Gavriíl Románovich Derzhávin. (1743-1816.)
Derzhávin was born near Kazán, deriving his descent from a Tartar Murza, and passed his childhood in the east, in the Government of Orenbúrg. His early education was very scanty. In his fourteenth year his mother hastened with him to Moscow to enter him for future service as the son of a nobleman; but, her means being exhausted, she returned with him to Kazán, where she placed him in the newly opened Gymnasium. Even here the lack of good teachers precluded his getting any thorough instruction; his only positive gain was a smattering of German, which was to help him later in acquainting himself with the productions of the German Muse. In 1762 he entered the regiment of the Transfiguration (Preobrazhénski) as a common soldier. Whatever time he could call his own in the crowded and dingy barracks in which he passed eight years of his life he devoted to reading and to imitations of Russian and German verse. In 1772 he was made a commissioned officer, and was employed to quell the Pugachév rebellion.
It was only in 1779 that Derzhávin began to write in a more independent strain; one of the best odes of this new period is his Monody on the Death of Prince Meshchérski. But the one that gave him his greatest reputation was his Felítsa, with which began a new epoch in Russian poetry. Lomonósov, Sumarókov, Tredyakóvski, and a number of minor poets had flooded Russian literature with lifeless odes in the French pseudo-classic style, written for all possible occasions, and generally to order. Just as a reaction was setting in against them in the minds of the best people, Derzhávin proved by his Felítsa that an ode could possess other characteristics than those sanctioned by the French school. In 1782 he occupied a position in the Senate under the Procurator-General Vyázemski. He had an exalted opinion of Catherine, whom he had not yet met, and he spoke with full sincerity of her in his ode. The name Felítsa was suggested to him by the princess in her moral fable (see p. 276 et seq.). The chief interest in the ode for contemporary society lay in the bold attacks that Derzhávin made on the foibles of the dignitaries. Its literary value consists in the fact that it was the first attempt at a purely colloquial tone of playful banter, in a kind of poetic composition formerly characterised by a stilted language, replete with Church-Slavic words and biblical allusions. Numerous are the references made by the poets of the day to the Singer of Felítsa (see p. 358 et seq.); they all felt that Derzhávin had inaugurated a new era, that the period which had begun with Lomonósov’s Capture of Khotín was virtually over.
Catherine made Derzhávin Governor of Olónetsk, and later of Tambóv; but neither in these high offices, nor later, when Paul appointed him Chief of the Chancery of the Imperial Council, and Alexander I. made him Minister of Justice, was he successful. His excitable temperament, combined with a stern love of truth which brooked no compromise, made him everywhere impossible. Of the many productions which he wrote after Felítsa, none gained such wide popularity as his Ode to God. Though parts of it bear strong resemblance to similar odes by Klopstock, Haller, Brockes, and to passages in Young’s Night Thoughts, yet the whole is so far superior to any of them that it soon was translated into all European languages, and also into Japanese; there are not less than fifteen versions of it in French. Derzhávin lived to hear Púshkin recite one of his poems and to proclaim him his spiritual successor. The following translations of Derzhávin’s poems in English are known to me:
God, On the Death of Meshcherski, The Waterfall, The Lord and the Judge, On the Death of Count Orlov, Song (The Little Bee), in Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.; To a Neighbour, The Shipwreck, Fragment, ib., Part II.; To God, The Storm, in William D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain, Philadelphia, 1849; The Stream of Time, in J. Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian; Drowning, by N. H. Dole; Ode to the Deity, by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2; Ode to God, by N. H. Dole, in The Chautauquan, vol. x; On the Death of Meshcherski, in C. E. Turner’s Studies in Russian Literature, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.
ODE TO THE DEITY
—Translated by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2.
MONODY ON PRINCE MESHCHÉRSKI[147]
—From C. E. Turner’s Studies in Russian Literature, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.
FELÍTSA[148]
Godlike queen of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,[149] whose incomparable wisdom discovered the true path for the young Tsarévich Khlor, by which to climb the high mountain where grows the rose without prickles, where virtue dwells that captivates my soul and my mind! Oh, teach me how to find it!
Instruct me, Felítsa, how to live voluptuously, yet justly; how to tame the storm of passions, and be happy in the world. Your voice enthuses me, your son guides me, but I am weak to follow them. Disturbed by worldly cares, I control myself to-day, to-morrow am a slave of my caprices.
You do not emulate your Murzas,[150] and frequently go on foot; the simplest food is served at your table. You disdain your rest, and read and write by the tallow dip, and from your pen flows bliss to all the mortals.[151] Nor do you play cards, like me, from morning until morning.[152]
You do not care overmuch for masquerades, and do not set your foot into a club. You keep old customs and habits, and make no Don Quixote of yourself. You do not saddle the steed of Parnassus,[153] do not attend the séances, to see spirits,[154] do not go to the East[155] from your throne; but, walking on the path of humility, your gracious soul passes an even tenor of useful days.
But I sleep until noon, smoke tobacco and drink coffee. I change the work-days into holidays, and live in a whirl of chimerical thoughts: I now take booty from the Persians, now direct my arrows to the Turks; now, imagining myself to be the Sultan, I make the world tremble with my looks; or, suddenly attracted by a sumptuous garment, I hasten to the tailor for a new caftan.[156]
Or I am at a sumptuous feast, where they celebrate in my honour, where the table sparkles with its silver and gold, where there are a thousand different courses,—here the famous Westphalian bacon, there slices of Astrakhán fish, there stand the pilau and the cakes,—I drink champagne after my waffles and forget everything in the world ’midst wine, sweetmeats and perfumes.
Or, ’midst a beautiful grove, in an arbour, where the fountain plashes, by the sound of a sweet-voiced harp, where the zephyr scarcely breathes, where everything inclines to luxury, and entices the mind to joy, and the blood becomes now languid, now flows warm, inclining upon a velvet divan, I rouse the tender feelings of a young maiden, and inspire her heart with love.
Or, in a magnificent tandem, in a gilded English carriage, I drive with a dog, a fool, or friend, or fair maiden to the Swings, or stop at the taverns to drink mead; or, when I get tired of that, for I am inclined to change, fly, with my cap posed jauntily, on a mettled steed.
Or I delight my soul with music and singers, the organ and flute, or boxing and the dance.[157] Or, dropping all care of business, go on the chase, and take pleasure in the barking of the hounds[158]; or, on the banks of the Nevá, enjoy at night the sound of horns and the rowing of agile oarsmen.[159]
Or, staying at home, pass my time playing “Old Maid” with my wife; or we climb together into the dove-cot, or, at times, play Blindman’s Buff with her, or sváyka,[160] or have her examine my head; or I love to pore over books, to enlighten my mind and heart, that is, I read Pulicane and Bovo,[161] or yawn and fall asleep over the Bible.
Such are my debauches, Felítsa! But the whole world resembles me, no matter if one passes for a sage: every man is a living lie. We travel not by the paths of light, we run after the whims of pleasure. ’Twixt the Indolent and the Choleric,[162] ’twixt vanity and vice, one seldom finds the straight road to virtue.
Suppose we have found it! How are we weak mortals not to blunder, where even Reason stumbles and follows after passions, where learned ignoramuses bedim our heads as the mist bedims the wanderers? Temptation and flattery dwell everywhere, and luxury oppresses all the pashas. Where, then, dwells virtue? Where grows the rose without prickles?
It becomes you alone, O Empress, to create light from darkness, dividing chaos harmoniously in spheres, to firmly unite them by a common bond; you alone can bring forth concord out of discord, and happiness out of violent passions: thus the sailor, crossing the sea, catches the gale in his sails and safely guides his ship.
You alone hurt not, nor injure anyone; though you may connive at stupidity, you tolerate no mean act; you treat peccadillos with condescension. You do not choke people, as the wolf chokes the sheep, but you know their worth: they are subject to the will of kings, but more to righteous God who lives in their laws.
You judge soundly of merits, and mete out honour to the deserving: you deem him not a prophet who merely makes rhymes. And as for that entertainment of the mind,—the honour and glory of good caliphs, the lyric strain to which you condescend,—poetry is pleasing to you, acceptable, soothing, useful,—like a refreshing lemonade in summer.
Rumour tells of you that you are not in the least haughty, that you are pleasant in business and in jest, agreeable in friendship and firm; that you are indifferent to misfortune, and so magnanimous in glory that you refused to be called “Wise.”[163] Again, they justly say that one may always tell you the truth.
This, too, is an unheard-of thing and worthy of you alone: you permit the people boldly to know and think all,[164] openly or in secret; nor do you forbid them to say of you what is true or false; and you are always prone to forgive those crocodiles, the Zoiluses of all your benefactions.
Rivers of joyful tears stream from the depth of my heart. Oh, how happy the people must be there with their fate, where a meek, peaceful angel, clad in porphyry splendour, wields the heaven-sent sceptre! There one may whisper conversations and, without fearing punishment, at dinners not drink the health of kings.
There one may erase Felítsa’s name in the line, or carelessly drop her portrait on the ground. There they do not celebrate preposterous weddings, and steam people in ice baths, and pull the mustaches of dignitaries; princes do not cackle like sitting hens, nor favourites laugh loud at them and smear their faces with soot.
You know, O Felítsa, the rights of men and kings. While you enlighten the manners, you do not turn men into fools. In your moments of rest you write fables for instruction and teach the alphabet to Khlor: “Do no wrong, and you will cause the bitterest satirist to become a hated prevaricator.”
You are ashamed to be called great, lest you be feared and hated: it becomes only a wild she-bear to tear animals and suck their blood. Need one have recourse to the lancet, unless in extreme fever, when one can get along without it? And is it glorious to be a tyrant, a great Tamerlane in cruelty, where one is great in goodness, like God?
Felítsa’s glory is the glory of a god who has calmed strife, who has covered, dressed and fed the orphaned and the poor; whose radiant eye emits its light to fools, cowards, ungrateful people and the just, and enlightens alike all mortals, soothes, cures the sick,—does good for good’s sake;
Who has given the liberty to travel to other lands, has permitted his people to seek gold and silver; who makes the waters free, and does not prohibit cutting down the woods; who orders to weave, and spin, and sew; who, freeing the mind and the hands, orders to love commerce and the sciences, and to find happiness at home;
Whose law and hand distribute favours and justice. Announce, wise Felítsa, where is the villain separated from the honest man? Where does old age not go a-begging, and merit find its bread? Where does revenge not drive anyone? Where dwells conscience with truth? Where shine virtues?—if not at your throne?
But where does your throne shine in the world? Where do you flourish, celestial branch? In Bagdad, Smyrna, Cashmir? Listen: wherever you may live and my praises reach you, think not that I wish a hat or caftan for them. To feel the charm of goodness is for the soul a wealth such as even Crœsus did not possess.
I pray the great prophet that I may touch the dust of your feet, that I may enjoy the sweet stream of your words and your look. I entreat the heavenly powers that they extend their sapphire wings and invisibly guard you from all diseases, evils and ennui, that the renown of your deeds may shine in posterity like stars in the heavens.
FROM “THE WATERFALL”
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.
THE STORM
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
THE STREAM OF TIME[165]
—From John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.
FOOTNOTES:
[147] Alexander Ivánovich Meshchérski was the president of the St. Petersburg magistracy, and later served in the Chief Customs Chancery. Both he and his friend Perfílev, mentioned at the end of the monody, led a life of luxury.
[148] See Catherine II.’s Prince Khlor, p. 280.
[149] Catherine had some villages in the Government of Orenbúrg, near the settlements of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,—hence the name given her by Derzhávin.
[150] Tartar chiefs, but courtiers are meant here.
[151] Through the promulgation of her laws.
[152] Derzhávin was much addicted to gambling in his early life, and had even tried to mend his fortune by cheating.
[153] Catherine was not successful as a versifier.
[154] She loved neither Masons nor Martinists, who were a kind of precursors of the modern spiritualists.
[155] Name of a Masonic lodge.
[156] The reference is to Potémkin, his dreams of conquering India and Persia, his foppery, his sumptuous feasts.
[157] Characterisation of A. G. Orlóv.
[158] P. I. Pánin.
[159] Allusion to S. K. Narýshkin, who had introduced wind instruments, where each player played but one note.
[160] A game which consists of throwing a large nail into a ring.
[161] Famous popular novels much in vogue in all Europe; the latter is the English Bevys of Hamptoun; the allusion is here to the rude manners of Prince Vyázemski.
[162] Lentyág and Bryúzga of Catherine’s Prince Khlor, by whom she meant Potémkin and Vyázemski.
[163] In 1767 the Senate and deputies, who had been invited to present a project for a new code of laws, proposed a title for the Empress “Great, Most Wise, and Mother of the Country,” but she declined it.
[164] This and the following lines refer to the reign of Empress Anna, when the least inattention to the minutest details of Imperial prerogatives brought about the severest persecution: it was sufficient not to empty a beaker which was drunk to her health, or to scratch out or correct her name in a document, or to drop a coin with her picture upon it, in order to be immediately denounced to the secret police. Then follows the reference to the ice palace in which the marriage of the Court fool, Prince Golítsyn, was celebrated; the other Court fools of the day were the Princes Volkónski and Apráksin.