PUSHKIN AND THE NEW ERA
Alexander Sergyevitch Pushkin was born in Moscow, June 7, 1799, at a time when Russia was aswirl with various currents. Therefore, to gain some clear vision of the distinguished service which he rendered the literature of his native land, we must at least glance at the great intellectual and political tides—they were largely coincident—which swept Russia, first away from her own self-sufficient life, then toward France, next in the direction of Germany, and finally out into a national thought-channel of her own.
Pushkin is one of those writers who are big enough to have founded and dominated an era, not solely because of his own preëminent genius, but for the deeper reason that he represented in himself the culmination of a series of national steps, each as definite as it was important.
For all the centuries of her life up to the nineteenth, Russia had lived a separate existence from that of her great neighbors. In seeking a cause for this condition, we must remember that the imperial bigness of Russia, and her remote location, are not the only factors entering into her segregate character. The great factor is that Russia is much more largely Asiatic in spirit than it is European. The typical Slav of today is, temperamentally, though not in a precise sense racially, a mixture of Tartar fierceness, old Slavonic stolidity, and Hindu Nirvana, which, being translated into Russian, is essentially Nihilism. Yet, today as for many centuries, the Slavic race is as truly homogeneous as any can be.
During this long era of Russia’s ultra-exclusiveness, the polished periods of Montaigne and the brilliant dramas of Corneille, Racine, and Molière were delighting France, and Spenser, Milton, and Dryden were doing rare things for English literature. At the same time, nationally unconscious of all this, Russia was singing its epical and ballad folk-songs, with only now and then a note of premeditated art sounding forth. Here indeed was a true poetry of the people—which, as Dr. Gummere has pointed out, is a very different thing from that pseudo-folk-poetry which is merely about the people. Still, it required influences from without to bring Russian literature to artistic national expression.
The great autocratic rulers of Russia, and her leading nobles, at last began to feel the allurement of the French, and Peter the Great even travelled abroad, coming home imbued with new ideas for a progressive nation. When a giant people, long content to be sufficient unto itself, awakens to see that other ideals of life, other habits of thought, other standards of conduct, have brought other great nations to a brilliancy of position which its own solitary bigness has not enabled it to attain, the first feeling is one of contempt for “those others,” as the French would say. Later comes a naïve passion to imitate. And finally, enter a whole train of foreign influences, good and bad.
So it was with Russia after the powerful, rough, and somewhat benevolently autocratic reign of Catherine II, at whose court Pushkin’s father was a complacent noble. The French tongue, which even Pushkin himself called “the language of Europe,” already prevailed at the Russian court, and the literature of the country consisted chiefly of imitations of the pseudo-classical French school, adaptations, or even translations, from other languages, and here and there a struggling voice which lifted itself with difficulty above the imitative clack. All three of these types Catherine herself fostered—intermittently, though still with some success.
But the alarming revolutionary ideas bruited from France, and the Napoleonic campaign against Russia, caused a powerful revulsion of feeling toward Germany and away from France. In Germany, however, Young Russia met the same humanistic tendencies and passion for free thought with which France had been gradually impregnating the empire of the Slavs. Add to this the influence of Byron’s poetry, now stirring Europe, and we have the external forces which drove Russia to look at her own self with honest eyes—forces which at length found their literary climax in Pushkin’s giving to his native land a literature which was of the Russians, for the Russians, and by a Russian—a literature born of the Russian spirit, breathing her ideals, speaking her marvellously expressive tongue in new combinations of beauty, and set against a background of her soil and her cities.
A further remarkable influence was operating to prepare both Russia and Pushkin for the work of new creation: in the hands of Zhukovski and others who immediately preceded our author, the Russian language began suddenly to assume a flexibility and richness which, as I have intimated, were destined to be still more greatly enlarged by the gifts of Pushkin.
The author-to-be wasted no time beginning his career. Even at the age of ten, while an unstudious but omnivorously reading school-boy, he made deft imitations of French verse and the French drama, while at twelve he knew four or five languages and was reading Rousseau, Voltaire, and Molière with avidity. At this age the lad became a pupil in the College Tsarskoïé-Siélo, in 1811, the year of its founding by Alexander I. But while he absorbed enough to cause his wild genius to flourish, he was incorrigible, and always in hot-water—except among his comrades, by whom his dash, impudence, and wit made him to be both admired and feared.
When Pushkin was only fifteen, the European Messenger published anonymously a series of clever but obscene Russian verses in the style of Ossian and Parny. The name of the author soon leaked out, however, and when the following year the boy read on a public speech-day a suitable poem entitled “Recollections of Tsarskoïé-Siélo,” he was hailed as a gifted poet. The poetic form was miraculous—the thought, just about what a precocious lad could produce.
In 1817 Pushkin was graduated, and entered the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At once he was lionized by literary society, and became the leader of a brilliant but rakish clique—the story of their escapades would read like a tenderloin police-docket. At length, in 1820, the year when “Ruslan and Lyudmila,” his first great poem, was published, he committed some folly too outrageous to be condoned—probably an especially licentious expression in verse—and was banished to South Russia, where, wandering among the Caucasus ranges which color all his later work, and living near the romantic Black Sea, he remained for several years; until, in 1824, his banishment was commuted to confinement to his father’s estates. In a literary way this date marks the beginning of his new era, for he now began to bring into final form the master-poem, “Eugene Onyegin,” on which he had been working for several years—of which more presently.
Some—why, I cannot conceive—have attributed Pushkin’s ungovernable disposition to the mixed blood that flowed in his veins, as was the case with the elder Dumas. Pushkin’s maternal great-grandfather was that Abram Hannibal, “Peter the Great’s Arab favorite,” who was really an Abyssinian slave. The African youth was educated in France by his royal master and godfather, later admitted to his friendship, and eventually married to a Russian lady. Their son became a great Russian general. The poet himself bore unmistakable marks of his ancestry in his short curly hair and thick, sensuous lips, though his eyes were blue, his skin fair, and his hair light in hue.
During these earlier years of his short life, Pushkin was profoundly influenced by Byron, and even was willing to be called “the Russian Byron.” Indeed, his license-loving and liberty-adoring nature was quite like that of his English model. This influence is seen not only in his poetic methods, but in his teachings and in his themes. The poem “Poltava,” published in 1829, takes Mazeppa for its hero, and his poetic masterpiece, “Eugene Onyegin,” published in 1828, is really Don-Juanesque. Nor is it difficult to trace other evidences of this frankly admiring spirit.
Singularly enough, “Eugene Onyegin” (which Tschaikovsky has made the subject of an opera) is at once in the style of Byron (somewhat resembling his “Beppo”), while in theme, locale, and handling it throws off the trammels of Byronism, and indeed all foreignism, and becomes the first really great work of modern Russian literature. Whatever the original debt Pushkin owed to the author of “Don Juan,” in this and later work he strikes out with all the self-confidence and attainment of an original genius. So tender, so pathetic, yet so humorous, so full of human understanding, so informed with the spirit of contemporary Russian society, is this remarkable work, that its author achieved immortality in its writing. Thus did the years of exile on the paternal manor bear notable fruit.
Because this creation sets so lasting an initial mark, by establishing Russian literature upon a basis of art, it seems worth while to recite its argument here in full.
Eugene Onyegin is a “Byronic young society man,” who is recalled to the country from his city dissipations by his father’s death. Here he lives, for a long time avoiding all contact with his less cultivated neighbors. A young poet, Vladimir Lensky, the son of one of these manorial families, returns from abroad, and a congenial friendship springs up between the young men. Lensky, who is betrothed to Olga Larin, persuades Onyegin to call upon her family with him. Tatyana, Olga’s elder sister, at once falls in love with Onyegin, and writes him a letter of frank avowal—one of the most famous passages of the drama. But Onyegin gently turns her aside by assuming the rôle of a fatherly adviser, and the incident remains unknown to all except themselves and Tatyana’s old nurse. Soon afterwards, Lensky induces Onyegin to go to the Larins’ on the occasion of Tatyana’s name-day festival. For the sake of preventing gossip in a district given over to small talk, Onyegin yields and goes. At table, by the innocent scheming of her family, he is placed opposite to Tatyana, and finds the situation so embarrassing that he determines to revenge himself on the innocent Lensky by flirting with Olga, who is shortly to become Lensky’s wife. During the evening, Olga, pretty but weak-natured, accepts Onyegin’s attentions with such interest that Lensky challenges him. Heart-sick at the results of his momentary unjust anger, Onyegin would gladly apologize, were it not that Lensky has chosen as his representative an old fire-eater and tattler who would misrepresent his motives and perhaps compromise Tatyana. Therefore, he accepts—and Lensky falls. Onyegin then goes off on his travels. Olga soon consoles herself with a handsome officer, and after their marriage goes with him to his regiment. Tatyana, however, who is of a reserved, intense character, pines, refuses all offers of marriage, and, by the advice of friends, is finally taken to Moscow for the winter. There, as a wall-flower at her first ball, she captivates a prince from St. Petersburg—a distinguished and socially important general. She follows her parents’ wishes and marries him. When Onyegin returns to the capital a few years later, he finds, to his great astonishment, “that the little country girl whom he has patronized, rejected, almost scorned, is one of the great ladies of the court and society.” He falls madly in love with her, in his turn, but she gives him not the slightest sign of friendship. Driven to despair by this coldness, he writes her three letters, but she does not reply. Then, entering her boudoir unexpectedly, through the carelessness of her servants, he finds her in tears, reading his letter. He again avows his love. She is obliged to confess that she loves him still, but finally makes him understand that she will be true to her kind and high-minded husband. Thus the drama ends.
After the production of his masterpiece, followed a notable poetic tragedy, “Boris Godunov,” in which may be discerned the author’s admiration for the methods of Shakespeare, to whom he turned, yet not slavishly, after freeing himself from the overshadowing Byron.
It is inevitable that we should speculate upon the splendid work which might have come from the pen of this greatest of Russian poets had he not fallen in his prime. The story is sad and sordid enough. In 1831, having been restored to imperial favor, he had married the beautiful Natalya Nikolaevna Gontcharoff, and they plunged into society, loaded with recognition by the court.
He had been married but five years when society began to gossip about “the lovely Madame Pushkin” and Baron George Hekkeren-Dantes, the natural son of the Dutch minister to Russia. Pushkin attached no blame to his wife for the indiscretions of the infatuated young chevalier of the Guards, but challenged him nevertheless. Dantes averted a meeting by marrying Pushkin’s sister. Still the gossip persisted, and eventually, being refused access to the Pushkin home, Dantes made his persecutions so patent, and was so seconded by the elder Hekkeren, that the poet challenged the father. The son intervened, adopted the quarrel, and in a duel at St. Petersburg Pushkin was killed, January 29, 1837, being only thirty-eight years old.
The last six years of Pushkin’s life established his claim to greatness not only as a poet and a dramatist, but also as a master of Russian prose. We may not term him a novelist, but as a writer of prose tales he set a new mark in the literature of his land. When we recall that it was in the first years of that significant decade, 1830-1840, that Poe, Balzac, and Mérimée perfected and brought to its modern form the short-story, we shall realize what a great forward step was being made in Russia at the very same time when Pushkin produced his “Prose Tales.” His longer tales, “A Prisoner of the Caucasus” and “The Captain’s Daughter,” exhibit little plot, but they are notable impressionistic stories, full of rich and effective coloring.
Two of his shorter stories I outline, both on account of their intrinsic interest and for the fact that they illustrate the romantic vein which runs through all of Pushkin’s work. Else how could he ever have turned to Byron? Gogol, a contemporary of Pushkin and in some senses his successor, was the father of Russian realism. The two may be said to be the joint parents of Russian fiction.
“The Queen of Spades” is like a “Weird Tale” by Hoffmann, or a conception of Poe’s. It ranks as one of the world’s great short-stories.
At the house of a cavalry officer, several young Russians are gambling. One of them asks Herman why he never plays. He replies, “Play interests me greatly, but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessities of life for uncertain superfluities.”
Tomsky says that he can understand Herman’s being economical, but that he cannot understand why his own grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna, should not play, for, although she is eighty years of age, she knows a secret which makes winning at faro certain. Tomsky then goes on to relate how the old woman secured the secret from a friend of hers in order to save her from the disastrous results of enormous losses in cards. The secret consists of choosing three certain cards in succession. This plan she followed, winning every time, and was soon out of debt.
Being in need of funds, Herman is impressed with the story, and begins to haunt the outside of the aged Countess’s home. In order to gain admission and learn the secret, he contrives to flirt with Lisaveta Ivanovna, the Countess’s ward, who at length arranges a way in which he can gain admission to the house while the family are attending a ball. He is to pass through the Countess’s apartments and await the girl in her sitting-room, but instead of doing this the young officer secretes himself in the apartments of the Countess. After she is in bed he emerges and demands the names of the three cards, placing a pistol at her brow, but assuring her that he means no harm if she will do as he asks. She tremblingly tells him that it was only a jest, that there is nothing in the report of her knowledge, but Herman insists, and after a short time he grasps her arm roughly and is about to renew his threats when he finds that she is dead.
Presently Herman makes his way to Lisaveta’s apartment, where he tells her all. She realizes that she is not loved, and discerns the true reason why the young man has sought her acquaintance. However, she helps him to get out of the house safely.
The next night he drinks heavily and throws himself on his bed without undressing. During the night he awakes with a start and sees looking in at the window some one who quickly disappears. Presently he hears the shuffling of loose slippers, the door of his room opens, and a woman in white enters. As she comes close to his bed, the terrified man recognizes the Countess. “I have come to you against my will,” she says abruptly, “but I was commanded to grant your request. The trey, the seven, and the ace are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse after the use of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play again.”
The phantom then turns and walks away.
The next night he enters a fashionable gambling club in St. Petersburg, stakes forty thousand rubles, and wins a huge sum. The next night he chooses a seven-spot and wins ninety-four thousand rubles.
The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the development of events. He selected his card—an ace.
The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.
“The ace wins,” remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing at it.
“Your queen is killed,” remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.
Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected, but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the card, it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly.
“The old woman!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror. When he left the table, all made way for him to pass. The cards were shuffled, and the gambling went on.
Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov, where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous tone: “The trey, seven, ace! The trey, seven, queen!”
“The Shot” is in a different vein, being a tale of singular dramatic intensity. There is a legend that it is largely biographical, Pushkin himself having coolly eaten cherries, as did the Count, while under fire in a duel.
A group of military men stationed in the dull little town of N—— welcome to their society the one eligible civilian, a certain Silvio, a taciturn man of thirty-five, who has retired from the Hussars. He lives meagrely in a small house, where he frequently entertains the officers with the best he has, which always includes plenty of champagne. The walls of this house are punctured with bullet-holes, for its occupant is a marvellous shot with the pistol. Regarding his past, he says practically nothing, but every one feels that some tragic event has stamped his career.
One day a new-comer among the officers quarrels with Silvio, and slaps his face. Much to the surprise and disappointment of all, Silvio does not challenge him, but accepts a lame explanation. It takes some time for Silvio to rehabilitate himself with his friends, but his good qualities at last accomplish this, except with one officer, who tells the story.
One day Silvio, all excitement, announces that a change has come in his affairs, and that he must leave N——. He packs his goods, and invites the officers to a final feast. At its close he asks the narrator to remain, and tells him this story, to explain why he avoided challenging his offender.
Some years before, while serving in the Hussars, Silvio was known as a great rake and an incorrigible duellist. His popularity waned, however, with the advent of a brilliant young Count, of whom he soon became jealous, and upon whom he fixed a quarrel. In the duel which followed, the Count won the first shot, and pierced his adversary’s cap, but showed such nonchalance—having coolly eaten cherries while standing to receive Silvio’s shot—that the latter decided to relinquish his chance until a later time. In all these years a favorable opportunity had not come in which to make the Count show fear, and that was why Silvio was not willing to risk his life by engaging in another duel, even though he knew he was a remarkable shot: he was holding himself for his revenge. And now his opening had come, for he had just learned that the Count had married a beautiful young woman and was enjoying his honeymoon.
The narrator never sees Silvio again, but some time after the latter has left N——, the narrator goes back to his own native village, and there meets Count and Countess B——. At their first meeting their visitor is interested by seeing two bullet-holes which have pierced a painting. It transpires that Count B—— is the very one with whom Silvio fought his duel. The Count then narrates the sequel.
Shortly after their marriage, the Count returned with his bride to his estates, where he was startled to find Silvio, claiming the right of the shot which was his due. The Count gallantly yielded to him and stood up in his drawing-room, but Silvio a second time declined to shoot, and proposed that they again draw for the first shot. The Count won, and shot over Silvio’s head, making one of the two bullet-holes. At this juncture the Countess came in and flung herself at Silvio’s feet. In shame, the Count made her rise, and Silvio prepared to take his shot, whereupon the Countess threw herself upon her husband’s breast. As he saw Silvio point his weapon at them both, at last the Count showed terror, although not for himself. Being satisfied with this exhibition of fear, natural though it was, Silvio declined to shoot. As he left the room, he turned, however, and, almost without looking, took a parting shot at the painting, which he penetrated with a bullet-hole precisely below that which had been made by the Count’s bullet. And so this strange man passed out of their lives.
“The Snow-Storm” seems to me to be Pushkin’s greatest short-story. It has a well-defined plot, a surprising dénouement, the action marches on to its climax, and both local color and characterization are of a high order. It is especially remarkable for its having been produced at the very opening of the decade which gave to the world the modern short-story.