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.
LETTER TO THE CREATOR OF THE ODE IN PRAISE OF “FELÍTSA, THE KIRGÍZ-KAYSÁK PRINCESS”
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.