I am the lord of understanding And freedom: I am Nature's foe, The world's despair, and Heaven's woe.

Yet at thy feet I worship thee!...

I love thee: I'm thy slave to-day....

What is eternity without thee?

My boundless realm, when I am lonely?'"

Tamara then asks him why he loves her, to which he replies:

"'Why do I, fair? I do not know.

Since first the earthly world began, In my mind's eye imprinted ever Thine image seemed to fill the ether, And through eternity it ran.

In Paradise the glorious years Were lacking only thy creation.

Oh, if thou couldst but comprehend The bitterness of my existence Through dreary ages' dread consistence....

Oft through the rack and tempest raging, I rushed at midnight levin-clad, In fruitless hope of e'er a.s.suaging My aching heart's revolt and dread, To kill the pain of mind's regret, The ne'er forgotten to forget.'"

Tamara is gradually won to listen to his pa.s.sionate pleading.

"'Whoe'er thou art, my friend so mystic, I list to thee against my will.

I know my peace is lost for ever; But thou art suffering, and never I could forget thee suffering still.

But if thy words are false and cunning, But if thou plannest a deceit ...

Have mercy. What's to thee this conquest?

What counts my soul in thy conceit?

Oh, give thy oath, thy sacred vow: Thou seest--I fail and suffer now-- Thou seest a woman's tender dreams!...

But fear grows less ... To me it seems Thou understand'st and knowest all....

Swear on thy oath, give me a token That sin and wrong thou wilt renounce.'"

The Demon vows fidelity:

"'I swear by dawn of the creation, By the decay of earthly sooth, By the disgrace of crime and evil, And by the triumph of the truth.

I swear by flashing hopes of conquest, I swear by bitter pains of fall, I swear by having met with thee, And by the threat of losing all; ...

I swear by h.e.l.l, I swear by Heaven, I swear by sacredness, by thee, Thy latest look my soul enslaving, Thy first and guileless tear for me; By breath from lips so pure and ireless, Thy silky tresses' wave and shine, I swear by suffering, elation, And by my love for thee, divine....

But here's my offer; all my power I bring to thee, my sanctuary!

I seek thy love, I need its blessing; Thou wilt obtain eternity For one short moment. Trust my greatness In love, and wrath, and equity.

I, free and wilful Son of Ether, Shall take thee high above the stars, And thou shalt be the Queen of Nature, My foremost love, eternal treasure, Whom nothing equals or debars!...

Crowds of ethereal fairy-maidens Will wait, thy every wish to meet.

The crown which Evening Star is wearing I'll tear from her, and crown thy head; I'll take the dew from evening flowers To shine on it in diamonds' stead; I'll take a sunset ray of scarlet, And gird thee with its ribbon light; I'll saturate the air around thee With purest fragrance of the night.

A never-dying magic music Will charm thine ears by fall and swell.

I'll build a palace out of turquoise And pearls and gold for thee to dwell; I'll search for thee the depth of ocean; I'll get all riches from the stars; I'll give thee every earthly treasure-- But love me ...'

Closely o'er her bending, He gently touched Tamara's trembling Lips with his lips burning like fire, Words overwhelming with temptation Were to her pleading his reply....

The evil spirit was the victor ...

But poison of his touch inflicted A fatal blow on child-like breast, An agonising shriek, through rest And silence of the hour, broke ..."

The guardian angel returns and banishes the Demon.

"Then at the spirit of Temptation An austere glance the Angel bent: The conquered Demon cursed his longings, His maddening dreams where love had shone; And once again he stood relentless, In scornful arrogance, and dauntless, Amidst the Universe--alone."

Comment on such a poem is needless. I have done my part if I have induced you by my brief extracts to go back to the original and read the whole of it for yourselves.

V

GOGOL (1809-1852)

Nicholas Gogol was born in 1809 near Poltava and brought up in affluence by a Cossack grandmother: at school he did but little work, but devoted himself with enthusiasm to drawing and the theatre. In 1829 he obtained a Government office in Petrograd. He then tried the stage, schoolmastering, and obtained a Professorship of History; failing in all these, he turned to literature. His first fruits brought him to the notice of the famous literary men of his day, and he became a friend of Pushkin, who proved invaluable as critic and adviser.

For seven years he lived in Petrograd, and during this period began his sketches of Little Russian--that is, of South Russian--life in _Evenings on a Farm on the Dikanka_ and _Mirgorod_. Little Russia differs from Great Russia in having scattered whitewashed houses in place of the regular streets of the villages of Great Russia: separate little farms surrounded by charming little gardens. It is specially attractive in its more genial climate, warm nights, its musical language, the beauty of its people, their picturesque dress and its lyrical songs. There is, too, more freedom in the relations between young men and young girls; there is none of that seclusion of the women which we meet with in Great Russia. The Little Russians have also preserved numerous traditions and epic poems from the time when they were free Cossacks, fighting against the Poles in the north and the Turks in the south. In Gogol we see a merging of the Great and the Little, for though Little by birth and breeding, he yet wrote in the language of Pushkin and Lermontov. From his very first days we feel the richness of his laughter and the whimsical, Puck-like vein of wit which is characteristically Little Russian. It was only later that we feel the unseen tears behind the laughter.

In these we find that quality which we immediately a.s.sociate with his name, a realism based upon meticulous observation, but merged into it and permeating his whole work is an eerie romanticism, a delight in the supernatural and a deep religious vein which afterwards dominated all the other qualities. His humour is rich and many-sided, ranging from the broad and farcical to a delicate and half melancholy, and later to an almost Swiftean irony.

Right from the beginning we plunge into an atmosphere that brings us at a bound into the very heart of Russia as no other writer has been able to do. In his first stories we hear of water-nymphs, the devil, witches, magicians; in the second, _Mirgorod_, we find him feeling his way towards realism. _The Quarrel of the Two Ivans_ is simply the story of two friends who quarrel over nothing and are just on the point of reconciliation, years after, when the mere mention of the word "goose,"

which was the prime cause of the quarrel, sets them off again, this time irrevocably. It is in this volume that we come across _Taras Bulba_, now published in the Everyman Edition, a short historical novel in which Cossack life is inimitably set down.

Later in _Arabesques_ and the _Tales_ he leaves the supernatural altogether, and we get such a story as _The Overcoat_, in which a minor public servant who is always shivering dreams of the day when he can achieve his ambition of owning a warm overcoat. After years of poverty and striving he manages to save enough money to buy one, and on the first day he wears it it is stolen. He dies of melancholia, and his ghost haunts the streets. It sets one thinking at once of that host of failures which exercise so queer a fascination over all later Russian novelists, particularly Dostoievsky.

Interspersed between the stories came the plays. One has to remember in this connection the exceptionally severe censorship of the stage. It is a matter of no little surprise to us on reading _The Inspector-General_ to think that such a play should ever have been licensed in such a country. The plot was suggested to Gogol by Pushkin. The officials of an obscure country town hear the startling news that a Government Inspector is arriving incognito to investigate their affairs. An ordinary traveller from Petrograd--an intrepid liar--is mistaken for the Inspector and plays up to his part until the arrival of the real one, when he manages to effect his escape.

As a satire on Russian bureaucracy the play has no rival: nearly every character is dishonest, and it is a delight to see them all taken in by the empty-headed hero with his fluent lying. Of all plays which can count on drawing big houses at holiday-time in Russia this stands easily first. It became a cla.s.sic as soon as it was produced and it is as irresistible in its appeal now as it was when it was written.

Gogol now left Russia and settled in Rome, never to return to his native country.

It was here that he produced his masterpiece, _Dead Souls_, the great comic work of all Russia. Again it was Pushkin who gave him the idea.

The hero of the book, Chichikov, conceives a brilliant idea. Every landlord possessed so many serfs, called "souls." Every ten years a revision took place and the landlord had to pay poll-tax on all the "souls" who had died in that period. Between the periods no one inspected the lists. Chichikov's idea was to take over the dead souls from the landlord, who would, of course, be delighted to get out of the tax by this means; Chichikov would then register his purchases and then mortgage the souls at the rate of three hundred roubles each at a bank in Petrograd or Moscow, representing that they were in some corner of the Crimea, and so make enough money to buy live "souls" of his own.

The book is simply the odyssey of Chichikov all over Russia in his search for these souls: it gives infinite scope to the author, for he can bring in every type of man and woman that he knows. The book was to be divided into three parts, the first of which appeared in 1842: he went on working at the other two parts until 1852, when he died. He twice threw the second part of his work into the fire when it was finished, so we are left with a complete first part and an incomplete second. The third part was probably only sketched. In the second part he meant to show us the moral regeneration of Chichikov: apparently he could not bring himself to believe that he had done this adequately, and he came to be more and more of an ascetic and a recluse as the years pa.s.sed.

So here once more we get that extraordinary "break" in mid-flight which is so peculiar a characteristic of all Russian writers.

The book made an immediate and lasting impression upon the country. It pleased some by its reality, its artistry and its social ideas; it pleased the Slavophils by its truth to life and its smell of Russia.

When Gogol read the first chapter to his master, Pushkin, the latter remarked: "G.o.d! what a sad country Russia is!"--a queer comment, you may think, for the most humorous book that Russia has produced. But the truth is that, comic as the best chapters are, Gogol refuses to flatter either his country or the people who inhabit it, and in Chichikov, just as in Oblmov, most readers find themselves wondering whether after all there is not a good deal of the character there portrayed in themselves, some such scoundrelly ideas, at any rate in embryo. But Chichikov is so shameless, so entertaining, so magnificent a liar, so plausible, so ingenious, in a word, so Falstaffian that he enchants us all. He is always human and the least of a hypocrite imaginable.

In fact Gogol goes further than most satirists in other countries and having laid bare his baseness, turns round and tells us that we have no cause to be angry with him: Chichikov is, after all, only the victim of circ.u.mstances, of the ruling pa.s.sion of gain: like all his countrymen, he is indulgent and charitable: he cannot be brought to condemn. He sees the mean and the common, but he does not conclude from that that life is either of these. Rather does he infer the opposite. Chichikov is great just as Napoleon was great, the victim of a ruling pa.s.sion and great by reason of it. Our minds immediately turn to Dostoievsky once more, to _Crime and Punishment_, where the chief character tries to be the victim of a ruling pa.s.sion, not this time of rascality, but fails.

_Dead Souls_ is not unlike _Don Quixote_. It has the same depth: it makes boys laugh, young men think and old men weep.

Its influence was as great on its merits taken as a work of art as on its other sides of philosophy and ideas. Gogol for ever liberated fiction from the grand style. By writing a novel without any love interest, with such a rascal as Chichikov for hero, he created Russian realism. There is no exaggeration, no caricature; there is the instinctive economy, the sense of selection of the true artist.

Just as Pushkin showed his countrymen that there was such a thing as Russian landscape, so Gogol showed them what an inexhaustible mine of humour, absurdity, irony and quaintness lay in the ordinary life of ordinary people.

In 1847 _Pa.s.sages from a Correspondence with a Friend_ was published, which changed the opinions of many of his followers from worship to disgust, for he there preached a lesson of abject humility and submission to the Government in matters both temporal and spiritual.

He had shown up the evils of Bureaucracy, his enemies said, therefore it was inconsistent in him not to resist the powers, but he had shown up the evils of misers, the obstinacy of old women, and many other things: he had never pretended to be a Liberal.

His bent lay in the direction of devotion: he made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, spending all his money in charity and his time in religious study. There are those who lament that by reason of this we have lost much rich humour, but it may at least be open to question whether we should have possessed so rich a legacy as he has left us had it not been for that very intensity of feeling which caused him to renounce his art, an art which he looked upon as a torch-bearer indicating a higher ideal of living.

While others expended their energies in spreading political ideals in their novels, Gogol was content to give the social element in Russian its prominent and dominating position. He is the living proof, if proof were needed, that realism does not connote a mere anatomy of society, a dwelling upon revolting details, a love of defying convention by fluttering over cesspools and bringing to light, the hidden lower things of life. True Realism does not mean Zola, but Gogol--an all-round view of humanity as it is not seen through the smoked gla.s.ses of the romancer nor the microscope of the moral scientist.