Iván Ivánovich Dmítriev. (1760-1837.)
Dmítriev was born in the Government of Simbírsk, where his friend and colleague Karamzín was also born. He entered the army in 1775 as a common soldier, and did not advance to the grade of commissioned officer until 1787. During his military service he privately studied foreign languages and wrote poetry. His first collection of poems, containing Ermák, What Others Say and The Little Dove, appeared in 1795. These are the best of his productions. He also wrote a number of fables that do not suffer by comparison with those of Krylóv. His shorter songs, like The Little Dove, have become very popular, and are part of every song-book, together with Neledínski’s “To the streamlet I’ll repair” and other similar songs. Dmítriev did for poetry what Karamzín was doing for prose,—he purified Russian from the dross of the Church-Slavic language, an inheritance from the days of Lomonósov, and he popularised the Romantic spirit in Russian literature. He also encouraged younger men of talent, such as Krylóv. Dmítriev rapidly rose in honours, until he was made Minister of Justice in 1810. He retired a few years later to his estates near Moscow, where he passed his days surrounded by a coterie of literary men.
The following English versions of his poems have appeared: During a Thunder-Storm, The Tsar and the Two Shepherds, The Broken Fiddle, Over the Grave of Bogdanóvich, Love and Friendship, in Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.; Yermak, Moskva Rescued, To the Volga, Enjoyment, “O had I but known before,” The Little Dove, To Chloe, ib., Part II.; Counsel, The Little Dove, in W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain; Yermak, The Siskin and the Chaffinch, The Doctor, Sympathy, in C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics; The Moon, in Fraser’s Magazine, 1842 (article, Russian Fabulists).
THE LITTLE DOVE
The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day;
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved is far away.
He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,
The dove his lonesome state distresses,
And tears his swimming eyeballs dim.
From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.
Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!
At length upon the grass he threw him,
Hid in his wing his beak and wept;
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for ever slept.
His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
Flies from a distant home again,
Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
And bids him wake with sorrowing pain.
She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
Around and round the spot she goes;
Ah! charming Chloe’s lost in anguish,
Her friend wakes not from his repose!
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
DURING A THUNDER-STORM
It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above;
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! Trembling like a child,
I hear Thy awful voice, alarmed, afraid,
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.
Lord! What is man? Up to the sun he flies,
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
There is he lost ’midst heaven’s high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost.
Beneath the stormclouds, on life’s raging sea,
Like a poor sailor, by the tempest tossed
In a frail bark, the sport of destiny,
He sleeps, and dashes on the rocky coast.
Thou breathest, and the obedient storm is still.
Thou speakest,—silent the submissive wave;
Man’s shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hushed billows roll across his grave.
Sourceless and endless God! Compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream,
And Time, when viewed through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.
ERMÁK
How strange a sight is this I see,
By thee revealed, Antiquity!
Beneath the gloomy garb of night,
By the pale moonbeam’s cloudy light,
I gaze upon the Irtýsh stream,
Whose waters foaming, whirling, gleam,
As on they rush with angry tide.
Two men I see, exhausted, there,
Like shadows in the murky air;
Their faces in their hands they hide.
One youthful is, the other old,
His beard hangs down with wavy fold;
Each wears a dress whose every part
With awe and wonder fills the heart;
Descending from their helmets down,
The coiling tails of serpents frown,
Mingled with owlet’s bristling wing,
Their coats wild-beasts’ skins borrowing.
Their breasts entire with thongs are hung,
Of flints, and rusty iron, strung;
Within each belt is firmly prest
A knife, whose edge well sharpened is;
Two drums are at their feet, I wis,
And close beside their lances rest:
They both are sorcerers of Siberian race,
And thus the meaning of their words I trace.
THE OLD MAN
“Roar on, old Irtýsh, let our cry
Along thy stream re-echoing fly;
The gods have chastening sent in ire
And poured on us misfortunes dire.”
THE YOUNG MAN
“Woes, woes, upon us tenfold lour
In this our most disastrous hour.”
THE OLD MAN
“O thou, whose crown three nations bore,
Their names far-spread from shore to shore!
O mighty, proud, and ancient State,
Mother of many races great!
Thy glory’s past and worn away,
No longer chief, thou must obey!”
THE YOUNG MAN
“As clouds of dust from whirlwinds hie,
So scattered quite thy people lie;
And he, Kuchúm,[166] dread of the world,
Is dead, on foreign deserts hurled.”
THE OLD MAN
“The holy Shamans, forced from home,
Throughout the rugged forests roam;
For this, ye gods of earth and air,
Was it that white has grown my hair?
Tell me, was it for this that I,
Through all my life your faithful slave,
Prostrate in dust before ye lie,
And thousands for companions have?”
THE YOUNG MAN
“And who are they have made thee fall?”
THE OLD MAN
“From Russia come they, one and all;
Why did not plague and famine loom
Upon our land with frightful doom?
Better if elemental wrath
Had fall’n in fury on our path,
And swallowed up Siberia’s fame,
Than bow before this Ermák’s name.”
THE YOUNG MAN
“Of Nature’s self the curse and blight,
May curses heavy on him light!
Ye streams, and mountains old, ’tis he
Has flung upon you infamy!”
THE OLD MAN
“As fiery columns passing on,
As icy blasts the land upon,
All fell by his destructive tread;
Where’er his fatal arrow sped,
There life grew pale, and death’s dire smart
O’ertook each timid, cowering heart.”
THE YOUNG MAN
“By him deprived of mortal breath,
Our royal brother met his death.”
THE OLD MAN
“As I looked on, the hero’s might
Shone forth in that terrific fight;
’Twas on Muhammad-Kula’s[167] plain—
Such fight I ne’er shall see again.
His arrows hurtling in swift course,
His breast enkindled with strange force,
He drew from out its sheath his blade—
‘Rather than weary life give death,
Free from captivity,’ he saith,
And fierce assault upon Ermák he made.
Most terrible the sight! as clash
Their swords, the lightnings from them flash;
Blow fell on blow with frightful sounds.
They give and they receive new wounds.
They seize each other in their rage,
And dreadful combat still they wage;
Arm against arm—breast against breast—
They in their struggle know no rest;
The wild woods with their cries resound,
They dig up with their feet the ground:
From brows ran down, like hail, their sweat,
And fearfully their bosoms beat;
Their heads incline from side to side,
And thus they grapple, to each other tied,
Still struggling on; until the weight
Of Ermák seals his foeman’s fate.
‘The victory’s mine!’—’tis thus he cries:
‘The land before me subject lies!’”
THE YOUNG MAN
“Accomplished is the prophecy,
That this our land should conquered be.
But shall the oppressèd sigh in vain,
And never more to freedom rise again?”
THE OLD MAN
“Eternal is the fatal yoke:
Listen, my son! Late yesternight
Into the silent woods I took
My way; and there, while rapturous light
Enkindled all my inmost soul,
Burnt sacrifice I offered whole,
And to the gods made fervent prayer
That they would to our aid repair:
When, suddenly, the winds arise,
From off the trees the fresh leaves fall,
The cedars groan with creaking cries,
The goats away are scattered all.
Down sank I, when, above the noise
Of the dire storm, I heard a voice
Thus speaking: ‘Furious war does wage
Racha[168] ’gainst sinners; to his rage
All those who sin devoted are;
Siberia has renounced my laws,
And righteous, therefore, is the cause
Why she be subject to the fierce White Tsar.[169]
By morn and night ye shall be found
Alike in heavy fetters bound;
But Ermák’s name shall never fade,
Nor of his race an end be made;
They ’neath the moon shall ever be
Eternal in their majesty.’
When ceased the voice, the thunders loud
Rattled from out each stormy cloud;
On us has fallen Misfortune’s hand,
Woe”——
THE YOUNG MAN
“Woe to us, and our land.”
Then, while they yield to deepest sighs,
They from the moss-strewn stones arise,
And while their arms again they wear,
Along the shore they disappear.
Peace, Ermák, on thine ashes rest!
Thine image of bright silver made,
Which in Siberia’s mines was laid,
Is by the crown of Russia prest.
But why speak I with hasty zeal?
What do my foolish words reveal?
We do not even know the place
Where rest thy bones in earth’s embrace.
The wild beasts trample them upon,
Or Ostiaks, as they hurry on,
Chasing the antlered stag, and roe,
To bring them by their arrows low.
But, hero, from thine anger cease,
And let thy memory know peace!
Poetic genius every day,
When golden morning’s beauties play,
Shall o’er thy corpse still float along,
And greet thee with triumphant song.
What matters it in any case
If to barbaric times we trace
Thy birth? Yet thou such deeds hast done
As have thy land victorious shown.
Although thine ashes disappear,
Though e’en thy sons no likeness bear
To thee, but, their great sire forgetting,
Their livelihood in wild woods getting,
They dwell the wolves and bears amid,
Yet never shall thy name be hid.
Thou shalt with demigods find place,
From age to age, from race to race;
And ne’er shall darken thy bright ray
Until grows dark the orb of day;
When with a crash the heavens fall,
And time shall cease to be, and ruin cover all.
—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.
WHAT OTHERS SAY
“How strange! More than twenty years have passed since we, with mind intent and furrowed brow, have assiduously been writing odes, yet we nowhere hear praises sung to them or us! May it be that Phœbus has sent forth his stern decree that none of us should ever aspire to equal Flaccus, Ramler[170] and all their brotherhood, or ever be renowned as they in song? What do you think? I took yesterday the pains to compare their song and ours: in theirs, there is not much to read! a page; if much, three pages, and yet what joy to read! You feel—how shall I say it?—as if you flew on wings! Judging by their briefness, you are sure they wrote them playfully, and not labouring four days: then why should we not be more fortunate than they, since we are a hundred times more diligent and patient? When one of us begins to write, he leaves all play aside, pores a whole night over a couple of verses, sweats, thinks, draws and burns his paper; and sometimes he rises to such daring that he passes a whole year over one ode! And, of course, he uses up all his intelligence upon it! And there you have a most solemn ode! I cannot say to what species it belongs, but it is very full,—some two hundred strophes! Judge for yourself how many fine verses there are in it! Besides, it is written according to the rules: at first you read the introduction, then the argument, and finally the conclusion,—precisely as the learned speak in the church! And yet, I must confess, there is no pleasure in reading it.
“Let me take, for example, the odes on victories, how that they conquered the Crimea, how the Swedes were drowned at sea: I find there all the details of a battle, where it happened, how, when,—in short, a report in verse! Very well!... I yawn! I throw it away, and open another, one written for a holiday, or something like it: here you discover things that a less clever mind would not have thought out within a lifetime: ‘Dawn’s rosy fingers,’ and ‘lily of paradise,’ and ‘Phœbus,’ and ‘heaven cleft open’! So vociferous, so loud! No, it does not please, nor move our hearts in the least.”
Thus an old man of our grandfathers’ times spoke yesterday to me in gentle simplicity. I, being myself a companion of those singers, the action of whose verse he so marvelled at, was much disturbed, nor knew how to answer him. But luckily, if at all that may be called luck to hear your own terrible sentence, a certain Aristarch began to speak to him.
“For this,” said he, “there are many causes; I will not promise to unveil one-half of them, but some I will gladly expound to you. I myself love the language of the gods, poetry, and just as you, am little edified with ours. In former days I have much conversed in Moscow with our Pindars, and have watched them well: the greater part of them are corporals of the body-guard, assessors, officers, scribes, or dust-covered guardians of monsters in the Museum of Antiquities,—all of them busy government officials; I have often noticed that they barely have time in two days or three to make a proper rhyme, their mind being all taken up with their affairs. No sooner has a lucky thought struck them, when, lo, the clock strikes six! The carriage is waiting: ’tis time for the theatre, and then to the ball, or to Lion,[171] and then ’tis night.... When are they to call on Apollo? In the morning, no sooner has he opened his eyes, than there is a note: ‘Rehearsal at five o’clock’.... Where? In fashionable society, where our lyric poet is to play the part of the harlequin. Is there any time left for odes? You have to learn our parts, then to Kroll,[172] then home again, to primp yourself and get dressed, then to the theatre, and good-bye another day. Besides, the ancients had one purpose, we another: Horace, for example, who nurtured his breast with ecstasy, what did he want? Not very much: in the æons immortality, and in Rome but a wreath of laurels or of myrtle, that Delia might say: ‘He is famous; through him I, too, am immortal!’ But the aim of many of us is a present of a ring, at times a hundred roubles, or friendship with a princelet who all his life has never read anything except now and then the Court almanac, or praises from their friends to whom each printed sheet appears to be sacred.
“Considering how different their views and ours are, it may safely be asserted, without offending those mettlesome gentlemen, the alumni of the Russian Muses, that they must have some especial taste, and different means, and a special manner in the composition of a lyrical poem; what they are I cannot tell you, but I shall announce to you—and, truly, I will not lie about it—what a certain poet thought of verses, of whose works the Mercury and the Observer[173] and the book stores and the stalls are full. ‘We are born into this world,’ he thought, ‘with rhymes; is it then not ridiculous for us poets to waste our time, like Demosthenes, at the sea-shore in a cabin, in doing nothing but reading and thinking, and relating what we have thought out only to the noisy waves? Nature makes the poet, and not study: he is without study learned when he becomes enthused, but science will always remain science, and not a gift; the only necessary equipments are boldness, rhymes and ardour.’
“And this is the way the natural poet wrote an ode: barely has the thunder of the cannon given the nation the pleasant news that the Rýmnikski Alcides[174] has vanquished the Poles, or that Férzen has taken their chief, Kosciuszko, captive, he immediately grabs the pen, and, behold, the word ‘ode’ is already on the paper.” Then follows in one strain: “‘On such a day and year!’ How now? ‘I sing!’ Oh no, that’s old! Were it not better: ‘Grant me, O Phœbus?’ Or, better still: ‘Not you alone are trod under heel, O turban-wearing horde!’ But what shall I rhyme with it but ‘snored,’ or ‘bored’? No, no! it will not do! I had better take a walk, and refresh myself with a whiff of air.”
He went, and thus he meditated on his walk: “The beginning never daunts the singers: you simply say what first occurs to you. The trouble only begins when you have to praise the hero. I know not with whom to compare him; with Rumyántsev, with Greyg or with Orlóv? What a pity I have not read the ancients! For it does not seem proper to compare to the moderns. Well, I’ll simply write: ‘Rejoice, hero, rejoice, O thou!’ That’s good! But what now? Ah, now comes the ecstasy! I’ll say: ‘Who has rent the veil of eternity for me! I see the gleam of lightning! From the upper world I hear, and so on.’ And then? Of course: ‘Many a year!’ Most excellent! I have caught the plan, and thoughts, and all! Hail to the poet! All I have to do now, is to sit down and write, and boldly print!” He hurries to his garret, scribbles, and the deed is done! And his ode is printed, and already they wrap shoeblacking in his ode. Thus has he Pindarised, and all his ilk who are scarcely capable to write a proper shop sign! “I wish Phœbus would tell them in their dream: ‘He who in Catherine’s loud age of glory cannot by his eulogy move the hearts of others, nor water his sweet lyre with tears, let him throw it away, break it and know he is not a poet!’”
FOOTNOTES:
[166] Yermák defeated Kuchúm Khan in 1579; Kuchúm Khan fell into the hands of Calmucks, who killed him.
[167] The translator misunderstood the passage. Mehmed-Kul was the King’s brother, whom Ermák made prisoner and sent to John the Terrible.
[168] God of the Ostiaks.
[169] The Tsar of Russia; the origin of the appellation is not certain.
[170] A German poet who translated the odes of Horace and wrote odes of his own.
[171] Master of masquerades at St. Petersburg.
[172] St. Petersburg tailor.
[173] Magazines.
[174] Suvórov.
END OF PART I.