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by the way, five-year-old children were able to do in the days of
Cicero. Others soar in thoughts in the sky, and are ignorant of what
goes on upon earth. Others again are strong in artificial logic, having
an extreme absence of natural logic. In short, Leipsic proves beyond
controversy that learning does not beget common sense. I left these
pedants, and went to Frankfurt-on-the-Main. This city is celebrated
for its antiquities, and is noteworthy from the fact that the Roman
Emperor is chosen here. I was in the election room from which he
issues to the people. But its antiquity consists merely in being old: all
I saw there were four empty walls in an old building. They showed
me also the famous so-called La Bulle d’Or of Emperor Charles IV.,
which was written in the year 1356, and I was also in the Imperial
Archives. But it was hardly worth my while to climb up garrets and
down cellars, in order to see the relics of a rude age. From Frankfurt
I travelled through German principalities: every step a new
principality. I saw Hanau, Mainz, Fulda, Sachsen-Gotha, Eisenach
and a few other principalities of minor princes. I found the roads
frequently not paved, but I had nevertheless to pay dearly for the
pavement. When they pulled me out of a bog and asked pavement
money of me, I had the courage to ask them: “Where is it?” To which
they answered me that his Majesty, the reigning prince, had the
intention of having the roads paved, but that at the present he was
only collecting toll. Such justice in regard to strangers has led me to
make my own conclusions in regard to their relations with their
subjects, and I did not at all wonder when from every hut there came
out a crowd of beggars and followed my carriage....
From here I went into France, and reached the famous city of
Lyons. In this country the roads are very good; but in the cities the
streets are so narrow and are so badly kept that I cannot understand
how people with their five senses manage to live in such dirt. It is
evident that the police does not interfere with it. To prove this I shall
take the liberty of telling your Highness an occurrence. I was walking
in the finest and largest street in Lyons (which, however, cannot
compare with our by-streets), and saw in bright daylight burning
torches and a crowd of people in the middle of the street. Being
near-sighted, I naturally thought it was some elegant funeral. Upon
approaching nearer out of curiosity, I saw how great my mistake
was: Messrs. Frenchmen had simply stuck a pig and were singeing it
in the middle of the street! The stench, dirt and a crowd of leisure
people who were watching the operation compelled me to take
another street. I have not yet seen Paris, so I do not know whether
my olfactories will suffer there less; in any case, all the French cities
which I have so far seen are badly off as to their cleanliness.
Paris, March 20 (31), 1778.
... Voltaire’s arrival in Paris produced the same effect on the
people here as if a divinity had come down upon earth. The respect
shown to him in no way differs from worship. I am confident that if his
deep old age and ailments did not oppress him, and he wished to
preach now some new sect, the whole nation would at once turn to
him. Your Excellency will form your own opinion from what follows
whether one can come to any other conclusion from the reception
the public gave him.
When he arrived here, the poets who are devoted to him began to
write poems in his honour, while those who hate him sent him
anonymous satires. The first are printed, but not the other, for the
Government has by a special rescript forbidden to print anything that
might be prejudicial to Voltaire. This consideration is shown him as
much for his great talents as for his advanced age. This man of
eighty-five years has composed a new tragedy, Irene and Alexis
Comnenus, which has been performed. Although it can by no means
be compared to his former plays, yet the public received it with
rapture. The author being ill, he was not present at the first
presentation. It is only the first time yesterday that he has driven out:
he was in the Academy, then in the theatre, where they purposely
gave his new tragedy.
As he drove out from his house, the carriage was accompanied as
far as the Academy by an endless throng of people who kept up
applauding. All the academicians came out to meet him. He was
seated in the president’s chair and, waiving the customary voting,
was elected by acclamation to be president for the April quarter. As
he walked down the staircase and took his seat in the carriage, the
populace demanded vociferously to take off hats. From the Academy
to the theatre he was accompanied by the people’s cheering. When
he entered his box, the audience applauded repeatedly with
indescribable rapture, and a few minutes later the oldest actor,
Brisard, stepped into his box with a wreath which he placed on
Voltaire’s head. Voltaire immediately took the wreath off and with
tears of joy spoke aloud to Brisard: “Ah, Dieu! vous voulez donc me
faire mourir!” The tragedy was played with much greater perfection
than at any previous performance. At its conclusion there was a new
spectacle. All the actors and actresses surrounded Voltaire’s bust
and adorned it with laurel wreaths. This homage was followed by the
people’s applause, which lasted nearly fifteen minutes. Then
Madame Vestrice, who had played Irene, turned towards Voltaire
and read some laudatory verses. To show their appreciation, the
public demanded that the verses be read again, and they applauded
wildly. As soon as Voltaire seated himself in his carriage, the people
stopped the coachman and cried: “Des flambeaux, des flambeaux!”
When the torches were brought, they ordered the coachman to drive
at a slow pace, and an endless crowd accompanied him to his very
house with torches, crying all the time: “Vive Voltaire!” Voltaire has
received many an ovation in his lifetime, but yesterday was, no
doubt, the best day of his life, which, however, will soon come to an
end. Your Excellency will see how he now looks from his portrait
which I here enclose and which is a very good likeness of him.
Ermíl Ivánovich Kostróv. (1750-1796.)
Kostróv was the son of a peasant. He studied in a seminary
and began to write verses early, first under the influence of
Lomonósov, in the pseudo-classic style,—later, under the
influence of Derzhávin, he cultivated a simpler and better
language. His chief services to Russian literature are his
translations of Apuleius, Ossian, and the Iliad. The ode which
is given here marks the turning-point in his manner of writing,
and at the same time indicates how great was the change
brought about by Derzhávin’s Felítsa (see p. 378) in Russian
poetry.
Singer, to whom with a gentle smile the Muse has lately brought
from the Parnassian heights a wreath, I hanker for your friendship
and union with you. Moscow is my habitation, you sing the Neva
stream. But not the distant roads, nor mounts, nor hills, nor forests,
nor rivers shall impede my zeal to you, which to Petropolis shall be
borne, to issue in your breast and ears: not impossible to Muses is
what the Muses will.
Tell me, I pray, how without a lyre, nor violin, not even having
saddled the Parnassian steed, you have sung so sweetly Felítsa’s
acts, and her crown’s life-giving beams? You evidently have walked
all streets and byways on Pindus’ heights and in the grassy vale of
the pure Muses, and to glorify, console, make happy, amuse the
Princess, you have discovered a new, untrodden path. Having
discovered it, you ran it at will, and neither stump nor stone e’er
tripped you, but all appeared to you a grassy mead, and your caftan
was nowhere rent by thorns. Proclaiming the praises of the Princess,
recounting the pleasures of the bashaws, you played the bagpipe,
yet sang enticingly withal.
Disdaining the evil conscience of the envious, you onward bore,
which boldness seeing, Parnassus wound a wreath for you. Their
flowing hair descending on their arms, disporting on their pink-white
breasts and cheeks, the forms of fairy nymphs from the Neva rose;
gently waving on the crests, they listened intent to you, and praised
the beautiful innovation of your verse. In token of their heartfelt
tribute, they clapped their hands in ecstasy, then disappeared into
the crystal depths.
By easy post Felítsa’s praise was borne to Moscow, to the delight
of all the hearts, and all who read have sung your praise, and
arbiters of taste have wound a wreath for you. They have read it a
hundred times, yet listen gladly, with attention, when someone in
their presence reads it again, and cannot assuage their spirits, nor
satisfy their captive ears, while listening to its sportive jests. Just so
a garden, with charming shrubs and shade of trees, planted on a hill
above a stream of limpid waters, though it be well known to us,
though known the taste of every fruit therein, though familiar to us its
every path, yet drawn by a mysterious feeling, we hasten to walk in it
once more, and turn our glances all about us, to discover something
new, though we have seen it all before.
Our ears are almost deaf from the vociferous lyric tones, and,
meseems, ’tis time to come down from the clouds, lest, forgetful of
the law of equilibrium, and flying from the heights, one break his
arms and legs: no matter what our endeavour be to rise on high,
Felítsa’s deeds will still be higher. She likes simplicity of style, so ’t
were better, treading that road in modesty, to raise our voice to her.
Dwelling on Parnassus in union with the nymphs, I have thrummed
the sonorous harp, while praising the Kirgíz-Kaysák Princess, and
have only earned cold praises. All lauded there my verses, flattered
me, though themselves were but amused; and now they have the
honour in oblivion to lie: ’tis evident high-soaring odes are out of
fashion.
Above us you have risen through your simplicity! Write, as
formerly, again a letter to your neighbour; you have well depicted his
luxurious mind, how he invites a hungry mob to dinner, games and
luxuries on the tables; or, loving Nature’s beauties, sing of the crystal
waters, as once you sang the Spring of Grébenev. This spring,
flowing through the valley, even now is pleasing to me: whenever I
slaked my thirst, a ray of joy shone to me.
But to you, who preside most wisely, leader of the Muses, their
labours’ judge, listening to their sweet thunderous music, to you this
honour and praise is due, because, burning with zeal and inventive
of new paths, you labour to advance our native tongue. It is majestic,
sweet and rich, thunderous, elate, liquid and strong, and great is
your work of its perfection. Encouraged by you, the lovers of the
sciences have with heartfelt zeal walked on the glorious path: we
see the fair Russian diction in their labours, and its progress in him
who has extolled you.
I shall say it without hesitation: you emulate Minerva, and bring
your rest as a sacrifice to the Muses, and the glory of your country is
your pleasure and consolation. Your exploits are enviable to men.
With Felítsa’s beloved, precious name, with Felítsa’s praise and the
laudation of her wise acts the beginning of these labours has been
adorned, and has brought joy and rapture to its readers. Blessed is
that beginning where her resplendent name appears, and the end is
crowned with success. To him who thus has glorified Felítsa, and
has given a new flavour to his verses, honour and glory from the
depth of our hearts!
Alexander Nikoláevich Radíshchev. (1749-1802.)
In 1765 Catherine II. sent twelve young men to Leipsic to
be educated in the University; among the number was
Radíshchev. He studied philosophy under Platner, and for his
own amusement took a full course in medicine. Upon his
return he was attached to the Kommerz-Kolleg, a kind of
Department of Finance, where he distinguished himself for his
unexampled honesty and gained the love of its President,
Count Vorontsóv, whom he had the courage to oppose in a
decision at law, in order to save some innocent men from
transportation to Siberia. When he was later put in charge of
the Customs House of St. Petersburg, he discovered that the
considerable traffic with England demanded a knowledge of
English, if he wished to dispense with a translator; accordingly
at the age of thirty he acquired the English language and
began to read its literature, which exerted a great influence
upon him.
In 1790 he wrote his Journey from St. Petersburg to
Moscow, which he distributed among his friends, though it
had not been approved by the censor. This work, written in
the style of Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, is not only
remarkable as a piece of literature, but also as a political
pamphlet. It attacks the institution of Russia in the light of the
most advanced liberalism of France and North America.
Radíshchev advocated in no unmistakable terms the
liberation of the serfs, almost half a century before Turgénev.
When Catherine II. read the book, she exclaimed: “He is a
Martinist. He is worse than Pugachév, he praises Franklin.”
Radíshchev was banished to Siberia. There he devoted
himself to literature, wrote his Ode to Liberty, which is the
forerunner of all the poems of liberty by Rylyéev, Ogarév,
Odoévski, and a few longer poems in a lighter vein. Emperor
Paul pardoned him, and Emperor Alexander advanced him to
higher honours. When an acquaintance of his accused him of
returning to his youthful ideals and warned him of subjecting
himself to the danger of another banishment, he committed
suicide in a moment of despondency.
DEPARTURE
SOFÍYA
TOSNÁ
When I left St. Petersburg I thought I would find a very good road.
All those who have travelled upon it after the Emperor have thought
so. It had been such, indeed, but only for a short time. The dirt which
had been put upon the road in dry weather in order to make it even
had been washed by the rains, forming a swamp in the summer, and
made it impassable. Fearing bad weather, I got out of the kibítka and
went into the post station, intending to take a rest. In the room I
found a traveller who was sitting behind a long, common peasant
table in the nearer corner and was turning over some papers. He
asked the Post Commissary to give him horses as soon as possible.
To my question who he was, I learned that he was a pettifogger of
the old style, and that he was going to St. Petersburg with a stack of
torn papers which he was then examining. I immediately entered into
a conversation with him, and here is what he said:
“Dear sir,—I, your humble servant, have been a Registrar in the
Archives of the Estates, where I had an opportunity to make good
use of my position: by assiduous labour I have collected a
genealogy, based on clear documentary proof, of many Russian
families, and I can trace their princely or noble origin several
centuries back. I can reinstate many a man in his princely dignity, by
showing his origin from Vladímir Monomákh, or even from Rúrik.
Dear sir,” he continued, as he pointed to his papers, “all Great-
Russian nobles ought to purchase my work, paying for it more than
for any other wares. But with the leave of your High Birth, Noble
Birth, or High and Noble Birth, for I do not know how to honour you,
they do not know what they need. You know how the orthodox Tsar
Feódor Aleksyéevich of blessed memory has injured the Russian
nobility by doing away with the prefecture. That severe legislation
placed many honourable princely and royal families on a level with
the Nóvgorod nobility. But the orthodox Emperor Peter the Great has
entirely put them in the shade by his Table of Ranks. He opened the
way to all for obtaining the title of nobility through military and civil
service, and he, so to say, has trampled the old nobility in the dirt.
Our Most Gracious Mother, now reigning, has confirmed the former
decrees by her august Law of the Nobility, which has very much
disquieted all our higher nobles, for the old families are placed in the
Book of the Nobility lower than the rest. There is, however, a rumour
that there will soon be issued a supplementary decree by which
those families that can trace their noble origin two or three hundred
years back will be granted the title of Marquis or something like it, so
that they will have some distinguishing feature from the other
families. For this reason, dear sir, my work must be acceptable to all
the old nobility. But there are rascals everywhere. In Moscow I fell in
with a company of young gentlemen to whom I proposed my work, in
order to be repaid through their kindness at least for the paper and
ink wasted upon it. But instead of kindness they heaped raillery upon
me; so I left that capital from grief, and am on my way to St.
Petersburg, where there is more culture.”
Saying this, he made a deep bow, and straightening himself up,
stood before me with the greatest respect. I understood his thought,
took something out of my purse and, giving it to him, advised him to
sell his paper by weight to peddlers for wrapping paper, for the
prospective marquisates would only turn people’s heads, and he
would be the cause of a recrudescence of an evil, now passed in
Russia, of boasting of old genealogies.
LYUBÁNI
THE MILLER
ACT I
SCENE 1
What a downpour it has been, and now it has stopped! (He sings
again, and continues his song.)
’Twas at the dawn, the early one,
At the fall of the shining moon....
How it did blow! I declare, it did blow; why, it almost tore my mill
down. I would have been left with nothing. It has done some
damage,—thanks to the Lord, not much damage. Did I say not much
damage? Well, I have enough to do to fix it up. (Putting the level to
the board.) It’ll come out all right, and all will go well again.
(Advancing towards the orchestra.) I have to laugh every time I think
of it; they say that a mill cannot exist without a wizard, and that a
miller isn’t just a man like anybody else: he is on speaking terms with
the house-spirit, and the house-spirits live in their mills like devils ...
ha, ha, ha, ha! What bosh! Am I not a miller through and through? I
was born, brought up, and have grown old in the mill, and yet I have
never laid my eyes on a house-spirit. Now, to tell the gospel truth, it’s
just this: if you are a shrewd fellow and a good hand at cheating, that
sorcery business is a good thing.... Let them prattle what they
please, but we earn our bread by our profession.
Miller (noticing him). Ah! I am getting a guest. I’ll earn a penny this
day. (To Filimón.) Godspeed, young man!
Filimón. My respects, old man.
Miller. Whence come you, whither tend you?
Filimón. Not farther than my business takes me.
Miller. Of your own will, or by compulsion?
Filimón. I am looking for horses: my roan and grey have gotten
away from me; they are fine horses, such fine horses. (Aside.) He is
a fortune-teller: I’ll try my fortune with him. (To the Miller.) Say, old
man, I want to ask you——
Miller. What is it you want? As you please, I am at your service.
Filimón. That’s good! And I’ll pay you for it. Tell me my fortune:
shall I find my horses?
Miller. Shall you find your horses?
Filimón. That’s it, old man. I am very anxious to find out about
them.
Miller. Now, how about that; is there going to be anything?
(Stretches out his hand to him.)
Filimón. First tell me, old man, and then we’ll see.
Miller (turns away from him, and angrily begins a song):
If it’s so,
All this talking is in vain;
Take out your purse,
Don’t talk uselessly,
Count out the money.
(Puts out his hand, and looks in his eyes.)
Filimón. Well, I don’t care: I’ll give you some money in advance.
Miller. Only this?
Filimón. It will do for the present; what more do you want?
Miller (aside). You won’t get off with less than half a rouble.
Filimón. What are you going to tell me now?
Miller. What is it now, early in the morning?
Filimón. Not very late yet, the sun has not yet set behind the
woods.
Miller. Turn three times around, towards the sun.
Filimón. What for?
Miller. That’s what I need in my sorcery. Do as you are told!
Filimón. To please you, I’ll turn around. (Turns around once.)
Miller. Once more, towards the sun.
Filimón (turning around). Here it is, and towards the sun.
Miller. Now stand against this tree. (Filimón is about to start for the
tree, but the Miller says): No, no, stop! Have you a kerchief?
Filimón (taking out his handkerchief). Here it is.
Miller. Close your eyes tight, and tie your kerchief over them.
That’s all right! Now listen: you must stand quiet, and don’t move
from the spot, nor speak a word to anyone, while I go and see the
elder.
Filimón (does all the Miller commands him to do). But suppose
someone should come and ask me why I am standing there, and
why my eyes are tied up?
Miller. Not a word to anybody; but you may grumble to yourself.
Filimón. May I sing a song?
Miller. You will frighten all. No, you must not.
Filimón (aside). What is it all going to be?
Miller. Stand still and don’t move!