Here is what once happened to us: There was a frightful storm, and there was not a person on board who knew where there were the deep places and the shallows, or where we could land. The sailors were merely peasants that had been taken from the plough, and who were sailing where the wind bore them. It was getting dark, the night was near, and the wind did not permit us to make a landing. They threw out an anchor in the middle of the stream, where it was deepest, and the anchor was carried away. The companion of my misfortunes would not let me go on deck, for he was afraid that I would be crushed in the turmoil. The people were running all about the boat: some were pumping out the water, others were tying up the anchor; all were at work. While nothing was being done successfully, the boat was suddenly drawn into an eddy. I heard a terrible noise, and did not know what had happened. I arose to look out: our boat was standing as if in a box, between two shores. I asked where we were, but nobody could tell me, for they did not know themselves. On one shore there was nothing but a birch wood, but it was not a very thick forest. The earth on that shore began to settle, and the forest slid several fathoms into the river, or eddy, where we were standing. The forest rustled terribly under our very boat, and then we were lifted up, and again drawn into the eddy. Thus it lasted for a long time. All thought that we would perish, and the sailors were ready to save their lives in boats, and to leave us to death. Finally, so much of the land was torn loose that only a small strip was left, and beyond it we could see some water, supposedly a lake. If that strip were carried away, we would be in that lake. The wind was awful, and our end would certainly have come, if God’s mercy had not saved us. The wind calmed down, and no more land was being carried away, and we were saved; at daylight we rode out of the eddy into the river, and continued our voyage. That eddy had carried part of my life away; yet I endured it all, all the terrors, for the end of my sufferings was not yet to be: I was preparing myself for greater woes, and God gave me strength for them.
We reached the provincial town of the island where we were to reside. We were told that the way to that island was by water, and that a change would be made here: the officer of the guard was to return, and we were to be turned over to an officer of the local garrison, with a detachment of twenty-four soldiers. We stayed here a week, while they were fixing the boat that was to take us there, and we were transferred from hand to hand, like prisoners. It was such a pitiable sight that even a heart of stone would be softened. At this departure, the officer wept, and said: “Now you will suffer all kinds of insult. These are not ordinary men: they will treat you like common people, and will show you no indulgence.” We all wept, as if we were parting from a relative. We had at least gotten used to him. However badly we were off, yet he had known us in our fortune, and he felt ashamed to treat us harshly.
When they had fixed the boat, a new commander took us to it. It was quite a procession. A crowd of soldiers followed us, as if we were robbers. I walked with downcast eyes, and did not look around: there was a great number of curious people along the road on which they led us. We arrived at the boat. I was frightened when I saw it, for it was quite different from the former one: out of disrespect to us, they gave us a worthless one. The boat was in accordance with the designation which we bore, and they did not care, if we were to perish the next day: we were simply prisoners,—there was no other name for us. Oh, what can there be worse than that appellation? The honour we received was in conformity with it! The boards on the boat were all warped, and you could see daylight through them; the moment a breeze began to blow, it creaked. It was black with age and soot: labourers had been making fires in it, and no one would have thought to travel in it. It had been abandoned, and was intended for kindling wood. As they were in a hurry with us, they did not dare keep us back long, and gave us the first boat they could find. But maybe they had express orders to drown us. God having willed otherwise, we arrived safely at the appointed place.
We were compelled to obey a new commander. We tried all means to gain his favour, but in vain. How could we have found any means? God grant us to suffer with a clever man! But he was a stupid officer. He had risen from a common peasant to be a captain. He thought he was a great man, and that we must be kept as severely as possible, since we were criminals. He regarded it below his dignity to speak to us; yet in spite of all his arrogance, he came to dine with us. Consider for yourself whether the man had any sense from the way he was dressed: he wore his uniform right over his shirt, and slippers on his bare feet; and thus he sat down to dinner with us! I was younger than the rest, and uncontrollable: I could not help laughing as I looked at his ridiculous get-up. He noticed that I was laughing at him, and said, himself smiling: “Lucky for you that my books have burnt, or I should have a talk with you!” However bitter I felt, I tried to get him to talk more; but he never uttered another word. Just think what a commander we were given to watch us in all we did! What were they afraid of? That we would run away? Not their watch kept us back, but our innocence: we were sure that in time they would see their error, and would return us to our former possessions. Besides, we were restrained by the fact that we had a large family. And thus we sailed with the stupid commander a whole month until we arrived at the town where we were to reside.
Mikhaíl Vasílevich Lomonósov. (1711-1765.)
Lomonósov was born in the village of Denísovka, in the Government of Arkhángelsk, not far from the spot where, one hundred and fifty years before, the English had rediscovered Russia. In his letters to Shuválov, Lomonósov tells us of the difficulties with which he had to contend at home and at the School of the Redeemer at Moscow. His brilliant progress caused him to be chosen among the first men to be sent abroad at Government expense to study mining, and to get acquainted with mining methods in Holland, England and France. In spite of insufficient support from the Government and a roving life at German universities, Lomonósov made excellent progress in philosophy, under Christian Wolff at Marburg, and in the sciences at Freiburg. After marrying a German woman, wandering about and starving, Lomonósov returned to St. Petersburg. Before reaching home, he had sent to St. Petersburg his Ode on the Occasion of the Capture of Khotín. It was the first time the tonic versification was successfully applied to the language, and though the diction of the ode is turgid and the enthusiasm forced, yet it became the model for a vast family of odes and eulogies, generally written to order, until Derzhávin introduced a new style with his Felítsa.
Upon his return, Lomonósov became attached to the University, which was mainly filled with German professors. His own unamiable temper, combined with the not more amiable characters of German colleagues, was the cause of endless quarrels and exasperations. Under the most depressing difficulties, Lomonósov, the first learned Russian, developed a prodigious activity. He perfected the Russian literary language, lectured on rhetoric and the sciences and wrote text-books, odes and dramas. For a century he passed in Russia as a great poet, and his deserts in other directions were disregarded. But a more sober criticism sees now in Lomonósov a great scientist who has increased knowledge by several discoveries, and only a second-rate poet. Only where he described phenomena of nature or scientific facts, did he become really inspired, and write poems that have survived him. His services to the Russian language and literature are many. He did for them what Peter the Great did for the State: by his own mighty personality and example be put them on the road which they have never abandoned, and though lacking originality, the school of Lomonósov itself survived in Russian literature to the end of the eighteenth century.
But few of Lomonósov’s poems have been translated into English. Ode from Job, Morning Meditations, Evening Meditations, are given in Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.; the Evening Meditations, in another version, is also given by him in Part I.
Ode in Honour of the Empress Anna, in F. R. Grahame’s The Progress of Science, Art and Literature in Russia.