“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.