An Outline of Russian Literature Part 3

His career was unromantic; he was rooted to the earth; an aristocrat by birth, an official by profession, a lover of society by taste. At the same time, he sought and served beauty, strenuously and faithfully; he was perhaps too faithful a servant of Apollo; too exclusive a lover of the beautiful. In his work you find none of the piteous cries, no beauty of soaring and bleeding wings as in Sh.e.l.ley, nor the sound of rebellious sobs as in Musset; no tempest of defiant challenge, no lightnings of divine derision, as in Byron; his is neither the martyrdom of a fighting Heine, that "brave soldier in the war of the liberation of humanity," nor the agonized pa.s.sion of a suffering Catullus. He never descended into h.e.l.l. Every great man is either an artist or a fighter; and often poets of genius, Byron and Heine for instance, are more pre-eminently fighters than they are artists. Pushkin was an artist, and not a fighter. And this is what makes even his love-poems cold in comparison with those of other poets. Although he was the first to make notable what was called the romantic movement; and although at the beginning of his career he handled romantic subjects in a more or less romantic way, he was fundamentally a cla.s.sicist--a cla.s.sicist as much in the common-sense and realism and solidity of his conceptions and ideas, as in the perspicuity and finish of his impeccable form. And he soon cast aside even the vehicles and clothes of romanticism, and exclusively followed reality. "He strove with none, for none was worth his strife." And when his artistic ideals were misunderstood and depreciated, he retired into himself and wrote to please himself only; but in the inner court of the Temple of Beauty into which he retired he created imperishable things; for he loved nature, he loved art, he loved his country, and he expressed that love in matchless song.

For years, Russian criticism was either neglectful of his work or unjust towards it; for his serene music and harmonious design left the generations which came after him, who were tossed on a tempest of social problems and political aspirations, cold; but in 1881, when Dostoyevsky unveiled Pushkin's memorial at Moscow, the homage which he paid to the dead poet voiced the unanimous feeling of the whole of Russia. His work is beyond the reach of critics, whether favourable or unfavourable, for it lives in the hearts of his countrymen, and chiefly upon the lips of the young.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Not 1763, as generally stated in his biographies.

[3] The poem was originally called _Mazepa_: Pushkin changed the t.i.tle so as not to clash with Byron. It is interesting to see what Pushkin says of Byron's poem. In his notes there is the following pa.s.sage--

"Byron knew Mazepa through Voltaire's history of Charles XII. He was struck solely by the picture of a man bound to a wild horse and borne over the steppes. A poetical picture of course; but see what he did with it. What a living creation! What a broad brush! But do not expect to find either Mazepa or Charles, nor the usual gloomy Byronic hero.

Byron was not thinking of him. He presented a series of pictures, one more striking than the other. Had his pen come across the story of the seduced daughter and the father's execution, it is improbable that anyone else would have dared to touch the subject."

CHAPTER III

LERMONTOV

The romantic movement in Russia was, as far as Pushkin was concerned, not really a romantic movement at all. Still less was it so in the case of the Pleiade which followed him. And yet, for want of a better word, one is obliged to call it the _romantic_ movement, as it was a new movement, a renascence that arose out of the ashes of the pseudo-cla.s.sical eighteenth century convention. Pushkin was followed by a Pleiade.

The claim of his friend and fellow-student, BARON DELVIG, to fame, rests rather on his friendship with Pushkin (to whom he played the part of an admirable critic) than on his own verse. He died in 1831.

YAZYKOV, PRINCE BARIATINSKY, VENEVITINOV, and POLEZHAEV, can all be included in the Pleiade; all these are lyrical poets of the second order, and none of them--except Polezhaev, whose real promise of talent was shattered by circ.u.mstances (he died of drink and consumption after a career of tragic vicissitudes)--has more than an historical interest.

Pushkin's successor to the throne of Russian letters was Lermontov: no unworthy heir. The name Lermontov is said to be the same as the Scotch Learmonth. The story of his short life is a simple one. He was born at Moscow in 1814. He visited the Caucasus when he was twelve. He was taught English by a tutor. He went to school at Moscow, and afterwards to the University. He left in 1832 owing to the disputes he had with the professors. At the age of eighteen, he entered the Guards' Cadet School at St. Petersburg; and two years later he became an officer in the regiment of the Hussars. In 1837 he was transferred to Georgia, owing to the scandal caused by the outspoken violence of his verse; but he was transferred to Novgorod in 1838, and was allowed to return to St. Petersburg in the same year. In 1840 he was again transferred to the Caucasus for fighting a duel with the son of the French Amba.s.sador; towards the end of the year, he was once more allowed to return to St. Petersburg. In 1841 he went back for a third time to the Caucasus, where he forced a duel on one of his friends over a perfectly trivial incident, and was killed, on the 15th of July of the same year.

In all the annals of poetry, there is no more curious figure than Lermontov. He was like a plant that above all others needed a sympathetic soil, a favourable atmosphere, and careful attention. As it was, he came in the full tide of the regime of Nicholas I, a regime of patriarchal supervision, government interference, rigorous censorship, and iron discipline,--a grey epoch absolutely devoid of all ideal aspirations. Considerable light is thrown on the contradictory and original character of the poet by his novel, _A Hero of Our Days_, the first psychological novel that appeared in Russia.

The hero, Pechorin, is undoubtedly a portrait of the poet, although he himself said, and perhaps thought, that he was merely creating a type.

The hero of the story, who is an officer in the Caucasus, a.n.a.lyses his own character, and lays bare his weaknesses, follies, and faults, with the utmost frankness. "I am incapable of friendship," he says. "Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, although often neither of them will admit it; I cannot be a slave, and to be a master is a tiring business." Or he writes: "I have an innate pa.s.sion for contradiction.... The presence of enthusiasm turns me to ice, and intercourse with a phlegmatic temperament would turn me into a pa.s.sionate dreamer." Speaking of enemies, he says: "I love enemies, but not after the Christian fashion." And on another occasion: "Why do they all hate me? Why? Have I offended any one? No. Do I belong to that category of people whose mere presence creates antipathy?" Again: "I despise myself sometimes, is not that the reason that I despise others? I have become incapable of n.o.ble impulses. I am afraid of appearing ridiculous to myself."

On the eve of fighting a duel Pechorin writes as follows--

"If I die it will not be a great loss to the world, and as for me, I am sufficiently tired of life. I am like a man yawning at a ball, who does not go home to bed because the carriage is not there, but as soon as the carriage is there, Good-bye!"

"I review my past and I ask myself, Why have I lived? Why was I born?

and I think there was a reason, and I think I was called to high things, for I feel in my soul the presence of vast powers; but I did not divine my high calling; I gave myself up to the allurement of shallow and ign.o.ble pa.s.sions; I emerged from their furnace as hard and as cold as iron, but I had lost for ever the ardour of n.o.ble aspirations, the flower of life. And since then how often have I played the part of the axe in the hands of fate. Like the weapon of the executioner I have fallen on the necks of the victims, often without malice, always without pity. My love has never brought happiness, because I have never in the slightest degree sacrificed myself for those whom I loved. I loved for my own sake, for my own pleasure.... And if I die I shall not leave behind me one soul who understood me. Some think I am better, others that I am worse than I am. Some will say he was a good fellow; others he was a blackguard."

It will be seen from these pa.s.sages, all of which apply to Lermontov himself, even if they were not so intended, that he must have been a trying companion, friend, or acquaintance. He had, indeed, except for a few intimate friends, an impossible temperament; he was proud, overbearing, exasperated and exasperating, filled with a savage _amour-propre_; and he took a childish delight in annoying; he cultivated "le plaisir aristocratique de deplaire"; he was envious of what was least enviable in his contemporaries. He could not bear not to make himself felt, and if he felt that he was unsuccessful in accomplishing this by pleasant means, he resorted to unpleasant means.

And yet, at the same time, he was warm-hearted, thirsting for love and kindness, and capable of giving himself up to love--if he chose.

During his period of training at the Cadet School, he led a wild life; and when he became an officer, he hankered after social and not after literary success. He did not achieve it immediately; at first he was not noticed, and when he was noticed he was not liked. His looks were unprepossessing, and one of his legs was shorter than the other. His physical strength was enormous--he could bend a ramrod with his fingers. Noticed he was determined to be; and, as he himself says in one of his letters, observing that every one in society had some sort of pedestal--wealth, lineage, position, or patronage--he saw that if he, not pre-eminently possessing any of these,--though he was, as a matter of fact, of a good Moscow family,--could succeed in engaging the attention of one person, others would soon follow suit. This he set about to do by compromising a girl and then abandoning her: and he acquired the reputation of a Don Juan. Later, when he came back from the Caucasus, he was treated as a lion. All this does not throw a pleasant light on his character, more especially as he criticized in scathing tones the society in which he was anxious to play a part, and in which he subsequently enjoyed playing a part. But perhaps both att.i.tudes of mind were sincere. He probably sincerely enjoyed society, and hankered after success in it; and equally sincerely despised society and himself for hankering after it.

As he grew older, his pride and the exasperating provocativeness of his conduct increased to such an extent that he seemed positively seeking for serious trouble, and for some one whose patience he could overtax, and on whom he could fasten a quarrel. And this was not slow to happen.

At the bottom of all this lay no doubt a deep-seated disgust with himself and with the world in general, and a complete indifference to life, resulting from large aspirations which could not find an outlet, and so recoiled upon himself. The epoch, the atmosphere and the society were the worst possible for his peculiar nature; and the only fruitful result of the friction between himself and the society and the established order of his time, was that he was sent to the Caucasus, which proved to be a source of inspiration for him, as it had been for Pushkin. One is inclined to say, "If only he had lived later or longer"; yet it may be doubted whether, had he been born in a more favourable epoch, either earlier in the milder regime of Alexander I, or later, in the enthusiastic epoch of the reforms, he would have been a happier man and produced finer work.

The curious thing is that his work does not reveal an overwhelming pessimism like Leopardi's, an accent of revolt like Musset's, or of combat like Byron's; but rather it testifies to a fundamental indifference to life, a concentrated pride. If it be true that you can roughly divide the Russian temperament into two types--the type of the pure fool, such as Dostoyevsky's _Idiot_, and a type of unconquerable pride, such as Lucifer--then Lermontov is certainly a fine example of the second type. You feel that he will never submit or yield; but then he died young; and the Russian poets often changed, and not infrequently adopted a compromise which was the same thing as submission.

Lermontov was, like Pushkin, essentially a lyric poet, still more subjective, and profoundly self-centred. His attempts at the drama (imitations of Schiller and an attempt at the manner of Griboyedov) were failures. But, unlike Pushkin, he was a true romantic; and his work proves to us how essentially different a thing Russian romanticism is from French, German or English romanticism. He began with astonishing precocity to write verse when he was twelve. His earliest efforts were in French. He then began to imitate Pushkin.

While at the Cadet School he wrote a series of cleverly written, more or less indecent, and more or less Byronic--the Byron of _Beppo_--tales in verse, describing his love adventures, and episodes of garrison life. What brought him fame was his "Ode on the Death of Pushkin," which, although unjustified by the actual facts--he represents Pushkin as the victim of a bloodthirsty society--strikes strong and bitter chords. Here, without any doubt, are "thoughts that breathe and words that burn"--

"And you, the proud and shameless progeny Of fathers famous for their infamy, You, who with servile heel have trampled down The fragments of great names laid low by chance, You, hungry crowd that swarms about the throne, Butchers of freedom, and genius, and glory, You hide behind the shelter of the law, Before you, right and justice must be dumb!

But, parasites of vice, there's G.o.d's a.s.size; There is an awful court of law that waits.

You cannot reach it with the sound of gold; It knows your thoughts beforehand and your deeds; And vainly you shall call the lying witness; That shall not help you any more; And not with all the filth of all your gore Shall you wash out the poet's righteous blood."

He struck this strong chord more than once, especially in his indictment of his own generation, called "A Thought"; and in a poem written on the transfer of Napoleon's ashes to Paris, in which he pours scorn on the French for deserting Napoleon when he lived and then acclaiming his ashes.

But it is not in poems such as these that Lermontov's most characteristic qualities are to be found. Lermontov owed nothing to his contemporaries, little to his predecessors, and still less to foreign models. It is true that, as a school-boy, he wrote verses full of Byronic disillusion and satiety, but these were merely echoes of his reading. The gloom of spirit which he expressed later on was a permanent and innate feature of his own temperament. Later, the reading of Sh.e.l.ley spurred on his imagination to emulation, but not to imitation. He sought his own path from the beginning, and he remained in it with obdurate persistence. He remained obstinately himself, indifferent as a rule to outside events, currents of thought and feeling. And he clung to the themes which he chose in his youth. His mind to him a kingdom was, and he peopled it with images and fancies of his own devising. The path which he chose was a narrow one. It was a romantic path. He chose for the subject of the poem by which he is perhaps most widely known, _The Demon_, the love of a demon for a woman. The subject is as romantic as any chosen by Thomas Moore; but there is nothing now that appears rococo in Lermontov's work. The colours are as fresh to-day as when they were first laid on. The heroine is a Circa.s.sian woman, and the action of the poem is in the Caucasus.

The Demon portrayed is not the spirit that denies of Goethe, nor Byron's Lucifer, looking the Almighty in His face and telling him that His evil is not good; nor does he cherish--

"the study of revenge, immortal hate,"

of Milton's Satan; but he is the lost angel of a ruined paradise, who is too proud to accept oblivion even were it offered to him. He dreams of finding in Tamara the joys of the paradise he has foregone. "I am he," he says to her, "whom no one loves, whom every human being curses." He declares that he has foresworn his proud thoughts, that he desires to be reconciled with Heaven, to love, to pray, to believe in good. And he pours out to her one of the most pa.s.sionate love declarations ever written, in couplet after couplet of words that glow like jewels and tremble like the strings of a harp, Tamara yields to him, and forfeits her life; but her soul is borne to Heaven by the Angel of Light; she has redeemed her sin by death, and the Demon is left as before alone in a loveless, lampless universe. The poem is interspersed with descriptions of the Caucasus, which are as glowing and splendid as the impa.s.sioned utterance of the Demon. They put Pushkin's descriptions in the shade. Lermontov's landscape-painting compared with Pushkin's is like a picture of Turner compared with a Constable or a Bonnington.

Lermontov followed up his first draft of _The Demon_ (originally planned in 1829, but not finished in its final form until 1841) with other romantic tales, the scene of which for the most part is laid in the Caucasus: such as _Izmail Bey_, _Hadji-Abrek_, _Orsha the Boyar_--the last not a Caucasian tale. These were nearly all of them sketches in which he tried the colours of his palette. But with _Mtsyri_, _the Novice_, in which he used some of the materials of the former tales, he produced a finished picture.

_Mtsyri_ is the story of a Circa.s.sian orphan who is educated in a convent. The child grows up home-sick at heart, and one day his longing for freedom becomes ungovernable, and he escapes and roams about in the mountains. He loses his way in the forest and is brought back to the monastery after three days, dying from starvation, exertion, and exhaustion. Before he dies he pours out his confession, which takes up the greater part of the poem. He confesses how in the monastery he felt his own country and his own people forever calling, and how he felt he must seek his own people. He describes his wanderings: how he scrambles down the mountain-side and hears the song of a Georgian woman, and sees her as she walks down a narrow path with a pitcher on her head and draws water from the stream. At nightfall he sees the light of a dwelling-place twinkling like a falling star; but he dares not seek it. He loses his way in the forest, he encounters and kills a panther. In the morning, he finds a way out of the woods when the daylight comes; he lies in the gra.s.s exhausted under the blinding noon, of which Lermontov gives a gorgeous and detailed description--

"And on G.o.d's world there lay the deep And heavy spell of utter sleep, Although the landrail called, and I Could hear the trill of the dragonfly Or else the lisping of the stream ...

Only a snake, with a yellow gleam Like golden lettering inlaid From hilt to tip upon a blade, Was rustling, for the gra.s.s was dry, And in the loose sand cautiously It slid, and then began to spring And roll itself into a ring, Then, as though struck by sudden fear, Made haste to dart and disappear."

Perishing of hunger and thirst, fever and delirium overtake him, and he fancies that he is lying at the bottom of a deep stream, where speckled fishes are playing in the crystal waters. One of them nestles close to him and sings to him with a silver voice a lullaby, unearthly, like the song of Ariel, and alluring like the call of the Erl King's daughter. In this poem Lermontov reaches the high-water mark of his descriptive powers. Its pages glow with the splendour of the Caucasus.

To his two masterpieces, _The Demon_ and _Mtsyri_, he was to add a third: _The Song of the Tsar Ivan Vasilievich, the Oprichnik (bodyguardsman), and the Merchant Kalashnikov_. The Oprichnik insults the Merchant's wife, and the Merchant challenges him to fight with his fists, kills him, and is executed for it. This poem is written as a folk-story, in the style of the _Byliny_, and it in no way resembles a _pastiche_. It equals, if it does not surpa.s.s, Pushkin's _Boris G.o.dunov_ as a realistic vision of the past; and as an epic tale, for simplicity, absolute appropriateness of tone, vividness, truth to nature and terseness, there is nothing in modern Russian literature to compare with it. Besides these larger poems, Lermontov wrote a quant.i.ty of short lyrics, many of which, such as "The Sail," "The Angel," "The Prayer," every Russian child knows by heart.

When we come to consider the qualities of Lermontov's romantic work, and ask ourselves in what it differs from the romanticism of the West--from that of Victor Hugo, Heine, Musset, Esp.r.o.nceda--we find that in Lermontov's work, as in all Russian work, there is mingled with his lyrical, imaginative, and descriptive powers, a bed-rock of matter-of-fact common-sense, a root that is deeply embedded in reality, in the life of everyday. He never escapes into the "intense inane" of Sh.e.l.ley. Imaginative he is, but he is never lost in the dim twilight of Coleridge. Romantic he is, but one note of Heine takes us into a different world: for instance, Heine's quite ordinary adventures in the Harz Mountains convey a spell and glamour that takes us over a borderland that Lermontov never crossed.

Nothing could be more splendid than Lermontov's descriptions; but they are, compared with those of Western poets, concrete, as sharp as views in a camera obscura. He never ate the roots of "relish sweet, the honey wild and manna dew" of the "Belle Dame Sans Merci"; he wrote of places where Kubla Khan might have wandered, of "ancestral voices prophesying war," but one has only to quote that line to see that Lermontov's poetic world, compared with Coleridge's, is solid fact beside intangible dream.

Compared even with Musset and Victor Hugo, how much nearer the earth Lermontov is than either of them! Victor Hugo dealt with just the same themes; but in Lermontov, the most splendid painter of mountains imaginable, you never hear

"Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne,"

and you know that it will never drive the Russian poet to frenzy. On the other hand, you never get Victor Hugo's extravagance and absurdities. Or take Musset; Musset dealt with romantic themes _si quis alius_; but when he deals with a subject like Don Juan, which of all subjects belonged to the age of Pushkin and Lermontov, he writes lines like these--

"Faible, et, comme le lierre, ayant besoin d'autrui; Et ne le cachant pas, et suspendant son ame, Comme un luth eolien, aux levres de la nuit."

Here again we are confronted with a different kind of imagination. Or take a bit of sheer description--

"Pale comme l'amour, et de pleurs arrosee, La nuit aux pieds d'argent descend dans la rosee."

You never find the Russian poet impersonating nature like this, and creating from objects such as the "yellow bees in the ivy bloom" forms more real than living man. The objects themselves suffice. Lermontov sang of disappointed love over and over again, but never did he create a single image such as--

"Elle aurait aime, si l'orgueil Pareil a la lampe inutile Qu'on allume pres d'un cercueil, N'eut veille sur son coeur sterile."