady when
I give the signal. "
I then told the man who was with me to jump into the fore-
chains, which he instantly did. The wreck lurched heavily to
port. "Stand by, my lads! " I shouted. Over she came again,
with the water swooping along the main-deck. The boat rose
high, and the fore-chains were submerged to the height of the
man's knees. "Now! " I called, and lifted the girl over. She
was seized by the man in the chains, and pushed toward the
boat; the fellow standing in the bow of the boat caught her,
and at the same moment down sunk the boat, and the wreck
rolled wearily over. But the girl was safe.
"Hurrah, my lad! " I sung out. "Up with you,- there are
others remaining;" and I went sprawling along the line to the
deck-house, there to encounter another rush of water, which
washed as high as my thighs, and fetched me such a thump in
the stomach that thought I must have died of suffocation.
I was glad to find that the old man had got out of his bunk,
and was standing at the door.
"Is my poor girl safe, sir? " he exclaimed, with the same.
huskiness of voice that had grated so unpleasantly in the girl's
tone.
"Quite safe: come along. "
"Thanks be to Almighty God! " he ejaculated, and burst into
tears.
I seized hold of his thin cold hands, but shifted my fingers
to catch him by the coat collar, so as to exert more power over
him; and handed him along the deck, telling my companion to
lay hold of the seaman and fetch him away smartly. We man-
aged to escape the water, for the poor old gentleman bestirred
himself very nimbly, and I helped him over the fore-chains; and
when the boat rose, tumbled him into her without ceremony. I
## p. 12580 (#640) ##########################################
12580
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
saw the daughter leap toward him and clasp him in her arms;
but I was soon again scrambling on to the deck, having heard
cries from my man, accompanied with several loud curses, min-
gled with dreadful yells.
"He's bitten me, sir! " cried my companion, hauling himself
away from the deck-house. "He's roaring mad. "
"It can't be helped," I answered. "We must get him out. ”
He saw me pushing along the life-line, plucked up heart, and
went with myself through a sousing sea to the door. I caught
a glimpse of a white face glaring at me from the interior: in a
second a figure shot out, fled with incredible speed toward the
bow, and leaped into the sea just where our boat lay.
"They'll pick him up," I exclaimed. "Stop a second;" and
I entered the house and stooped over the figure of the man on
the deck.
I was not familiar with death, and yet I knew it was here. I
cannot describe the signs in his face; but such as they were, they
told me the truth. I noticed a ring upon his finger, and that
his clothes were good. His hair was black, and his features
well shaped, though his face had a half-convulsed expression, as
if something frightful had appeared to him, and he had died of
the sight of it.
"He is a corpse.
"This wreck must be his coffin," I said.
We can do no more. "
We scrambled for the last time along the life-line and got
into the fore-chains; but to our consternation, saw the boat row-
ing away from the wreck. However, the fit of rage and terror
that possessed me lasted but a moment or two; for I now saw
they were giving chase to the madman, who was swimming stead-
ily away. Two of the men rowed, and the third hung over the
bows, ready to grasp the miserable wretch. The Grosvenor stood
steady, about a mile off, with her mainyards backed; and just as
the fellow over the boat's bows caught hold of the swimmer's
hair, the ensign was run up on board the ship and dipped three
times.
"Bring him along! " I shouted. "They'll be off without us if
we don't bear a hand. "
They nearly capsized the boat as they dragged the lunatic,
streaming like a drowned rat, out of the water; and one of the
sailors tumbled him over on his back, and knelt upon him, while
he took some turns with the boat's painter round his body, arms
## p. 12581 (#641) ##########################################
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
12581
and legs.
The boat then came alongside; and watching our
opportunity, we jumped into her and shoved off.
I had now leisure to examine the persons whom we had saved.
They-father and daughter, as I judged them by the girl's
exclamation on the wreck-sat in the stern-sheets, their hands
locked. The old man seemed nearly insensible; leaning backward
with his chin on his breast and his eyes partially closed. I feared
he was dying, but could do no good until we reached the Gros-
venor, as we had no spirits in the boat.
The girl appeared to be about twenty years of age; very fair,
her hair of golden straw color, which hung wet and streaky down
her back and over her shoulders, though a portion of it was held
by a comb. She was deadly pale, and her lips blue; and in her
fine eyes was such a look of mingled horror and rapture as she
cast them around her,- first glancing at me, then at the wreck,
then at the Grosvenor,—that the memory of it will last me to
my death.
Her dress, of some dark material, was soaked with
salt water up to her hips, and she shivered and moaned inces-
santly, though the sun beat so warmly upon us that the thwarts
were hot to the hand.
The mad sailor lay at the bottom of the boat, looking straight
into the sky. He was a horrid-looking object, with his streaming
hair, pasty features, and red beard, his naked shanks and feet
protruding through his soaking, clinging trousers, which figured
his shin-bones as though they clothed a skeleton. Now and again
he would give himself a wild twirl and yelp out fiercely; but he
was well-nigh spent with his swim, and on the whole was quiet
enough.
I said to the girl, "How long have you been in this dreadful
position ? »
"Since yesterday morning," she answered, in a choking voice
painful to hear, and gulping after each word. "We have not had
a drop of water to drink since the night before last. He is mad
with thirst, for he drank the water on the deck;" and she pointed.
to the man in the bottom of the boat.
"My God! " I cried to the men, <<
do you
hear her? They
have not drunk water for two days! For the love of God, give
way! "
They bent their backs to the oars, and the boat foamed over
the long swell. The wind was astern and helped us. I did
not speak again to the poor girl; for it was cruel to make her
I
## p. 12582 (#642) ##########################################
12582
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL
talk, when the words lacerated her throat as though they were
pieces of burning iron.
After twenty minutes, which seemed as many hours, we
reached the vessel. The crew pressing round the gangway
cheered when they saw we had brought people from the wreck.
Duckling and the skipper watched us grimly from the poop.
"Now then, my lads," I cried, "up with this lady first. Some
of you on deck get water ready, as these people are dying of
thirst. "
In a few minutes, both the girl and the old man were handed
over the gangway. I cut the boat's painter adrift from the ring-
bolt so that we could ship the madman without loosening his
bonds, and he was hoisted up like a bale of goods. Then four
of us got out of the boat, leaving one to drop her under the
davits and hook on the falls.
At this moment a horrible scene took place.
The old man, tottering on the arms of two seamen, was be-
ing led into the cuddy, followed by the girl, who walked unaided.
The madman, in the grasp of the big sailor named Johnson,
stood near the gangway; and as I scrambled on deck, one of the
men was holding a pannikin full of water to his face. The poor
wretch was shrinking away from it, with his eyes half out of
their sockets: but suddenly tearing his arm with a violent effort
from the rope that bound him, he seized the pannikin and bit
clean through the tin; after which, throwing back his head, he
swallowed the whole draught, dashed the pannikin down, his face
turned black, and he fell dead on the deck.
The big sailor sprung aside with an oath, forced from him by
his terror; and from every looker-on there broke a groan. They
all shrunk away and stood staring with blanched faces. Such
a piteous sight as it was, lying doubled up, with the rope pin-
ioning the miserable limbs, the teeth locked, and the right arm
uptossed!
"Aft here and get the quarter-boat hoisted up! " shouted Duck-
ling, advancing on the poop; and seeing the man dead on the
deck, he added, "Get a tarpaulin and cover him up, and let him
lie on the fore-hatch. "
"Shall I tell the steward to serve out grog to the men who
went with me? " I asked him.
He stared at me contemptuously, and walked away without
answering.
## p. 12583 (#643) ##########################################
12583
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
BY PRINCE SERGE WOLKONSKY
OTHER branch of literature is better fitted than lyric poetry
to affirm the two principles which seem to constitute the
chief acquisition of our modern culture: individualism and
cosmopolitism. In no other kind of poetry do the great variety of
individuals and the great equality of mankind find more concise nor
more simultaneous expression. The two apparently contradictory ele-
ments are combined: the endless variety of feeling and expression is
covered by the unchangeable eternity of the subject, of that "old
story which is always new," - the story of man's inner life. The
poets of the world are, as it were, the irradiation of the universal
human soul; the poetry of every one of them is the irradiation of
the poet's individuality; yet every single poem, though itself the
result of individualism, is a focus which gathers all other individuali-
ties and makes them meet on the common ground of their identity
and similitude. Passing over all barriers erected by national distinc-
tions, a Frenchman, for instance, and an Englishman will recognize
in a German poem their identity and similitude with the author,
hence with each other, consequently with all mankind. The cosmo-
politan importance of the most individual of all arts appears clearly
enough, and the circumference of its humanitarian influence stands
in exact proportion with the depth of the poet's individualism. If
measured by this standard, Russian lyricism will count among the
most precious contributors to universal poetry: the human soul in our
lyric songs, like a harp with palpitating chords, vibrates and responds.
to every touch of life.
The blossoming of Russian lyric poetry was sudden, and devel-
oped with a wonderful rapidity, if we consider that its beginning and
its finest bloom are contained in the first eighty years of the present
century. The eighteenth century, or, as it is more specifically called
in the history of Russian literature, the "century of Catherine the
Great," struck in fact no lyrical chords; and this is comprehensible.
Lyricism is not possible without genuine feeling nor without genuine.
ways of expressing it: Russian literature of the eighteenth century
was, per contra, all imitative. Under the impulse of Peter the Great's
reform, the Russian intellect awakens to literary interests; at the
touch of French literature and philosophy of the time, a number of
## p. 12584 (#644) ##########################################
12584
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
poets and writers arise and bring forth that imitative literature which
is known as "Russian pseudo-classicism»: Russian subjects, draped
in the mantle of Greek and Roman antiquity, seen through French
spectacles, and sung in Russian verses. The latter, we must acknowl-
edge, attain a wonderful sonority; and however artificial the whole
gait of that pompous and often ridiculous poetry, the beauty of the
language it had worked out constitutes its everlasting merit for
Russian poetry. But with the exception of the language there was
scarcely anything genuine; for even genuine subjects seemed to lose
their reality through being forced into unsuitable foreign forms.
Poets did not compose because they felt a psychological necessity of
doing so their productiveness was stimulated not by inner inspi-
ration, but by the simple desire of living up to patterns created by
foreign writers, consecrated by public opinion. Our poetry of the
eighteenth century is not so much the result of feeling, as the result
of a deliberate decision on the part of writers to possess a Russian
literature because other nations possessed theirs: it is imbued rather
with a spirit of international competition than with that of national
expression. It is easy to conceive that such conditions could offer no
propitious ground for the blossoming of lyricism. In the first years
of our century the Russian intellect emancipates itself from its pass-
ive acceptance of European influences. The seeds of foreign culture
had germinated in the national soil; writers apply themselves to the
study of national questions, they give up their attitude of confiding
pupils, and consciously and deliberately join the great stream of uni-
versal literature. Russian poetry gives up its spirit of competition;
poets begin to sing because they want to sing, and not because they
want to sing as well as others.
This was just at the time when the romantic flood which inun-
dated Europe stood at its highest. The romantic stream makes irrup-
tion into our country, and fructifies the virgin soil which had been
slumbering for so many centuries. Among the brilliant pleiad of
poets who brought about the vigorous offspring of Russian poetry in
the twenties and thirties of our century, three figures arise, though
with different literary importance, yet each with strong individual
coloring. These are Zoukovsky, the poet of romantic melancholy;
Poushkin, the poet of romantic epicurism; and Lermontov, the poet
of romantic pessimism. Zoukovsky (1783-1852) was the first among
Russian poets who made the human soul the object of poetry, not
without a certain exaggeration and one-sidedness. After the cold
stiffness of the French pseudo-classical style, the new romantic breeze
which came from Germany and England entirely took hold of the
young poet, who seemed by nature the most fitted man to navigate
on the waves of sentimental and fantastic romanticism. His ballads,
## p. 12585 (#645) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12585
either original, or translated from German and English, became the
funnel through which romanticism inundated Russian poetry. The
main tonality of his lyre is elegy. Simplicity, genuineness, a quiet
melancholy, a serene resignation to the troubles of real life, belief
and hope in the future, a constant thought of death and compensa-
tion in eternity, are, with the extreme charm of their musical fasci-
nation, the chief characteristics of Zoukovsky's poems. In his verses
did for the first time those gentle chords resound which Christianity
made to vibrate in the human soul. "His romantic lyre," says a
critic, "gave soul and heart to Russian poetry: it taught the mys-
tery of suffering, of loss, of mystic relations, and of anxious strivings
towards the mysterious world which has no name, no place, and yet
in which a young soul feels its sacred native land. " This "striving"
towards unknown, unreachable regions is what communicates to Zou-
kovsky's poetry its exaggeratedly idealistic character: earth and real
life to him are but a starting-point; reality seems to present no
interest by itself, to possess no other capacity but that of provoking
sorrow, no other value but that of contrasting with the happiness
which exists somewhere- which cannot be attained in this life, and
undoubtedly will be reached some day.
The absolute intrinsic value of Zoukovsky's poems is not of an
everlasting character, yet his merits toward national poetry are
great: for those qualities of his lyre we mentioned above, he is the
founder of Russian lyricism; for the beauty of his language and the
simplicity of means by which he obtained it, he is the precursor of
Poushkin. His influence was great on the generation, in the first
decades of our century, when Byronism pervaded our literary life: the
serene tranquillity of Zoukovsky's elegy was enforced by the storm
and gloom of the British poet, and this combined influence produced
that kind of poetry which we characterized as romantic pessimism,
and which found its final intensified expression in Lermontov. In the
minor harmony of these poetical lamentations, the powerful lyre of
Poushkin strikes the chords of the major triton in all its plenitude.
Poushkin (1799-1837) is among our poets the most difficult figure
to be retraced; for the sublime excellency of his poetry comes just
from the fact that he has no predominating coloring. Every poet
has his favorite element, his beloved subjects, his own particular
moods: this makes it easy for the critic,-as a matter of fact, the
more one-sided a poet the easier it is to retrace his portrait. Poush-
kin has no predominating element: his chief particularity is that he
The most many-chorded responsiveness, the greatest vari-
ety of moods and expressions, are fused in a general harmony; if we
may say so, of a "spherical" equilibrium. In another place we charac-
terized Poushkin's lyricism as "pouring rain with brilliant sunshine. "
has none.
## p. 12586 (#646) ##########################################
12586
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
>>
We find no other words for expressing its completeness: the whole
scale of feelings has been touched by the poet, from the abysses of
sorrow to the summits of joy; and yet none of his lyrical poems can
be classified into one of these extremes, for in his artistic contempla-
tion of life, human happiness and human misery are to him so equal,
that even in the given moment when he depicts one of them, the
other is present to his mind. Thus never does a feeling appear
single in his verses: joy never goes without regret, sorrow without a
ray of hope; a vague idea of death floats in the background of those
poems which give way to the most boundless gayety, and a smile is
shining from behind the bitterest of his tears. The striking differ-
ence from Zoukovsky's poetry is the absence of sterile strivings in
unreal regions, and a vigorous healthy love of real life: our greatest
romanticist was at the same time our first realist. This combination
is the very quality which assigns to Poushkin's poetry its individual
place in the concert of the poets of the world. Prosper Mérimée
could not conceive how it was possible to make such beautiful poetry
with every-day-life subjects, nor to write such beautiful verses with
words taken from the very heart of every-day-life speech; and the
French writer envies the language which can raise its "spoken
speech to such a degree of beauty as to introduce it into the high-
est regions of poetry. Zoukovsky had proclaimed that "poetry and
life are one" yet in his verses he did not live up to this principle;
his romantic aspirations drew him away from life into a world of
dreams. Poushkin proves and realizes that which Zoukovsky pro-
claimed his is the real "poetry of life. " "It is not a poetical lie
which inflames the imagination," says the critic Belinsky, "not one
of those lies which make man hostile at his first encounter with
reality, and exhaust his forces in early useless struggle. " Life and
dream, real and ideal, are combined and fused into each other in that
poetry which the same critic characterizes as "earth imbued with
heaven. » Poushkin's place in Russian literature is unique. He
marks the culminating point in the ascending curve of our poetical
evolution, and at the same time he is the literary contemporary of
all those writers who came after him: for not only are all kinds of
our poetry contained in his, but all branches of prose, all shadow-
ings of style. He marks the central point of our literature: the pre-
ceding writers converge towards Poushkin, those who come after
radiate from Poushkin. Of no less importance than his literary
influence was Poushkin's personal prestige: he had become a sort of
literary ferment amidst his generation. A pleiad of talented poets
group themselves round their young leader, and cast over the first
four decades of the present century a quite peculiar charm of roman-
tic youthfulness.
## p. 12587 (#647) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12587
Among these poets, who are all more or less a reflection of Poush-
kin, only one is powerful enough to stand as an independent individ-
uality: this is the already mentioned Lermontov (1814-1841). It is
hard for a critic to speak of Lermontov's poetry without mentioning
the poet's age; it is almost impossible for a Russian to consider as
an accomplished cycle the work of a man who died at the age of
twenty-seven. And yet it is certainly not as an extenuating circum-
stance we mention the fact: no one can guess what might have
become of the poet had he lived longer, but that which he left is as
excellent as the productions of a genius in its full maturity. We
are far from Poushkin's harmony and many-sidedness in Lermontov's
lyricism. Poushkin's serenity, his inner equilibrium, appear almost as
if they belonged to some distant world,—so painfully do the chords
of Lermontov's lyre resound at the contact of life. His is the poetry
of longing, of hopeless expectations; disenchantment, indignation,
accesses of moral fatigue, revolt and resignation, alternate in his
beautiful verses with a painful intensity of feeling. How far the
bitterness of this romantic pessimism from Zoukovsky's sentimental
melancholy! The world of dreams is left behind: with Poushkin
and Lermontov, poetry abandons phantoms, visions, sterile strivings
into unreachable regions; it confines itself to the human soul, and
finds the greatest beauty in expressing reality of feeling. In this
respect Lermontov's merit towards Russian lyricism can stand the
comparison with Poushkin: though his individuality was not as vast,
not as comprehensive, yet the circumference in which he moved
was a different one from Poushkin's, and his poetry therefore is an
independent and important contribution; his lyre was not as many-
chorded, but if added to Poushkin's, his chords would not be out of
tune, - they would only introduce into the limpid harmony of his ma-
jor triton, the melancholy of minor tones and the hopeless bitterness
of dissonances longing for resolution. Thus the works of the two
great poets complete each other, and establish the whole scale of
Russian lyricism. After Poushkin and Lermontov, Russian poetry is
but a working out: no new chords will be added; the individuality of
poets will express itself in diversity of styles, of coloring, of moods,
of intensity; there will be different kinds of poetry, matter of poetry
will be one.
Since the forties of the present century we enter into the second
period of Russian modern literature. The representatives of the first
pleiad of poets, like their leaders, all die very young: the last writer
who belonged to the Poushkin circle, the novelist Gogol, dies in 1852;
under his influence romanticism expires, naturalism definitely takes
root in the soil, and the Russian naturalistic novel brings its power-
ful contribution to the stream of universal literature. The names of
## p. 12588 (#648) ##########################################
12588
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
Tourgenev, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, rise as embodiers of Russia's intel-
lectual activity, as representatives of the country's inner life. Yet
behind these names there is a series of others, which until to-day
remain screened from the eyes of the reader of universal literature.
It is one of the most remarkable features of Russia's literary develop-
ment, that just in the fifties and sixties, at the very time when the
naturalistic novel was debating the most burning problems of practi-
cal life, a chorus of poets raised their voices to give as it were a
lyrical echo to the demands of reality. Their participation with the
intellectual, social, and political movement of their time was very
different, and influenced their lyricism in a very different way; yet
the general spirit of their poetry was more contemplative than act-
ive. Only two poets did in a considerable part of their productions
enter the way of deliberate didacticism, and impressed upon their
literary activity a character of belligerency.
These are Nekrassov (1821-1877) and Count Alexis Tolstoy (1817-
1875). The former was the poet of "civic sorrows"; bureaucratic
indifference, epicurism of the rich, are the objects of his venomous
sarcasm. His poetical gifts were great; unfortunately they were
stimulated not so much with love for the lower people as with
hatred for the upper classes, and hatred has never been a creative
element in art (nor in anything). His lyricism, when it appears pure,
without any alloy of sarcastic didacticism, attains a great intensity of
bitterness and grief. Count Alexis Tolstoy's didacticism was directed
against the materialistic tendencies of his time, especially against the
habit of measuring works of art by the standard of practical useful-
ness.
For his criticism he selected the form of old Russian ballads:
this gives a very peculiar character to his satires where the novelty
of the subject is combined with an archaism of folk-lore. When
expressing pure feeling, Count Tolstoy's lyre is serene, ethereal,
seraphic: he is the only poet after Poushkin who is entirely major;
the minor tones in his harmony are transitory, and never leave any
bitterness behind them. Strange as it may appear, in spite of the
above-mentioned belligerent character of his poetry, peace is the pre-
dominating element of his lyricism; peaceful are his joys, peaceful
his sorrows: no extremes; he dives into no abysses; he takes the
æsthetical surface, rather the expression than the substance of feel-
ing; his love is dreamy, his anger indulgent; there is much light in
his poetry, its rays vibrate and sparkle in multiple combinations
of coloring and shadowing,- but they are not burning, their heat is
mild, and they remind one of the long caressing beams of the sunset,
whose glow is all color.
Two poets have communicated to their poetry a strong coloring
of the political and scientific parties to which they belonged these
## p. 12589 (#649) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12589
are the two poets-Slavophiles, Homiakov (1804-1860) and Tutchev
(1803-1873). The characteristic feature of the Slavophiles' doctrine-
the ardent belief in the sacred mission of their fatherland, in its
being predestined by Providence to be the instrument for the fulfill-
ment of its plans-finds more or less decisive expression in Homi-
akov's and Tutchev's verses. The high qualities of their personal
character preserved them from entering the direction of bombastic
spread-eagleism, and communicate to their poetry a sort of religious
gravity, which commands respect even to those who do not share
their ideas: we may contest opinions, we always bow before faith.
Homiakov's lyricism moves in the field of religious thought. Tutchev
has a refined sense of nature; and his lyricism— differently from others
who treat the same subject - is not so much a reflection of nature
in the poet's personality as a participation with the phenomena, an
infusion of the poet into nature. These are the poets in whose works
the intellectual, political, and social currents of their time find active
responsiveness; others give but a few occasional echoes to the prob-
lems of their time, and are all more or less contemplative.
Maykov (born in 1821), the Alma-Tadema of Russian poetry, resus-
citates pictures of Greek and Roman antiquity; a lofty spirit ema-
nates from his philosophical juxtapositions. His lyricism is cold: his
lyric poems do not seem an immediate expression of feeling; the
process of incarnation seems to remove the work from the artist;
perhaps an exaggerated propensity towards antiquity has dried up
the source of genuine feeling, which cannot gush but out of the soil
of reality. Polonsky (born in 1820) is the poet of "psychological
landscape": the outside world is either reflected by the poet's per-
sonality, or participates with his feelings in a peaceful harmony of
mood; nature seems to have no proper life nor any sense by itself,—
it exists simply as man's perception. Quite different is the landscape
of Count Golenischev-Koutousov (born in 1848): he is an observer, a
spectator, not a participant of nature, and the latter has a complex
and multiple life of its own, independently from man; she pursues
her own way, with her own direction, and leaves man the choice of
joining her after his death in a nirvanic fusion with impersonal cos-
The most lyric of lyric poets is Fet (1820-1893): pure feeling,
impalpable, immaterial, like effect without cause; imagine a picture
without canvas, a sound without the chord which produces it, the
perfume of a flower without the flower itself,-so free of matter is
his poetry. He is the poet of indefinite emotions, unseizable shadow-
ings; where others enter into silence, there he begins to talk; with a
wonderful subtlety, and at the same time a great audacity of expres-
sion, he becomes the singer of lyrical twilight, of fugitive impressions,
fading memories, vanishing sounds. For the usual chords of a poet's
mos.
## p. 12590 (#650) ##########################################
12590
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
lyre he substituted the palpitating rays of the moonlight and the
rainbow.
Such is in brief lines the evolution of Russian lyricism to the pres-
ent moment, and such is in concise formulas the character of its
chief representatives.
Mathand
THE BLACK SHAWL
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN: 1799-1837)
IKE a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl:
L
Remorse, fear, and anguish,- this heart knows them all.
When believing and fond, in the springtime of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.
That fair one caressed me. my life! oh, 'twas bright;
But it set, that fair day, in a hurricane night.
-
One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knocked at my gate a vile Jew.
"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And she hath betrayed thee-thy young Grecian maid. "
I cursed him and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And called me a slave that was trusty and bold.
"Ho! my charger - my charger! " - We mount, we depart,
And soft pity whispered in vain at my heart.
On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood:
I was faint, and the sun seemed as darkened with blood.
By the maiden's low window I listen, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.
The light darkened round me; then flashed my good blade-
The minion ne'er finished the kiss that betrayed.
On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.
## p. 12591 (#651) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12591
I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream.
Thus perished the maiden - thus perished my dream.
This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore -
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.
The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurled the corpses of both in the Danube's dark wave.
Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light,
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.
Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl:
Remorse, fear, and anguish,- this heart knows them all.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
THE ROSE
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
HERE is our rose, friends?
Tell if ye may!
Faded the rose, friends,
The Dawn-child of Day.
YES!
WHE
Ah, do not say,
Such is life's fleetness!
No, rather say,
I mourn thee, rose,- farewell!
Now to the lily-bell
Flit we away.
ΤΟ
-
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
ES! I remember well our meeting
When first thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
By weary agonies surrounded
'Mid toil, 'mid mean and noisy care,
Long in mine ear thy soft voice sounded,
Long dreamed I of thy features fair.
## p. 12592 (#652) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12592
Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger,
Scattering mine early dreams to air,
And thy soft voice I heard no longer -
No longer saw thy features fair.
In exile's silent desolation
Slowly dragged on the days for me,-
Orphaned of life, of inspiration,
Of tears, of love, of deity.
I woke once more my heart was beating-
Once more thou dawnèdst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
My heart has found its consolation;
All has revived once more for me,
And vanished life, and inspiration,
And tears, and love, and deity.
---
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
MY STUDIES
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
N SOLITUDE my soul, my wayward inspiration
I
I've schooled to quiet toil, to fervent meditation.
I'm master of my days; order is reason's friend;
On graver thoughts I've learned my spirit's powers to bend:
I seek to compensate, in freedom's calm embraces,
For the warm years of youth, its joys and vanished graces,
And to keep equal step with an enlightened age.
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
CAUCASUS
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
ENEATH me the peaks of the Caucasus lie;
B My gaze from the snow-bordered cliff I am bending:
From her sun-lighted eyrie the eagle ascending
Floats movelessly on in a line with mine eye.
I see the young torrent's first leaps towards the ocean,
And the cliff-cradled lawine essay its first motion.
## p. 12593 (#653) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12593
Beneath me the clouds in their silentness go,
The cataracts through them in thunder down-dashing,
Far beneath them bare peaks in the sunny ray flashing;
Weak moss and dry shrubs I can mark yet below,
Dark thickets still lower; green meadows are blooming
Where the throstle is singing and reindeer are roaming.
Here man, too, has nested his hut, and the flocks
On the long grassy slopes in their quiet are feeding,
And down to the valley the shepherd is speeding,
Where Arágva gleams out from her wood-crested rocks.
And there in his crags the poor robber is hiding,
And Térek in anger is wrestling and chiding.
Like a fierce young wild beast, how he bellows and raves,
Like that beast from his cage when his prey he espieth;
'Gainst the bank, like a wrestler, he struggleth and plieth,
And licks at the rocks with his ravening waves.
In vain, thou wild river! dumb cliffs are around thee,
And sternly and grimly their bondage hath bound thee!
Translation of Thomas B. Shaw.
THE BARD
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
SAYT
AY, have you heard by night in woodland depths
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow,
And when the fields at morning-hour were silent,
The plaintive simple accents of his pipe,-
Say, have you heard?
Say, have you met in empty forest shades
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow?
Have you remarked his recent tears, his smiling,
His gentle eyes so full of pathos mild,—
Say, have you seen?
XXI-788
Say, have you sighed to hear his gentle voice,—
The bard who sings his love, who sings his sorrow?
When in the grove you saw the youthful poet
And met the glance of his pathetic eyes,—
Say, have you sighed?
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
---
## p. 12594 (#654) ##########################################
12594
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
A MONUMENT
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
'VE raised myself no statue made with hands,-
The people's path to it no weeds will hide.
Rising with no submissive head, it stands
Above the pillar of Napoleon's pride.
No! I shall never die: in sacred strains
My soul survives my dust and flees decay;
And famous shall I be, while there remains
A single poet 'neath the light of day.
Through all great Russia will go forth my fame,
And every tongue in it will name my name;
And by the nation long shall I be loved,
Because my lyre their nobler feelings moved:
Because I strove to serve them with my song,
And called forth mercy for the fallen throng.
Hear God's command, O Muse, obediently,
Nor dread reproach, nor claim the poet's bay;
To praise and blame alike indifferent be,
And let fools say their say!
Translation of John Pollen.
YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
'VE overlived aspirings,
I
My fancies I disdain;
The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.
'Neath cruel storms of Fate
With my crown of bay,
A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.
Thus, struck by latter cold
While howls the wintry wind,
Trembles upon the naked bough
The last leaf left behind.
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12595 (#655) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12595
THE FREE LIFE OF THE BIRD
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
AINFUL labors, grievous sorrows,
P Never on God's birdling rest,
And it fears no dark to-morrows,
Builds itself no lasting nest.
On the bough it sleeps and swings
Till the ruddy sun appears;
Then it shakes its wings and sings,
For the voice of God it hears.
After spring's delightful weather,
When the burning summer's fled,
And the autumn brings together
For men's sorrow, for men's dread,
Mists and storms in gloomy legions,-
Then the bird across the main
Flies to far-off southern regions,
Till the spring returns again.
AⓇ
THE ANGEL
-
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
(ALEKSANDR SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN)
T EDEN'S gates an angel holy
Was shining with bowed reverent head,
While o'er the abyss of hell soared slowly
A demon with black pinions dread.
The rebel spirit of doubt and lying
Beheld the sinless one; and then
The glow of tenderness, fast dying,
Awoke within his breast again!
"Farewell! my eyes have seen the vision:
Thou dost not shine in vain! " he cries.
"Not all on earth draws my derision,
Not all in heaven do I despise! "
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12596 (#656) ##########################################
12596
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
THE PRISONER
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV: 1814-41)
AWAY
WAY from the prison shade!
Give me the broad daylight;
Bring me a black-eyed maid,
A steed dark-maned as night.
First the maiden fair
Will I kiss on her ruddy lips,
Then the dark steed shall bear
Me, like the wind, to the steppes.
T
But the heavy door hath a bar,
The prison window is high;
The black-eyed maiden afar
In her own soft bed doth lie;
In meadow green the horse,
Unbridled, alone, at ease,
Gallops a playful course
And tosses his tail to the breeze.
Lonely am I, unjoying
Amid bare prison walls;
The light in the lamp is dying,
Dimmer the shadow falls;
And only, without my room,
I hear the measured ring
Of the sentry's steps in the gloom,
As he treads unanswering.
THE CLOUD
Translation of A. E. Staley.
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
THE giant cliff's wide bosom straying
Came a golden cloud, and soon was sleeping.
In the early dawn it woke, and leaping,
Hurried down the blue sky, gayly playing.
On the old cliff's wrinkled breast remaining,
Was a humid trace of dew-drops only.
Lost in thought the cliff stands, silent, lonely;
In the wilderness its tears are raining!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12597 (#657) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12597
THE CUP OF LIFE
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
-
E QUAFF life's cup with dim,
With covered eyes;
WE
-1
We blur its golden rim
With tears and sighs.
When from our brows at death
The bonds shall fall,
And with them vanisheth
False festival,—
Then shall we see that naught
The cup outpours;
A dream the draught so sought,
And that- not ours.
THE ANGEL
He sang of the bliss of sinless souls
Translation of A. E. Staley.
(MIKHAIL YUREVICH LERMONTOV)
THROU
HROUGH the midnight heavens an angel flew,
And a soft low song sang he,
And the moon and the stars and the rolling clouds
Heard that holy melody.
'Neath the tents of Eden-bowers;
Of God the Great One- he sang; and unfeigned
Was his praise of the Godhead's powers.
A little babe in his arms he bore,
For this world of woe and tears;
And the sound of his song in the soul of the child
Kept ringing, though wordless, for years.
And long languished she on this earth below,
With a wondrous longing filled,
But the world's harsh songs could not change for her
The notes which that angel trilled.
Translation of John Pollen.
4
## p. 12598 (#658) ##########################################
12598
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER
(M. Y. NEKRASSOV: 1821-77)
HEN up there comes a veteran,
With medals on his breast:
He scarcely lives, but yet he strives
To drink with all the rest.
TH
"A lucky man am I," he cries,
And thus to prove the fact he tries:
"In what consists a soldier's luck?
Pray listen while I tell.
In twenty fights or more I've been,
And yet I never fell.
And what is more, in peaceful times
Full weal I never knew;
Yet all the same, I have contrived
Not to give Death his due.
Again, for sins both great and small
Full many a time they've me
With sticks unmercifully flogged,
Yet I'm alive, you see! "
Translation of John Pollen.
THE PROPHET
(M. Y. NEKRASSOV)
H! TELL me not he prudence quite forgot;
A
That he himself for his own fate's to blame.
Clearer than we, he saw that man cannot
Both serve the good and save himself from flame.
But men he loved with higher, broader glow;
His soul for worldly honors did not sigh;
For self alone he could not live below,
But for the sake of others he could die.
Thus thought he and to die, for him, was gain.
He will not say that "life to him was dear";
He will not say that "death was useless pain":
To him long since his destiny was clear.
Translation of John Pollen.
## p. 12599 (#659) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12599
HAPPINESS IN SLUMBER
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY: 1783-1852)
A
LONG the road the maiden
Walked with her faithful youth;
Their eyes with grief were laden,
Their faces pale with ruth.
ALO:
Α
On eyes and lips with yearning
Their tender kisses rain;
And life and beauty returning
Bloom in their hearts again.
Their joy was quickly reckoned:
Twice rang a solemn bell!
She in a convent wakened
He, in a prison cell!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE COMING OF SPRING
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY)
D
EEP silence in the sky;
The moon mysteriously
Through filmy haze is sinking;
The Star of Love is winking
Above the darkling hill,
And in the abyss so still
Things formless, fascinating,
Come flying, animating
The silence of the night,-
They bring the Spring's delight.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
NIGHT
(VASILI ANDREYEVICH ZOUKOVSKY)
LREADY now the weary day
Has through the purple waves descended;
The cooling shades have fast extended;
The azure arch of heaven grows gray!
## p. 12600 (#660) ##########################################
12600
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
And solemn Night with peaceful pinions
Comes winging through her vast dominions,
And Hesper with his glittering star
Is herald of her flight afar!
To us, O heavenly Night, draw near
With Slumber's welcome chalice hovering,
With magic curtain all things covering,
To weary hearts bring peace and cheer!
Soothe with thy presence so pacific,
With thy sweet music soporific,
As mothers soothe their babes to rest,
The soul by sorrow's pangs distrest.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
THE VESPER BELLS
(IVAN IVANOVICH KOZLOV: 1779-1840)
VESPER bells, O vesper bells!
My heart with sweet remembrance swells.
Ye bring me back to days of yore;
I see my father's home once more,
As when I left it for all time,
And heard your last, your parting chime.
The bright days of my traitorous spring,
How little profit did ye bring!
How many, once so young and gay,
No longer see the light of day.
Their sleep is deep where silence dwells,-
They do not hear the vesper bells!
Lay me too in the damp cold ground!
A song of melancholy sound
The breeze above my grave shall sigh;
Another singer shall pass by,-
Not I but he it is who tells
The meaning of the vesper bells!
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12601 (#661) ##########################################
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
12601
SPRING WATERS
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV: 1803-73)
STIL
TILL on the fields the snow lies white,
But spring-like founts already spout:
Adown the banks in sunshine bright
They dash and gleam and shout!
They shout aloud to every side:
"The Spring is near, the Spring is near!
Her couriers, we have hither hied;
She sent us forward we are here! »
The Spring is near, the Spring is near!
And in a ruddy brilliant throng
The warm sweet days of May appear,
To cheer her train with joy and song.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
SUNRISE
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
THE
HE East grew white-fast flew the shallop;
The joyous sails were full distended;
And like a heaven beneath us stretching,
The sea with misty light was blended.
The East grew red- the maiden worshipt,
Her veil from off her locks untying.
Heaven seemed to glow upon her features,
As on her lips the prayer was sighing.
The East grew fire. in adoration
She knelt, her beauteous head inclining.
And on her young cheeks, fresh and blooming,
The tear-drops stood like jewels shining.
-
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
## p. 12602 (#662) ##########################################
12602
RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY
H
EVENING
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
wow sweetly o'er the silent valley
The distant solemn bell-tones fly!
Like rustling flights of cranes they dally,
Then in the sighing of leaves they die.
And like a spring tide overflowing
The day grows bright, then slowly fades;
And swifter and more silent going,
Adown the valley creep the shades.
Translation of Nathan Haskell Dole.
L
THE LEAVES
(FEDOR IVANOVICH TUTCHEV)
ET pine-trees and cedars
All winter make show,
And sleep 'mid the snow-storms,
Wrapt fast in the snow.
Their needles are pallid
Like grass that is transient;
Though they never turn yellow
They always look ancient.
But we, tribes of lightness,
Though brief our abiding,
Are blooming with brightness.
On our branches residing.
All the long lovely summer
In beauty we grew;
We played with the sunbeams,
We bathed in the dew.
But the birds have ceased singing,
The blossoms are dead,
The meadows are yellow,
The south wind has fled.
What use then in clinging
To the boughs all in vain ?
'Twere best we should follow
O'er valley and plain.
