Koltsov’s verse paints peasant life as it is, without any sentimentality or rhetoric; it is described from the inside, and not from the outside. This is the great difference between Koltsov and other popular poets who came later. Moreover, he caught and reproduced the true Volkston in his lyrics, so that they are indistinguishable in accent from real folk-poetry. Koltsov sings of the woods, and the rustling rye, of harvest time and sowing; the song of the love-sick girl reaping; the lonely grave; the vague dreams and desires of the peasant’s heart. His pictures have the dignity and truth of Jean François Millet, and his “lyrical cry” is as authentic as that of Burns. His more literary poems are like Burns’ English poems compared with his work in the Scots. But he died the year after Lermontov, of consumption, and with his death the curtain was rung down on the first act of Russian literature. When it was next rung up, it was on the age of prose.
CHAPTER IV
THE AGE OF PROSE
When the curtain again rose on Russian literature it was on an era of prose; and the leading protagonist of that era, both by his works of fiction and his dramatic work, was Nicholas Gogol [1809-52]. It is true that in the thirties Russia began to produce home-made novels. In Pushkin’s story The Queen of Spades, when somebody asks the old Countess if she wishes to read a Russian novel, she says “A Russian novel? Are there any?” This stage had been passed; but the novels and the plays that were produced at this time until the advent of Gogol have been—deservedly for the greater part—forgotten. And, just as Lermontov was the successor of Pushkin in the domain of poetry, so in the domain of satire Gogol was the successor of Griboyedov; and in creating a national work he was the heir of Pushkin.
Gogol was a Little Russian. He was born in 1809 near Poltava, in the Cossack country, and was brought up by his grandfather, a Cossack; but he left the Ukraine and settled in 1829 in St. Petersburg, where he obtained a place in a Government office. After an unsuccessful attempt to go on the stage, and a brief career as tutor, he was given a professorship of History; but he failed here also, and finally turned to literature. The publication of his first efforts gained him the acquaintance of the literary men of the day, and he became the friend of Pushkin, who proved a valuable friend, adviser, and critic, and urged him to write on the life of the people. He lived in St. Petersburg from 1829 to 1836; and it was perhaps home-sickness which inspired him to write his Little Russian sketches—Evenings on a Farm on the Dikanka,—which appeared in 1832, followed by Mirgorod, a second series, in 1834.
Gogol’s temperament was romantic. He had a great deal of the dreamer in him, a touch of the eerie, a delight in the supernatural, an impish fancy that reminds one sometimes of Hoffmann and sometimes of R. L. Stevenson, as well as a deep religious vein which was later on to dominate and oust all his other qualities. But, just as we find in the Russian poets a curious mixture of romanticism and realism, of imagination and common-sense, so in Gogol, side by side with his imaginative gifts, which were great, there is a realism based on minute observation. In addition to this, and tempering his penetrating observation, he had a rich streak of humour, a many-sided humour, ranging from laughter holding both its sides, to a delicate and half melancholy chuckle, and in his later work to biting irony.
In the very first story of his first book, “The Fair of Sorochinetz,” we are plunged into an atmosphere that smells of Russia in a way that no other Russian book has ever yet savoured of the soil. We are plunged into the South, on a blazing noonday, when the corn is standing in sheaves and wheat is being sold at the fair; and the fair, with its noise, its smell and its colour, rises before us as vividly as Normandy leaps out of the pages of Maupassant, or Scotland from the pages of Stevenson. And just as Andrew Lang once said that probably only a Scotsman, and a Lowland Scotsman, could know how true to life the characters in Kidnapped were, so it is probable that only a Russian, and indeed a Little Russian, appreciates to the full how true to life are the people, the talk, and the ambient air in the tales of Gogol. And then we at once get that hint of the supernatural which runs like a scarlet thread through all these stories; the rumour that the Red Jacket has been observed in the fair; and the Red Jacket, so the gossips say, belongs to a little Devil, who being turned out of Hell as a punishment for some misdemeanour—probably a good intention—established himself in a neighbouring barn, and from home-sickness took to drink, and drank away all his substance; so that he was obliged to pawn his red jacket for a year to a Jew, who sold it before the year was out, whereupon the buyer, recognizing its unholy origin, cut it up into bits and threw it away, after which the Devil appeared in the shape of a pig every year at the fair to find the pieces. It is on this Red Jacket that the story turns.
In this first volume, the supernatural plays a predominant part throughout; the stories tell of water-nymphs, the Devil, who steals the moon, witches, magicians, and men who traffic with the Evil One and lose their souls. In the second series, Mirgorod, realism comes to the fore in the stories of “The Old-Fashioned Landowners” and “The Quarrel of the Two Ivans.” These two stories contain between them the sum and epitome of the whole of one side of Gogol’s genius, the realistic side. In the one story, “The Old-Fashioned Landowners,” we get the gentle good humour which tells the charming tale of a South Russian Philemon and Baucis, their hospitality and kindliness, and the loneliness of Philemon when Baucis is taken away, told with the art of La Fontaine, and with many touches that remind one of Dickens. The other story, “The Quarrel of the Two Ivans,” who are bosom friends and quarrel over nothing, and are, after years, on the verge of making it up when the mere mention of the word “goose” which caused the quarrel sets alight to it once more and irrevocably, is in Gogol’s richest farcical vein, with just a touch of melancholy.
And in the same volume, two nouvelles, Tarass Bulba and Viy, sum up between them the whole of the other side of Gogol’s genius. Tarass Bulba, a short historical novel, with its incomparably vivid picture of Cossack life, is Gogol’s masterpiece in the epic vein. It is as strong and as direct as a Border ballad. Viy, which tells of a witch, is the most creepy and imaginative of his supernatural stories.