He picks out as his three "worthiest and most excellent men," Homer, Alexander the Great and Epaminondas. In one of his latest chapters he lashes the physicians in no uncertain tones: "The most ignorant and bungling horseleech is fitter for a man that hath confidence in him than the skilfullest and learnedest physitian. The very choyce of most of their drugges is somewhat mysterious and divine." This attack is obviously induced by his own troublous complaint of stone-colic. "I am growne elder by seven or eight yeares since I beganne these essays; nor hath it beene without some new purchase. I have by the liberality of years acquainted my selfe with the stone-chollike." And he ends the book with a letter _To my Lady of Duras_: "My study and endevour to doe, and not to write.... I am a lesse maker of bookes then of anything else.

Whosoever hath any worth in him, let him shew it in his behaviour, maners and ordinary discourses: be it to treat of love or of quarrels; of sport and play or bed-matters, at board or elsewhere ... those whom I see make good bookes, having tattered hosen and ragged clothes on, had they believed me they should first have gotten themselves good clothes."

This is perhaps a good note to part company with him on. There is really no limit to the number of quotations that one could cull to give a picture of this most lovable man. I have tried to do what he would have wanted me to do, describe him by letting him describe himself. For it is the man's own personality that we want to dig into when we read Montaigne's _Essays_, not the mult.i.tudinous anecdotes, not the splendid apophthegms which have become household proverbs, not the philosophy. He is the most human man who ever wrote a book, and the highest praise we can give him is that which would also please him most. He succeeded in writing the most human book that has ever been written. And we love him not least of all for his very vices.

Listen to Sainte-Beuve's praise of him: "There is something for every age, for every hour of life: you cannot read in it for any time without having the mind filled and lined as it were, or, to put it better, fully armed and clothed."

II

NEKRa.s.sOV (1821-1877)

Nekra.s.sov was the poet of the proletariat, of suffering in general and of Russian woman's suffering in particular, but denouncing rather than sentimental, a realist from start to finish. He followed in the direct succession of Gogol as an apostle of a "To-the-People" movement.

For the first time in Russian poetry we read in his work of the life stories of cabmen, carters, gardeners, printers, sweating journalists, soldiers, hawkers, prost.i.tutes, convicts and peasants, descriptions of street scenes, fires, funerals, tragic weddings, cruel dissipations, vulgarity, plat.i.tudes of town life, and so on.

He was as interested in the common life of the people as a newspaper reporter, as satiric in his outlook as Byron and Burns; with Dostoievsky his pa.s.sion for Russia connoted unbearable suffering: he is pellucidly clear and writes down what he sees without moralising.

He was a member of an aristocratic family which had fallen on evil days at the time of his birth. His early education was in the hands of a devoted Polish mother. When later he developed a turn for satiric verse at school he was requested to leave and went to Petrograd at the age of fifteen. On threepence three farthings per day, which had to be shared with another young man and his boy-serf, he managed just to exist, but he nearly died of starvation. He sought for work of any kind and in the meanwhile learnt much of low life that was afterwards to prove of inestimable value to him. His wit and general brightness of manner brought him to the notice of the well-to-do and lazy, and among them too he found valuable copy. He then attempted to gain a living as a journalist and among his mult.i.tudinous duties managed to spare a little time for the pursuit of his own art. He became the editor of _The Contemporary_, and spent twenty years of hard, continuous work in attempting to attract the best literary giants of his day to write for it.

In 1866 his first volume was published and met with instantaneous recognition, which deeply touched him, though he was always a severe critic of his own work.

"Thou hast none of poetry's light freedom, My severe and clumsy, rustic verse."

After the publication of these, his best poems, his health gave way, and he spent much time on his brother's estate, where he got to know the peasantry intimately. Owing to his geniality, honesty and common sense the country people felt quite at home with him and did not mind recounting all their experiences to him. Consequently his peasant stories have a genuine ring about them that is unmistakable. He died in Petrograd in 1877, hard-worked to the end. He was a true representative of the best Russian Intelligentzia: not an extremist, but responsive (like Dostoievsky) at once to all suffering. His most famous poem, _Who Can be Happy and Free in Russia?_ is the only one that I can attempt to deal with at any length here, but from it one may gauge the humanity and interest-rousing qualities of the poet.

It begins by the chance meeting of seven peasants on a country roadway.

They immediately begin to argue over the question of who in Russia is happy and free.

"Luka cries, 'The Pope,'

And Roman, 'the Pomyeschick.'

And Prov shouts, 'The Tsar,'

And Demyan, 'The official.'

'The round-bellied merchant,'

Bawl both brothers Goobin, Mitrdor and van.

Pakhm shrieks, 'His Lordship, His most mighty Highness, The Tsar's chief adviser.'"

Unable to settle the question among themselves, they begin to fight. At last, with their ribs aching, they come to their senses, drink some water from a pool, wash in it and lie down to rest. A little bird, thankful to one of them for having shown pity to her little one, gives them a fantastic tablecloth "that would bedeck itself with food and drink."

"'Go straight down the road, Count the poles until thirty; Then enter the forest And walk for a verst.

By then you'll have come To a smooth little lawn With two pine-trees upon it.

Beneath these two pine-trees Lies buried a casket Which you must discover.

The casket is magic, And in it there lies An enchanted white napkin.

Whenever you wish it This napkin will serve you With food and with vodka: You need but say softly, "O napkin enchanted, Give food to the peasants."

But one thing remember: Food, summon at pleasure As much as you fancy, But vodka, no more Than a bucket a day.

If once, even twice You neglect my injunction Your wish shall be granted; The third time, take warning: Misfortune will follow.'"

They first meet the pope, or village priest, and ask him whether he is not the happiest man in Russia, to which he replies:

"'Of whom do you make Little scandalous stories?

Of whom do you sing Rhymes and songs most indecent?

The pope's honoured wife, And his innocent daughters, Come, how do you treat them?

At whom do you shout Ho, ho, ho in derision When once you are past him?'

The peasants cast downwards Their eyes and keep silent...."

There follows a description of scenery, a charming lyric which I cannot forbear from quoting:

"The cloudlets in springtime Play round the great sun Like small grandchildren frisking Around a hale grandsire, And now, on his right side A bright little cloud Has grown suddenly dismal, Begins to shed tears.

The grey thread is hanging In rows to the earth, While the red sun is laughing And beaming upon it Through torn fleecy clouds, Like a merry young girl Peeping out from the corn."

The priest goes on to sketch the sort of life he is condemned to lead and concludes on this note:

"'At times you are sent for To pray by the dying, But Death is not really The awful thing present, But rather the living,-- The family losing Their only support.

You pray by the dead, Words of comfort you utter, To calm the bereaved ones; And then the old mother Comes tottering towards you, And stretching her bony And toil-blistered hand out; You feel your heart sicken, For there in the palm Lie the precious bra.s.s farthings.

Of course it is only The price of your praying.

You take it, because It is what you must live on; Your words of condolence Are frozen, and blindly, Like one deeply insulted, You make your way homeward.'"

In chapter two we are taken to the village fair.

"The spring sun is playing On heads hot and drunken, On boisterous revels, On bright mixing colours; The men wear wide breeches Of corduroy velvet, With gaudy striped waistcoats And shirts of all colours; The women wear scarlet; The girls' plaited tresses Are decked with bright ribbons; They glide about proudly, Like swans on the water."

In chapter three, "The Drunken Night," occurs the exquisite metaphor:

"The moon is in Heaven, And G.o.d is commencing To write His great letter Of gold on blue velvet....

Then suddenly singing Is heard in a chorus Harmonious and bold, A row of young fellows, Half drunk, but not falling, Come staggering onwards, All l.u.s.tily singing: They sing of the Volga, The daring of youths And the beauty of maidens ...

A hush falls all over The road, and it listens: And only the singing Is heard, sweet and tuneful, Like wind-ruffled corn."

They then accost the pomyeschick (the landowner) and inquire of him whether he is not the happiest of all the Russians, to which he answers:

"'The joy and the beauty, The pride of all Russia-- The Lord's holy churches-- Which brighten the hill-sides And gleam like great jewels On the slopes of the valleys, Were rivalled by one thing In glory, and that Was the n.o.bleman's manor.

Adjoining the manor Were gla.s.s-houses sparkling, And bright Chinese arbours, While parks spread around it.

On each of the buildings Gay banners displaying Their radiant colours, And beckoning softly, Invited the guest To partake of the pleasures Of rich hospitality.

Never did Frenchmen In dreams even picture Such sumptuous revels As we used to hold.

Not only for one day, Or two, did they last-- But for two months together!

We fattened great turkeys, We brewed our own liquors, We kept our own actors, And troupes of musicians, And legions of servants!

Why, I kept five cooks, Besides pastry-cooks, working, Two blacksmiths, three carpenters, Eighteen musicians, And twenty-one-huntsmen ...

My G.o.d ...'

The afflicted Pomyeschick broke down here, And hastened to bury His face in the cushion....

[And now--] 'What has happened?

When in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are pa.s.sing A n.o.bleman's manor!

The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it.'"

Part II. deals charmingly with the story of the last pomyeschick: