Of the Affections of Fathers to their Children leads him to "utterly condemne all manner of violence in the education of a young spirit, brought up to honour and libertie ... if it lay in my power to make my selfe feared, I had rather make my selfe beloved." But with regard to children generally "I wot not well, whether my selfe should not much rather desire to beget and produce a perfectly-well-shaped and excellently-qualified infant, by the acquaintance of the Muses than by the acquaintance of my wife.... There are few men given unto Poesie that would not esteeme it for a greater honour to be the father of Virgils Aeneidos than of the goodliest boy in Rome and that would not rather endure the losse of the one than the perishing of the other.... Nay, I make a great question whether Phidias would as highly esteeme and dearely love the preservation and successfull continuance of his naturall children, as he would an exquisite and matchlesse-wrought Image, that with long study and diligent care he had perfected according unto art."
In chapter ten, Of Bookes, he comes back yet again to his own writing: "Let that which I borrow be survaied, and then tell me whether I have made good choice of ornaments to beautifie and set forth the invention which ever comes from mee ... I number not my borrowings, but weight them ... my intention is to passe the remainder of my life quietly and not laboriously, in rest and not in care. There is nothing I will trouble or vex myself about, no not for science it selfe, what esteeme soever it be of ... if I studie, I only endevour to find out the knowledge that teacheth or handleth the knowledge of my selfe, and which may instruct me how to die well and how to live well.... I doe nothing without blithnesse ... if one booke seeme tedious unto me I take another, which I follow not with any earnestnesse, except it be at such houres as I am idle, or that I am weary with doing nothing. I am not greatly affected to new books, because ancient Authors are, in my judgement, more full and pithy.... I esteeme Bocace his Decameron and Rabelais worth the paines-taking to reade them.... I speake my minde freely of all things." He goes on to indulge in panegyrics of the classics, specially his beloved "Plutarke," who is "everywhere free and open hearted ... stuft with matters." ... "I am wonderfull curious to discover and know the minde, the soul, the genuine disposition and naturall judgement of my authors." He objects to the "remisse niceness" of Cicero. "Concerning his eloquence," however, "it is beyond all comparison, and I verily beleeve that none shall ever equall it." "Historians are my right hand, for they are pleasant and easie ... they ammuse and busie themselves more about counsels than events ... they are fittest for me; and that's the reason why Plutarke above all in that kinde doth best please me." "The subject of an historie should be naked, bare and formelesse.... I have a while since accustomed my selfe to note at the end of my booke the time I made an end to read it, and to set downe what censure or judgement I gave of it."
Chapter eleven, Of Crueltie, contains this typical bit of common sense: "Amongst all other vices, there is none I hate more than Crueltie.... I cannot well endure a seelie dew bedabled hare to groane when she is seized upon by the houndes, although hunting be a violent pleasure ... I seldom take any beast alive but I give him his libertie." But he well realises that "Nature hath of her own selfe added unto man a certaine instinct to inhumanitie."
He has a wonderful chapter on the habits of animals, and comes to this conclusion: "Touching trust and faithfulnesse, there is no creature in the world so trecherous as man ... as for warre, which is the greatest and most glorious of all humane actions ... it seemeth it hath not much to make itselfe to be wished for in beasts.... We have not much more need of offices, of rules, and lawes how to live in our common-wealth than the cranes and ants have in theirs. Which notwithstanding, we see how orderly and without instruction they maintaine themselves." It is in this very long chapter that he dives most deeply into philosophy. "To a pensive and heart-grieved man a cleare day seemes gloomie and duskie. Our senses are not only altered, but many times dulled, by the passions of the mind.... Those which have compared our life unto a dreame, have happily had more reason so to doe than they were aware. When we dreame, our soule liveth, worketh and exerciseth all her faculties, even and as much as when it waketh ... we wake sleeping, and sleep waking." In the chapter entitled That our Desires are encreased by Difficultie we read: "To forbid us anything is the ready way to make us long for it ... that which so long held mariages in honour and safety in Rome was the liberty to break them who list. They kept their wives the better, forsomuch as they might leave them: and when divorces might freely be had, there past five hundred years and more before any would ever make use of them." In the essay Of Presumption we hear yet more of his idiosyncrasies: "As for musicke, were it either in voice, which I have most harsh, and very unapt, or in instruments, I could never be taught any part of it. As for dancing, playing at tennis, or wrestling, I could never attaine to any indifferent sufficiencie, but none at all in swimming, in fencing, in vaulting, or in leaping. My hands are so stiffe and nummie, that I can hardly write for my selfe, so that what I have once scribled, I had rather frame it a new than take the paines to correct it: and I reade but little better ... I cannot very wel close up a letter, nor could I ever make a pen. I was never good carver at the table. I could never make ready nor arme a horse; nor handsomely array a hawke upon my fist, nor cast her off ... nor could I ever speake to dogges, to birds, or to horses. The conditions of my body are, in fine, very well agreeing with those of my minde, wherein is nothing lively, but onely a compleate and constant vigour.... I am extreamlie lazie and idle, and exceedingly free, both my nature and art. I would as willingly lend my blood as my care." A noble and amazing confession. "In events, I carry myselfe man-like; in the conduct childishly. The horror of a fall doth more hurt me than the blow. The play is not worth the candle ... touching this new-found vertue of faining and dissimulation, which is now so much in credit, I hate it to the death ... it is for free-men to speake truth. It is the chief and fundamentall part of Vertue.... I eschew commandement, duty, and compulsion. What I doe easily and naturally, if I resolve to doe it by expresse and prescribed appointment, I can then doe it no more.... I helpe myselfe to loose what I particularly locke up.... In games wherein wit may beare a part, as of chesse, of cards, of tables ... I could never conceive but the common and plainest draughts. My apprehension is very sluggish and gloomy; but what it once holdeth, the same it keepeth fast.... There are divers of our French coines I know not: nor can I distinguish of one graine from another: nor do I scarcely know the difference between the cabige or lettice in my garden. I understand not the names of the most usuall tooles about husbandry ... I was never skilfull in mechanicall arts ... nor in the diversitie and nature of fruits, wines, or cakes ... let me have all that may belong to a kitchin, yet shall I be ready to starve for hunger."
He picks out as his three "worthiest and most excellent men," Homer, Alexander the Great and Epaminondas. In one of his latest chapters he lashes the physicians in no uncertain tones: "The most ignorant and bungling horseleech is fitter for a man that hath confidence in him than the skilfullest and learnedest physitian. The very choyce of most of their drugges is somewhat mysterious and divine." This attack is obviously induced by his own troublous complaint of stone-colic. "I am growne elder by seven or eight yeares since I beganne these essays; nor hath it beene without some new purchase. I have by the liberality of years acquainted my selfe with the stone-chollike." And he ends the book with a letter To my Lady of Duras: "My study and endevour to doe, and not to write.... I am a lesse maker of bookes then of anything else. Whosoever hath any worth in him, let him shew it in his behaviour, maners and ordinary discourses: be it to treat of love or of quarrels; of sport and play or bed-matters, at board or elsewhere ... those whom I see make good bookes, having tattered hosen and ragged clothes on, had they believed me they should first have gotten themselves good clothes."
This is perhaps a good note to part company with him on. There is really no limit to the number of quotations that one could cull to give a picture of this most lovable man. I have tried to do what he would have wanted me to do, describe him by letting him describe himself. For it is the man's own personality that we want to dig into when we read Montaigne's Essays, not the multitudinous anecdotes, not the splendid apophthegms which have become household proverbs, not the philosophy. He is the most human man who ever wrote a book, and the highest praise we can give him is that which would also please him most. He succeeded in writing the most human book that has ever been written. And we love him not least of all for his very vices.
Listen to Sainte-Beuve's praise of him: "There is something for every age, for every hour of life: you cannot read in it for any time without having the mind filled and lined as it were, or, to put it better, fully armed and clothed."
II
NEKRASSOV (1821-1877)
Nekrassov was the poet of the proletariat, of suffering in general and of Russian woman's suffering in particular, but denouncing rather than sentimental, a realist from start to finish. He followed in the direct succession of Gogol as an apostle of a "To-the-People" movement.
For the first time in Russian poetry we read in his work of the life stories of cabmen, carters, gardeners, printers, sweating journalists, soldiers, hawkers, prostitutes, convicts and peasants, descriptions of street scenes, fires, funerals, tragic weddings, cruel dissipations, vulgarity, platitudes of town life, and so on.
He was as interested in the common life of the people as a newspaper reporter, as satiric in his outlook as Byron and Burns; with Dostoievsky his passion for Russia connoted unbearable suffering: he is pellucidly clear and writes down what he sees without moralising.
He was a member of an aristocratic family which had fallen on evil days at the time of his birth. His early education was in the hands of a devoted Polish mother. When later he developed a turn for satiric verse at school he was requested to leave and went to Petrograd at the age of fifteen. On threepence three farthings per day, which had to be shared with another young man and his boy-serf, he managed just to exist, but he nearly died of starvation. He sought for work of any kind and in the meanwhile learnt much of low life that was afterwards to prove of inestimable value to him. His wit and general brightness of manner brought him to the notice of the well-to-do and lazy, and among them too he found valuable copy. He then attempted to gain a living as a journalist and among his multitudinous duties managed to spare a little time for the pursuit of his own art. He became the editor of The Contemporary, and spent twenty years of hard, continuous work in attempting to attract the best literary giants of his day to write for it.
In 1866 his first volume was published and met with instantaneous recognition, which deeply touched him, though he was always a severe critic of his own work.
My severe and clumsy, rustic verse."
After the publication of these, his best poems, his health gave way, and he spent much time on his brother's estate, where he got to know the peasantry intimately. Owing to his geniality, honesty and common sense the country people felt quite at home with him and did not mind recounting all their experiences to him. Consequently his peasant stories have a genuine ring about them that is unmistakable. He died in Petrograd in 1877, hard-worked to the end. He was a true representative of the best Russian Intelligentzia: not an extremist, but responsive (like Dostoievsky) at once to all suffering. His most famous poem, Who Can be Happy and Free in Russia? is the only one that I can attempt to deal with at any length here, but from it one may gauge the humanity and interest-rousing qualities of the poet.
It begins by the chance meeting of seven peasants on a country roadway. They immediately begin to argue over the question of who in Russia is happy and free.
And Romàn, 'the Pomyèschick.'
And Prov shouts, 'The Tsar,'
And Demyàn, 'The official.'
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Bawl both brothers Goobin,
Mitròdor and Ìvan.
Pakhòm shrieks, 'His Lordship,
His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's chief adviser.'"
Unable to settle the question among themselves, they begin to fight. At last, with their ribs aching, they come to their senses, drink some water from a pool, wash in it and lie down to rest. A little bird, thankful to one of them for having shown pity to her little one, gives them a fantastic tablecloth "that would bedeck itself with food and drink."
Count the poles until thirty;
Then enter the forest
And walk for a verst.
By then you'll have come
To a smooth little lawn
With two pine-trees upon it.
Beneath these two pine-trees
Lies buried a casket
Which you must discover.
The casket is magic,
And in it there lies
An enchanted white napkin.
Whenever you wish it
This napkin will serve you
With food and with vodka:
You need but say softly,
"O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants."
But one thing remember:
Food, summon at pleasure
As much as you fancy,
But vodka, no more
Than a bucket a day.
If once, even twice
You neglect my injunction
Your wish shall be granted;
The third time, take warning:
Misfortune will follow.'"
They first meet the pope, or village priest, and ask him whether he is not the happiest man in Russia, to which he replies:
Little scandalous stories?
Of whom do you sing
Rhymes and songs most indecent?
The pope's honoured wife,
And his innocent daughters,
Come, how do you treat them?
At whom do you shout
Ho, ho, ho in derision
When once you are past him?'
The peasants cast downwards
Their eyes and keep silent...."
There follows a description of scenery, a charming lyric which I cannot forbear from quoting:
Play round the great sun
Like small grandchildren frisking
Around a hale grandsire,
And now, on his right side
A bright little cloud
Has grown suddenly dismal,
Begins to shed tears.
The grey thread is hanging
In rows to the earth,
While the red sun is laughing
And beaming upon it
Through torn fleecy clouds,
Like a merry young girl
Peeping out from the corn."
The priest goes on to sketch the sort of life he is condemned to lead and concludes on this note:
To pray by the dying,
But Death is not really
The awful thing present,
But rather the living,—
The family losing
Their only support.
You pray by the dead,
Words of comfort you utter,
To calm the bereavèd ones;
And then the old mother
Comes tottering towards you,
And stretching her bony
And toil-blistered hand out;
You feel your heart sicken,
For there in the palm
Lie the precious brass farthings.
Of course it is only
The price of your praying.
You take it, because
It is what you must live on;
Your words of condolence
Are frozen, and blindly,
Like one deeply insulted,
You make your way homeward.'"
In chapter two we are taken to the village fair.
On heads hot and drunken,
On boisterous revels,
On bright mixing colours;
The men wear wide breeches
Of corduroy velvet,
With gaudy striped waistcoats
And shirts of all colours;
The women wear scarlet;
The girls' plaited tresses
Are decked with bright ribbons;
They glide about proudly,
Like swans on the water."
In chapter three, "The Drunken Night," occurs the exquisite metaphor:
And God is commencing
To write His great letter
Of gold on blue velvet....
Then suddenly singing
Is heard in a chorus
Harmonious and bold,
A row of young fellows,
Half drunk, but not falling,
Come staggering onwards,
All lustily singing:
They sing of the Volga,
The daring of youths
And the beauty of maidens ...
A hush falls all over
The road, and it listens:
And only the singing
Is heard, sweet and tuneful,
Like wind-ruffled corn."
They then accost the pomyèschick (the landowner) and inquire of him whether he is not the happiest of all the Russians, to which he answers:
The pride of all Russia—
The Lord's holy churches—
Which brighten the hill-sides
And gleam like great jewels
On the slopes of the valleys,
Were rivalled by one thing
In glory, and that
Was the nobleman's manor.
Adjoining the manor
Were glass-houses sparkling,
And bright Chinese arbours,
While parks spread around it.
On each of the buildings
Gay banners displaying
Their radiant colours,
And beckoning softly,
Invited the guest
To partake of the pleasures
Of rich hospitality.
Never did Frenchmen
In dreams even picture
Such sumptuous revels
As we used to hold.
Not only for one day,
Or two, did they last—
But for two months together!
We brewed our own liquors,
We kept our own actors,
And troupes of musicians,
And legions of servants!
Why, I kept five cooks,
Besides pastry-cooks, working,
Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,
Eighteen musicians,
And twenty-one-huntsmen ...
My God ...'
Pomyèschick broke down here,
And hastened to bury
His face in the cushion....
[And now—] 'What has happened?
When in the air
You can smell a rank graveyard,
You know you are passing
A nobleman's manor!
The axe of the robber
Resounds in the forest,
It maddens your heart,
But you cannot prevent it.'"
Part II. deals charmingly with the story of the last pomyèschick:
Wearing long white moustaches
(He seems to be all white);
His cap, broad and high-crowned,
Is white, with a peak,
In the front, of red satin.
His body is lean
As a hare's in the winter,
His nose like a hawk's beak.
His eyes—well, they differ:
The one, sharp and shining,
The other—the left eye—
Is sightless and blank,
Like a dull leaden farthing.
Some woolly white poodles
With tufts on their ankles
Are in the boat too."
This venerable barin Prince Yutiàtin believes that the old regime still exists and his serfs have agreed to humour him in order to keep him alive.
They agree to
As if all this trouble
Had never existed:
Give way to him, bow to him
Just as in old days.'"
So the Prince has all his whims satisfied and peasants are beaten (voluntarily) at his pleasure. He orders his sons to dance and girls to sing.
Does not want to sing,
But the old man will have it.
The lady is singing
A song low and tender,
It sounds like the breeze
On a soft summer evening
In velvety grasses
Astray, like spring raindrops
That kiss the young leaves,
And it soothes the Pomyèschick,
The feeble old man:
He is falling asleep now ...
And gently they carry him
Down to the water,
And into the boat.
And he lies there, still sleeping.
Above him stands, holding
A big green umbrella,
The faithful old servant,
His other hand guarding
The sleeping Pomyèschick
From gnats and mosquitoes.
The oarsmen are silent,
The faint-sounding music
Can hardly be heard
As the boat moving gently
Glides on through the water...."
In Part III., having failed to elicit a satisfactory answer to their question from the men, they decide to try the women. They go to the woman Matròna
Majestic in bearing,
And strikingly handsome.
Of thirty-eight years
She appears, and her black hair
Is mingled with grey.
Her complexion is swarthy,
Her eyes large and dark
And severe, with rich lashes."
They manage to prevail upon her to tell her life story:
For we were a thrifty
And diligent household:
And I, the young maiden,
With father and mother
Knew nothing but joy.
My father got up
And went out before sunrise,
He woke me with kisses
And tender caresses:
My brother, while dressing,
Would sing little verses:
"Get up, little sister,
Get up, little sister,
In no little beds now
Are people delaying,
In all little churches
The peasants are praying;
Get up, now, get up,
It is time, little sister.
The shepherd has gone
To the field with the sheep,
And no little maidens
Are lying asleep,
They've gone to pick raspberries,
Merrily singing...."
The youths, and the forward
I checked very sharply.
To those who were gentle
And shy, I would whisper:
"My cheeks will grow hot,
And sharp eyes has my mother:
Be wise, now, and leave me
Alone" ... and they left me.'"
At last came the man to whom she was destined to give her heart:
Was rosy and lusty,
Was strong and broad-shouldered,
With fair curling hair,
With a voice low and tender....
Ah, well ... I was won....
We shall not regret it,"
Said Philip, but still
I was timid and doubtful.
Of course I was fairer
And sweeter and dearer
Than any that lived,
And his arms were about me....
Then all of a sudden
I made a sharp effort
To wrench myself free.
"How now? What's the matter?
You're strong, little pigeon!"
Said Philip, astonished,
But still held me tight.
"Ah, Philip, if you had
Not held me so firmly
You would not have won me:
I did it to try you,
To measure your strength:
You were strong and it pleased me."
We must have been happy
In those fleeting moments
When softly we whispered
And argued together:
I think that we never
Were happy again....'"
She marries Philip and joins his family.
It was—that of Philip's
To which I belonged now:
And I from my girlhood
Stepped straight into Hell.
My husband departed
To work in the city,
And leaving, advised me
To work and be silent,
To yield and be patient:
"Don't splash the red iron
With cold water—it hisses."
With father and mother
And sisters-in-law he
Now left me alone:
Not a soul was among them
To love or to shield me,
But many to scold....
Well, you know yourselves, friends,
How quarrels arise
In the homes of the peasants.
A young married sister
Of Philip's one day
Came to visit her parents.
She found she had holes
In her boots, and it vexed her.
Then Philip said, "Wife,
Fetch some boots for my sister."
And I did not answer
At once: I was lifting
A large wooden tub,
So, of course, couldn't speak.
But Philip was angry
With me, and he waited
Until I had hoisted
The tub to the oven
Then struck me a blow
With his fist, on my temple....
Again Philip struck me ...
And again Philip struck me ...
Well, that is the story.
'Tis surely not fitting
For wives to sit counting
The blows of their husbands,
But then I had promised
To keep nothing back.'"
A baby is born to her, and her life becomes more and more of a burden to her: one friend alone of Philip's relatives, an old man called Savyèli, has pity on her. Savyèli has been branded as a convict for burying a German alive. She relates now the story of his life and more particularly the account of his crime:
Quite coolly and slowly,
Without heat or hurry;
For that was his way.
And we, tired and hungry,
Stood listening in silence.
He kicked the wet earth
With his boot while he scolded,
Not far from the edge
Of the pit. I stood near him,
And happened to give him
A push with my shoulder:
Then somehow a second
And third pushed him gently....
We spoke not a word,
Gave no sign to each other,
But silently, slowly,
Drew closer together,
And edging the German
Respectfully forward,
We brought him at last
To the brink of the hollow ...
He tumbled in headlong!
'A ladder,' he bellows:
Nine shovels reply.
'Heave-to'—the words fell
From my lips on the instant,
The word to which people
Work gaily in Russia:
'Heave-to,' and 'Heave-to,'
And we laboured so bravely
That soon not a trace
Of the pit was remaining,
The earth was as smooth
As before we had touched it:
And then we stopped short
And we looked at each other."'"
Matròna gets Savyèli to look after her infant Djòma, and while she is away the pigs attacked and killed him. The country police as the custom is in Russia threatened to hold an inquest unless they were bribed: this Matròna could not afford.
And let me not strangle
The wicked blasphemer!"
I looked at the doctor
And shuddered in terror;
Before him lay lancets,
Sharp scissors and knives.
I conquered myself,
For I knew why they lay there.
I answered him trembling,
"I loved little Djòma,
I would not have harmed him."
"And did you not poison him,
Give him some powder?"'"
They refuse to listen to her piteous cries:
Which covered my baby:
His little white body
With scissors and lancets
They worry and torture ...
The room has grown darker,
I'm struggling and screaming,
You butchers! You fiends!
Oh, hear me, just God!
May thy curse fall and strike them!
Ordain that their garments
May rot on their bodies!
Their eyes be struck blind,
And their brains scorch in madness!
Their wives be unfaithful,
Their children be crippled!...
The pope lit his pipe
And sat watching the doctor.
He said, 'You are rending
A heart with a knife.'
I started up wildly:
I knew that the doctor
Was piercing the heart
Of my little dead baby."
Her husband is taken for the army, and Matròna goes, although her time is on her to bring to birth another baby, to plead for him to the Governor's lady. Somewhat to our surprise she wins her cause and gets her husband back again, but the peasants are cured after hearing her story of imagining that any woman could be happy in Russia.
But never a woman:
God knows, among women
Your search will be endless.'"
So they continue their wanderings, and having heard many grim stories of all sorts, they remain without a solution to their problem, and the only consolation suggested by the author comes in a subtle touch: a son of a psalm-singer, with a knowledge of, and deep sympathy for, all the down-trodden ones, finds exaltation in putting together songs about their pains and greatness:
In his ears rang melody—henceforth undefaceable:
Words of azure radiance, noble in benignity.
Hailing coming happiness and the People's dignity."
Happiness, Nekrassov concludes, can only be won in doing creative work.
I have, I think, by my copious quotations from his most popular poem at any rate proved his claim to be considered "the Russian Crabbe," the uncompromising realist who can depict the sorrows of the poor with undeflected trueness of aim.
III
PUSHKIN (1799-1837)
It is habitual with critics, especially critics of Russian literature, to probe with a microscopic accuracy into the work of the subject they undertake to explain: they search for psychological phenomena untiringly, and are not content unless they can wrest a secret from the author which the author himself would certainly in many cases never have realised that he possessed. We see this in our own tongue in many of the critical essays on Shakespeare. We see it applied to Pushkin equally unnecessarily; for Pushkin needs no interpreter: he is delightfully human, clear, sincere, impulsive, vital and vivifying, as far removed as possible from any artfulness, the least of a digger in the depths of his own soul imaginable. He is the type of artist who sees Beauty in her naked blaze and straightway reincarnates her because he cannot help it. He is of the earth, earthy in the best sense of the word. The final word about him is that he accepted life open-heartedly and as a consequence requires in his readers an equal open-heartedness and nothing else.
He was brought up as a boy in an atmosphere of that sparkling elegance which we associate with the French, and himself wrote verses in that tongue, by the age of twelve acquiring a real taste in French literature. He revelled in Plutarch, Voltaire, Rousseau and Molière, imitated the French comedies and acted them before his sister. As was customary in Russia, he was, as a boy, allowed free access to the society of the literary and artistic people who frequented his father's house. Here he entered into that life of boundless hospitality, disorderliness, whimsical jollity, and revelry, of erotic and bacchanalian orgies, which were typical of the upper classes of his time.
From his nurse, a life-long friend, he learnt to love the world of Russian folklore.
For five years, from twelve to seventeen, he was at the Lyceum, just then opened at the Tsàrskoye Selò, which reflected among its youthful pupils the same passions of illicit amours, drink, and literature which characterised the parents. They became a sort of jovial anarchists. Like the Elizabethans, they were as often intoxicated with poetry as with wine. Pushkin early became the leader, as was only natural: he was already the best-read man in Russia; he was enthusiastic over the work of his younger contemporaries; he was an ideal companion. Like Milton and most other geniuses of a high order, he recognised his métier very early in his life. He wrote in his teens:
Is now bestrewn with flowers by goddesses of singing,
And gods have poured into my breast
The names, elating visions bringing...."
Not only so, but—
In it the ends of lines.
Exactness of expressions
Through hallowed crystal shines."
Exactness of expression is as important to Pushkin as it was to Pope, just as fearless honesty was the keystone of his personality.
It was at the public examination of the Lyceists in Russian literature in 1815 that he first came before the public eye. Together with other competitors he had to read his work before the old ode-writer D'erjàvin, who was so thrilled by The Reminiscences of the Tsàrskoye Selò that he wanted to rush forward and embrace the young poet.
Jukòvski, then at the height of his fame, would read his verses to Pushkin and rely on his judgment. When in return Pushkin read Ruslàn and Ludmìla, Jukòvski gave the boy his portrait with this inscription: "To the victorious pupil from his conquered teacher."
Such treatment might well be expected to turn the head of the youth, but Pushkin was then, as ever, modest and extremely critical of his own work. He was, as I have said, always searching for hidden genius in others: he it was who first discovered Gogol, and when that Dickens of Russia published Dead Souls and The Inspector-General, the subjects in each case being suggested to him by Pushkin, the poet said delightedly: "The rascal robs me in such a bewitching way that it is impossible to be angry with him."
Pushkin's father declined to allow him to take a commission in the Hussars, and at eighteen the poet obtained a post in the Foreign Office, where he had much leisure, and plunged deeper than ever into the excesses common to his time, with the result that, though he swam, rode, fenced and walked to keep himself fit, twice in his nineteenth and twentieth years he nearly lost his health. Nor did his riotous living prevent him from working hard at his poetry.
In 1820 the long fairy tale Ruslàn and Ludmìla appeared. The nearest approach to it in England is Hero and Leander—sensuous yet cold. Everywhere it was read, copied out and learnt by heart by tradesman and noble alike. The story was founded on the national folklore. A wicked, humped dwarf carries away the only daughter of Prince Vladimir of Kiev from her nuptial bed to his castle: Ruslàn, the bridegroom, and three disappointed lovers give chase. The adventures of the four warriors, Ludmìla's seclusion in the wizard's castle and Ruslàn's ultimate victory by hanging on to the long beard of the dwarf as he flies over seas and forests form the plot of the story.
The method of handling the story was fascinating, and quite new to Russia. It was vigorous, whimsical, absolutely natural and human: it was this last characteristic in particular which captivated the hearts of the whole race. Russia always loves the natural—but she did not yet recognise why it was that Pushkin especially appealed to her: there had been hitherto no realistic school.
No one realised, Pushkin least of all, that Ruslàn and Ludmìla laid the foundation-stone of all future Russian literature.
The two schools then in existence, the pseudo-classical and the romantic, debated savagely as to which category Pushkin belonged. They were unable to grasp the significance of this bubbling over of human fun, this directness of detail; indignation at such ideas as "Ruslàn's tickling with his spear the nostrils of the giant's head," as bringing the national element into poetry at all, and so on, spread fast.
In the same year Pushkin threw himself heart and soul into the movement of young reformers, and joined the "Society of Welfare," which somewhat naturally roused the Government to action.
Alexander I. was for banishing him; Karamzin, however, pleaded for him with such effect that he was only sent to Bessarabia for a year. His banishment only accentuated his popularity. He took advantage of his retirement to write The Prisoner of the Caucasus in eight hundred lines, the main feature of which is the first appearance in his work of that grand reverence for women which is one of Pushkin's greatest charms.
A man in a Circassian village brings home one day as prisoner a young Russian, who has left his usual world to find freedom in the wilderness: being captured, he is put in irons and left to drag out his days in a cave. A young Circassian girl falls in love with him; he responds out of pity, being in love with another girl at home who did not, however, return his affection. The girl, struck with grief, yet understands, and gives up visiting him secretly, and while the tribe are away raiding she comes with a saw and dagger and gives him his freedom. They part with a kiss of great human love. The young man, touched to the heart, looks back after he has swum the river, but the girl is nowhere to be seen and "only a circle widens on the face of the water, in the gentle shine of the moon." ... The public swallowed the poem greedily, the description of the manners of the Circassians especially attracting them. In another poem Pushkin uses a legend which he came across while visiting the ancient capital of the Crimean Tartars.
The young Tartar Khan, Givèy, captures in a raid on Poland a young Christian princess, Mary, and conceals her in his harem. Her purity and saintly beauty so work upon him that he remains in awe before her. Another beauty, Zarèma, once a favourite of Givèy, implores Mary to make her man come back to her: failing, of course, Zarèma kills her and is herself drowned. The Khan in despair leaves his harem and goes out to wage wars, and returns in the end to build a fountain in memory of Mary, over which he erects a crescent crowned with a cross.
It was at this time that Pushkin fell under the influence of Byron and learned English to do so: not that he imitated Byron, but he was braced up to do something equally good in another way. This was in Kishinòv, a hot-bed of noisy, passionate freethinking blended with Asiatic aboriginality. He fought three duels, one of them resulting from a quarrel at a ball as to whether a waltz or a mazurka should be next on the programme. He then fell in love with a gipsy and joined the camp to which the girl belonged. The result was another poem called The Gipsies.
The hero, a man of society, comes to join the free life of a gipsy tribe because he despises the degenerating effect of civilisation. He has had enough of people in cities.