Yákov Borísovich Knyazhnín. (1742-1791.)
Knyazhnín was born in Pskov, where he received his early education; in St. Petersburg he acquired German, French and Italian, and began to write verses. He served in civil and military government offices. In 1769 he wrote his first tragedy, Dido, which attracted Catherine’s attention to him. He then married Sumarókov’s daughter and devoted himself more especially to literature. Knyazhnín wrote a number of tragedies and comedies: the subject of all of these is taken from Italian and French, thus his Vadím of Nóvgorod is based on Metastasio’s Clemenza di Tito, and the original of Odd People is Destouches’s L’homme singulier. The Vadím of Nóvgorod had a peculiar history. Knyazhnín had great admiration for Catherine and her autocratic rule. In his Vadím he tried to depict the struggle between republican Nóvgorod and the monarchic Rúrik, in which the latter comes out victorious, to the advantage of unruly Nóvgorod. He had written it in 1789, but did not stage it on account of the disturbed condition of Europe under the incipient French Revolution. Two years after his death, in 1793, Princess Dáshkov, the President of the Academy, inadvertently ordered it to be published. The book appeared most inopportunely, at the very time the Revolution had broken forth. The tendency of the tragedy was overlooked, and only the republican utterances of Vadím were taken notice of. The book was ordered to be burnt by the executioner, but as only a few copies could be found in the storeroom of the Academy, the rest having been sold in the meanwhile, they were privately destroyed.
VADÍM OF NÓVGOROD
ACT I., SCENE 2. VADÍM, PRENÉST AND VÍGOR
Vadím. Could Rúrik so transform your spirit that you only weep where your duty is to strike?
Prenést. We burn to follow you, to be glorified for ever, to crush the haughty throne, to resuscitate our land; but though the zeal already burns within our hearts, it sees as yet no means of its fulfilment. Disdaining harsh and laborious days, if needs we must die, we are ready; but that our death be not in vain and could save our beloved land from evil, and that, intent to break the fetters, we tighten them not more in servitude,—we must expect the aid of the immortals, for the gods can give us a favourable opportunity.
Vadím. So we must depend alone upon the gods and ingloriously remain the slaves we are? The gods have given us the opportunity to wrest back freedom, and hearts to dare, and hands to strike! Their aid is within us: what else do you wish? Go, creep, await in vain their thunder, but I alone, boiling with anger, will move to die for you, for I can brook no master! O fate! For three years absent from my country, enticed by victory for its glory I left liberty and happiness within these walls against us erected, and have been hurling pride into the dust. I bear the fruit of my exploits a gift to my nation: but what do I see? Lords who have lost their liberty bent in loathsome slavery before the king, and kissing their yoke under the sceptre. Tell me, how could you, seeing your country’s fall, for a moment prolong your life in shame? And if you could not preserve your liberty,—how could you bear the light and want to live?
Vígor. As before, we burn with love for our fatherland!
Vadím. Prove it not with words, but with your blood! From your speech reject that sacred word. Or can slaves have a fatherland?
Vígor. Your spirit justly is with grief embittered, but in vain you, bedimmed by anger, accuse us, who are innocent, of such an evil crime. No sooner did you before the army bid our land good-bye, than many lords, seeing a means for evildoing, they, the mighty, let into the city, for the country’s doom, arrogance, envy, hatred, riot. The home of peace was transformed into a hell; the holy truth henceforth passed away; liberty, flurried, tottered to its fall; civil strife with brazen brow erected a house of death upon the bodies of its citizens. The people seeing itself a prey of hungry ravens fought with madness for the election of a tyrant. The whole Vólkhov boiled with reeking blood. Pitiful Nóvgorod, you saw no salvation! The venerable Gostomýsl, with grey hair adorned, had lost all his sons under these our walls, and, weeping not for them but the calamity of the citizens, was alone given to us a consolation by the immortals. He invited Rúrik to our aid, and with his sword returned happiness to us. Just then, worn out from years and woes, Gostomýsl ended his days, beaming with joy for having brought back peace to his country; but departing to the gods and honouring Rúrik’s heroism, he enjoined the nation to leave to him the power which had put a stop to its groans and sorrows. Our people, touched by so great deserts, placed the saviour over itself as ruler.
Vadím. Ruler! Rúrik! What nation has he saved? Having come to our aid, what has he done for us? He has paid a debt! However his benefactions may have seemed to you to deserve repayment, were you compelled to pay with your liberty, and make your enslavement a gift to merit? O low souls that fall down before fate and are inveigled by the stream of chance,—oh, if you had known how to respect yourselves! Blessed would Rúrik be, if he had been able, though clad in porphyry, to become equal to our citizens. Renowned by his high title among all kings, he would have been sufficiently rewarded by this distinction. Tell me: did Gostomýsl, aware of his heroic deeds, enjoin fetters to you, to end your woes, or was his will the freedom of the citizens? Or did he turn you over to him, like those beasts whom anyone who lists may bridle?
ODD PEOPLE
ACT II., SCENE 2. MRS. INDOLENT, ÚLINKA, WEATHERVANE
Weathervane. Ma charmante Úlinka! Oh, how beautiful you are! Tous ces gens, how stupid, how dishonest, and they will not see in your eyes what I see.
Úlinka. And what do you see?
Weathervane. Friponne! As if you did not know yourself that it is not possible to hate you, that you are fairer than heaven! (Úlinka courtesies.) You courtesy! How elegant! What a consolation to have such a daughter! (To Mrs. Indolent.) Is it not so, Maman?
Mrs. Indolent. I must confess that her education is what her birth demands, and as she has all liberty in her movements, as behooves a daughter born of me, she is, sir, removed from all coarseness; and keeping herself aloof from everything, as our dignity demands, she knows neither how to sew nor weave, leaving such occupations to common people; she dances like a peacock, sings like a nightingale, and, knowing French like a Frenchwoman, she would like to forget her Russian; she retires at three o’clock, rises at twelve, and passes two hours at her toilet.
Weathervane. Bravo, madam! That’s the way it ought to be before the world and men,—ah, how do you call it? pour les gens du haut ton. You must pardon me a little, madam, if I too, duly cautious of my honour, regard our language to be nothing but a jargon, in which it is not possible properly to express your thoughts, and where you have to wear yourself out mercilessly in the attempt of finding your ideas. Only out of compulsion do I speak that language to my lackey, coachman and with all common people, where there is no need to exert yourself in thinking. But with our distinguished people it would be to appear a fool, not to speak French to them. Pray tell me, how could I fall in love? Je brûle, je languis! How could I express that in Russian to charming Úlinka: I faint, I burn,—fi donc! I must assume that you speak French, and so does your époux....
Mrs. Indolent (perplexed). Of course, of course! Comment vous portez-vous?
Weathervane. Bravo, madam!
Mrs. Indolent. I am now a little out of practice, but formerly I never prattled in Russian.
Weathervane. You will hardly believe how poor I am in Russian! In Russian my intelligence is so narrow, so small! But in French: o, que le diable m’emporte! My intelligence at once walks in by the grande porte. I’ll tell you what once happened to me. I was once sitting with a young lady who did not know two words of French, and that caused ma tête horriblement to ache, so that I had to pass a whole day at home in undress.
Mrs. Indolent. I should not think the harm could be so great. The pain, no doubt, was caused through nagimation.
Weathervane. Imagination you meant to say?
Mrs. Indolent. That’s it. You see, though I am a little out of practice, I am still able to adorn our coarse tongue, which I despise, with French morsels. My époux has always seemed such an odd fellow to me because, though he knows French like a Frenchman, he does not care to amuse himself with that charming language.
Weathervane. That, madam, I cannot understand. A nobleman....
Mrs. Indolent. Oh! His race is as distinguished as the ace of trumps, and nobody can compare with him in antiquity of origin: he can recount his ancestors a thousand years back.
Weathervane. And so there is not the least obstacle, ma charmante Úlinka, for regarding you as my own! (Úlinka makes a courtesy.) Everything is equal in us: the graces, and pleasures, and intelligence, je m’en flatte, and even our families. (Úlinka courtesies.) How delicate your courtesying at the mention of family! Courtesying takes the place of redundant language, de discours frivoles, superfluous babbling. She knows how to say everything in a charming manner, and with modesty to express an immodest wish, who knows how to courtesy like Úlinka. (Noticing Mrs. Indolent’s husband.) Please tell me who is that bear that is walking towards us?
Mrs. Indolent. My husband.
Weathervane. You are joking! Is it not rather his ancestor who a thousand years ago began his race?
Mrs. Indolent. The exterior, you know, does not tell much. In this world, sir, it is not rare for hidden nobility to deceive the eye: though the diamond does not shine in the dark, yet it is a diamond. He is, I assure you, a nobleman of ancient race, and, forgive me, a bit of a philosopher.
Weathervane. Is it not a shame to rank yourself with asses? Is it an occupation for a nobleman to philosophise?
Mrs. Indolent (to Úlinka). Now, Úlinka, you cannot stay here; we have to talk with father about you. (Úlinka courtesies. Exit.)
SCENE 3. INDOLENT, MRS. INDOLENT, WEATHERVANE
Mrs. Indolent (aside). O Heaven! Help me to end all successfully. I tremble, I am afraid my husband will give me away, for he cannot speak a word of French, and it is but recently that he was made a nobleman. How unfortunate I am! How am I to bear it all? (To her husband.) You see here that distinguished cavalier who is doing us the extreme honour.
Weathervane (bending, greets him foppishly). I wish to be a son-in-law....
Indolent (seating himself). He who wants to sit down, let him sit down. I have no use for your manners, according to which one has to be urged to sit down. Well, distinguished cavalier ... (Weathervane bows again foppishly) please quit your monograms which you are making with your feet. By bowing in flourishes, between us be it said, you will find little favour with me. With all these goatlike leaps a person appears to me to be full of wind and without a soul. Sir, make a mental note of it, if you wish to be my son-in-law.
Weathervane. If I wish? O ciel! Those are tous mes vœux! Agnes Sorel was not so loved by the French king, as your daughter by me. Je jurerai toujours, I may say without making any court to her, she is a divinité!
Indolent (to his wife in amazement). From where, dear wife, has God sent you such a cavalier?
Weathervane. Beaucoup d’honneur, monsieur! So I have found favour in your eyes? I knew I would. You will not find another one like me, monsieur!
Indolent. Mosyo, give me a chance to regain my senses! I beg you....
Weathervane. But you put me to shame: you flatter me by saying that you are stunned by me.
Indolent. Proceed, tormentor!
Weathervane. ’Tis true I have merite; without boasting, j’ose vous dire that; but I do not know whether it will cause any delire,—only the world says that it would take a pretty good man to beat me for talent; qu’un homme tel que moi....
Indolent. Don’t believe it, the world often rants.
Weathervane. Comment?
Indolent. Tell me, are you a Russian or a Frenchman?
Weathervane. Hélas! I am not a Frenchman!
Indolent. What makes you groan so?
Weathervane (sorrowfully). I am a Russian, and that is a burden on my heart.
Indolent. And so you regard it an insult to be a Russian? A fine distinguished nobleman!
Weathervane. I am very, very glad, on ne peut plus, that I have pleased you, monsieur; que vous avez the same thoughts as I. How can we best prove our nobility? By not knowing Russian, despising all that is ours,—those are the veritable signs of our descent.
Indolent. Though I cannot understand everything you say, since I do not know any foreign words, yet by the marks....
Weathervane. Vous vous moquez, monsieur. You do know French.
Indolent (angrily). No, no, no!
Weathervane. At your age, monsieur, it is not proper for you to deceive me. You speak French like a Frenchman, or like myself.
Indolent (impatiently). Wife, assure him of it, and put a stop to this nonsense.
Weathervane (angrily). Je ne le croirai point! How stubborn you are!
Indolent (excitedly). The devil....
Mrs. Indolent (rapidly). My darling, please do not get angry.
Indolent (excitedly). Both of you go to! I have not seen the like of him in all my life.
Mrs. Indolent. You are a philosopher, and does Seneca, sir, teach you that?
Indolent (coolly). I am ready to constrain myself, if only he will talk Russian with me.
Weathervane. What! you are of a very noble origin, and you are piqued?
Indolent (beside himself). Who told you so? I am of burgher origin, but of a good family.
Weathervane. You, monsieur, have been a nobleman these thousand years.
Indolent. Believe me, I am a new-baked dumpling; but I am more juicy than those that have grown tough.
Mrs. Indolent. Stop that....
Indolent. That we may understand each other, I shall tell you plainly: my father, all remember that, was an honest smith.
Weathervane. Qu’entends-je! (He walks away, singing a French song.)
Indolent. Good-bye!
Mrs. Indolent (fainting away). I am undone! Oh, I am sick!
Indolent. What nonsense! To feel sick because I cannot speak French, and because my father is a smith! You ought not to have treated me that way, by lying about me. No, my Úlinka shall not marry him.