Poems
DUPL
A 470713
Prose
891.78
94 sti
1883
CUPPLES
PHẠM QI60
&
سني
રાજ બાળકન
બયન બી ગુફા

..
Poems in Prose. By Ivan Tourguéneff. Boston:
Cupples, Upham & Co.
THESE poems by Turgeneff, like almost all that
he has written, come to us only at second-hand.
They are apparently translated from a German
version, and some internal evidence suggests
that the portion of them which has appeared in
Macmillan's Magazine is from the same source.
The translation is most imperfect and inade-
quate, but it is fair to suppose that the German
ext has been followed, so that what we navʊ vʊ
ay is not meant for criticism of the English,
but to show a little what Turgeneff did not
write.
"These
His
There is, of course, in this book nothing as to
the history of the poems, as that has appeared
only since the author's death. When his friend,
the editor of the Messenger of Europe, was visit-
ing him at Bougival, some eighteen months ago,
Turgeneff showed him a quantity of manuscript,
on bits of paper of all shapes and color.
are my sketches," he said, "my studies from na-
ture, from which, like a painter, I make my large
picture. If I do not use them they shall go to
you for safe keeping after my death."
friend represented that that was only to make
the public desire his death. Turgeneff replied
that most of them were "too personal, too inti-
mate" for publication for many years yet; but,
upon some further urging, he consented to look
them over, and shortly after sent to the editor
a selection of fifty which he had finished and
written out with his own hand. He himself
"An Old Man's Fan-
chose as title, 'Senilia.'
cies," in Macmillan's, is a pure fabrication. In
a brief note to the reader, Turgeneff begged him
not to take these "poems in prose" all in a heap,
but one by one. Hence the present title. They
are allegories, parables, epigrams, each and all.
If a likeness between them is sought, the most
will fall into two groups, one of which describes
the immense relentless power of Nature, and
man's helpless nothingness before it; the other,
the ever-present sense of death in life, and man's
recoil from it, his struggle with it. They sug-
gest Heine, but there are heights and depths
which the German never knew, and, be they
never so sad, there is always sweetness in them.
$91.75
T940 L
No English yet has done justice to the perfect
art of Turgeneff's style. Every word is the sim-
plest, and there is never one too many, so that
all the accuracy of a scholar and all the ima
gination of a poet are needed to reproduce it,
A criticism which must be in the main verbal is
like objecting to small atoms in a mosaic, but
form and color both depend upon the atoms.
In the translation before us the form is dis-
torted, the color spoiled, by constant exaggera-
tion, by attempts at "fine writing." "Our great
singer" becomes " our sublimest." "Comes the
wished-for moment-light scatters darkness," is
made "Apollo rises-conqueror of night." Of
the titles alone, "The Two Rich Men" becomes
"Who is the Richer?" and "The End of the
World" "The Destruction of the World." "Ego-
ist" is confounded with "egotist." One bit of
description of the peasants in church rea's in
the original, word for word: "They begin to
tow, to kneel, to rise again, like ripe wheat
when a light wind blows a slow wave over it."
It is rendered here: "They moved up and down
in a wave-like motion, rising and falling like
ripe ears of wheat when tossing in the summer
wind." The poem entitled "The Nymphs " has
suffered very much, while "The Old Woman,'
with all the shiver there still is in it, is tame
when compared with the startled horror of the
original. The single rendering, "but no longer
blind,"
" which ought to be "but she sees!" is
proof enough. In the last illness, in a moment
of respite, Turgeneff told his friend that the hal-
lucinations, the phantoms which came to vex his
brain were like this "old woman.”
19
E
1883

We find another example in the dram
sketches. Two destitute old souls befriend an
orphan. "We will take Katie,' said the o'd
woman; 'the last of our coppers shall go to
her, even though there be no salt to salt the
broth.' 'Yes, we, her, and no salt,' answered
the peasant, her husband." This is made: "It
will cost us our last nenny: we shan't be abla


Evers very truly
wan Tourgueness.
9.5. Morris
POEMS IN PROSE
BY
IVAN TOURGUÉNEFF
BOSTON
CUPPLES, UPHAM AND COMPANY
1883
3
Copyright, by
CUPPLES, UPHAM AND COMPANY,
1883.
ELECTROTYPED.
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
4 PEARL STREET.

18-15-84
TOURGUÉNEFF.
To his keen, melancholy glance lay bare
The throbbing heart of Russia, — fierce, intense,
Primeval passion, firing soul and sense
Of serf and noble, - Mumu's sad, dumb care,—
The eager young men's thoughts, who madly dare
To think and die for thought's sake, - the immense
Oppression of the empire, and the dense
Child-minded millions whom no emperors spare.
This has he seen and written as he saw,
And in that barbarous, ice-bound land revealed,
A century in twenty years unrolled,
And writ in words of fire life's changeless law
Of human rights, eternal, unrepealed,
That nations on their knees have learned of old.
PREFACE.
THIS little volume contains a translation of
what are among the last things written by
Tourguéneff. They are best defined by the
title that he half suggested for them, —
Poems in Prose; for, while their form is that
of prose, the subjects, the treatment, the
imaginative setting, have all the charm and
quality of poetry. It is believed that the
reader will find enough beauty, pathos, and
vividness in these pieces to pardon the in-
evitable pallor of a translation. This has at
least been made with the utmost respect for
the work of one of the greatest of our con-
temporaries.
As to the poems themselves, they are of
very different kinds. Some are like studies.
5
6
PREFACE.
for the scenes of a novel; others, again, like a
conversation, are purely imaginative sketches,
while yet others, it is safe to conjecture, have
an autobiographic interest. All bear the deep
impressions of his wonderful genius. Even
the slightest of them will repay study; for,
just as the writer in natural history can only
acquire a full comprehension of the majesty
of nature by the careful investigation of what
to the careless seem trifles, so human nature
is only to be known by the careful and sym-
pathetic observance of the slightest acts and
feelings. The reader will be led to doubt
some of the current statements about Tour-
guéneff; one, which he himself is said have
expressed, is, that he lacked imagination. If
by this it is meant that he could never satisfy
himself with drawing vague types, but was
always compelled to keep touch with truth
that might be verified by observation, the
statement is true. But this is very far from
PREFACE.
7
affirming that because he was exact, he was
not imaginative. One might as well say that
Darwin was not a great philosopher, and
assign as a reason that he studied earth-
worms.
Another unwarrantable statement is, that
Tourguéneff lacked sympathy. Are we, then,
to suppose that his exposition of the dangers
of serfdom was a commercial speculation,
that the comprehension of the weaknesses of
his countrymen was cynicism? Fortunately
Tourguéneff's readers do not need to have
the assertion combated.
As to this little book, Tourguéneff said:
"The reader must not skim over these poems
in prose one after the other; that would prob-
ably tire him, and he would soon cast the
book aside. But let him read each one sepa-
rately, -one to-day, another to-morrow, and
then perhaps one or more of them may sink
into his soul and bear fruit."
:

CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE VILLAGE
THE OLD WOMAN
II
A DIALOGUE
•
THE DOG.
15
19
22
MY OPPONENT
23
AN AXIOM.
25
DOST THOU HEARKEN TO THE Words of tHE FOOL
26
THE BEGGAR
28
•
A CONTENTed Man
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD
30
31
MASCHA .
THE BLOCKHEAD
35
•
38
AN ORIENTal Legend
41
TWO QUATRAINS
45
THE SPARROW
50
THE LABORER AND THE MAN WITH THE WHITE HAND
52
THE SKULL
•
54
THE LAST MEETING
THE ROSE
THE VISIT
NECESSITAS. VIS LIBERTAS.
THE ALMS.
56
58
61
63
64
THE INSECT
•
THE CABBAGE-Soup.
67
69
9
ΙΟ
CONTENTS.
WHO IS THe Richer
THE HAPPy Land
• 71
74
75
76
77
80
THE OLD Man
THE NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT
TWO BROTHERS
IN MEMORY OF I. P. W.
THE EGOTIST
THE SUPREME BEING'S BANQUET
THE NYMPHS
82
85
86
THE SPHINX
·
THE FRIEND AND The Enemy
CHRIST
THE STONE
•
90
92
94
96
THE DOVES
TO-MORROW, TO-MORROW!
97
100
NATURE
ΙΟΙ
"HANG HIM! ""
103
WHAT SHALL I THINK ABOUT?
•
107
"How LOVELY AND FRESH THOSE Roses wERE!"
108
A TRIP BY SEA
III
N. N.
114
STOP!
115
THE MONK
116
LET'S KEEP A GOOD HEART.
PRAYER
•
THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE
117
•
119
120
POEMS IN PROSE.
THE VILLAGE.
It is the last day of July: for a thousand
versts on every side lies Russia, - home.
The whole sky is a shadowless blue; one
little cloud only floats upon it and melts
away. A windless, sultry calm; the air like
warm milk.
The larks trill, the doves coo, the swallows
sweep by with their swift and noiseless flight;
the horses neigh and crop the grass; the dogs
stand about, gently wagging their tails, but
not barking.
There is a mingled smell of smoke, hay,
tar, and leather.
The hemp is ripe, and gives forth its pene-
trating but pleasant odor.
12
THE VILLAGE.
In a deep, gently-sloping ravine grow rows
of thick-topped, weather-beaten willows. Be-
low them flows a brook; in its bed the stones
quiver beneath the rippling surface of the
water. In the distance, where earth and sky
join, is to be seen the blue line of a broad
river.
On one side of the ravine are a number of
neat little barns and storehouses, their doors.
all carefully closed; on the other side, half
a dozen peasants' huts built of fir logs and
boards. Every roof is surmounted by a bird-
house on the top of a tall pole; on the gables
are tin horses' heads with stiff manes. The
rough panes of glass shimmer with all the
colors of the rainbow. On the window-shut-
ters are vases of flowers painted in a very
primitive fashion. Before the houses stand
heavy benches, with here and there a cat
curled up in a ball, with pointed, transparent
ears; behind the high threshold is the cool,
dark interior.
I am lying on a horse-blanket close to the
THE VILLAGE.
13
edge of the ravine, amid scattered heaps of
the fragrant new-mown hay. The busy peas-
ants have spread the hay out before the
houses, that it may dry in the summer sun;
then it goes into the barn; - it is delightful
to sleep upon.
Curly-headed children peep out from under
heaps of hay; busy hens pick about after
beetles and flies; a young dog is rolling on
the grass.
Brown-haired lads in long, white blouses,
belted at the waist, and with heavy boots on,
are leaning against a cart and laughing to-
gether, and chaffing one another.
A young, round-faced woman looks out of
the window, and laughs half at the boys and
half at the children frolicking in the hay.
Another young woman is drawing with
her stout arms a great dripping bucket
out of the well. The bucket sways and
trembles on the rope and lets fall long,
sparkling drops.
An old woman is standing before me;
14
THE VILLAGE.
she has on a new checked dress and new
leather shoes.
Three rows of large glass beads encircle
her withered, sunburnt throat; her gray hair
is covered with a red and yellow-striped
kerchief, which hangs low over her dull
eyes.
But the old eyes smile pleasantly, the
whole of her wrinkled face smiles, the old
creature must be nearly eighty years old.
. Yet one can still see that she was beau-
tiful as a girl.
The brown claw-like fingers of her right
hand hold a cup which is full of cold milk,
fresh from the cellar. The outside of the
cup is covered with drops of moisture. On
the palm of her left hand she reaches out
to me a large slice of fresh black bread, -
"Eat, and may it do you good!"
Suddenly the cock crows and claps his
wings; answered soon by the bleating of a
calf from the barn. "I call that cheeky,"
I hear my coachman say.
THE OLD WOMAN.
15
This contentment, this rest and plenty in
a free Russian village! Oh, this blessed
quiet!
And I think to myself: What is the need
of a cross on the Church of Santa Sophia of
Constantinople, and all that sort of thing,
that we city-people think so much of?
FEBRUARY, 1878.
THE OLD WOMAN.
I WAS walking alone through a broad
field. Suddenly it seemed to me as if I heard
behind me a light, cautious footfall. Some
one was following me.
I looked round-I saw a little, bent old
woman bundled up in gray rags. Nothing
but the face-a yellow, wrinkled, sharp-
nosed, toothless face-was to be seen.
I stepped up to her . . . she stood still.
"Who are you? What do you want?
Are you a beggar? Do you want alms?"
16
THE OLD WOMAN.
The old woman did not answer. I bent
down to her, and noticed that both her eyes
were covered by a half-transparent, white film,
such as some birds have as protection against
too bright a light.
But on this old woman's eyes the film was
immovable; it never left the pupil
whence I concluded that she was blind.
-"Do you want money?" I repeated.
"Why do you follow me?" Still the old
woman answered not, but stooped a little
more.
I turned and went on my way.
And again I heard the same light, even,
creeping step behind me.
"There's that woman again!" thought
I;-"what does she want of me?" But it
at once occurred to me that probably she had
got lost on account of her blindness, and was
now guiding herself by her hearing, follow-
ing my steps that I might lead her to an in-
habited neighborhood. . . . Yes, yes, that is
it! . . . But a strange unrest took posses-
•
THE OLD WOMAN.
17
sion of me.
It seemed to me as if this
old woman was not following me, but was
driving me where she wished to go, as if she
made me turn now to the right, now to the
left, and as if I involuntarily obeyed her.
Nevertheless I go on and on . until
something black appears in my path, just be-
fore me; it grows larger, it is a hole. "A
grave!" The thought flashed through my
head. Thither was she driving me.
I turn short about. The old woman is again
before me, but no longer blind. She looks
at me with large, evil, threatening eyes, -
the eyes of a bird of prey.
to her face, to her eyes, .
. . I lean closer
there was again
that dingy skin, there was again that dull,
blind look.
"Ah!" think I, "this old woman is my fate,
-fate, which no man may escape.'
Not escape?
"No escape? Not escape?
""
-
what mad-
ness! One should at least try!" and I start
in another direction.
I hasten . . . but the soft tread rustles be-
18
THE OLD WOMAN.
hind me, near, very near
is again the dark grave.
and before me
I turn once more, and again comes the
same rustling behind me, the same dark spot
appears before me.
As I turn hither and thither like a hunted
hare, . . . it is always the same, always the
same.
Stop, think I, I will outwit her. I will stay
here, and suddenly I sit down on the
ground.
The old woman is standing two steps be-
hind me. I do not hear her, but feel that she
is there.
And suddenly I see: that dark spot that
was visible in the distance floats, creeps up
towards me!
God!
•
. I look around. . . . The old
woman looks fixedly at me, and her toothless
mouth is distorted with a smile.
"Thou canst not escape me!"
FEBRUARY, 1878.
19
A DIALOGUE.
THE Alpine summits - a complete chain of
steep precipices, right in the heart of the
Alps. Over the mountains is a pale-green,
clear, silent sky. Hard, biting frost; firm,
sparkling snow; dark, weather-beaten, ice-
bound crags rise from beneath the snow.
Two colossi, two giants, rise from the hori-
zon on either side, the Jungfrau and the
Finsteraarhorn.
And the Jungfrau asks her neighbor: "What
is the news? You can see better; what is
going on down there?"
Thousands of years pass by-as one mo-
ment. And Finsteraarhorn thunders back
the answer: "Impenetrable clouds veil the
earth . . . wait!"
Again, thousands of years pass-as one
moment.
A DIALOGUE.
20
— “Well, what now?" asks the Jungfrau.
-"Now! see: everything there is un-
changed, confused, and petty. Blue water,
dark woods, heaped up masses of gray stone,
with those little insects running all about,
you know, the two-legged ones which have
never yet ventured to intrude upon your
summit or mine."
-
"Men?" ""
'Yes, men."
Again, thousands of years pass by—as a
moment.
Well, what now?" asks the Jungfrau.
"It seems to me as if fewer of those in-
sects are to be seen," thunders Finsteraar-
horn;"it's getting clearer down there,-
the waters narrower, the woods thinner!
Again, thousands of years pass by-like
one moment.
frau.
"What do you see now?" asks the Jung-
"Round about us, near by, it seems to
have got clearer," answered Finsteraarhorn ;
"but down there, in the distance, in the val-
A DIALOGUE.
21
leys there are still some spots, and something
moving."
"And now?" asks the Jungfrau, after
thousands of years more a mere moment.
-"Now all is well," answered Finsteraar-
horn; "clear and shining everywhere: pure
white wherever you look. . . . Our snow
everywhere, nothing but snow and ice. All
is frozen. All is calm and peaceful."
66
Yes, now it is well!" answers the
Jungfrau; "but we have talked enough, old
friend. Let us sleep awhile."
66
Yes, it is time we did."
They sleep, the giant mountains.
The
clear green sky too sleeps above the ever-
silent earth.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
22
THE DOG.
THERE are two of us in the room, my dog
and I. Outside, a fearful storm is raging.
The dog is sitting in front of me and gaz-
ing straight into my eyes. I too am looking
into his eyes.
It seems to me as if he longed to say some-
thing to me. He is mute, dumb, has no un-
derstanding of himself, but I understand
him.
-
I understand that the same feeling lives in
him as in myself, that there is no difference
between us. We are alike; in each of us
glows and burns the same flickering flame.
Death is approaching, —a single blow from
his cold, mighty wing and that is the
end!
•
Who can distinguish then the special flame
that glows in each of us?
No! it was not man and animal that
MY OPPONENT.
23
were looking at each other. It was two pairs
of eyes of the same kind which were fixed
on each other; and in each of these pairs
of eyes, the beast's as well as the man's, it is
the same life appealing to the other.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
MY OPPONENT.
I HAD a comrade who was my opponent,
not, to be sure, in our studies, work, or love;
-but our ways of looking at things were
wholly inharmonious, and every time we met.
an endless strife was kindled between us.
We disputed about everything, — art, re-
ligion, knowledge; about life on this earth
and life after death, especially the latter.
He was
an enthusiast and a believer.
Once he said to me: "You make fun of
everything; but if I die before you do I will
come back from the other world and appear

24
MY OPPONENT.
.. then we shall see whether you
to you
will laugh."
And sure enough he did die before me
while he was yet young; a long time went
by, and I forgot his promise, his threat.
One night I was lying in bed, and could
not sleep.
The chamber was neither light nor quite
dark; I was gazing into the gray half-light.
Suddenly it seemed to me as if my oppo-
nent stood between the two windows, and
gently, sadly, nodded his head.
I was not frightened, nor even surprised
. . . but raised myself slightly on my arm,
and looked at the strange apparition.
It continued nodding.
(6
Well," I said at last, "do you come in
triumph or in pity? What does this mean?
A warning or a reproach? Or do you tell
me that you were wrong, or that we both
were wrong? What do you feel? the pangs
of Hell? the joys of Paradise?
. just one word!"
Tell me
AN AXIOM.
25
But my opponent uttered no sound; he
only nodded sadly and submissively.
I laughed aloud,
FEBRUARY, 1878.
and he vanished.
AN AXIOM.
"If you wish really to vex and injure your
opponent," said an old diplomatist to me
once, "just accuse him of the fault, the vice
of which you yourself are guilty ; — pretend
to be angry, and reproach him with it sharply.
"In the first place, you thereby convince
others that you are innocent of this fault.
"In the second place, your indignation
may even be genuine. You profit through
the reproaches of your own conscience."
"If you are a renegade, for instance,
accuse your opponent of want of sound faith!
"If you are a snob, find fault with him for
snobbishness; accuse him of being a cultured,
socialist snob.
26
"DOST THOU HEARKEN
:
;
One might even say he was an anti-snob-
snob!" I remarked.
"Yes, you might indeed!" acquiesced the
diplomatist.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
"DOST THOU HEARKEN TO THE WORDS
OF THE FOOL?"— Pushkin.
"Dost thou hearken to the words of the
fool?" You have ever spoken truly, you,
our sublimest singer; and this time also.
"The words of the fool and the laughter of
the many!" . . . Who does not know them
by experience?
All this one can and should bear; and,
if he be strong enough, even despise it.
There are blows which are far more pain-
ful ... One man did all that he could;
ful..
he worked with all his strength, zealously
and honestly. And yet "honorable souls"
TO THE WORDS OF THE FOOL?"
27
turn from him with horror; "honorable peo-
ple" blush at the mere mention of his name.
"Get out of the way! Be off!" "honor-
"We want
able" young voices call to him.
neither you nor your works; you defile our
dwelling — you neither know nor understand
You are our enemy!"
us
What should this man do? . . . He should
continue to work, he should make no attempt
to justify himself.
He should never expect
to be judged justly.
The peasants at first cursed the foreigner
who brought them the potato, - that daily
food of the poor, a substitute for bread .
They tore the precious gifts from his out-
stretched hands, threw them in the mud, and
stamped on them.
Now they live on them, and do not know
even the name of their benefactor.
No matter! What's in a name? Although
unknown, he has saved them from starvation.
Let us only make sure that what we bring
them is really nutritious food.
28
THE BEGGAR.
Bitter is unjust reproof from the mouths
of those whom we love . . . Yet even this
may be borne.
"Strike- but hear me!" said the Athe-
nian to the Spartan.
"Strike, but grow healthy and strong!"
we must say.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
THE BEGGAR.
I was walking in the street . . . a beggar
stopped me, — a frail old man.
His inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough
rags, disgusting sores . . . oh, how horribly
poverty had disfigured the unhappy crea-
ture!
He stretched out to me his red, swollen,
filthy hand... he groaned and whimpered
for alms.
I felt in all my pockets. . . no purse,
THE BEGGAR.
29
watch, or handkerchief did I find. I had
left them all at home.
The beggar waited . . . and his outstretched
hand twitched and trembled slightly.
Embarrassed and confused, I seized his
"Don't be
dirty hand and pressed it
vexed with me, brother; I have nothing
with me, brother."
The beggar raised his bloodshot eyes to
mine; his blue lips smiled, and he returned
the pressure of my chilled fingers.
-"Never mind, brother," stammered he;
"thank you for this-this, too, was a gift,
brother."
I felt that I, too, had received a gift from
my brother.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
30
A CONTENTED MAN.
A YOUNG man is mincing along the streets
of the capital. His manner is contented,
cheerful, and self-conscious; his eyes are
sparkling, his lips smiling, and his pretty
little face is slightly flushed. He looks the
picture of contented self-satisfaction.
What has happened to him? Has he re-
ceived a legacy? Has he come into a title?
Is his lady-love waiting for him? or is it
merely a feeling of physical comfort and
satisfaction, the result of a good breakfast,
that pervades his whole body? or has he,
perhaps, had hung about his neck the beauti-
ful eight-cornered cross of the Order of
the Polish King, Stanislaus.*
No, he has only invented and carefully
circulated a nice bit of scandal about one of
* A Russian order of moderate importance.
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 31
his acquaintances. This scandal then came
back to him through some one else, and he
has believed it himself.
Oh, how pleased and satisfied is this amia-
ble, promising young man now!
FEBRUARY, 1878.
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.
A DREAM.
I DREAM that I am in a peasant's hut in
some obscure corner of Russia.
The room is large and low, with three
windows, whitewashed walls, and very little
furniture. In front of the house stretches a
broad plain which loses itself in the far dis-
tance, over which hangs like a roof a monoto-
nous gray sky.
I am not alone; there are about ten men
in the room, very simple, plainly-dressed
people; they move silently, as it were glid-
32
the destruCTION OF THE WORLD.
ing to and fro, avoiding each other, but con-
tinually casting anxious glances at one an-
other.
None of them know how they came there
or what sort of people the others are. Anx-
iety and depression are to be read on every
face; they all step in turn to the windows, and
look as if expecting something.
Then they turn again and wander restlessly
up and down. A little boy who is among
them moans from time to time in a thin, mo-
notonous voice: "Papa, I'm afraid!" This
whimpering fairly makes me sick. I too
am beginning to be afraid, but of what?
I do not know; I merely feel that some ter-
rible misfortune is approaching.
The little boy goes on whimpering. Oh, '
if we could only get away from here! How
close it is, how sultry, how oppressive. . .
but escape is impossible.
The sky is like a pall, there is not the
slightest breeze, the air seems dead.
Suddenly the boy calls from the window

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.
33
with a terrified voice: "Look, look! the earth
has fallen away."
What! Fallen away? . . . It is a fact;
there had been a plain in front of the house;
now it stands on the summit of an enormous
mountain! The horizon has fallen down,
sunk away; and close to the house yawns a
steep, black, gaping abyss !
We all press round the window
•
our
hearts stand still with fear. "Look there!
there," whispers my neighbor.
Now over the whole, wide, boundless waste,
suddenly something begins to move
little round hills were rising and falling.
as if
The ocean! — we all thought at once. It
will engulf us. But how can that be? How
can it rise in its might to the height of this
lofty summit?
Meanwhile, it rises ever higher and higher.
Now there are not merely little hills visible
here and there in the distance . . . A single
mighty, monstrous wave sweeps across the
whole circle of the horizon.
THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD.
34
It is flying towards us! Like an icy whirl-
wind, it approaches, circling like a dark abyss
of Hell. Everything about begins to trem-
ble; and there, in that hurrying chaos, a
thousand-voiced, brazen clangor crashes and
thunders and roars.
Ah! what howling and groaning! It is
the earth, moaning with terror.
. I
Its end has come! Universal destruction!
The little boy goes on whimpering
turn to cling to my companions; but sud-
denly we are all overwhelmed, buried, drowned,
swept away by that pitch-black, icy, mon-
strous wave.
Darkness — eternal darkness!
Almost breathless, I awake.
MARCH, 1878.

35
MASCHA.
MANY years ago, when I was living in St.
Petersburg, whenever I hired a droschky, or
sleigh, I used to talk with the driver.
I liked especially to chat with the night-
drivers, with those poor peasants from the
suburbs, who, with their rackety, yellow
painted sleighs and wretched horses, hope to
earn enough to support themselves, and pay
their obrok to their masters.
Once I was riding with such a driver. . .
He was a young man, about twenty years old,
tall, well-shaped, a powerfully built fellow
with blue eyes and rosy cheeks; brown curls
came down over his eyebrows beneath his
knit cap. It was a wonder how his ragged
coat held together across his broad shoulders.
His smooth, handsome face looked sad and
gloomy.

36
MASCHA.
I began to talk to him.
Even his voice
sounded sad. "Why are you not more cheer-
ful, brother?" I asked him. "Is anything
the matter with you?"
He did not answer immediately.
At last, he broke out with: "Yes, sir, I
have a sorrow,
such a sorrow as I would not
wish to my worst enemy. My wife is dead."
"You loved her, then?"
The fellow did not turn round, but merely
nodded his head.
"Yes, sir,—I did love her. . . . It was
eight years ago
and I cannot get over
the time.
•
it. It is gnawing my very heart out . . . all
And why should she have died?
She was young and strong. But the cholera
carried her off in a day."
"She was a good wife to you?"
"Oh, sir, "-the poor fellow sighed deeply,
<<
we were so fond of each other! She
died when I was away. I heard that she
was already buried, and I hurried home to
the village. When I got there, it was past
MASCHA.
37
midnight. I went into my cottage, stood still
in the middle of the room, and whispered
softly, 'Mascha, oh, Mascha!' . . . but only
the cricket chirped. Then I began to cry,
sat down on the ground, and struck the earth
with my hands. 'Insatiable maw,' said I,
you have swallowed her . . . swallow me
too!"" "Oh, Mascha!- Mascha!"
added he once more in low tones, and with-
out dropping the reins, wiped a tear from his
eyes with his gloved fist, shook it off, shrugged
his shoulders, and said not another word.
6
As I got down, I paid him more than his
fare. He pulled off his cap with both hands
and made me a low bow, and then drove
slowly away over the deserted, snow-covered
streets through the gray mists of January.
APRIL, 1878.
38
THE BLOCKHEAD.
ONCE upon a time there was a blockhead.
He lived for a long time happy and con-
tented, until at last it came to his ears that
he was considered a brainless fool. That
stirred him up and worried him. He consid-
ered what would be the best way to give the
lie to these rumors. Suddenly an idea came
into his dull head, and he immediately carried
it out.
An acquaintance met him in the street,
and praised a famous painter.
'In heaven's name," exclaimed the block-
head, "don't you know that that painter
has been thrown into the dust-heap long ago?
You must have known that! You are dread-
fully behind the times."
His acquaintance was surprised, but at
once accepted the blockhead's opinion.
THE BLOCKHEAD.
39
"I have been reading such a delightful
book to-day!" said some one else to him.
"Mercy on us!" cried the blockhead, "are
you not ashamed of yourself? That is an ab-
solutely worthless book, there is but one
opinion about it. Didn't you know that?
What an old fogey you are!"
And this person was overawed too, and
agreed with the blockhead.
"Waht a splendid fellow my friend A. is!"
said a third acquaintance to the blockhead;
"a really fine man!"
"Heavens!" exclaimed the blockhead;
"A. is a notorious rascal! He has cheated
all his relatives. Is there any one who
does n't know that?
you are!"
How behind the times
His interlocutor was put down, and at once
came over to the blockhead's opinion. What-
ever or whoever was praised in his presence,
the blockhead had always the same answer
ready, and always added reproachfully,
"And do you still go by the authorities?"
40
THE BLOCKHEAD.
"A disagreeable, malicious fellow!" the
blockhead was now pronounced by common
"But what a head he has !"
consent.
"And
what a tongue!" added others; "oh, he's an
able fellow !"
The end of it was that the editor of a paper
entrusted the critical part of his paper to the
blockhead, who criticised everything and
everybody in his favorite fashion, with his
well-known remarks. And now he, the for-
mer enemy of all authorities, has become an
authority himself, and young people respect
him greatly and tremble before him.
How can they help it, poor fools?
41
AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.
WHO in Bagdad does not know great Jaffar,
the sun of the universe?
Once, many years ago, when Jaffar was a
youth, he was walking in the neighborhood
of Bagdad.
Suddenly he heard a hoarse cry, some one
calling for help.
Jaffar was distinguished among his com-
panions for wise judgment and lofty under-
standing, but he had also a sympathetic heart.
and could depend upon his strength.
He hastened in the direction of the call,
and saw a weak old man crowded against the
city wall by two highwaymen, who were about
to rob him.
Jaffar drew his sabre and attacked the ras-
cals; one he killed and one he put to flight.
The old man whom he had saved fell at
42
AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.
the feet of his deliverer, kissed the hem of
his garment, and exclaimed, "Brave youth!
your generosity shall not go unrewarded. I
appear to be a miserable beggar; but appear-
ances are deceitful. I am no ordinary man.
Come to-morrow at daybreak to the market-
place; I will wait for you there at the foun-
tain, and you shall be convinced of the truth
of my words."
Jaffar considered: "This man really seems
to be only a beggar; but who knows?
Why should I not make the trial?" and he
answered and said: "Well, father, I will
come!"
The old man looked at him and went
away.
The next morning, at daybreak, Jaffar be-
took him to the market-place. The old man
was already waiting for him, leaning against
the marble basin of the fountain.
He took Jaffar silently by the hand and led
him into a little garden, which was surrounded
by a high wall.
AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.
43
In the middle of this garden from the green-
sward grew a peculiar kind of tree.
It looked like a cypress; but had deep blue
leaves. Three apples hung from the stiff,
erect boughs, one, a middling-sized apple,
was oval and milk-white; another, large,
round, and bright-red; the third, small,
wrinkled, and yellow.
The tree rustled softly, although no breeze
was blowing. It tinkled gently, as if it were
made of glass; and it seemed to be conscious
of Jaffar's approach.
"Young man!" said the old man, “pluck
one of these apples, and know that if you
pluck the white one and eat it, you will be-
come wiser than all other men; if you pluck
the red one and eat it, you will become as
rich as the Rothschilds; but if you pluck the
yellow one and eat it, you will win the favor
of all old women. Decide without delay;
in one hour, the fruit will wither and the tree
sink into the depths of the earth!"
Jaffar bowed his head and considered.
44
AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.
"How shall I decide?" he muttered to him-
self. "If I am too wise, my life may be mis-
erable. If I become richer than everybody
else, that may excite envy, so I will pluck
and eat the third apple!"
He did so, and the old man laughed with
his toothless mouth, and said, "Oh, wisest of
young men! You have chosen rightly!
Why should you want the white apple? You
are already wiser than Solomon. The red
apple you don't need either; you will be-
come rich without its aid, and yet excite no
one's envy."
"Now tell me, venerable old man," said
Jaffar, trembling with joy, "where the es-
teemed mother of our gracious Caliph lives."
The old man bowed low and showed the
young man the way there.
Who in Bagdad does not know the sun of
the universe, the great, the celebrated Jaf-
far?
APRIL, 1878.
45
TWO QUATRAINS.
THERE was once a city, the inhabitants
of which were such passionate admirers of
poetry, that if a few weeks went by without
bringing to light new and fine poems, they
regarded such poetic unfruitfulness as a pub-
lic calamity.
Then they would put on their worst clothes,
strew their heads with ashes, and assemble in
the public squares to lament, shed tears, and
bitterly murmur against the Muse for desert-
ing them.
On one such day of mourning there ap-
peared once a youthful poet, Junius, among
the sorrowing people in the crowded square.
Quickly he mounted the tribune and signi-
fied that he wished to recite a poem. The
lictors waved their rods and cried out in
commanding tones, "Peace! Attention!"
and the eager multitude was silent.
46
TWO QUATRAINS.
"Friends, comrades!" began Junius, with
a loud but uncertain voice
Friends, comrades, since true poesy you love,
And bend adoringly to own its might,
Let sadness flee, care vanish like a mist!
Apollo rises conqueror of night!"
Junius had ended, and was answered on all
sides by hisses, groans, and laughter.
The upturned faces of the multitude glowed
with indignation; all eyes sparkled with an-
ger; all hands were raised and threatened
him with clenched, fists.
"Is he turning us to ridicule?" roared
angry voices. "Tear him down from the
tribune, the stupid rhymester! Down with
the blockhead! Pelt him with rotten apples
and eggs, the fool! Stone him! Stone
him!"
Junius plunged headlong from the tribune;
but before he reached his house, he heard
loud applause, bravas, and cries of admira-
tion.
Tormented by doubts, Junius returned to
TWO QUATRAINS.
47
the public square, taking pains to pass un-
noticed amid the crowd-for "fearful it is to
wake the angry lion!"
And what did he see?
High upon the shoulders of the crowd, on
a broad golden shield, covered with a purple
mantle, his head crowned with laurels, stood
his rival, the youthful poet Julius; and the
crowd called out, "Honor and glory to the
immortal Julius! He has consoled us in our
woes, in our great sorrow! He has refreshed
us with his sublime poetry, which is sweeter
than honey, more fragrant than roses, more
musical than cymbals, purer than the blue of
the heavens. Raise him high in triumph,
let soft clouds of incense rise about his in-
spired head, fan him with palm-leaves, strew
before him all the perfumes of Arabia!
Honor and glory to the divine poet!"
Junius approached one of the shouters:
"Tell me, dear fellow-citizen, how ran the
poem, with which Julius so pleased you. I
was unfortunately away when he recited it.
48
TWO QUATRAINS.
Be kind enough, I beg you, to repeat it to
me, if you remember it !"
"How could I forget such a verse?" was
the eager answer. "What do you take me
for? Hear and rejoice, make glad with all
of us.
The verse ran thus:
Friends, comrades, since you love true poesy,
And reverently adore its sacred might,
Let care and sorrow flee before the dawn!
Phoebus is risen- gone the clouds of night!'
"Well, what do you think of that?"
"But, if you please," exclaimed Junius,
"those are my lines! Julius was among the
crowd when I recited them; he heard and
repeated them with a few trifling changes,
which are by no means improvements!"
"Ah! now I recognize you; you are Ju-
nius!" answered the man, with a frown.
"You must be either envious or a block-
head. Come to your senses, wretched man!
How nobly Julius puts it,—
"Phœbus is risen - gone the clouds of night!'
TWO QUATRAINS.
"Just compare your stuff with that,—
666
'Apollo rises
conqueror of night!'
49
(6
'Well, is not that the same thing?" be-
gan Junius.
"A word more," interrupted the citizen,
"and I will call the people together, and they
will tear you limb from limb."
Junius prudently held his peace. An old,
gray-headed man, who had listened to the
conversation, stepped up to the unhappy
poet, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said:
"Junius, you recited your lines at an un-
fortunate time. Although Julius merely
repeated the words of another, he chose the
right moment to do it in; hence his success.
Your own consciousness of merit must be
your reward."
During the jubilee which celebrated his op-
ponent's success, the poor, neglected Junius
had nothing but his own consciousness of
merit to console himself with, and, sooth to
say, it consoled him ill enough.
50
THE SPARROW.
-
Clad in purple and crowned with laurel,
refulgent as the golden, all-conquering sun,
proud, sublime, majestic, like a king going
to his coronation, — Julius strode about, sur-
rounded by clouds of incense; palm-branches.
waved at his approach, and the reverence for
him in the hearts of his delighted fellow-
citizens knew no bounds.
APRIL, 1878.
THE SPARROW.
I WALKED up my garden path as I was
coming home from shooting. My dog ran on
before me.
Suddenly he went slower, and crept care-
fully forward as if he scented game.
I looked along the path and perceived a
young sparrow, with its downy head and yel-
low bill. It had fallen from a nest (the wind.
was blowing hard through the young birch
THE SPARROW.
51
trees beside the path), and was sprawling
motionless, helpless on the ground, with its
little wings outspread.
My dog crept softly up to it, when suddenly
an old, black-breasted sparrow threw himself
down from a neighboring tree, and let him-
self fall like a stone directly under the dog's
nose, and, with ruffled feathers, sprang with
a terrified twitter several times against his
open, threatening mouth.
He had flown down to protect his young
at the sacrifice of himself. His little body.
trembled all over, his cry was hoarse, he was
frightened to death; but he sacrificed him-
self.
My dog must have seemed to him a gigan-
tic monster, but for all that he could not stay
on his high, safe branch. A power stronger
than himself drove him down.
My dog stopped and drew back; it seemed
as if he, too, respected this power.
I hastened to call back the amazed dog, and
reverently withdrew. Yes, - don't laugh! I
the laborer and the
52
felt a reverence for this little hero of a bird,
with his paternal love.
Love, thought I, is mightier than death
and the fear of death; love alone inspires and
is the life of all.
APRIL, 1878.
THE LABORER AND THE MAN WITH
THE WHITE HAND.
LABORER.
A DIALOGUE.
What brings you here?
What
do you want? You don't belong to us! Go
away.
THE WHITE-HANDED MAN.-I belong to
you, brothers.
LABORER.
What an idea! You one of
us? A likely story! Look at my hands.
Don't you see how dirty they are? They
smell of earth, of the barn-yard; but look
how white yours are; what do they smell of?
MAN WITH THE WHITE HANDS.
53
THE WHITE-HANDED MAN.- Here-smell!
What the devil is that? They
LABORER.
seem to smell of iron!
THE WHITE-HANDED MAN.
True. I wore
chains on them for six years.
LABORER. Why?
-
-
THE WHITE-HANDED MAN. Because I
wrote in your cause; because I wished to set
you poor, ignorant men free; because I strove
and rebelled against your oppressors . . . that
was why they put me in prison.
LABORER. How? You've been in pris-
on? Who told you to rebel?
TWO YEARS LATER.
ANOTHER LABORER. — TO THE FIRST. — I
say, Peter, don't you know that fellow with
white hands, who came here summer before
last? He talked with you.
FIRST LABORER.
him?
Yes, well, what about
SECOND LABORER. Only think; he's go-
54
THE SKULL.
ing to be hung to-day! He has been con-
demned.
FIRST LABORER.
ling?
SECOND LABORER.
FIRST LABORER.
Has he gone on rebel-
Yes, just as before!
Well! . . . I'll tell you
what, brother Dimitry, don't you suppose we
could get a bit of the rope he's hanged with?
They say that such a bit of rope brings good
luck to a house.
SECOND LABORER.
Peter. We must try.
That is true, brother
THE SKULL.
A MAGNIFICENT, brilliantly-lighted room,
thronged with ladies and gentlemen.
All are talking eagerly. The conversation
turns on a celebrated singer. They pronounce
her divine, immortal. Oh, how charming her
last trill was yesterday!
THE SKULL.
55
Suddenly, as if at the touch of a magician's
wand, the flesh and skin vanished from all the
faces and heads, and in a moment appeared
the ghastly hue of the skulls, the naked gray
jaw and cheek-bones.
With horror I watched the movement of
those jaws and cheek-bones; I saw how the
round, bony skulls shone in the lamp and can
dle-light, how the smaller balls of the expres-
sionless eyes rolled about inside the larger
balls of the skulls.
I dared not touch my own face or look at
myself in the glass.
The skulls, however, kept on moving as be-
fore; the same gabbling was produced by the
red flaps through the lifeless jaws; these nim-
ble tongues still chattered about the astonish-
ing last trill of the unapproachable, the im-
mortal, yes, the immortal singer.
APRIL, 1878.
56
THE LAST MEETING.
ONCE we were near, intimate friends
but the evil moment came, and we parted
enemies.
.
Many years passed by . . . and I came to
the city in which he lived, and heard that he
was hopelessly ill and wished to see me.
I went to see him and entered his chamber
•
our eyes met.
I scarcely knew him. Heavens! how ill-
ness had changed him!
Yellow, wizened, not a hair on his head,
with a thin, gray beard, there he sat scantily
covered.
He could not bear the slightest pressure of
any article of clothing. He hastily held out
his horribly thin, skinny hand, and whispered
with effort a few unintelligible words. Were
they a welcome or a reproach? who can
THE LAST MEETING.
57
tell? His emaciated breast panted heavily,
and from his inflamed eyes - the pupils were
contracted with pain-dropped a few slow
tears.
My heart bled. . . . I sat down near him,
and, involuntarily letting my eyes fall from
this terrible picture of suffering, I held out
my hand to him.
But it seemed to me as if it could not be
his hand which clasped mine.
It seemed to me as if the tall, still, white
form of a woman came between us: a long
garment covered her from head to foot; her
deep, dull eyes gazed into vacancy; her pale,
firm lips were silent.
This woman joined our hands . . . she
reconciled us forever.
Yes, Death reconciled us.
APRIL, 1878.
58
THE ROSE.
It is the end of August. Autumn is just
beginning.
The sun is setting. A sudden, brief shower,
without thunder and lightning, had just passed
over our broad plain.
The garden in front of the house glowed in
the red of the sunset, and was still wet from
the rain.
She was sitting by the table in the best
room, and gazing thoughtfully through the
half-opened door into the garden.
I knew what was passing in her soul; I
knew that, after a short, painful struggle, she
had given herself up for the moment to a feel-
ing that she could no longer control.
Suddenly she rose, went swiftly out into
the garden, and disappeared from view.
THE ROSE.
59
An hour passed - two hours; but she did
not return.
Then I rose, stepped out of the house, and
followed the path which I thought she had
taken.
All around was dark, night had fallen. But
on the damp gravel of the path could be de-
scried, dimly visible through the darkness, a
round, red object.
I stooped. It was a young half-opened
Two hours before I had seen this rose
rose.
in her bosom.
I carefully picked the flower up from the
mud, and placed it on the table by which she
had been sitting.
At last she returned, and crossing the
room with a light step sat down at the
table.
Her face was paler than before, but more
animated. She glanced quickly about in a
sort of joyful confusion, with half-closed eyes,
which seemed to have grown smaller.
Then she saw the rose and took it up, looked
60
THE ROSE.
at its crushed, soiled petals; and tears shone
in her eyes.
(6
Why are you weeping?" I asked.
"For this rose. See what has happened
to it."
Then I thought I would make a profound
remark.
"Your tears will wash it clean," said I,
meaningly.
“Tears do not purify, tears burn,” answered
she, turning away, and throwing the rose
into the half-extinguished embers in the
fireplace.
"Fire burns better than tears," added she,
somewhat haughtily; and her beautiful eyes
still met mine half-defiantly, half-joyfully.
I knew that she too had been scorched.
APRIL, 1878.
61
THE VISIT.
I was sitting at the open window early in
the morning of the first of May.
It was not yet dawn, there was a faint white-
ness in the east; the warm, dark night was
changing into the cool morning.
No mists were rising, no breath of air
stirred. All was colorless, soundless . . .
Yet one already felt the approach of day,
and there was a strong dewy fragrance.
Suddenly a large bird flew rustling in
through the open window.
I started and looked at it closely. It was
no bird, but a small, winged female figure, in
a long clinging garment with many folds.
It was pearl-gray all over, except that on
the under side of her wings shimmered a
pale pink like a half-opened rose. Her curls
were confined by a garland of lilies of the val-
62
THE VISIT.
ley, and two peacock feathers waved like the
feelers of a butterfly above her beautifully
shaped head.
She swept up and down the room a few
times; her tiny face laughed, and her large
clear eyes smiled and sparkled like dia-
monds in the enjoyment of her capricious
flight.
She held in her hand the long stem of a
flower of the steppes, which is called in
Russia the "Czar's Sceptre," for it looks like
a sceptre.
She touched my head with this flower as
she flew past.
I tried to catch her . . . but she had
already fluttered out of the window and dis-
appeared.
In the garden, in the thicket of syringa
bushes, the turtle-dove received her with her
first coo, and the milk-white heavens became
slightly tinged with rose in the direction in
which she had flown.
I recognized you, goddess of fancy! You
NECESSITAS · VIS · LIBERTAS.
63
were so kind as to pay me one last visit; and
then you flew off to younger poets.
Poesy! Youth! Maidenly Beauty! Just
for one moment you shone before me in the
early dawn of the first day of Spring.
MAY, 1878.
NECESSITAS VIS LIBERTAS.
•
A BAS-RELIEF.
A TALL, bony, old woman, with a brazen
countenance and unwavering dull glance, is
hastening forward with huge strides, and with
her stick-like arms is pushing forward another
woman.
This second woman is enormously large
and strong, well-shaped, and with muscles
like Hercules! Her small head is supported
on a bull-like throat; she is blind, and thrusts
before her a thin little girl.
This girl alone has eyes that see; she
64
THE ALMS.
braces herself, turns about, and raises her
delicate hands; her animated face expresses
impatience and determination . . . She does
not wish to obey and go where they are push-
ing her, but is yet forced along in spite of
herself.
Necessitas. Vis Libertas.
Let him who will translate this.
MAY, 1878.
THE ALMS.
In the neighborhood of a great city, along
a broad highway, was walking a sick old
man.
His step was wavering; his feeble feet fal-
tered and stumbled weakly and heavily along,
as if unused to walking; his clothing was
ragged, his bare head drooped upon his breast.
He was wholly exhausted.
He sat down on a stone by the wayside,
THE ALMS.
65
leaned forward, buried his face in both hands,
and through his enlaced fingers tears dropped
on the gray dust of the road.
He was thinking of his past.
He had once been rich and healthy;-
he had ruined his health and squandered
his riches on friends and enemies. And
now he had not even a bit of bread. He had
been deserted by all,-by his friends even.
sooner than by his enemies. Could he really
stoop to ask for alms? His heart was filled
with shame and bitterness.
And his tears kept falling and wet the gray
dust.
Suddenly he heard his name called; he
raised his head and saw before him a stranger,
whose countenance was quiet and dignified,
but not severe; his eyes were clear but not
brilliant, and his glance was penetrating but
not malicious.
"You have parted with all your wealth,"
said he, with a quiet voice. "Do you regret
your generosity?"
66
THE ALMS.
"No, I do not regret it," answered the old
man, sighing. "But now I must die."
"If there had been no poor people in the
world who had stretched out their hands to
you for help," continued the stranger, “then
you would have had no opportunity to prac-
tise benevolence."
The old man became sunk in thought, and
did not answer.
“Overcome your pride, poor man,” contin-
ued the stranger. "Go and stretch out your
hand and give other good men a chance to
prove by their actions that they are charita-
ble."
The old man trembled and raised his eyes
•
but the stranger had disappeared.
He saw a traveller in the distance.
He stepped up to him, and stretched out
his hand. The traveller turned angrily away
and gave him nothing.
Another came along, who gave the old man
a small alms.
With this money the old man bought some
THE INSECT.
67
bread, and found the bread of charity tasted
sweet to him. He no longer felt ashamed;
on the contrary, a quiet happiness filled his
soul.
MAY, 1878.
THE INSECT.
I DREAMED that there were about twenty of
us sitting by the open windows of a large
room.
Women, children, and old men were to be
found among us. We were all talking to-
gether on a certain familiar topic; each one
spoke eagerly without listening to what the
others had to say.
Suddenly a large insect, about two inches.
long, flew quickly into the room, circled about
and settled on the wall.
It looked like a fly or wasp; the body was
dirt-colored, its hard, flat wings were of the
same color; it had claw-like, hairy feet, and a
68
THE INSECT.
large, square head like a dragon-fly. Its head
and feet were blood-red.
This strange insect kept stretching its head
up and down, to the right and to the left, and
moving its feet at the same time . . . Then it
left the wall, and flew noiselessly about in the
chamber, lighted somewhere else, and began
stretching itself in the same disgusting way
as before.
It inspired us all with loathing, fright, even
horror.... No one had ever seen anything
like it before, and all exclaimed: "Drive out
the terrible thing!" and shook their handker-
chiefs at it; but no one dared to go near it
and all shrank away involuntarily when
it flew in their direction.
But one among us, a pale young man, looked
at the rest of us with astonishment. He
shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and could not
at all understand what was the matter with us
all, and what we were so excited about. He
neither saw the insect nor heard the ominous
rustling of its wings.
THE CABBAGE-SOUP.
69
Suddenly the insect seemed to see him.
It flew up above him, then settling slowly
down on to his head, it stung him on the fore-
head. The young man gave a slight cry, and
fell dead.
•
The terrible fly flew away. .. and then
we first guessed what sort of a visitor we had
had.
MAY, 1878.
THE CABBAGE-SOUP.
THE only son of a widowed peasant woman
had died. He was a young man of twenty,
the best workman in the village.
The lady of the village heard of the woman's
loss, and went to see her on the day of the
funeral,
She found her at home. Standing before a
table in the middle of the hut, she was stead-
ily ladling up cabbage-soup from an earthen
70
THE CABBAGE-SOUP.
vessel, and slowly swallowing it down spoonful
after spoonful.
The old woman's face was sad and troubled,
her eyes red and swollen . . . but in spite of
this she was standing there as erect and firm
as if she were in church.
Heavens! thought the lady.
eat at such a moment?
ing these people have!
•
Can she
How little feel-
And the lady now remembered how, when
she had lost her little nine-year old daughter
some years before, she had been so overcome
with grief as not to care to hire a beautiful
villa in the neighborhood of Petersburg, but
had spent the whole summer in the city! But
this woman went on eating cabbage-soup.
At length the lady grew impatient, and
said: "In Heaven's name! Tatiana, I am
surprised. . . . Did not you love your son at
all? Is it possible that you have not lost your
appetite? How can you eat cabbage-soup at
such a time?"
"My Wassia is dead," said the woman,
THE HAPPY LAND.
71
softly, and the tears ran down her hollow
cheeks; "I shall soon die too! My head
has been cut off while I was yet living!
But why should the soup be wasted? It has
been salted."
The lady merely shrugged her shoulders
and went away. Salt costs her nothing.
MAY, 1878.
THE HAPPY LAND.
O HAPPY land! O land of bliss, of light, of
youth, of joy! I have seen you in my dreams.
We found ourselves on a beautiful, gayly deco-
rated boat. The sail swelled out like a swan's
breast beneath the gay pennants.
My companions were unknown to me; but
I felt with my whole being that they were as
young, gay, and happy as I.
I scarcely regarded them, but only gazed
around
me over the boundless blue sea
72
THE HAPPY LAND.
with its shining waves of gold; over my
head was just such another boundless blue
sea, and over it glided, smiling and gay, the
bright sun on its circuitous course.
Now and then there arose from among us
loud, joyous laughter, like the laughter of the
gods.
Sometimes words escaped from our lips,
verses of heavenly beauty, inspiration, and
power.
The heaven itself seemed to echo
in answer, and the ocean around quivered with
sympathy. Then came blissful quiet.
Lightly dipping in the gentle waves swam
the swift boat, not moved by the winds, but
governed by the beating of our own hearts.
Obedient to our wishes, it glided along like a
living thing.
We met with some islands on our course,-
enchanted islands, beaming with all the colors
of the richest jewels, rubies, emeralds. In-
toxicating perfumes rose from their curving
shores. Cne of these islands showered us
with roses and lilies of the valley; from an-
THE HAPPY LAND.
73
other long-winged, rainbow-feathered birds.
arose.
The birds flew in wide circles over our
heads, the may-bells and roses sank into the
pearly foam which glided past the slippery
sides of our boat.
Sweet, enticing sounds meet us together
with the flowers and birds . . . bewitching
womanly voices resounded; and all about, sky
and sea, the waving of the well-filled sail, the
murmur of the waves at the prow, all sang
of love, happy, blissful love.
And the beloved one of each of us was
there . . . invisible yet near. Yet a moment,
and her eyes beam upon you, that is, her
smile. Her hand clasps yours, and leads you
into an eternal Paradise.
O Land of Happiness! I saw you in a
dream.
JUNE, 1878.
74
#
WHO IS THE RICHER?
If they praise in my presence the rich
Rothschild, who gives from his thousands to-
wards the education of poor children, the
healing of the sick, and the care of the aged,
I am touched and praise him.
But while I am touched and praise him,
I involuntarily remember a wretched, poverty-
stricken peasant family who received a poor
orphan, a relation of theirs, into their misera-
ble, tumble-down hut.
"We will take Katey in," said the wife,
"it will cost us our last penny; we shan't be
able even to afford salt to salt our soup with."
'Well, then, we will eat it unsalted," an-
swered the peasant, her husband.
Rothschild does not compare with this
peasant!
JULY, 1878.
75
THE OLD MAN.
-
DARK, gloomy days came, his own ill-
ness, the misfortune of those dear to him,
the coldness and darkness of old age. All
that thou didst love, all that was dear and
precious to thee, all has passed away and
fallen in ruins. Thou art on the downward
path.
But what can one do? Complain? La-
ment? That does no one any good.
An old dying tree has fewer and smaller
leaves, but yet has some green.
Withdraw into thyself, take refuge in thine
own heart, live in thy recollections. There,
in the depths of thy soul, will all thine early
life, as thou alone knowest it, rise anew before
thee with all the sweet, vivid freshness and
force and charm of the spring.
But, poor old man, don't look towards the
future!
JULY, 1878.
76
THE NEWSPAPER CORRESPONDENT.
Two friends are sitting at table and drink-
ing tea.
Suddenly there is heard a noise in the
street, — railing, groaning, jeering, laughter.
"Some one is getting a beating!" re-
marked one of the friends, looking out.
"A criminal? . . . Perhaps a murderer?"
shouted the other. "Listen! Whoever it
may be, such high-handed proceedings should
not be allowed. Come, let us go and help
him."
"It is no murderer whom they are beat-
ing."
"No murderer? A thief, then! All right;
come, let's free him from the hands of the
mob."
"It's no thief, either."
"What! not a thief? Then it must be
a cashier, a railroad constructor, an army
TWO BROTHERS.
77
contractor, a Russian Mecænas, a lawyer,
a well-meaning newspaper editor, a public
benefactor. It makes no difference; let us
go and help him.”
"No, it is a newspaper correspondent whom
they are beating."
"Oh! is it? A newspaper correspondent!
Well - do you know—I think we had better
finish our tea first."
JULY, 1878.
TWO BROTHERS.
I HAD a vision.
Two angels appeared to me, two genii.
I call them genii, for both were naked,
and had long, strong wings on their shoul-
ders.
Both were youths. One was well-built,
with glossy black curls. He had fiery brown
eyes with thick eye-lashes; his expression
was attractive, cheerful, and eager; his face
78
TWO BROTHERS.
was charming, fascinating, somewhat bold and
saucy-looking. The full
The full rosy lips twitched
occasionally. The youth smiled like a con-
queror, self-consciously and indolently; a
splendid garland of flowers rested on his
glossy curls, and almost touched his velvety
eye-brows. A spotted leopard-skin, fastened
with a golden arrow, hung easily from his
plump shoulders down over his rounded hips.
The feathers of his wings had a reddish shim-
mer, and were tipped with bright red, as if
just dipped in fresh crimson blood. From
time to time these wings shivered with a
silvery sound like the rustling of spring
rain.
The other is pale and sallow. His ribs.
stick out at every breath. His hair is thin,
light, and smooth. His eyes are large, round,
and light gray, with a strikingly clear, rest-
less glance. All his features are sharp; his
small, half-opened mouth has pointed teeth
like fishes' teeth. He has a small, aquiline
nose, and his prominent chin is covered with
TWO BROTHERS.
79
light down. His thin lips have never once
smiled.
It is a regular, fear-inspiring, unsympa-
thetic face. (The other one's face, too, al-
though sweet and lovely to look at, expresses
no sympathy.) The head of the second is
hung about with scanty, empty ears of corn,
bound with withered grasses. A rough gray
garment covers his loins; his wings, which
are of a dull dark blue, move slowly and
threateningly.
The youths seem inseparable companions.
Each of them leans on the shoulder of the
other. The soft hand of the first lies like a
full bunch of grapes on the other's bony
shoulder, while the second one's hand with
its long, snake-like fingers rests on the rounder
breast of the other. . . . And I heard a voice
which said:
"Love and Hunger-two brothers, the
foundation pillars of all life, stand before
you.
"Every living thing struggles to feed it-
80
IN MEMORY OF 1. P. W.
self, and feeds itself in order to reproduce
itself.
"Love and Hunger- their aim is the same,
-preservation of life, of one's own life and
the life of others,
AUGUST, 1878.
the life of all."
IN MEMORY OF I. P. W.
ON dirty, damp, rotten straw, in the garret
of an old house, which had been hastily con-
verted into a field-hospital, in a deserted
Bulgarian village, — she lay dying of typhus
for two long weeks.
She had become unconscious, and the sur-
geons troubled themselves no longer about
her; but the sick soldiers, whom she had
tended as long as she could keep on her feet,
took turns in rising from their sick-beds to
moisten her parched lips with a few drops of
water.
IN MEMORY OF 1. P. W.
81
She was young and beautiful, known to the
upper ranks of society, and high dignitaries
had paid her attention. She was envied by
ladies and courted by gentlemen. . . . Two or
three men had loved her warmly and silently.
Life smiled upon her; but there are some
smiles that are worse than tears.
-
Such a gentle, loving heart, and such
strength, such self-sacrifice! She knew no
other happiness than to help the needy; she
knew no other, and learnt to know no other.
Every other joy passed by her unheeded. She
Her
had long become reconciled to this.
whole being was filled with the warmth of
an inextinguishable faith, and her life was
wholly devoted to the service of her fellow-
creatures.
What imperishable treasures lay buried in
the depths and secret places of her soul, no
one knew; and now no one will ever
know.
And why should they? . . . The sacrifice
is complete . . . her work is done.
82
THE EGOTIST.
But it is a sad thought that her body re-
ceived no single word of thanks, although she
modestly shunned all thanks.
May her lovely shadow not be annoyed by
this tardy blossom, which I venture to place
upon her grave.
SEPTEMBER, 1878.
THE EGOTIST.
He had all the qualities best calculated to
make him a scourge to his family.
He had been rich and healthy from his
birth, and rich and healthy he remained his
whole life through. He never allowed him-
self to be led astray, he had no failings, never
made a promise that he was not both able
and willing to keep, and never failed in what
he undertook.
His honesty was unimpeachable, and he
oppressed every one-relations, friends, ac-
-
THE EGOTIST.
83
quaintances with his proud consciousness
of this honesty.
His honesty was his capital, for which he
drew high interest. His honesty gave him
the right to be pitiless, and to refuse all favors
not prescribed by law. He stood on his
rights without pity or kindness; for kindness,
performed by rule, is no kindness.
He never looked out for any one except for
his own exemplary self, and he was extremely
exasperated if others did not take all care of
his own estimable personality.
With all this, he did not at all consider
himself an egotist; on the contrary, he was
very severe in his blame of egotism and
egotists — naturally! the egotism of others
interfered with his own egotism.
As he was conscious of having no weak
points himself, he neither understood nor ex-
cused weakness in others. In point of fact,
he understood no one and nothing; for he was
entirely, on all sides, above and below, before
and behind, hemmed in and surrounded by
self.
84
THE EGOTIST.
He had no comprehension of what forgive-
ness meant. He had never had occasion to
pardon anything in himself. How could he
know how to forgive others?
This monster of virtue raised his eyes to
the face of his God, before the bar of his own
conscience, and said with firm clear voice,
"Yes, I am a good, virtuous man."
Even on his deathbed will he repeat these
words, and feel no emotion in his heart of
stone, in his spotless, perfect heart.
Oh! the ugliness of self-satisfied, rigid,
cheap virtue, almost more loathsome than the
naked ugliness of vice.
DECEMBER, 1878.
85
THE SUPREME BEING'S BANQUET.
It once occurred to the Supreme Being to
give a banquet in his azure halls.
All the virtues were invited to it, — none but
the virtues,
so there were no men
only women.
•
Many of these were assembled there, great
and small. The smaller virtues were more
agreeable and amiable than the great; but all
seemed in good spirits, and conversed very
politely with one another, as beseemed such
near relations and acquaintances.
Then the Supreme Being noticed two beau-
tiful ladies, who did not seem to know each
other.
The host took one lady by the hand and led
her up to the other.
"Benevolence!" said he, pointing to the
first.
86
THE NYMPHS.
"Gratitude!" added he, introducing the
second to her.
Both virtues were much surprised to make
each other's acquaintance. For the first time
since the creation of the world, and that was
a great while ago, they now met face to face.
DECEMBER, 1878.
THE NYMPHS.
I was standing before a splendid, crescent-
shaped extended chain of mountains, which
were covered from top to bottom by a green
young wood.
The transparent blue of the southern sky
was above them, the sunbeams were playing
on their summits. Swift-running brooks, half
concealed in verdure, were murmuring below.
Then I remembered the old story of the
Greek ship, which in the first century after
the birth of Christ sailed the Ægean sea:-
THE NYMPHS.
87
It was high noon and the weather was
calm. Suddenly a voice sounded from above,
over the head of the steersman:
steersman: "When
you pass by the island, call with a loud voice,
'Great Pan is dead!' The steersman was
astonished and frightened. But when the
ship came by the island, he obeyed and
called out, "Great Pan is dead!" And at
once were heard, as if in answer to his call,
all along the shore of this uninhabited island,
loud sobbing, groaning, and moaning cries:
"He is dead, dead; great Pan is dead."
I was thinking of this
thought occurred to me.
to call out something?
legend, and a sudden
What if I too were
But in the presence of all the loveliness.
around, I could not think of death. I called
with all my might:-"He has risen; great
Pan has risen!'
And suddenly, a miracle! There echoed
immediately as if in answer to my call, along
the whole broad crescent of the green moun-
tains, a universal laugh and murmur and joy-
88
THE NYMPHS.
ous prattling. "He has risen; Pan has risen!"
cried youthful voices. All around me broke
out gay rejoicing, brighter than the sun over-
head, gayer than the brooks running under
the grass. Hasty steps approached; through
the green thicket shimmered alabaster white
garments and rosy bare limbs. They were
the nymphs! nymphs, dryads, bacchantes,
who hastened down from the heights into the
valleys.
All along the glades they suddenly ap-
peared, their godlike heads adorned with.
clustering curls; garlands and tambourines
in their hands; laughter, ringing Olympian
laughter, echoed and rolled down before
them.
First of all advances the goddess; she is
the stateliest, most beautiful of all-with
her quiver on her shoulder, her bow in her
hand, and the silver crescent moon on her
curls.
Diana! is it thou?
But suddenly the goddess stops, motion-
THE NYMPHS.
89
less. The nymphs follow her example. The
clear laughter dies away. In indescribable.
terror, with parted lips, she gazes with star-
tled eyes into the distance.
I turned to follow the direction of her gaze.
Across the fields, on the uttermost limit of
the horizon, shone like a fiery point the
golden cross on the white steeple of a Chris-
tian church. The goddess had seen this
cross.
I heard behind me a long trembling sigh,
like the trembling of a broken harp-string,
and when I again looked round, the nymphs
had vanished. The broad forest shone green
as before, and here and there, through the
thick tangle of the branches, shimmered and
faded a gleam of white. Was it the gar-
ments of the nymphs or the rising mist from
the valley, — I know not.
Yet how sorry I was for the vanished
goddess.
DECEMBER, 1878.
90
THE SPHINX.
YELLOWISH, gray, creaking sand, loose on
the surface, but firm underneath. . . . Sand
without end, wherever one looks.
And over this sandy desert, over this sea
of dead dust, arises the gigantic head of a
sphinx.
What do these thick, projecting lips wish
to say?-these broad, spreading nostrils,
and these eyes, these long, half-sleepy, half-
observant eyes, under the double curve of
their high brows?
They have indeed something to say! They
even say it; but Edipus alone can solve the
riddle, and understand its dumb speech.
Ah! . . . I recognize these features. They
have no longer anything Egyptian about
them. The low white brow, the prominent
cheek-bones, the short straight nose, the
THE SPHINX.
91
pretty mouthful of white teeth, the soft
moustache, and the curly beard on the chin.
. . . And these small eyes set wide apart,
this thick hair in the form of a cap, and parted
in the middle. ... There you are, Karp,
Sidor, Simon !
Little peasant from Jaroslaw, Riazan -
you, my countryman when did you turn
sphinx?
Or have you really anything to say? Yes,
you too are indeed a sphinx.
Your eyes, those colorless but deep eyes,
also speak, . . . and their expression, too, is
dumb and enigmatic.
But where is your Œdipus ?
Ah, it is not enough to put on the cap of
a Slavophile to be your Edipus, oh, you
old Russian Sphinx'
DECEMBER, 1878.
92
THE FRIEND AND THE ENEMY.
A PRISONER Condemned to lifelong confine-
ment escaped from his prison and took flight.
His pursuers were on his heels.
He ran with all speed and outstripped
them.
Suddenly he saw before him the steep bank
of a river, a narrow but deep river. He
could not swim.
One single rotten plank bridged it. The
fugitive had already his foot upon it. .
His best friend and his worst enemy hap-
pened to be there on the shore.
His enemy folded his arms, but said noth-
ing; the friend, on the other hand, called
out, "For Heaven's sake! what are you
doing? Don't you see that the board is
rotten? It will break under your weight,
and you will certainly drown!"
THE FRIEND AND THE ENEMY.
•
93
"But there is no other way of getting
across! . . . and my pursuers . . don't
you hear them?" groaned the wretched man
despairingly, and stepped upon the plank.
"I will not let you! No, you shall not go
to your ruin!" exclaimed the zealous friend,
pulling the board away from under the feet
of the fugitive, who was hurled into the rush-
ing waves and drowned.
The enemy laughed complacently and
went away; but the friend sat down on the
shore and wept bitterly for his poor, poor
friend.
It did not occur to him for a moment that
he could be to blame for his death.
He
"He would not take my advice!
would not take my advice," he whispered
sadly.
"At any rate," said he at last, “he would
have been forced to languish his whole life
long in that frightful prison. Now he is
freed from his sufferings! It is easier for
him so. It was his fate.
94
CHRIST.
""
But, humanly speaking, I am sorry all
the same!"
And the good soul sobbed, and was long
inconsolable over his friend's unhappy fate.
DECEMBER, 1878.
CHRIST.
ONCE when I was a lad, scarcely more than
a boy, I happened to be in a lovely village
church. The thin wax candles glowed like
red points before the pictures of the saints.
A rainbow-colored glow surrounded each
flame. It was dim and dark in the church,
but many people were there standing in front.
of me.
They were all brown-haired peasants' heads,
which moved up and down in a wave-like mo-
tion, rising and falling like ripe ears of wheat
when tossing in the summer wind.
Suddenly some one stepped in behind me,
and placed himself near me.
CHRIST.
95
I did not turn, but had nevertheless a feel-
ing that this man was Christ.
I was overcome by emotion, curiosity, and
fright all at once. I controlled myself, and
looked at my neighbors.
He had a countenance like other people's;
a countenance like any other man's face.
The eyes were looking softly and attentively
upward. The lips were closed, but not com-
pressed; the upper lip seemed to rest on the
lower. His beard was not long and was parted
at the chin. His hands were folded and mo-
tionless. Even his dress was like that of
others.
It
Can this be Christ? I thought, such an
unpretending, perfectly simple person?
is not possible.
I turned away, but, scarcely had I with-
drawn my glance from this plain man, when
it seemed to me that he who was standing by
me must really be Christ.
I looked at him once more, and again I
saw the same face that looked like the faces

96
THE STONE.
of all other men; the same every-day though
unfamiliar features.
At last I became uncomfortable, and col-
lected myself. Then it suddenly became clear
to me that Christ had really just such a com-
mon human face.
JUNE, 1878.
THE STONE.
HAVE you ever seen an old gray stone lying
on the shore of the ocean, where at high-tide
on a sunny day the pulsing waves wash up
around it, fawn upon it, caressingly embrace
it, and sprinkle its mossy bed with a plashing,
pearly shower?
The stone remains always the same, though
its dark surface shines in brighter colors.
These colors bear witness that once long
ago, when the liquid granite had scarcely be-
gun to cool, it glowed through and through
with fiery tints.
THE DOVES.
97
So was it too with my old heart, when a
short time since young womanly beings laid
siege to it from all sides; - beneath their
caressing touch the long-faded tints revived
and shone with their former glow.
The waves have ebbed... but the colors
have not wholly disappeared, although a sharp
wind is effacing them more and more.
MAY, 1879.
THE DOVES.
I STOOD on the top of a softly-swelling hill;
before me lay a field of rye, like an ocean
bright with silver and gold. There was no
motion of waves on this sea; the sultry air
was unstirred, — a mighty thunder-storm was
approaching.
Where I was the sun still shone warm; but
yonder, over the other side of the field, not
very far off, hung a dark-blue thunder-cloud,
like a monstrous burden over half the vault of
heaven.
98
THE DOVES.
•
•
Everything sought shelter everything
groaned beneath the ominous glow of the last
sunbeams. There was no bird in sight, none
uttered a note; even the sparrow had crept
away and hidden itself.
How strong was the perfume of the worm-
wood in the grove! I looked up at the dark
thunder-cloud, . . . and a feeling of unrest
took possession of my spirit. Now then
quick, quick! I thought. Gleam, golden ser-
pent; thunder, roll! Come up here, come on;
fling down your masses of water, grim clouds!
Shorten this terrible waiting!
Yet the storm-cloud stirred not. It only
weighed down as oppressively as ever upon
the silent earth, and seemed to pile itself ever
higher and grow yet darker.
Suddenly an object shone out, floating
lightly against the monotonous dark back-
ground of the cloud. It looked like a white
handkerchief or like a snow-ball; - it was a
white dove flying over from the village.
•
THE DOVES.
It flew and flew always straight ahead
at last it disappeared behind the wood.
99
A few moments went by; the same op-
pressive quiet still reigned. But look! Now
there are two little handkerchiefs, two snow-
balls, shining there and flying back, two white
doves taking their quiet flight homewards.
And now at last the storm broke loose, and
the dance began!
I had scarcely time to reach the house.
The wind whistled and roared mightily; low,
tawny, ragged clouds scurried by. All whirled
dizzily in mad confusion together: the mighty
pouring rain beat and rattled down in vertical
streams; the lightning flashed its blinding,
greenish fire; there was a smell of brimstone.
Under an overhanging roof, on the very
edge of the dormer window, sit two white
doves side by side, the one who flew out to
fetch his companion, and the other who was
perhaps saved by him.
Both are smoothing their feathers and
pressing close together.
L
100
TO-MORROW, TO-MORROW!
They are happy! and while I watch them
I am happy, although I am alone, — alone
as always.
MAY, 1879.
TO-MORROW, TO-MORROW!
How empty and dull, how insignificant is
almost every day that passes by me! How
few traces each one leaves behind it! How
meaningless are all these hours that pass one
after the other!
And yet, in spite of all, man wishes to live;
he values life, he hopes for something from
it, from himself, from the future.
what a rich blessing he expects from the
future!
Oh,
But why does he imagine that future days
will not be like the past?
He does not imagine it. He does not like
to think much about it; and there he is right.
NATURE.
ΙΟΙ
Well, to-morrow, to-morrow!" He com-
forts himself with this "to-morrow" until it
finally leads him to the grave.
And when one is once in one's grave -
then thought ceases of itself.
MAY, 1879.
NATURE.
ONCE I dreamed that I was in a great sub-
terranean, high-arched hall. The whole hall
was lit up by an equal light, which seemed to
come from beneath the earth.
In the middle of this hall sat the majestic
form of a woman, clothed in a loose green dress.
With her head supported in her hand, she
seemed sunk in profound thought.
I soon guessed that this woman must be
Nature herself; and a reverential fear, like a
sudden shiver, penetrated my soul.
I approached her, and greeting her respect-
fully, I cried: "O, Mother of us all! on what
102
NATURE.
are you meditating? Are you perhaps think-
ing of the future fate of mankind, or of the
long road that man must travel in order to
reach the greatest possible perfection— the
highest happiness?"
The woman slowly turned her dark, terrible
eyes, her lips moved, and with a thundering
metallic voice she spoke:
"I am considering how to give greater
strength to the muscles in a flea's, leg so that
it may escape more easily from its enemies.
The equilibrium between attack and defence
is lost, and must be restored."
"Wh-a-t?" stammered I, "is that what you
are thinking about? Are not we men then
your dearest, favorite children ?”
The woman frowned slightly, and said: “All
creatures are my children; I care equally for
you all, — and annihilate all without distinc-
tion."
"But virtue reason -- justice?" I stam-
mered again.
"Those are human words!" resounded the
"HANG HIM!"
103
brazen voice, "I recognize no good or bad;
reason is no law for me;
tice? I gave you life; I
and give it to others,
and what is jus-
take it from you
it
worms or men,
is all the same to me . but as for thee,
protect thyself for a while, and leave me in
peace."
I strove to answer, but the earth groaned
and trembled, and I awoke.
AUGUST, 1879.
"HANG HIM!"
It was in the year 1803, began my old
friend, not very long before Austerlitz. The
regiment in which I was an officer was sta-
tioned in Moravia.
We were strictly forbidden to molest or op-
press the inhabitants; nevertheless we were
looked upon with suspicion, although we were
allies.
104
"HANG HIM!”
I had for body-servant a fellow called Jegor,
a former serf of my mother's. He was an
honest, quiet fellow. I had known him all
his life, and treated him like a friend.
Now, one day there arose outcries and com-
plaints in the house in which I lodged. Some
one had stolen two hens from the woman of
the house, and she accused my servant of the
theft. He sought to defend himself and called
me to witness. . He, Jegor Avtamonov,
a thief? I assured the woman that he was
honest, but she would not listen to me.
Suddenly there was a tramp of horses in
the street. It was the Commander-in-chief,
who was passing with his staff.
He was riding by at a walk; a stout, thick-
set man, with his head bent and his epaulettes
hanging forward on his chest.
When the woman saw him she threw her-
self, with dishevelled hair, on her knees before
his horse, seized his stirrup, and complained
loudly of my man, whom she pointed out.
"General!" cried she, "your Honor!
"HANG HIM!"
105
Judge us! Defend us! Save us! This sol-
dier has robbed me."
Jegor stood on the threshold of the house as
straight as a ramrod, his chest out, his heels
together, his cap in his hand; but he uttered
not a word.
Whether Jegor was overawed by the sight
of all these generals who had stopped before
him in the middle of the street, or whether
he was petrified at the thought of his impend-
ing danger, I do not know: he stood stiffly
there, casting down his eyes, and as pale as a
sheet.
The Commander-in-chief glanced carelessly
and frowningly at him, and growled out,
"Well?" Jegor stood there stiff and motion-
less, showing his teeth like an idiot; one
might almost have thought he was laugh-
ing.
((
Then said the Commander-in-chief abruptly,
Hang him!" He spurred his horse and rode
on, first at a walk, then at a gentle trot, fol-
lowed by his whole staff. Only one adjutant.
106
"HANG HIM!"
turned in his saddle and glanced for an in-
stant at Jegor.
It was impossible to disregard such a com-
mand; Jegor was seized and led off to execu-
tion.
Then for the first time he shrank from
death, and called out earnestly once or twice:
"Lord God, help me!" and added, under
his breath, "As God is my witness, I did not
do it!"
He wept bitterly on taking leave of me.
I was in despair. "Jegor, Jegor!" I ex-
claimed, "why did n't you speak to the gene-
ral?"
"As God is my witness, it was not I who
did it," repeated the poor fellow, sobbing.
Even the woman herself was horrified. She
had not at all expected such a fearful result,
and she, on her part, began to cry and shriek;
wringing her hands, she begged each and
every one to have mercy, that she had found
her hens, that she would explain everything.
Of course all this led to no result. That is
WHAT SHALL I THINK ABOUT?
107
the way of war, my dear sir,-military disci-
pline! The woman sobbed terribly.
Jegor, who had already confessed to the
priest and partaken of the last communion,
turned to me: "Tell her, sir, that she must
not grieve so. I have already forgiven her."
My friend, when he had repeated these last
words of his servant, whispered, "My little
Jegor, my dear fellow, you good lad!" and
the tears ran down his cheeks.
AUGUST, 1879.
WHAT SHALL I THINK ABOUT?
WHAT shall I think about, when I am dy-
ing, - provided that I am in a condition to
think at all?
Shall I think I have made a poor use of my
life? That I have idled and dreamed it
away? That I have not known how to make
the most of its gifts?
What? Has death come already? So soon?
108
"HOW LOVELY AND FRESH
Impossible! ... I have really not had time to
do anything! I was just going to undertake...
Shall I think of the past?
Will my
thoughts be directed to the few bright mo-
ments I have had to beloved forms and
persons?
"HOW LOVELY AND FRESH THOSE
ROSES WERE!"
SOMEWHERE, sometime, long, long ago, I
read a poem, which I soon forgot. Only the
first line remained in my memory,—
"How lovely and fresh those roses were!"
Now it is winter; the window-panes are
covered with frost; a single lamp burns in
the dim chamber. I sit in the corner, and
there keeps running in my head,
"How lovely and fresh those roses were !
I see myself before the low window of a
Russian country-house. The summer day is
THOSE Roses WERE!"
109
sinking gently to rest and passing into night;
the soft air is filled with the fragrance of
mignonette and of the blooming lindens. On
the window-seat is sitting a girl supported by
her upraised arm, her head bending toward
her shoulder. She is gazing fixedly and si-
lently up into the sky as if watching for the
stars to come out. How full of feeling are
those dreamy eyes; how touchingly innocent
her half-opened, questioning lips; how quietly
rises and falls her girlish bosom as yet undis-
turbed by passion; and how pure and tender
is the outline of her youthful face! I do not
venture to address her; but how dear she is
to me, how my heart beats!
"How lovely and fresh those roses were!
In the room it grows ever darker . . . . the
lamp which has burnt low flickers, and fugi-
tive shadows tremble on the low ceiling. The
sharp frost creaks loudly outside the wall, and
I hear nothing but the sad whisper of old
age:
"How lovely and fresh those roses were!"
ΙΙΟ
"HOW LOVELY AND FRESH," ETC.
Other scenes from the past arise before me.
I hear the joyous bustle of family life. Two
little brown curly heads, pressed one against
the other, look me in the face with their
roguish eyes; their rosy cheeks dimple with.
suppressed laughter; their hands are clasped
lovingly together; the caressing youthful
voices mingle joyously, and in the background
of the cosy old room young uncertain fingers
wander over the keys of a worn-out old piano-
forte, and do not succeed in drowning the
humming of the samovar in the notes of the
Lanner valse!
"How lovely and fresh those roses were!'
""
The lamp goes out and it is dark.
Who is that coughing there so hoarsely?
Rolled up at my feet lies my only companion,
the old dog, shivering and starting in his
sleep. I am cold . . . all, all are dead,
all dead!
"How lovely and fresh those roses were!"
September, 1879.
•
III
A TRIP BY SEA.
I CROSSED in a little steamer from Ham-
burg to London. There were two of us pas-
sengers, -I and a little ape, a little female
uistiti, which a Hamburg merchant was send-
ing as a present to his English partner.
The little animal was fastened by a slender
chain to a bench on the deck, and it twitched
at its chain and peeped complainingly like a
bird.
Every time I passed, it stretched out to me
its cold black hand, and looked fixedly at me
with its sad, almost human, eyes. I took its
hand, and it stopped peeping and twitching.
There came a calm. The sea lay before us
like a motionless leaden sheet. It did not
seem vast; for it was hemmed in by a thick
fog, which even hid the top of the masts and
wearied our eyes by its impenetrability. The
II2
A TRIP BY SEA.
sun hung like a dull red spot in the dark mist ;
but toward evening it brightened and spread
over the heaven a mysterious, ominous, red
glow.
Long straight folds, like folds of heavy silk,
extended downward from the prow and spread
apart, curled up, and smoothed themselves
out again, at last disappearing in ripples.
The whirling foam bubbled up like milk
beneath the monotonously plunging wheels,
spreading apart, then flowing together in
snake-like jets, again to disappear and be
swallowed up by the thick fog.
The ding-dong of the little bell at the stern
sounded carelessly and complainingly; it was
as wearing as the squeaking of the ape.
Here and there arose a seal, but to disap-
pear again, plunging headlong under the
slightly rippled surface.
The captain, a silent man, with a dark sun-
burnt face, smoked his short pipe, and spat
moodily into the motionless sea.
He only answered my questions by a short
A TRIP BY SEA.
113
growl, so that I was, in spite of myself, thrown
for companionship on my only fellow-voyager,
the ape.
I sat down by it, it ceased its peeping, and
again held its hand out to me.
The perpetual fog veiled us in its dreamy
circle of mist. We sat side by side like two
relations, alike in unconscious meditation.
Now, I smile at this . . . then, I felt dif-
ferently.
We are all the children of one mother;
and it was pleasant to me to see the poor
little animal grow trustfully quiet, and lean up
against me like a friend.
NOVEMBER, 1879.
114
N. N.
HARMONIOUSLY and quietly, without tears
as without smiles, you pass through life, unat-
tached by the commonest ties.
You are good and wise . . . but you are
remote from all, and depend on none.
You are beautiful, and no one can accuse
you of setting any store by your beauty. You
are unsympathetic yourself, and you ask for
nobody's sympathy.
Your eyes are deep but not meditative; in
their clear depth is emptiness.
Such harmonious shadows as you wander
in the Elysian fields to the sublime notes of
Gluck's melodies, joyless and sorrowless.
NOVEMBER, 1879.
115
STOP!
STOP! As I see you now, remain forever
in my memory. From your lips has escaped
the last inspired tone. Your glance does
not beam and sparkle; it is dim, overcome
by the blessed consciousness of that beauty
which it has been given to you to express
. . . of that beauty towards which you seem
to hold out triumphant yet weary arms.
What a gleam-tenderer and purer than
the light of the sunlights up your whole
form, even the least fold of your garments!
What god's caressing breath has thrown
back your loose curls?
His kisses burn yet on your white alabaster
brow. See, there is manifest the mystery of
poetry, of life, of love! See immortality
there! There is no need of any other. For
this moment you are immortal! This mo-
116
THE MONK.
ment will pass away, and you will become
again a pinch of ashes, a woman, a child.
But what matters it to you? For this
one moment you are higher, more sublime
than all things mortal, changeable. For this
moment you are immortal.
Stop, and let me share your immortality;
let fall into my soul a beam of your eternal
beauty!
NOVEMBER, 1879.
THE MONK.
I KNEW a monk, —a hermit, a holy man.
He lived only for the delights of prayer, and,
intoxicated by it, he would stand so long on
the cold floor of the church that his legs.
would swell from the knees downward, and
become like stone pillars. They lost all feel-
ing, while he stood there and prayed.
I understood him, even envied, him per-
haps; but he ought to understand me too,
LET'S KEEP A GOOD HEART.
117
and not despise one to whom his joys are
unattainable.
He has succeeded in annihilating his hated
self; but if I cannot pray, it is not from ego-
tism!
My self is perhaps more burdensome and
hateful to me than his to him.
He has found a means of forgetting him-
self; but I too find forgetfulness of self some-
times, if not always.
He is no hypocrite- but neither am I.
NOVEMBER, 1879.
LET'S KEEP A GOOD HEART.
WHAT an unimportant trifle may often
change the course of a man's life!
Once I was going thoughtfully along the
highway.
My soul was weighed down by heavy fore-
bodings. I was overcome with despondency.
118
LET'S KEEP A GOOD HEART.
I raised my head . . . straight before me
ran the road between two stiff rows of pop-
lars. And across the road, about ten paces
in front of me, were hopping in single file a
family of sparrows, full of life, merriment and
courage.
One, in particular, distinguished himself
by his bold, sideways hopping; he stuck out
his little breast, and twittered as bravely as if
he did not fear the devil himself. A true
conqueror !
Meanwhile, a hawk circled overhead, whose
destiny it was, perhaps, to devour this very
hero.
I looked, was forced to laugh, and regained
my self-possession. My gloomy thoughts had
vanished; I felt again courage, energy, and
life.
A hawk may be circling over me; but the
devil take it! — let's keep a good heart!
November, 1879.
119
PRAYER.
WHATEVER a man may pray for, he prays.
for a miracle. Every prayer comes to this:
"Great God, let twice two not make four."
Only such a prayer is a real prayer, face to
face. To pray to the Spirit of the universe,
to the Supreme Being, - to the abstract, un-
real god of Kant or Hegel, — is impossible,
unthinkable.
But can a personal, living, imaginable God
make twice two other than four ?
"Yes.
Every true believer must answer,
He can." And he is obliged to convince
himself of it.
But what if his reason rebels against such
nonsense?
Then Shakspere comes to his aid: “There
are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."
But if you seek to controvert him in the
120
THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE.
name of truth? He has merely to repeat
the well-known question, "What is truth?"
And so, let us eat, drink, and be merry,-
and pray.
JULY, 1881
THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE.
In these days of doubt, in these days of
painful brooding over the fate of my country,
you alone are my rod and my staff, O great,
mighty, true, and free Russian language! If
it were not for you, how could one keep from
despairing at the sight of what is going on at
home? But it is inconceivable that such a
language should not belong to a great people.
JUNE, 1882.
THE CATALOGUE
OF THE

ART DEPARTMENT
OF THE
MANUFACTURERS AND MECHANICS INSTITUTE,
BOSTON, MASS.
1883
Is the most magnificent effort yet made in this country to place
before the public, in a single, compact volume, the results that to this
date have been reached in American Art. It excels all catalogues of
Art that have been produced either in this country or in Europe, and
is designed to serve many other purposes than the one that was the
immediate occasion of its production. It was planned and executed
with immense pains, and absolutely regardless of cost, by John M.
Little, the Chairman, and Frank T. Robinson, the Art Director, of the
Exposition, solely in the interests of the Art and the Art-industries
of this country. One motive pervades the whole book, and finds
enthusiastic expression in its every page; namely, to produce a
work which for practical value and importance should be attractive
alike to artists, designers, photographers, printers, manufacturers,
indeed to all whose professions and livelihoods are allied with Art
and Art-progress.
It is a large quarto of 300 pages, printed at the Art Age Press of
Arthur B. Turnure, New York, who has succeeded in making it, in
point of paper, printing, and style, an ideal-instance of the typog-
raphy and bibliopegy of the nineteenth century. It contains 63
full-page illustrations, all of which have been judiciously selected
from the most notable works of the best American artists; and, as
produced here, are intended to show the facilities possessed of
artistic illustration and the effectiveness of reproductive methods in
the Art-world.
ORIGINAL ETCHINGS
Of surpassing beauty have been contributed by the following dis
tinguished artists, as well as by others:
Stephen Parish,
Thomas Moran,
C. A. Platt,
Charles Volkmar,
B. Lander,
J. C. Nicoll,
A. H. Bicknell,
R. C. Miner,
C. I. Ritchie,
William Hart,
J. A. S. Monks,
George L. Brown,
W. F. Lansil.
FULL-PAGE DRAWINGS
Appear by these, among other well-known names:-
Carroll Beckwith,
R. Bunner,
Thomas Robinson,
C. D. Hunt,
Bruce Crane,
E. H. Blashfield,
R. W. Van Boskerck,
R. M. Shurtleff,
Carl Chapman,
R. H. Burleigh,
F. Batchellor,
W. A. Coffin,
F. Childe Hassam,
F. M. Boggs,
Granville Perkins,
J. Wagner,
C. W. Sanderson,
E. M. Parmenter,
Leo Hunter,
T. Winthrop Pierce,
Julia Dabney,
H. M. Knowlton,
Eleanor Matlock.
All persons interested in the historical development, present
position, and the prospects of the young American Art School, will
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The quality and interest of the text is seen from a glance at the
SUBJECTS AND CONTRIBUTORS:
Photography, Edward A. Robinson.
American Art Furniture, A. Curtis Bond.
The Growth of American Art, James Jackson Jarves.
Journalism and Art, M. G. Van Rensselaer.
Portrait Painting, Sidney Dickenson.
eler.
Native Painters, Charles DeKay.
American Flower Painters, C. Wheeler.
Etchings, S. R. Koehler.
Landscape Art, William Howe Downes.
Watercolor Painting, Lyman H. Weeks.
American Wood Engraving, Ario Bates.
Color in Works of Art, R. Riordan.
The Ideal in American Art, Florence Finch.
American Art Journalism, James B. Townsend.
Success in Art, F. T. Lent.
The Art Tariff, L. C. Knight.
Memorial Art, E. H. Silsbee.
What shall American Artists Paint? E. H. Clement.
The Present Conditions of American Art, Arthur B. Turnure.
American Stained Glass, Edward Dewson.
Women as Art Critics, Lillian Whiting.
The book has been produced at the large outlay of $12,000; yet it is
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The Publishers reserve to themselves the right of increasing the
price after a certain number of copies have been sold.
CUPPLES, UPHAM & CO., Publishers,
283 Washington Street, BOSTON.
** Mailed to any address on receipt of $3.25, postage paid.
THE STORY OF IDA.
By FRANCESCA.
WITH A FINE PORTRAIT FRONTISpiece, anD AN INTRODUCTION
BY JOHN RUSKIN, D.C.L.
I vol. 16mo. Gray cloth and gilt. Price, 75 cts.
THIS
HIS reprint of a little book which has been very popular in England is meet-
ing with a warm welcome throughout the country. Its popularity is due
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first place, by Mr. Ruskin in his lectures at Oxford, and in the preface to the
book. The pseudonym, "Francesca," is only a slight change of the Christian
name of Miss Frances Alexander, a lady artist of Boston, now living in Florence.
The great merit of her paintings won her the friendship of Mr. Ruskin, at whose
urgent request "The Story of Ida"-written originally as a private memorial —
was published. In his preface Mr. Ruskin says:-
"Let it be noted with thankful reverence that this is the story of a Catholic
girl, written by a Protestant one, yet the two of them so united in the truth of
Christian faith, and in the joy of its love, that they are absolutely unconscious
of any difference in the forms or letter of their religion."
66 6
BUFFALO
-ne Story of Ida' is a perfect gem of simple, unadorned narrative, and
the volume is a dainty little specimen of the bookmaker's art."
EXPRESS.
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"The story is beautiful and touching in its simplicity, purity, and pathos, and
is absolutely true in every particular." — TROY TIMES.
For sale by all booksellers, or mailed, postage paid on receipt of the price,
by the publishers,
CUPPLES, UPHAM AND COMPANY,
283 Washington Street, Boston.
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