The Complete Poems of Tyutchev In An English Translation by F.Jude

Nature, Love And Politics

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Copyright (c) F. Jude
Durham, 2000
Email: baikal2003@yahoo.co.uk
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DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to Dr. R. Lane of the University of Durham for
sharing with me his great expertise and for his encouragement, to my wife,
Viv, and stepsons, Richard and Matthew, for being so patient, to a warm and
good person, Julian Marko, who died on February 28th. 1994, for his genuine
friendship, and to my father, Hugh, for many reasons.

Imperturbable form is the outward sign
of nature's utter consonance.
Only our spectral liberty
imparts a sense of dissonance.

Whence this disharmony? How did it arise?
In the general chorus, why this solo refrain?
Why do our souls not sing like the sea
and why must the thinking reed complain?
(The sea is harmony. F. Tyutchev)

..... the great figures in imaginative literature are perpetually
contemporary... they never become History. Ancient or modern, they live in
the perpetual present of mankind, crowding it with an accumulation of life
and a living variety of human experience.
(Essays in Literature and Society. E. Muir)

THE AUTHOR

A freelance teacher in the north east of England, having taught myself
Russian I graduated from the University of Durham in 1972 with first class
honours, following this with doctoral research in the work of Tyutchev,
supervised by R. Lane. The research was never completed and I returned to it
some four years ago, one result being this book.
Early editions of selections of the poems appeared under the surname
"Murtagh", the name I was born with and which I have discarded for personal
reasons.

THE ILLUSTRATOR

Shaheen Razvi is a freelance artist living in Scotland. She has done
portraits, illustrated an Urdu text book and a multi-cultural collection of
nursery rhymes. She has also contributed a series of oil paintings on an
anti-racist theme to a major exhibition.

FOREWORD BY R. LANE TO THE 1983 EDITION

The poet Fyodor Tyutchev is known and appreciated by too few people
outside of Russia, and yet his position as second to Pushkin (arguably only
with the exception of Lermontov) has been acknowledged by generations of
Russian/Soviet writers and critics. The reading public had always cherished
his lyrics, although they did not always have sufficient access to them.
Tyutchev can teach much of value about both how to savour the beauty of
fleeting moments and how to face life's adversities with spirit.
It is precisely these qualities which have, I believe, been caught
admirably in Frank Murtagh's translations. They transmit faithfully the
feelings and the tone of the originals, sometimes with remarkable success. I
believe that he has tackled sensibly the dilemma of the equation facing all
translators of poetry - to what extent to reproduce the originals. It seems
inevitable that some of the rhymes and the other formal features must be
sacrificed to the need to reproduce the "feel" of Tyutchev's often amazing
lyrics. Frank Murtagh has trod this tightrope with great sureness and
Tyutchev's distinctive style remains largely unsacrificed. Because he has
known and loved the Master for so long, his translations have become
consonant with the original poems. In this way they fill a real lacuna. For
this collection is the first accurate translation in bulk by a British
author. Its only forerunner was Charles Tomlinson's slim volume of 1960.
This contained poems of great distinction by an eminent poet, but there was
more of Tomlinson in them than Tyutchev. What is more, Frank Murtagh has
translated more poems than any other author, several for the first time into
English, including some of the much neglected political pieces.
This book has been interestingly illustrated by Shaheen Razvi. Certain
of the illustrations do not present the poems in the way in which some
people might have visualised them, but they are nevertheless a bold break
with the pretty-pretty presentation of anthological pieces hitherto
dominant.
All in all, I believe that Frank Murtagh's book is essential reading
for students and other readers of Russian poetry and is to be warmly
recommended.

R. Lane
University of Durham, England
February, 1983

FOREWORD TO THIS EDITION

Since R. Lane wrote his Foreword in 1983, only one edition of "quality"
translations of Tyutchev has appeared till now, Anatoly Liberman's versions
of 181 of the poems published in 1991. In calling them "quality"
translations, I make a deliberate value judgement, for his is not the only
edition of selected poems to have appeared.
There are too many gaps in published Tyutchev scholarship for any one
researcher to deal with. The present book is intended to be the first of
several of various lengths and formats which I wish to produce as time
allows and whose overall aim is to fill some of these gaps. I shall also
continue to work at the translations of the poems. I am all too aware of the
defects of several of my versions, although I hope they are at least
accurately rendered, even if they do little justice to Tyutchev. Very little
has been published in English about his personal letters. There has been no
serious attempt to translate them in bulk, possibly because the task would
be monumental. A satisfactory Russian version of all the poems has yet to
appear. Russian editors still tend to favour splitting up the poems
according to relative quality, a very subjective business, to say the least.
A study of Tyutchev in the letters and memoirs of others would prove
illuminating. His family, in particular two of his daughters, Anna and
Ekaterina, deserve attention in their own right.
Studies carried out by Russian scholars during the late nineteenth
century and the Soviet period, culminating in Pigaryov's Lirika edition and
his book on the poet's life and work, Gregg's study of the life and poetry,
and Lane's extensive research, represented by numerous articles, some of his
contributions published in Literaturnoe nasledstvo (1988-89), now, it seems
to me, need drawing together with the many other smaller contributions of
the past twenty or thirty years into a single, new book in English on the
writer, a thorough, critical re-appraisal of his work. Such a task will be
for a new Tyutchev scholar of energy.

Frank Jude
Durham, England
January, 2000

CONTENTS

Foreword by R.C. Lane to the 1983 edition vi
Foreword to this edition vii
Contents 8
Preface 26
Note on transliteration 34
Acknowledgements 35
Introduction 36
The Poems 53
Notes 237
Selective Bibliography

CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF TYUTCHEV'S POEMS

The title/first line of a known translation and the author's name are
given after the English title/first line. Some titles are in French or
Latin. Where the first line is given in French, the poem was written in
French. Italics are used for the first line of each untitled poem. Where the
title is a proper name identical in the languages in question, it is given
once only (e.g. Sakontala).

Title/first line Page

1. Lyubeznomu papen'ke 53
Dear Dad!
2. Na novyi 1816 god 53
New Year 1816
3. Dvum druz'yam 54
To Two Friends
4. Puskai ot zavisti serdtsa zoilov noyut 55
Let envy gnaw Zoilus's heart
5. Poslanie Goratsiya k Metsenatu, v kotorom priglashaet ego k 55
sel'skomu obedu
A Letter from Horace to Mecenatus Inviting him to Dinner in the
Country
Tyrrhena progenies, tibi (Horace)
6. Vsesilen ya i vmeste rab 57
Omnipotent am I while weak
7. Uraniya 57
Urania
8. Nevernye preodolev puchiny 61
Inconstant, watery gulfs finally behind him
9. K ode Pushkina na Vol'nost' 61
On Pushkin's Ode to Freedom
10. Kharon i Kachenovsky 62
Charon and Kachenovsky
11. Odinochestvo 62
Solitude
L'Isolement (Lamartine)
12. Vesna (Posvyashchaetsya druz'yam) 63
Spring (Dedicated to my Friends)
13. A.N.M. 64
14. Gektor i Andromakha 64
Hector and Andromache
Hektor und Andromacha (Schiller)
15. Na kamen' zhizni rokovoi 65
Along the fateful shore of life
16. "Ne dai nam dukhu prazdnoslov'ya!" 65
"Do not endow us with the spirit of idle gossip!"
17. Protivnikam vina 66
(Yako i vino veselit serdtse cheloveka)
To Wine's Detractors
(For wine, indeed, brings joy to man's heart)
18. Poslanie k A.V. Sheremetevu 67
An Epistle to A.V. Sheremetev
19. Pesn' Radosti 67
Song of Joy
An die Freude (Schiller)
20. Slyozy 70
Tears
21. S chuzhoi storony 70
From a Foreign Land
Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
22. Drug, otkroisya predo mnoyu 71
Be open with me, my love
Libeste, sollst mir heute sagen (Heine)
23. Druz'yam pri posylke Pesni Radosti - iz Shillera 71
To My Friends (On Sending them Schiller's "Song of Joy")
24. K N. 72
To N.
25. K Nise 72
To Nisa.
26. Pesn' skandinavskikh voinov 72
The Song of the Norse Warriors
Morgengesang im Kriege (Herder)
27. Problesk 73
The Gleam
28. V al'bom druz'yam 74
In an Album for my Friends
Lines written in an Album at Malta (Byron)
29. Sakontala (Kalidasa/Goethe) 74
30. 14-oe dekabrya 1825 75
December 14th. 1825
31. Zakralas' v serdtse grust', - i smutno 75 Sadness stole into my heart and I vaguely
Das Herz ist mir bedruckt, und sehnlich (Heine)
32. Voprosy 75
Questions
33. Korablekrushenie 76
The Shipwrecked Man
Der Schiffbruchige (Heine)
34. Kak poroyu svetlyi mesyats 77
As the bright moon sometimes
Wie der Mond sich leuchtend dranget (Heine)
35. Privetstvie dukha 77
The Spirit's Greeting
Geistesgruss (Goethe)
36. i Kto s khlebom slyoz svoikh ne el 78
He who has not eaten tears with his bread
Wer nie sein Brot mit Tranen a?
ii Kto khochet miru chuzhdym byt'
He who would be a stranger in the world
Wer sich der Einsamkeit ergiebt (Goethe)
37. Zapad, Nord i Yug v krushen'e 78
Hegira
Hegire (Goethe)
38. Vesennyaya groza 80
A Spring Storm
39. Mogila Napoleona 80
Napoleon's Tomb
40. Cache-Cache 80
Hide and Seek
41. Letnii vecher 81
A Summer Evening
42. Olegov shchit 81
Oleg's Shield
43. Videnie 82
A Vision
44. Bairon 82
Byron
Totenkranze (Zedlitz)
45. Sredstvo i tsel' 86
The Means and the End
46. Imperatoru Nikolayu I 86
To the Emperor Nicholas I
Nicolaus das ist der Volksbesieger (Ludwig I of Bavaria)
47. Bessonnitsa 87
Insomnia
48. Utro v gorakh 88
Morning in the Mountains
49. Snezhnye gory 88
Snowy Mountains
50. Poslednii kataklizm 88
The Final Cataclysm
51. K N.N. 88
To N.N.
52. Eshchyo shumel vesyolyi den' 89
The happy day was loud
53. Vecher 89
Evening
54. Polden' 90
Midday
55. Lebed' 90
The Swan
56. "Prekrasnyi budet den", - skazal tovarischch 90
"It's going to be a nice day", my friend said
Reisebilder (Heine)
57. Ty zrel ego v krugu bol'shogo sveta 92
You saw him in polite company
58. V tolpe lyudei, v neskromnom shume dnya 92
Among society's gossips
59. i Zvuchit, kak drevle, pred toboyu 92
As in days gone by, before you is heard
Die Sonne tont nach alter Weise
ii Kto zval menya? - O strashnyi vid! -
"Who called me? - "Oh, horrible sight!"
Wer ruft mir? - Schreckliches Gesicht!
iii Chego vy ot menya khotite?
What do you want of me
Was sucht ihr, machtig und gelind
iv Zachem gubit' v unynii pustom
Why destroy in empty depression
Doch la? uns dieser Stunde schones Gut
v Zavetnyi kubok
The Cherished Cup
Es war ein Konig in Thule
vi Derzhavnyi dukh! Ty dal mne, dal mne vsyo
Almighty spirit, you have given me everything, everything
Erhabner Geist, du gabst mir, gabst mir alles (Goethe)
60. Vysokogo predchuvstviya 96
Lofty presentiment's
Il cinque maggio (Manzoni)
61. Edva my vyshli iz tresenskikh vrat 97
We had just left the gates of Trezene
A peine nous sortions des portes de Trezene (Racine)
62. Nochnye mysli 99
Night Thoughts
Nachtgedanken (Goethe)
63. i lyubovniki, bezumtsy i poety 99
Lovers, madmen and poets
ii Zarevel golodnyi lev
The hungry lion has begun to roar (Shakespeare)
64. Kak okean ob''emlet shar zemnoi 100
Just as the ocean curls around earth's shores
65. Velikii Karl, prosti! - Velikii, nezabvennyi! 100
Forgive me, Great Charles! Great, unforgotten!
Hernani (Hugo) HeHH
66. Kon' morskoi 102
The Sea Horse
67. Pevets 102
The Singer
Der Sanger (Goethe)
68. Zdes', gde tak vyalo svod nebesnyi 103
Here the sky stares inert
69. Uspokoenie (Groza proshla - eshchyo kuryas', lezhal) 104
Peace (The storm has passed)
70. Dvum syostram 104
To Two Sisters
71. Sei den', ya pomnyu 104
I recall that day
72. Tsitseron 104
Cicero
73. Osennii vecher 105
An Autumn Evening
74. List'ya 105
Leaves
75. Cherez livonskie ya proezzhal polya 106
Crossing Livonian fields
76. Pesok sypuchii po koleni 106
Sand gives softly. Hooves sink.
77. Strannik 106
The Wanderer
78. Bezumie 107
Madness
79. Al'py 107
The Alps
80. Mal'aria 108
Infected Air
81. Za nashim vekom my idyom 108
We walk behind our age
82. Vesennie vody 108
Vernal Waters
83. Silentium! 108
Stay Silent!
84. Kak nad goryacheyu zoloi 109
As a piece of paper
85. K*** (Usta s ulybkoyu privetnoi) 109
To... (Lips with a smile of greeting)
86. Kak doch' rodnuyu na zaklan'e 110
Just as Agamenon brought his daughter
87. Vsyo beshenei burya, vsyo zlee i zlei 110
The storm howls more evilly, screaming its spite
88. Vesennee uspokoenie 111
Peace in Springtime
Fruhlingsruhe (Uhland)
89. Na dreve chelovechestva vysokom 111
You were the best leaf
90. Dva demona emu sluzhili 111
Two demons served him
91. Probleme 112
A Problem
92. Son na more 112
A Dream at Sea
93. Prishlosya konchit' zhizn' v ovrage 113
I'm ending my days in a ditch
94. Arfa skal'da 114
The Skald's Harp
95. Ya lyuteran lyublyu bogosluzhen'e 114
I like the service of the Lutherans
96. V kotoruyu iz dvukh lyubit'sya 114
With which of the two has fate decreed
In welche soll ich mich verlieben (Heine)
97. Iz kraya v krai, iz grada v grad 115
From land to land, from town to town
Es treibt dich fort von Ort zu Ort (Heine)
98. Ya pomnyu vremya zolotoe 115
I remember a golden time
99. Dusha moya - elisium tenei 116
My soul, you're an Elysium of shades
100. Kak sladko dremlet sad temnozelyonyi 116
How sweetly sleep lies on the green garden
101. Net, moego k tebe pristrast'ya 117
No, Mother-Earth, my tenderness for you
102. V dushnom vozdukha molchan'e 117
Silent air enwrapping
103. Chto ty klonish' nad vodami 118
Willow, why do you lower
104. Vecher mglistyi i nenastnyi 118
Foul night, misty night
105. I grob opushchen uzh v mogilu 118
Into the grave the coffin's lowered
106. Vostok belel. Lad'ya katilas' 118
The east whitened.
107. Teni sizye smesilis' 119
Blue-grey mingling
108. S polyany korshun podnyalsya 119
The kite lifts from the field
109. Kakoe dikoe ushchel'e 120
What a wild ravine!
110. Kak ptichka, ranneyu zaryoi 120
The whole world starts as sunlight streams
111. Tam, gde gory, ubegaya 120
Far into the shining distance
112. Nad vinogradnymi kholmami 121
Across vine-covered hillsides
113. O chyom ty voesh', vetr nochnoi? 122
Why do you howl, night wind?
114. Potok sgustilsya i tuskneet 122
The stream has frozen and dulled
115. Sizhu zadumchiv i odin 122
I sit deep in thought and alone
116. Eshchyo zemli pechalen vid 123
Earth's face is still a melancholy thing
117. Zima nedarom zlitsya 123
Winter's spite is vain
118. Yarkii sneg siyal v doline 124
Brilliant snow shone in the valley
119. Fontan 124
The Fountain
120. Dusha khotela b byt' zvezdoi 124
My soul would like to be a star
121. Ne to, chto mnite vy priroda 125
Nature is not what you think it is
122. I chuvstva net v tvoikh ochakh 125
There's not a spark of feeling in your eyes
123. Lyublyu glaza tvoi, moi drug 125
I love your eyes, dear
124. Vchera, v mechtakh obvorozhyonnykh 126
Last night in enchanted dreams
125. 29-oe yanvarya 1837 126
January 29th. 1837
126. 1-oe dekabrya 1837 127
December 1st. 1837
127. Ital'yanskaya villa 127
The Italian Villa
128. Davno l', davno l', o Yug blazhennyi 128
Is it so long, blessed, blissful South
129. S kakoyu negoyu, s kakoi toskoi vlyublyonnoi 128
What gentle, tender joy, what enamoured pangs
130. Nous avons pu, tous deux, fatigues du voyage 129
Tired by travel, we made
131. Smotri, kak zapad razgorelsya 129
Watch the West flaming up
132. Vesna (Kak ni gnetyot ruka sud'biny) 129
Spring (No matter how oppressive the hand of fate)
133. Den' i noch' 130
Day and Night
134. Ne ver', ne ver' poetu, deva 130
Don't believe the poet, girl!
135. Zhivym sochuvstviem priveta 131
With a lively, sympathetic greeting
136. K Ganke 132
To Hanka
137. Znamya i Slovo 133
The Banner and the Word
138. Ot russkogo, po prochtenii otryvkov lektsii g-na 133
139. Mitskevicha
From a Russian, Having Read Extracts from Mr.
Mickiewicz's Lectures
139. Que l'homme est peu reel, qu'aisement il s'efface! 134
Unreal man's so simple to efface
140. Glyadel ya, stoya nad Nevoi 134
I stood by the Neva, my gaze
141. Kolumb 134
Columbus
142. Un Reve 135
A Reverie
143. More i Utyos 136
The Sea and the Cliff
144. Un ciel lourd que la nuit bien avant l'heure assiege 136
A heavy sky which night has prematurely assailed
145. Eshchyo tomlyus' toskoi zhelanii 137
Longing, desires still ravage
146. Ne znaesh', chto lestnei dlya mudrosti lyudskoi 137
By which can human wisdom more surely be enhanced
147. Kak dymnyi stolp svetleet v vyshine 137
A cloud bank, bright and high
148. Russkoi zhenshchine 137
To Russian Woman
149. Russkaya Geografiya 137
A Russian Geography
150. Svyataya noch' na nebosklon vzoshla 138
Holy night has climbed across the sky
151. Neokhotno i nesmelo 138
Timidly, unwillingly
152. Itak, opyat' uvidelsya ya s vami 138
So once again we meet
153. Tikhoi noch'yu, pozdnim letom 139
Quiet evening, late in summer
154. Kogda v krugu ubiistvennykh zabot 139
When clinging, murderous cares
155. Slyozy lyudskie, o slyozy lyudskie 139
Tears of people, tears of people
156. Pochtenneishemu imeninniku Filippu Filippovichu Vigelyu 140
To the Most Honourable Filipp Filippovich Vigel
157. Po ravnine vod lazurnoi 140
Across an azure plain of water
158. Rassvet 140
Daybreak
159. Vnov' tvoi ya vizhu ochi 141
Once again I see your eyes
160. Kak on lyubil rodnye eli 141
How he loved the native firs
161. Lamartine (La lyre d'Apollon, cet oracle des dieux) 142
Lamartine (Apollo's lyre, oracle of the gods)
162. Napoleon 142
163. Comme en aimant le coeur devient pusillanime 143
The heart in love cowers
164. Poeziya 143
Poetry
165. Rim noch'yu 143
Rome at night
166. Venetsiya 143
Venice
167. Konchen pir, umolkli khory 144
Feating finished, choirs quiet
168. Prorochestvo 144
A Prophecy
169. Uzh tretii god besnuyutsya yazyki 145
For the third year now, the tribes have run amok
170. Net, karlik moi! trus besprimernyi 145
Your cowardice can't be measured, you dwarf!
171. Poshli, Gospod', svoyu otradu 146
Lord, send your comfort
172. Na Neve 146
On the Neva
173. Kak ni dyshit polden' znoinyi 147
Midday breathes its hottest
174. Ne rassuzhdai, ne khlopochi! 147
Forget all cares, don't reason deep
175. Pod dykhan'em nepogody 147
Swelling, darkening waters
176. Vous dont on voit briller, dans les nuits azurees 148
Unsullied gods of light
177. Obveyan veshcheyu dremotoi 148
Prophetic sleep enfolds
178. Grafine E.P. Rostopchinoi (V otvet na eyo pis'mo) 148
To Countess E.P. Rostopchina (In Reply to her Letter)
179. Dva golosa 149
Two Voices
180. Togda lish' v polnom torzhestve 149
The desired structure
181. Pominki 150
The Wake
182. Smotri, kak na rechnom prostore 153
Across the river's broad expanse you see
183. O, kak ubiistvenno my lyubim! 154
How we murder while we love!
184. Des premiers ans de votre vie 155
How I love to find again the source
185. Ne znayu ya, kosnyotsya l' blagodat' 155
I don't know whether grace will touch
186. Pervyi list 155
The First Leaf
187. Ne raz ty slyshala priznan'e 156
You've often heard the admission
188. Nash vek 156
Our Age
189. Volna i duma 156
The Wave and the Thought
190. Ne ostyvshaya ot znoyu 156
Heat has not congealed
191. V razluke est' vysokoe znachen'e 157
Separation has this lofty meaning
192. Ty znaesh' krai, gde mirt i lavr rastyot 157
Do you know the land where the myrtle and laurel bloom
Kennst du das land, wo die Zitronen bluhn (Goethe) 157
193. Den' vechereet, noch' blizka 157
Day turns to evening. Night approaches.
194. Kak vesel grokhot letnikh bur' 158
Summer thunder's a happy ogre
195. S ozera veet prokhlada i nega 158
Coolness and comfort waft up from the lake
Es lachelt der See, er ladet zum Bade
196. Nedarom miloserdym Bogom 158
Not in vain has the gracious God
197. Predopredelenie 159
Predestination
198. Ne govori: menya on, kak i prezhde, lyubit 159
Don't say he loves me as he used to
199. O, ne trevozh' menya ukoroi spravedlivoi 160
200. Chemu molilas' ty s lyubov'yu 160
What you guarded in your heart
201. Ya ochi znal - o eti ochi! 161
I knew a pair of eyes. Oh, what a sight!
202. Bliznetsy 161
The Twins
203. Ty, volna moya morskaya 161
Ocean-waves
204. Pamyati V.A. Zhukovskogo 162
To the Memory of V.A. Zhukovsky
205. Siyaet solntse, vody bleshchut 163
The sun is shining, waters glisten
206. Charodeikoyu zimoyu 163
The forest is entranced
207. Poslednyaya lyubov' 163
Last Love HonhHd
208. Neman 164
The Nieman
209. Spiriticheskoe predskazanie 165
A Spiritualistic Prediction
210. A.S. Dolgorukoi 165
To A.S. Dolgorukaya
211. Leto 1854 165
Summer 1854
212. Uvy, chto nashego neznan'ya 165
What is more impotent and sad
213. Teper' tebe ne do stikhov 165
You're not in the mood for verses
214. De son crayon inimitable 166
To merit one word, one comma, one full stop
215. Po sluchayu priezda avstriiskogo ertsgertsoga na 166
Pokhorony imperatora Nikolaya
On the Occasion of the Arrival of the Austrian Archduke
at the Funeral of the Emperor Nicholas.
216. Plamya rdeet, plamya pyshet 166
Redness. Flaring.
217. Tak, v zhizni est' mgnoven'ya 167
In life there are moments you cannot convey
218. Eti bednye selen'ya 167
These poor villages, this sorry nature!
219. Vot ot morya i do morya 167
From sea to sea the wire goes
220. Grafine Rostopchinoi (O, v eti dni - dni rokovye) 168
To Countess Rostopchina (Oh, in these days, these
fateful days)
221. 1856 (Stoim my slepo pred sud'boyu) 168
1856 (Blindly we face fate)
222. O veshchaya dusha moya! 168
Oh, my prophetic soul!
223. Molchi, proshu, ne smei menya budit' 169
Be quiet, please! Don't dare wake me!
224. Oui, le sommeil m'est doux! plus doux de n'etre pas! 169
Yes, sleep is sweet, but it's sweeter not to have been!
225. Ne Bogu ty sluzhil i ne Rossii 169
To serve God and Russia was never your intention
226. Tomu, kto s veroi i lyubov'yu 169
For him who served his native land
227. Vsyo, chto sberech' mne udalos' 169
What I've managed to keep alive
228. Il faut qu'une porte 170
A door should be open or closed
229. N.F. Shcherbine 170
To N.F. Shcherbina
230. S vremenshchikom Fortuna v spore 170
Fortune had an argument with a favourite
Das Gluck und die Weisheit (Schiller)
231. Prekrasnyi den' ego na Zapade ischez 170
His fine day has disappeared in the West
232. Nad etoi tyomnoyu tolpoi 170
Above this ignorant crowd
233. Est' v oseni pervonachal'noi 171
There is a fleeting, wondrous moment
234. Smotri, kak roshcha zeleneet 171
Look at the coppice!
235. Kogda os'mnadtsat' let tvoi 172
When your eighteen years
236. E.N. Annenkovoi (D'une fille du nord, chetive et 172
languissante)
To E.N. Annenkova (Are you trying to borrow the
features)
237. V chasy, kogda byvaet 172
At times when there is
238. Ona sidela na polu 173
She was sitting on the floor
239. Uspoloenie (Kogda, chto zvali my svoim) 173
Peace (When what we called our own)
240. Osennei pozdneyu poroyu 174
Late in autumn
241. Na vozvratnom puti 174
On the Journey Home
242. Est mnogo melkikh, bezymyannykh 175
There are many tiny, unnamed
243. Pour sa Majeste l'Imperatrice 176
For her Imperial Majesty
244. Pour Madame la Grande Duchesse Helene 176
For Grand Duchess Helen
245. Dekabr'skoe utro 176
A December Morning
246. E.N. Annenkovoi (I v nashei zhizni povsdnevnoi) 176
To E.N. Annenkova (Into daily life)
247. Iz Yakoba Byome 177
From Jacob Bohme
248. Kuda somnitelen mne tvoi 177
"Sceptical" sums up the way I feel
249. Prokhodya svoi put' po svodu 177
Tracing its path across the sky
250. De ces frimas, de ces deserts 177
From these empty lands, from this wintry weather
251. Memento! 177
Remember!
252. Khot' ya i svil gnezdo v doline 178
I have built my nest in a valley
253. La vieille Hecube, helas, trop longtemps eprouvee 178
Old Hecuba, alas, so long so sorely tried
254. Na yubilei knyazya Petra Andreevicha Vyazemskogo 179
On the Occasion of Prince Pyotr Andreevich Vyazemsky's
Jubilee
255. Kogda-to ya byla maiorom 180
Once I was a major, many years ago
256. Aleksandru II 180
To Alexander II
257. Ya znal eyo eshchyo togda 180
I knew her even then
258. Nedarom russkie ty s detstva pomnil zvuki 181
Not for nothing have your remembered the sounds
259. Knyazyu P.A. Vyazemskomu (Teper' ne to, chto za 181
polgoda)
To Prince P.A. Vyazemsky (It's not the same now as it
was six months back)
260. Igrai, pokuda nad toboi 181
Play while above you
261. Pri posylke Novogo Zaveta 182
On Sending the New Testament
262. Oboim Nikolayam 182
To Both Nicholases
263. On prezhde mirnyi byl kazak 182
He used to be a gentle cossack
264. A.A. Fetu 182
To A.A. Fet
265. Inym dostalsya ot prirody 183
Nature has endowed some with a sense
266. Svyatye gory 183
The Sacred Mountains
267. Zateyu etogo rasskaza 184
For itself this story speaks
268. Uzhasnyi son otyagotel nad nami 184
We've been burdened by a horrible dream
269. Ego svetlosti A.A. Suvorovu 184
To his Grace Prince A.A. Suvorov
270. Kak letnei inogda poroyu 185
Just as now and then during summer
271. N.I. Krolyu 186
To N.I. Krol'
272. 19-oe fevralya 1864 (i tikhimi poslednimi shagami) 186
February 19th. 1864 (With his last quiet steps)
273. Ne vsyo dushe boleznennoe snitsya 187
Not always does the soul have sickly dreams
274. Utikhla biza.... Legche dyshit 187
the breeze has dropped and lighter is the breath
275. Ves' den' ona lezhala v zabyt'I 187
All day she lay oblivious
276. Kak nerazgadannaya taina 187
Like an unresolved mystery
277. O, etot Yug, o, eta Nitstsa! 188
Oh, this south, oh, this Nice!
278. Kto b ni byl ty, no vstretyas' s nei 188
No matter who you are, just meeting her
279. Encyclica 188
An Encyclical
280. Knyazyu Gorchakovu (vam vypalo prizvan'e rokovoe) 188
To Prince Gorchakov (Yours has been a fateful calling)
281. Kak khorosho ty, o more nochnoe 189
Ocean-billows, night-surging
282. Kogda na to net Bozh'ego soglas'ya 189
When god has deferred assent
283. Otvet na adres 189
In Reply to an Address
284. Est' i v moyom stradal'cheskom zastoe 190
In the martyrdom of my stagnation
285. On, umiraya, somnevalsya 190
Dying, he doubted
286. Syn tsarskii umiraet v Nitstse 191
In Nice the tsar's son is dying
287. 12-oe aprelya 1865 191
April 12th. 1865
288. Kak verno zdravyi smysl naroda 192
How truly has the common sense of folk
289. Pevuchest' est' v morskikh volnakh 192
The sea is harmony
290. Drugu moemu Ya. P. Polonskomu 193
To my Friend, Ya. P. Polonsky
291. Veleli vy - khot', mozhet byt', i v shutku 193
You commanded, though, perhaps, in jest
292. Knyazyu Vyazemskomu (Est' telegraf za neimen'em nog) 193
To Prince Vyazemsky (There's the telegraph if you've go
no legs)
293. Bednyi Lazar', Ir ubogoi 193
Poor Lazarus, wretched Iros
294. Segodnya, drug, pyatnadtsat' let minulo 193
It's fifteen years today, my friend
295. Molchit somnitel'no Vostok 194
The East is doubtful, silent
296. Nakanune godovshchiny 4-ogo avgusta 1864 g. 194
On the Eve of the Anniversary of August 4th. 1864
297. Kak neozhidanno i yarko 194
Unexpectedly and brightly
298. Nochnoe nebo tak ugryumo 195
Sad night creeps
299. Net dnya, chtoby dusha ne nyla 195
Not a day relievs the soul of pain
300. Kak ni besilosya zlorech'e 195
Let foul slander rage
301. Grafine A.D. Bludovoi 196
To Countess A.D. Bludova
302. Tak! On spasyon! Inache byt' ne mozhet 196
So he's saved! Could it turn out otherwise?
303. Kogda sochuvstvenno na nashe slovo 196
When what we have said is echoed far and wide
304. Knyazyu Suvorovu (Dva raznorodnye stremlen'ya) 196
To Prince Suvorov (Two disparate tendencies)
305. I v Bozh'em mire to zh byvaet 197
In God's world it can happen
306. Kogda rasstroennyi kredit 197
When our disordered exchequer
307. Tikho v ozere struitsya 197
Lake's still currents
308. Na grobovoi ego pokrov 197
On his funeral pall
309. Kogda dryakhleyushchie sily 197
When our decrepit energies turn traitor
310. Nebo blednogoluboe 198
The pale-blue sky
311. Umom Rossiyu ne ponyat' 199
Russia is a thing of which
312. Na yubilei N.M. Karamzin 199
On the Jubilee of N.M. Karamzin
313. Ty l'dolgo budesh' za tumanom 200
Russian star, will you always seek
314. V Rime 200
In Rome
315. Khotya b ona soshla s litsa zemnogo 201
Although it has slipped from the face of the earth
316. Ne v pervyi raz volnuetsya Vostok 201
It's not the first time the East has been in turmoil.
317. Nad Rossiei rasprostyortoi 201
318. Kak etogo posmertnogo al'boma 201
How I love the cherished pages
319. I dym otechestva i sladok i priyaten 202
The smoke of the fatherland is sweet to smell!
320. Dym 202
Smoke
321. Slavyanam (Privet vam zadushevnyi, brat'ya) 203
To the Slavs (A heartfelt greeting to you, brethren)
322. Slavyanam (Oni krichat, oni grozyatsya) 204
To the Slavs (They shout, they threaten)
323. Pripiska 205
Postscript to the Poem Entitled To Hanka
324. Naprasnyi trud - net, ikh ne vrazumish' 206
It's a waste of time. You'll not make them see sense
325. Na yubilei knyazya A.N. Gorchakova 206
On the Jubilee of Prince A.N. Gorchakov
326. Lorsqu'un noble prince en ces jours de demence 206
In these days of madness, if a noble prince sinks
327. Kak ni tyazhyol poslednii chas 206
However burdensome the end
328. Svershaetsya zasluzhennaya kara 207
A righteous punishment is being meted out
329. Po prochtenii depesh imperatorskogo kabineta, 207
napechatannykh v "Journal de St. Petersbourg"
On Reading the Imperial Despatches, Printed in the
Journal de St. Petersbourg
330. Opyat, stoyu ya nad Nevoi 207
Once more by the Neva I stand
331. Pozhary 208
Fires
332. V nebe tayut oblaka 208
Clouds melt in the sky
333. Mikhailu Petrovichu Pogodinu 209
To Mikhail Petrovich Pogodin
334. Pamyati E.P. Kovalevskogo 209
In Memory of E.P. Kovalevsky
335. Pechati russkoi dobrokhoty 209
The well-wishers of the Russian Press
336. Motiv Geine 210
A Heine Motif
Der Tod, das ist die kuhle Nacht (Heine)
337. Vy ne rodilus' polyakom 210
You weren't born a Pole
338. "Net, ne mogu ya videt vas...." 210
339. Velikii den' Kirillovoi konchiny 211
With which heartfelt, simple greeting
340. Nam ne dano predugadat' 211
It's not given us to foretell
341. Dve sily est' - dve rokovye sily 211
There are two powers, two fateful powers
342. 11-oe maya 1869 (Nas vsekh, sobravshikhsya na obshchii 212
prazdnik snova)
May 11th. 1869 (The word of the Gospel has now taugh
us all)
343. Kak nasazhdeniya Petrova 212
Just as the trees
344. O.I. Orlovoi-Davydovoi 213
To O.I. Orlova-Davydova
345. Andreyu Nikolaevichu Murav'yovu (Tam, gde na vysote 213
obryva)
To Andrei Nikolaevich Murav'yov (There, on the summit
of an overhang)
346. V derevne 213
In the Country
347. Priroda - sfinks. I tem ona vernei 213
Nature is a sphinx.
348. Chekham ot moskovskikh slavyan 215
To the Czechs from the Moscow Slavs
349. Kak nas ni ugnetai razluka 216
No matter how we're crushed by separation
350. Sovremennoe 216
Today's News
351. A.F. Gil'ferdingu 218
To A.F. Hilferding
352. Yu. F. Abaze 219
To Yu F. Abaza
353. Krasnorechivuyu, zhivuyu 219
I read my rebuke
354. Tak providenie sudilo 219
Thus has providence judged
355. Radost' i gore v zhivom upoen'e 219
Joy and grief in living ecstasy
Freudvoll (Goethe)
356. Gus na kostre 220
Hus at the Stake
357. Nad russkoi Vil'noi starodavnoi 221
Over ancient, Russian Vilnius
358. K.B. 221
359. Doekhal ispravno, ustalyi i tselyi 222
Tired and in one piece, I got here on time
360. Dva edinstva 222
Two Unities
361. Velen'yu vyshemy pokorny 222
Submissive to a high command
362. Chemu by zhizn' nas ni uchila 222
Whatever life might have taught us
363. Da, vy derzhali vashe slovo 223
Yes, you have kept your word
364. Ah, quelle meprise 224
I'm bewildered and let me say
365. Brat, stol'ko let soputsvovavshii mne 224
Brother, you have been with me so long
366. S novym godom, s novym schast'em 224
Happy New Year, all the best
367. Davno izvestnaya vsem dura 224
A fool we've known for ages
368. Vprosonkakh slyshu ya - i ne mogu 224
I'm half asleep and I can't
369. Chyornoe more 224
The Black Sea
370. Vatikanskaya godovshchina 226
The Vatican's Anniversary
371. Ot zhizni toi, chto bushevala zdes' 226
Of the life that raged here
372. Vrag otritsatel'nosti uzkoi 227
Enemy of narrow negativity
373. Pamyati M.K. Politkovskoi 227
To the Memory of M.K. Politkovskii
374. Den' pravoslavnogo Vostoka 228
On this day of the Orthodox East
375. Mir i soglas'e mezhdu nas 229
There's peace and harmony between us
376. Kak bestolkovy chisla eti 229
These dates are so illogical!
377. Tut tselyi mir, zhivoi, raznoobraznyi 229
Here's a whole world, living, varied
378. Chertog tvoi, spasitel', ya vizhu ukrashen 229
Saviour, I see your mansion decked out
379. Khotel by ya, chtoby v svoei mogile 229
In my grave I'd love to lie
380. Napoleon III 229
381. Tebe, bolyashchaya v dalyokoi storone 230
To you, ill in a distant land
382. Britanskii leopard 231
The British Leopard
383. Konechno, vredno pol'zam gosudarstva 232
Of course, it is harmful to the wellbeing of the state
384. Vo dni napastei i bedy 232
In days of misfortune and trouble
385. Vsyo otnyal ot menya kaznyashchii Bog 232
In punishment, God's taken everything away
386. Ital'yanskaya vesna 233
Spring in Italy
387. My solntsu yuga ustupaem vas 233
We surrender you to the sun of the south.
388. Vot svezhie tebe svety 233
Here are some fresh blooms for you
389. April 17th. 1818 233
390. Imperatoru Aleksandru II 234
To his Imperial Majesty Alexander II
391. Bessonnitsa (nochnoi moment) 235
Insomnia (A Moment at Night)
392. Khot' rodom on byl ne Slavyanin 235
Although he wasn't born a Slav
393. Byvaet rokovye dni 235
Fate Sends Days

PREFACE

This book has two principal objectives: (a) to provide, for the first
time in English, an annotated version of all of Tyutchev's surviving poems,
including his translations of other writers, which will be of use to the
student of Russian, the Tyutchev researcher and anyone involved in the field
of literary translation; (b) to serve as the first ever attempt to introduce
Tyutchev the poet in full to the reader of literature who knows no Russian.
Most of the annotations deal with history, literary and political. I
have incorporated almost all the notes from Pigaryov's edition, (A:33ii) (1)
which are a summary of many people's findings, references to Aksakov's
biography and extracts from Tyutchev's letters, as well as including
comments by many researchers and myself.
The full version and my translation of every identifiable surviving
foreign work Tyutchev translated permits readers to consider why he may have
chosen particular material for translation in the first place and why he
retained its sense or altered it as he did. My versions and, indeed, any
translations necessarily afford only an approximate idea of this. The way he
dealt with the work of others is in itself a fascinating feature of any
research into the poet, for Tyutchev was not always a faithful translator.
While certain of these works are very good renditions indeed, others do not
pretend to adhere to the sense of the source poem. It is difficult to regard
Pesn' skandinavskikh voinov/The Song of the Norse Warriors as a translation
of Herder's Morgengesang im Kriege/Morning Song in War Time, written in a
folk or pseudo-folk vein, for it doubles the German piece in length and
introduces material utterly foreign to the spirit and movement of Herder's
work, though the new material does owe a little to Russian folklore. On the
other hand, parts of Tyutchev's work are a direct translation or close copy
of the German. Tyutchev sticks closely to the original when he chooses to,
as in his translation of two short pieces from Shakespeare's A Midsummer's
Night's Dream, which he probably translated from a good German version, and
Hippolytus's death scene from Racine's Phedre. These are skilful renditions,
as are a number of shorter works from Heine and Goethe and sections of the
latter's Faust (Part 1). But where do we stand with the extract from Hugo's
Hernani? It is significantly and deliberately altered in some ways yet
retains very large sections of the original. Do we consider the lyric
entitled Sakontala to be a translation? It resembles only superficially the
originating scene from Kalidasa'splay and is not much like the Goethe
version often said to be its inspiration. Classical Sanskrit literature
being so popular in the nineteenth century through the work of such as A.
Schlegel (1767-1845), Tyutchev's Sakontala should probably be seen as one
more of many poems written on one of its themes. The question of what
motivated him to alter other works in the subtle ways he did remains, and is
beyond the scope of this book.
Because it can be so difficult to know exactly where to draw the line
between Tyutchev's original lyrics and his
translations/adaptations/paraphrases, I have considered each of his works as
part of the one evolving body of poetry without attempting to classify into
"lyric", "political" and "occasional", fully aware that I go against
standard practice in adopting this approach, although Liberman has recently
adopted the chronological manner of grouping the lyrics. (A:19) It has been
too common in the past to present the reader with the bulk of what all would
agree is his best lyric poetry, leaving other types of verse, for example
the political pieces, in what has sometimes amounted to an appendix.
A number of Tyutchev's "lyric" poems, if we follow Pigaryov's
categories, are mediocre and some of his political and, indeed, a handful of
the so-called "occasional" verses, including a few written in French, are
far from inferior. Five of his French poems are good and two are among this
reader's personal favourites. To present an undiluted diet of lyric poetry
written over roughly fifty years is to give an erroneous impression of
Tyutchev. It would be equally misleading to produce a book of solely
political verse. It is likely that Tyutchev wrote in these categories more
or less simultaneously and we are probably on safe ground in asserting that
there is no period of his creative life when he was not producing nature
lyrics, political verse, love poetry, superficial occasional lines,
philosophical statements and taking limerick-like swipes at people he did
not like. Whatever spurred him to write a remarkable description of sunset
(Letnii vecher/A Summer Evening [41]), occurred at the same time as the
Russo-Turkish war (see Olegov shchit/Oleg's Shield [42]) and coincided with
an alluring young female turning his head to anything but poetry, as in the
erotic, possibly adulterous K N.N./To N. N. [51]. Since poems of all
categories were certainly fermenting at any one time, it seems logical to
deduce that they all represent in some way the poet as he was at that time.
The chronological approach does need to be reinforced. To this end I present
Tyutchev's work as I do.
While the exact chronology of the poems before 1847 will probably never
be established, I have adhered to the best chronological sequence I can come
up with at present. Works clearly showing someone else's influence appear
beside those considered truly original. Of course, while a large number of
his early nature poems could be said to trace their genesis to German
romanticism, a point made early this century by Tynyanov, and Tyutchev being
very much a poet who saw the world through literary eyes, the best of them,
while sharing imagery and themes with German lyrics, are uniquely
characteristic of Tyutchev and often considerably more innovative than many
of the works which may have inspired them.
It has often been said that there are cycles in Tyutchev. Poems written
to his mistress, Elena Deniseva, are said to make up the so-called Deniseva
Cycle. These were produced over several years and in no way constitute a
cycle, let alone a "novel in verse". (See A:20, vol.1/58) His relationship
with Elena did not cramp his style when it came to writing to and about
other women, including his first and second wives and Amalia Krudner, whose
name and presence crop up at various stages of his life in letters and
poems. Whether poems to women are in question, nature descriptions or lyrics
with all the imagery of chaos so beloved of Tyutchev, he simply was not the
poet to produce a cycle on any theme, being so unforgivably careless when it
came to looking after his work once the interest of immediate inspiration
had evaporated. Nodal themes and commonly recurring groups of images, such
as the so-called "Holy Night", do not suggest cycles any more than the
lyrics addressed to his mistress. Heine's Nordsee/North Sea, parts of which
Tyutchev translated, is a cycle. The lyrics take a theme and present it from
different angles and with different nuances, but however much each poem
might differ from another, they are deliberately, artistically linked by the
sea/abandonment theme, or whatever one might wish to call it.
It is not even useful to consider that he wrote lyrics loosely
connected, as did Lamartine in his group of Meditations Poetiques/Poetic
Meditations, number 1 of which Tyutchev translated, for all too often in
Tyutchev spontaneity is of the first importance in the writing of his best
works and spontaneity and cycles tend not to go hand in hand. The same
applies, from a literary-historical point of view, to periods. Continuity
is, as Liberman notes, a most important feature of Tyutchev's style, so much
so that "it is hardly possible to detect 'periods' in his creative life",
differences, when they do emerge, being "unrelated to the juxtaposition of
romanticism and realism". (A:19) Ultimately Tyutchev is unique in being a
brilliant and great poet who, it could be argued, had absolutely no desire
to be any kind of poet at all.
"It is possible that nothing leads us closer to contemplation of the
essence of literature than working at the translation of poetry, or at least
thoughtfully appraising such work." (D:11/147) Translation can enjoy certain
advantages over exegesis. Translators become acquainted with "their" authors
in a way not always permitted by the kind of interpretation which requires
neutral objectivity, ever respectfully acknowledging the work of others, be
that good, bad or indifferent. There are countless trenchant statements by
countless clever translators concerning the problems inherent in the process
of literary translation. Does the translator bring the author to the reader,
the "domesticating method", as one writer puts it, "an ethnocentric
reduction of the foreign text to target-language cultural values, bringing
the author back home, or does he adopt the "foreignizing method .... an
ethnodeviant pressure on those values to register the linguistic and
cultural differences of the foreign text, sending the reader abroad".
(D:25/20) Perhaps neither of these methods is applicable to Tyutchev, who,
it could be said, was Russian by nationality only and possessed to no
significant degree Russian cultural values. To translate one so
cosmopolitan, even rootless, perhaps the domesticating and foreignizing
methods are irrelevant.
Imitation, for all the following caveat, may be the best means of
dealing with the source languages, the imitator having "not the slightest
intention of bringing the two together - the writer of the original and the
reader of the imitation - because he does not believe that an immediate
relationship between them is possible; he only wants to give the latter an
impression similar to that which the contemporaries of the original received
from it". (D:19/41) In my own translations I often strive to give such an
impression, so perhaps I join Schleiermacher's ranks of imitators, though
while I accept that it is "foolish to argue for the exact reconstruction of
a poem in another language when the building blocks at one's disposal bear
no resemblance to those of the original", (D:27/107) I do feel that a more
than adequate reconstruction is not beyond the grasp of the capable
translator.
Concerning the reproduction of those formal aspects of a poem which set
it apart from any other piece of writing, Jacquin allows the translator
pretty well free play: "If rhymed verse becomes blank or free verse in
translation (something which is sometimes prose in disguise ...) the poet is
betrayed and the reader led astray; for the translation deflects from their
functions forms inscribed in tradition. But to preserve rhymes is to
restrict one's choice of terms, hindered moreover by lexical and grammatical
restraints, to risk sacrificing the other values of the piece to the
ornament of sound and thus to destroy its cohesive power". (D:6/52-53)
I do not attempt to produce a lyric which reminds an English reader of
what he likes in English poetry. Nor is my aim to achieve a general romantic
or nineteenth-century "feel", whatever that may be. I do not consider an
adherence to formal characteristics to be of the first importance any more
than I ignore them, for if they are present in a poem they are important,
and if the translator chooses to sacrifice them, something else must take
their place in order that the result be poetry and not prose. What is
necessary, and it is the only thing that will work, is a juggling act, an
ability to read between the lines, keeping one eye on the foreignness of the
source and another on what is probably a desire on the reader's part to be
presented with something with which he feels comfortable. This idea of
"comfortableness" might be considered subjective, even vague, but it is
important and can generally be achieved provided the translator can say,
with a degree of confidence, "I am acquainted with the person who is that
writer".
It is certainly likely that in translating lyric poetry, "the
translator will have chosen the poem himself, and even more likely that the
task will be undertaken with empathy and a degree of personal commitment".
(D:20/631) This personal choice, this commitment on the translator's part is
of the first importance. The task might be likened to explaining to an
outsider what a close relative or friend who has lost his voice is trying to
say. Most emphatically, I am not a poet of any description. My target is
simply to introduce the reader directly to Tyutchev.
Aware of the many well-researched conclusions reached by theorists in
the field of translation studies, I believe three things are essential in
the attainment of this target. The first and most obvious is a good
knowledge of the target and source languages; the second, occasionally more
controversial, is a degree of expertise in the manipulation of language, a
most important willingness and ability to take risks at the expense of
structural fidelity, even at the apparent expense of faithfulness to major
images and poetic formulae; the third, not readily appreciated by all
translators, is an acceptance of the importance of the writer's life, not
only his creative life, for on its own this is a thing in a vacuum, but his
personal motivations, his social milieux and his political/historical
environment. A close acquaintance with the writer can allow us to clear, at
least in part, the hurdles posed by the untranslated words. While words
cannot always be translated perfectly (2), once the various possible
meanings and their nuances, taking into account the age in which they were
written, have been listed, the emotions and thoughts which produced them can
be coped with to some extent for, whether we be English or Russian, what
makes us feel, think, believe the way we do is universal and, therefore,
capable of being translated. The reproduction of the word is not, it
follows, my ultimate aim, for the words lead us into the thing the writer is
expressing. From the melting pot of my priorities emerges, it is hoped, a
new creation which is an accurate statement about Tyutchev in a given lyric
at a given time.
My translation methods correspond broadly with two of Nabokov's three
modes of translation, the "paraphrastic" and the "literal" (D:2, vol.
1/viii). From his early, relatively free translations, Nabokov became more
and more dogmatic, even obsessive, scathingly attacking anything other than
the purely literal (and by implication his own early, excellent renditions
of Tyutchev), once claiming that his ideal translation would be a book of
annotations with the corresponding line of verse every few pages: "I want
translations in copious footnotes, footnotes reaching up like skyscrapers to
the top of this or that page, so as to leave only the gleam of one textual
line between commentary and eternity." (D:12/512) However tongue-in-cheek
this comment may be, Nabokov began to work according to it, but such a
method of translation is (surely) an extreme business unless translation is
to be a purely scholarly exercise enjoyed by the few. Such is not the role
of art. Concerning the art of translation, Nabokov wrote, "the person who
desires to turn a literary masterpiece into another language, has only one
duty to perform, and this is to produce with absolute exactitude the whole
text, and nothing but the text. The term "literal" translation is
tautological since anything but that is not truly translation but an
imitation, an adaptation or a parody" (D:13/496-512) (3). Such an approach
automatically distances the vast majority of readers from precisely what
makes great literature enjoyable. Literalists all too often miss the point.
I join those translators who are ready, where appropriate to sacrifice rhyme
and assonance "to the silent counterpoint of poetic meaning". (D:22/v)
While annotated literalness creates a gap between reader and writer,
its structural cousin, the search for a different kind of literalness
through the minefield of any attempt to adhere to formal characteristics
such as rhyme, is an equally dangerous business and retention of a poem's
formal aspects should be considered only provided the sense and "feel" of
the poem remain intact. In producing a work accurate from the point of view
of rhyme and metre, the translator will inevitably be stretching the target
language, all too often in a contrived fashion, producing an unnatural
effect not present in the source work. While the result might be clever,
often very good, it cannot be denied that frequently too much will have been
lost. Aiming at contextual literalness produces a "story line" bereft of the
music. By making formal fidelity one's aim, one can easily lose sight of
meaning in the search for shape. Sensitive, informed paraphrastic
translation, it seems to me, is the only way forward.
My renderings are literally faithful where appropriate. This is the
case with Tyutchev's versions of other poets and with many of the political
pieces. There is no point in treating 11-oe maya 1869/May 11th. 1869 [342]
in any other than a rigidly literal manner. They are sometimes loosely
"poetic", as in Sovremennoe/Today's Event [350], a political item ending in
a more "poetic" structure which Tyutchev uses more than once in his best
work. I favour a form of rhythmic prose in poems such as [128], where there
is a certain narrative feel. A number of poems are as they are because I am
happy with them, others, I have to admit, leave me far from satisfied. In
the translation of poetry, there is never a final word. There remain those
versions which, were Nabokov still with us, would be savaged ruthlessly,
works which, from the standpoint of imagery and/or structure I have offered
in a deliberate, considered mistranslation, though if there results "a
slightly wrong meaning", there remains hopefully "a completely right
feeling". (D:24/12) Such a work is [200], my original imagery giving the
best effect of which I was capable at the time, the priority being to
reproduce the sense of seething, impotent anger and genuine sadness which
motivated the poet to write it.
The celebrated Formalist, V. Shklovsky, rightly rejects
"authomatisation", for it "eats things, clothing, furniture, your wife and
fear of war". (D:12/11-12) Shklovsky believed that the artist is called upon
to counteract routine by dealing with objects out of their habitual context,
by getting rid of verbal cliches and their stock responses. I am in full
agreement with Shklovsky on this matter. I would not at this stage undertake
a serious translation of poems by Blok, Baudelaire or Holderlin, even
enjoying these writers in their own languages, and certainly being able to
translate the words and sentences which make up the elements of their works,
for I could not approach them with the confidence with which I know a
Tyutchev lyric. Given the often scanty information at hand and the abyss of
time between us, I feel I have come to know him to some extent, his milieux,
his family, the way he felt and thought and passed the time, whether
observing his dog chasing ducks or wishing, on a boat trip, his friend was
there with a gun for the shooting of fowl, moaning to all and sundry about
his gout and rheumatism, complaining to the heavens that he is bored and
lonely, irrespective of the heartache to which he subjects those close to
him, pulling Schelling to pieces, cursing the British, the French, the Turks
and the Vatican, irritating Pogodin with his intellectual arrogance,
vilifying the tsar and his ministers for their crass ineptitude, or angry at
his daughter for marrying a sailor who - sin of sins - spoke Russian in
preference to French. Such proximity is essential in the production of a
good translation, for it allows the translator to pull apart convention and
rewrite the poet with confidence.
Shklovsky's "making strange", making form difficult, "seeing" (videnie)
as opposed to "recognising" (uznavanie) (ibid.) should be born in mind as
the reader approaches many of my translations. The much-anthologised good
poem can lose one of its greatest qualities, that of newness, by being
anthologised, whether in a book or in a particular, accepted format in the
hands of translators, by being there, by looking more or less the same all
the time. I believe that the translator must make the reader sit up and pay
attention. He must not be the critic who, in Steiner's words, "when he looks
back ... sees a eunuch's shadow" (D:7/21). The translator of any literature
worth translating must attempt to be, in subtly different yet similar ways,
as creative as the writer he is grappling with. From what I have said above,
perhaps it follows that great literature needs retranslating every so often
in order to make sense to different generations.
While the possessiveness of the committed translator who has "chosen"
his poet can allow an illuminating insight into the workings of the writer's
mind, it can, of course, work the other way and the good translator needs to
ensure that he is producing the writer and not himself playing at being a
poet. It is also very easy to become blase about one's knowledge of a
foreign language, for unless one is genuinely bilingual, as, indeed, Nabokov
was, the brain, albeit translating quickly, nonetheless pauses to translate,
and this pause indicates an inability, at times not very significant, to
translate instinctively. This pause can also be a useful thing. I have often
found, on rendering a poem into English, that an image in the Russian has
struck forcefully home for the first time, despite having read the work in
question many times. Students of foreign literature could do worse than
attempt occasional translation if for no other reason than to satisfy
themselves that they have indeed understood what the poet's words actually
mean, let alone what might be implied. They should certainly never be put
off. If a translator can be so bold as to render Khlebnikov's entertaining
Zaklyatie smekhom/Incantation by Laughter into Scots, there is most
assuredly hope for the youngest novice (D:4/89).
Where I have taken considerable liberties, there will, it goes without
saying, be those who point out that I have altered the structure of the poem
and, therefore, its meaning. Whatever the case may be, my target has
remained throughout the accurate communication of what I believe Tyutchev
was feeling, thinking then saying. I hope that more than a handful of
educated Russian speakers now feel that they can enjoy the complete poems of
this major writer as a result of my approach, despite it being "as wise to
cast a violet into a crucible that you might discover the formal principle
of its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into another
the creations of a poet". (D:1/).
The reader unfamiliar with this author will find a story and a life
unfolding from the earliest extant poem written on his father's birthday,
through truly wondrous nature lyrics, sharp, often hurtful love poems,
occasional verse, chauvinistic political pronouncements on Pan-Slavism,
philosophical and religious lines, to tormented protests in which an
embittered, frightened poet of alienation faces inner turmoil, illness and
encroaching death. In the Romantic age of Pushkin and Lermontov we find a
seriously "modern" poet; in the realistic age of Dostoevskian and Tolstoyan
prose, a poet who would not be disowned by later existentialist writers will
be discovered at a time when the reading public is less enthralled by poetry
than by Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov.
My former supervisor, Dr. R.C. Lane, is a leading authority in the
field of Tyutchev studies. Discussions with him have always proved
invaluable. He has read the first section of my manuscript and the endnotes
and I am grateful to him for his suggestions, encouragement and general
assistance, as well as for kindly writing a foreword to the 1983 edition. I
have chosen to retain this, for it says what I wish to have said about my
approach and, I feel, could not be improved. His doctoral thesis and many
subsequent publications represent, in my view, the fullest, most
comprehensive study of the poet in English. He has produced articles and
reports on various aspects of Tyutchev's life, poetry and diplomatic work
and on some of the philosophical influences in the lyrics in addition to a
complete catalogue of works by and about the poet up to 1985. Since he first
looked at the manuscript, I have amended certain sections. Any defects in
the later or, indeed, earlier material are my responsibility alone.
R. Gregg's book is a solid introduction offering interesting studies of
the poems if often somewhat biased towards psychoanalysis. K. Pigaryov's
study and I. Aksakov's biography are essential preliminary reading for the
specialist, as are many Soviet contributions. The latter contain essential
background information. Some deal intuitively with the inspiration behind
the greatest poems and cleverly with their structure, notably Tynyanov's
famous article on the short lyric as a "fragment" of the neo-classical ode.
The point Tynyanov makes is that Tyutchev, wanting to retain the "monumental
forms" of the "dogmatic poem" and of the "philosophical epistle", realising
that these had more or less disappeared since Derzhavin's time, found his
outlet in the artistic form of the "fragment", the latter, he goes on to
claim, realised in the west by the Romantics and canonised by Heine.
Inevitably Soviet scholarship has suffered from a requirement to give
prominence to approved themes. The so-called Tyutchev-Pushkin question is a
case in point. On various somewhat spurious bases (e.g. Pushkin once
ridiculed Raich, Tyutchev's friend and tutor), an enmity between the two
poets was created. Apart from the fact that such a matter is remarkably
irrelevant, it is highly unlikely that there is a great deal of truth in it,
if any. More important is the fact that since Tyutchev was never part of the
mainstream literary scene in his country and famously made no effort to have
his best work read by the public before 1836 (he may have deliberately
destroyed some of it), such "professional" hostility would probably never
have existed. I have avoided any further reference to this matter or to any
concerning a comparison of his talents with those of other writers.
Tyutchev has had several translators. Each one worthy of mention has
tackled only a very small number of the better known lyrics, with the
notable exception of Anatoly Liberman who has taken on the bulk of
Tyutchev's best work, sticking rigorously to the formal features, including
rhymes. He is the first to have published such a large number of worthy
translations of Tyutchev's lyrics, preceded by an excellent introduction. He
and I have different attitudes towards poetic translation. He informed me in
one of many communications that when I decide not to reproduce Tyutchev's
rhyme schemes, the "general aura that okutyvaet" ("enwraps") my renderings
tends to make up for this. I am more than happy with this judgement.
Work in Europe and the USA, a relatively slow trickle of research, has
laid the as yet extremely narrow foundations of the West's understanding of
Tyutchev. Considering the importance of his position in Russian literature,
it is astonishing just how many students of western European literature have
never even heard of this amazing writer. A lot of building remains. I hope
this book will fill one of the gaps in the edifice.

FOOTNOTES

1. References to the Bibliography go as follows:
"A" is a main section, the following number is the item in the section,
a Roman numeral is used where an author has more than one contribution, and
page numbers come after solidus.
2. Certain commonly occurring words in Tyutchev make this point:
(1) dusha (= "soul", "spirit", "darling", "person", "serf");
(2) blago (= "blessing", "boon", "the good");
(3) nega ("sweetness", "bliss", "comfort", "languor");
(4) blagodat' (= "paradise1", "grace", "abundance3").
3. It is worth quoting in full the relevant section of Nabokov's famous
(and infamous) translator's preface to his version of Pushkin's Evgenii
Onegin. Nabokov writes, "Attempts to render a poem in another language fall
into three categories:
(i) Paraphrastic: offering a free version of the original with
omissions and additions prompted by the exigencies of form, the conventions
attributed to the consumer, and the translator's ignorance. Some paraphrases
may possess the charm of stylish diction and idiomatic conciseness but no
scholar should succumb to stylishness and no reader be fooled by it.
(ii) Lexical (or constructional): rendering the basic meaning of words
(and their order). This a machine can do under the direction of an
intelligent bilinguist.
(iii) Literal: rendering as closely as possible as the associative and
syntactical capacities of the language allow, the exact contextual meaning
of the original. Only this is true translation". (D:2, vol. 1/vii-viii)

A NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION

In Russian the commonest "e" sound is more or less the "ye" of "yet".
However, due to the role played by stressed and unstressed syllables, the
full "ye" is not always heard. I transliterate both this and the second
Russian "e" simply as "e". Foreign names beginning with "H" tend to start
with "G" in Russian. I retain the "H". I stick to general convention in the
cases of certain names (e.g. Tolstoy, Alexander, Ernestine). I reproduce the
soft and hard signs by ' and '' respectively and represent the letter i
kratkoe by "i". I also tend to omit patronymic names. Where appropriate, the
acute accent indicates the stressed syllable. This produces the occasional
unfamiliar sound, such as "Sevastopol", and not the "Sevastopol" English
speakers are used to.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am indebted to the following for their assistance:

1. Dr. P. J. Fitzpatrick (Department of Philosophy, University of
Durham) for his translations of two of Horace's Carmina and part of a poem
by Ausonius.
2. Professor A. Liberman (University of Minneapolis) for his
encouragement through several e-mails and for reading and commenting on a
small selection of my work.
3. Mr. J. Norton (Director of the Centre for Turkish Studies,
University of Durham) for assisting me with information on Mehmed Fuad
Pasha.
4. Thanks are due to my former teachers at Durham. Professor W.
Harrison showed me that History is important, as well as interesting and
entertaining, and he, Mr. L.S.K. le Fleming and Mrs. S. le Fleming, together
with Dr. R. Lane, helped a self-taught student with a somewhat chaotic mind
to channel his energies and occasionally write something which made sense.
5. Should the anonymous translator of Manzoni's Il cinque maggio ever
recognise his/her work, I shall gladly acknowledge this in any future
edition.
6. Mr. A. Stansfield (ITS Consultant, University of Durham) explained
to me the essentials of web page design. Thanks to him I now have a web site
on which parts of this book appear.
7. The manuscript, untidy and very faded in parts, was ably typed up by
Miss Julie Bell of the Physics Department.

My book is very much a product of happy years as a student at St.
Cuthbert's Society in the University of Durham, a centre of learning with
which I have never cut the ties and, hopefully, never shall.

* INTRODUCTION *

BIOGRAPHICAL

The Tyutchev family tradition, in line with general practice among
Russian noble families which liked to link their genealogy with foreign
immigrants, had it that a Venetian trader called Dudgi accompanied Marco
Polo on his travels to China and, on the way home, settled in Russia. It
would be surprising if Tyutchev had not at some time made a flippant quip at
the Italian's expense. When d'Anthes was exiled from Russia in perpetuity
for slaying Pushkin in a duel, Tyutchev, who never liked living in Russia,
remarked, "Well, I'm off to kill Zhukovsky", the latter being the veteran
poet and highly esteemed translator (1783-1852) (A:5). From the Niconian
chronicle comes the equally attractive tale, impossible to link directly
with Tyutchev's family, of the shrewd Zakhary Tyutchev sent by Dmitrii
Donskoi as ambassador to the Golden Horde on the eve of the crucial
fourteenth-century Battle of Kulikovo. It is said that on receiving a demand
for increased tribute to the Horde, the diplomat, on the way home, tore up
the Mongol missive and sent the pieces back to the khan. After a great
Russian victory, news reached the right quarters and Zakhary became the hero
of the tale, Pro Mamaya bezbozhnogo/Concerning Mamai the Godless.
The second son of land-owning parents, (1) Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
was born on November 23rd. 1803 (2) in the village of Ovstug, about thirty
kilometres north of Bryansk in what was then the Orlov province (C:15). The
village of Ovstug was partly in the possession of the Tyutchevs and lies on
the river Desna in a densely wooded part of south west Russia. The family
would spend winters in Moscow. In August 1812 they moved temporarily to
Yaroslavl on the eve of Napoleon's taking of the capital. The boy was raised
in a household where French was spoken almost exclusively, although serfs,
servants, nannies and the local clergy used Russian. This made him
effectively bilingual. Throughout his life he spoke French. His letters are
overwhelmingly in French, as are his articles and a handful of verses.
In 1812 his education was entrusted to Semyon Raich, a conscientious
and gifted student of Classical and Italian literature, enthusiastic poet
and translator. Tyutchev went up to Moscow University in 1819, graduated and
in 1822 entered government service in the Office of Foreign Affairs in St.
Petersburg. In the stimulating atmosphere of the capital many would-be-poets
made small contributions to Russian letters and played their part in the
rapidly developing cultural life of the city. German writers and
philosophers were being popularised, particularly Schelling, who referred to
Tyutchev as "an excellent and most cultivated man with whom it is always a
pleasure to converse" (A:5, vol. 3/492). Tyutchev had a less flattering
opinion of the German, as a famous conversation between the two men
indicates A:1/319).
In attempting to reconcile Christian mystery with empirical
investigation, Schelling fell foul of Tyutchev's sharp mind, probably more
than once. Karl Pfeffel (the brother of Tyutchev's second wife) reports the
two having several conversations "in the field of metaphysical speculation"
(ibid.). Tyutchev felt an instinctive impatience for any scientific system
(a distrust which never altered throughout his life) and for anyone who
attempted to explain man's presence in the universe as no more than a
gradual process of self-cognition. In Tyutchev's view, what Nature allowed
to happen simply happened, in her extreme indifference to man. The argument
highlights Tyutchev's insistence on blind faith in the scheme of things,
despite being a less than devout person himself, but, of course,
intellectual conviction can go hand in hand with daily practice which
appears to contradict it. After all, Kant the philosopher was the sharpest
critic of the Protestantism to which, in practice, he adhered passionately.
Tyutchev's celebrated objection went along the following lines: "You're
attempting an impossible task ... A philosophy which rejects the
supernatural and wants to prove everything by reason must inevitably be
diverted towards materialism in order to drown in atheism. The only
philosophy compatible with Christianity is contained in its entirety in the
catechism. You must believe what St. Paul believed, kneel before the Madness
of the Cross or deny everything. The supernatural is fundamental to that
which is most natural to man. It has roots in human consciousness which are
far superior to what we call reason, this poor reason which allows only what
it understands, in other words nothing". (ibid.)
The section ending at "the Madness of the Cross" (La Folie de la Croix)
is as much as most commentators choose to quote. The lines following it,
however, might be seen to indicate a nod in the direction of a more general
sense of man being but a mote in God's eye. The word "nothing" returns us,
perhaps, to the formlessness Schelling was striving from but which
Christianity as well needed to escape by producing its own system. That
Tyutchev actually adhered to his belief, at least publicly, is born out
throughout his life in poetry, conversation and letters. Some of what he
thought appears to have been passed on to his clever, influential daughter
Ekaterina ("Kitty"). Writing to the great statesman and proponent of
conservative nationalism, K. Pobedonostsev (1827-1907), who considered
Tyutchev's daughter to be his closest friend, Ekaterina, around whom a
significant literary circle often met in her aunt Darya's house, complained
of The Brothers Karamazov that Dostoevsky had ignored the fact that "there
are deep streams which cannot, should not be touched by the word of man"
(B:11iii, vol. 15/495). This comment concerned worries expressed in her
circle that Ivan Karamazov's rebellion would be taken more seriously by more
people than Zosima's teaching. The comment certainly smacks of the public
Tyutchev.
While Tyutchev studied at Moscow, a number of his friends
enthusiastically experimented with the relatively untried medium of literary
Russian, some as members of Merzlyakov's "little academy". During much of
the eighteenth century Russian had tended to be an unwieldy tool for a
generally tedious and imitative literature. At the turn of the century such
writers as Derzhavin (1743-1816), Karamzin (1766-1826) and Lermontov
(1814-41) and Batyushkov (1787-1855) were laying the groundwork of the new
literature. Their efforts were crowned by the prolific genius of Pushkin
(1799-1826), whose compositions secured Russian literature its rightful
place in Europe.
In the year he obtained his first appointment, Tyutchev was offered a
post in the Russian legation in Munich, thanks to the efforts of an uncle.
Shortly after his return on leave to Russia in 1825, the Decembrists staged
their revolt. After it the police arrested scores of young revolutionaries
and idealists who had been no more than spiritual sympathisers with the
instigators of the uprising. The ringleaders' original sentence, quartering,
was commuted to hanging (Russia had not seen the death penalty used for
fifty years) and many others wasted their lives in the army in skirmishes
with southern tribes or in exile in Siberia. The generally unrebellious
Tyutchev produced an interesting work entitled 14-oe dekabrya 1825/December
14th. 1825 [30], in which the comparison between autocracy and a glacier is
tempting for those seeking a revolutionary beneath a conservative veneer. He
refers to the insurgents as misguided people. His sadness at their fate is
real. The most accurate gauge of Tyutchev's feelings about the Decembrists,
if not of his intellectual conclusions, is the poem itself. As a polemical
piece directed against would-be revolutionaries it is weak. As an early
example of his better poetic imagery it is fairly effective; the glacier
image hardly flatters the regime of Nicholas I. The poem is an indication of
a growing, very public conservatism and nationalism which lasted all his
life, as well as of his day-to-day view of Russia as a cold, undesirable
place, both literally and figuratively. Tyutchev's concern about the dangers
of revolution, especially close to Russia's borders, became a passion
lasting until his death. He would interpret various western European
policies as a series of efforts to deny Russia her geographical heritage to
the advantage of the Turks. Tyutchev was obsessed by the Eastern Question.
Returning to Munich in 1826, he married Eleonore Peterson (nee von
Bothmer), a twenty-six year old widow with three children. She had three
more by him (3). Both were impractical people and experienced financial
hardship. Little is documented about Darya, but Anna and Ekaterina are
revealed in the memories of various people as intelligent, energetic and
creative women in different ways. Indeed, Tolstoy himself showed more than a
passing affection for Ekaterina. A selection of his comments from 1857 to
1858 gives some idea of the degree of interest he had in her:
"Tyutcheva is nice".
"I'm beginning to like Tyutcheva in a quiet way".
"Tyutcheva. She occupies me persistently. It's even a nuisance,
especially since it's not love; it doesn't have love's charm".
"Went to Tyutchev's prepared to love her. She's cold, petty,
aristocratic".
"Alas, I was cold towards Tyutcheva".
"I'd almost be prepared to marry her impassively, without love, but she
received me with studied coldness". (B:39)
There are girlish hints in the sisters' letters to each other about the
possibility of marriage between the daughter of a celebrated poet and one of
Russia's greatest novelists, but Kitty once said she was so discriminating
that the opposite sex would just have to put up with her never marrying. She
never did. She did buy the Varvarino estate in 1873 and began the building
of a clinic and a school, also writing children's books and doing a
children's version of the Bible. Anna was Tyutchev's favourite and wrote a
fascinating diary of her life as lady-in-waiting to the empress (C:19). She
married Ivan Aksakov, a major publicist, public figure in the field of
Slavophilism, and the poet's first biographer.
Tyutchev travelled through Germany, Austria, Switzerland, visited Paris
and, his duties being far from onerous, enjoyed a full social life,
returning for a short while to Russia in 1830. A number of poems written
during these early years in Europe show the increasing importance of the
beauties of west European nature in his life, while there is a tendency to
employ images of bleakness when depicting the east European countryside.
Coming back from a diplomatic mission to Greece in 1833, he decided to tidy
up his desk. In 1836 he wrote to his friend, Gagarin: "What I have sent you
is but the tiniest handful of the pile that time has amassed but which fate
or some act of incomprehensible providence has dealt with. Having set about
sorting my papers in the twilight, I consigned to the abyss the major part
of my nocturnal, poetic imaginings, and did not notice this till much later.
At first I was somewhat vexed, but soon consoled myself with the thought
that the library at Alexandria had also burned. Incidentally, the
translation of the entire first act of Part 2 of Faust was there. It's
possible that was better than all the rest".
Only one hundred and fifty two lines of his translations of Goethe
remain while one hundred and fifteen from Part 2 were lost. For whatever
reason Tyutchev did throw out his work, we are facing a significant literary
loss, though it seems to have bothered him little, for there will have been
poems of the quality of the best ones still in our possession among the pile
of papers he destroyed, and Act 1 of the second part of Faust contains the
kind of description Tyutchev would have done superbly. While he was capable
of getting rid of his work on purpose, we simply have no proof. What we do
know is that his poetic eye was very much fixed on the universe around him
and not on the scraps of paper for which he had the scantest respect. It is
possible that, as Barabtarlo has pointed out [A:2/425], Tyutchev was in the
habit of destroying rough drafts and, since his fair copies tend to look
like his rough drafts, a genuine mistake must be considered. The flippant
tone of this section of the letter is characteristic of his dismissive
attitude towards his best work. He describes the lyrics in question as mere
elucubrations poetiques/poetic imaginings (almost "ravings"). Such an
attitude resulted in his being known as a poet of worth among only a handful
of close friends and partly explains why he played no direct part in the
Golden Age of Russian poetry.
The situation changed slightly in 1836 when, after constant cajoling,
Gagarin finally persuaded his friend to send him some lyrics. Gagarin showed
them to Zhukovsky, then to Pushkin, and in the same year sixteen Poems Sent
from Germany appeared in Pushkin's journal Sovremennik/The Contemporary,
over the initials "F.T.". More appeared later, but for a variety of reasons
sparked off little interest in Russia. Tyutchev was not at this time a
conspicuous member of the literary scene in his homeland; he was careless
when it came to preserving his own lyrics and indifferent to their
publication; and the age of realistic prose was on the way in. Tyutchev was
"discovered" in the 1890's by such poets as Bryusov, at a time when the idea
of pure art, or Art for Art's Sake, was becoming popular. The late thirties
and middle years of the century were the age of Belinsky and Dobrolyubov,
for whom art had to be socially relevant. Belinsky was also the leading
light in the westernising movement which was fundamentally opposed to
Slavophilism, the latter to become of increasing importance to Tyutchev as
he grew older and settled in Russia. Considering Belinsky's great influence
and the rise of the Russian novel, it is hardly surprising that Tyutchev's
poetry initially raised little interest.
In May 1838 fire swept the steamer Nicholas I on which Tyutchev's wife
and family were travelling to Germany. On board was the young novelist Ivan
Turgenev (1818-83). He has given a frank account of the incident in Un
Incendie en Mer/A Fire at Sea, describing the panic which swept the vessel
and his own terror (B:40ii, vol. 14/186). It seems that Eleonore ("Nelly")
Tyutcheva, encumbered by three small children and a nanny, showed great
courage and was one of the last to leave the ship. The highly-strung woman
who had attempted suicide (probably more of the call-for-help kind) in 1836,
did not survive the ordeal and died in August of that year, household
tensions having exacerbated her condition. Extreme grief did not prevent
Tyutchev from flinging himself into the fast social whirl of Lake Como, at
the time being visited by members of the Russian imperial family, and where
he met and became friends with Zhukovsky.
In 1839 he married Ernestine von Dornberg. They had been lovers for six
years and she was already having his child. Having been allowed to marry but
refused leave of absence, he locked up the legation and left, losing secret
documents in the process (A:18v). The couple settled in Munich. Tyutchev's
decision to take leave of his post despite his superior's refusal of
permission had left him jobless. Ernestine possessed a rather calmer
personality, not to mention more personal capital, than Eleonore. In his
memoirs, Meshchersky, editor of the Grazhdanin/The Citizen, wrote the
following of the couple as he observed them in later years in the family
seat of Ovstug: "The soul and heart of this family was Ernestine Fyodorovna
... a poetic and sublime woman in whom the intelligence, the heart and the
charm of a woman fused into one harmonious and graceful whole ... Fyodor
Ivanovich himself was some kind of visitor in spirit to this household ...
Life's prose did not exist for him. He divided his life between poetic and
political impressions." (C:15/65)
In the early 1840s the poet wrote a number of nationalistic poems and
published his first political letter, the Lettre a M. le Docteur Gustave
Kolb/Letter to Doctor Gustav Kolb (A:33i), attacking the German press which
saw Russia as a threat to German unification. In it he also attempted to
explain Russia's role in relation to what he saw as the revolutionary West.
This idea was to evolve into the later theme of the legitimacy of humble,
peasant, Orthodox Russia opposed to the fundamentally illegitimate,
anti-Christian Europe and recurred in two further articles written during
the years 1848-50 (ibid.) and some political poems, the latter produced from
1844 to 1873, nearly half his surviving output in terms of lines written. At
their worst they are tendentious, biased and turgid though, despite what
some commentators have always thought, rarely anything less than sharply
thought out and often cleverly expressed. At their best they possess a
highly eloquent quality of indignation and frustration. The political verse
was the only part of his poetical output he made any effort to publish. He
was known to have taken such work along to an editor personally while he
could scribble lyrics of worth on scraps of paper for others to find,
dictate them, send them in letters, and generally not appear to care whether
they ever saw the light of day. Gagarin's insistence that he be allowed to
get his friend's poems published might well have been the kind of trigger
annoying Tyutchev enough to make him throw them out in a fit of pique.
As a writer destined for a place in the history books, the odds were
stacked against Tyutchev. Obviously when impelled as a poet to write, his
interest lasted as long as his inspiration and afterwards he felt no need to
take any trouble over the physical manifestations as the emotions in which
they took their source had been replaced by others. His political writings
answered a different need and were calculatedly produced to make influential
people see things from his point of view, not to mention ultimately persuade
his former employers to look favourably on him once more and, after his
marriage, give him a job. This worked, and after Tyutchev settled in Russia
in 1844, it was as an increasingly respected government official.
Although he and his family visited the West several times over the
following years, Russia had become his permanent home. Several poems written
from this point express longing for the blue skies, warmth and light of
Western Europe, and on many occasions he refers to Russia in such
unflattering terms it is difficult at first to understand his constantly
passionate defence of that country. And, despite adoring nature, he spent
most of his time in towns. Indeed, "this champion of Russia and its
peculiarly eastern way of life was seldom happier than when he was leaving
for the West; while Russia's greatest nature poet was throughout his Russian
years at least, a confirmed city-dweller". (A:14/17)
In 1846 he met Elena Deniseva, over twenty years his junior. The
ensuing love affair scandalised polite society and caused the partners
intense emotional suffering and bitterness. Elena's mother was Principal of
the Smolny Institute, a girls' school where Darya and Ekaterina were pupils.
Elena more than cared passionately for him. She was neurotically convinced
that she and she alone was the real Mrs. Tyutcheva and that only external
circumstances prevented their marrying. She was known for irrational
behaviour and tantrums, at least once throwing an object at her lover. He
could not endure life without her. She bore them three children. Fully aware
of all this, Ernestine remained stoically faithful, although once did
suggest they separate for a while. As the affair became a major talking
point, society shunned Elena, though Tyutchev remained in as much demand as
ever in the salons of the capital. It caused displeasure at court level and
resulted, peripherally, in old Mrs. Deniseva being forced to leave her post.
The love affair produced a small body of lyrics rightly considered to
be among the finest love poems in Russian. Short, sometimes employing a
dialogue technique in which the lyric-hero appears to be conversing with his
lover, sometimes taking the form of monologues, and frequently characterised
by a cogent, highly lyrical and profound sense of his own inadequacy and
selfishness, the Deniseva poems bare the love affair like an open wound. In
these and other works about love and his relationships with people close to
him, there is often a quality of anger and open contempt for the opinions of
a narrow-minded public ever ready to cast the first stone. Tyutchev's
deserved reputation as a great nature poet should never be allowed to
eclipse his standing as portrayer of the love-hate relationship which
accompanies an illicit love affair. He is a ruthless analyst of the anguish
tormenting an individual in his blackest moments.
While he never ceased writing entirely, there is a hiatus from 1838 to
1847. In 1847 he began composing once more in quantity. He was reinstated in
government service in 1845 and in 1848 became Senior Censor in the Russian
Foreign Office and ultimately a fairly liberal Chairman of the Committee of
Foreign Censorship. During 1848 he wrote La Russie et la Revolution/Russia
and Revolution (A:33/i), an article dealing with the role of Orthodox
Christians as saviours of their brother Slavs in the west. A third article,
La Papaute et la Question Romaine/The Papacy and the Roman Question (ibid.),
attacked the Catholic Church for the secularism which had, in Tyutchev's
mind, inevitably infected it since its break with Orthodoxy. From this
point, these themes are frequently reinforced in the poetry.
Tyutchev remained till his death obsessively anxious about Russia's
historical destiny, characteristically never pulling his punches, certainly
in his letters and often by hint and image in the lyrics, when it came to
expressing disapproval of official Russian policy. He experienced genuine
anger and grief at the Crimean debacle and never lost his capacity for
berating the West, the Vatican and the waning Turkish empire. He maintained
a steady, often impassioned interest in foreign affairs generally. His
statements about politics, oral or written, are clever, frequently
sarcastic, and constantly nationalistic, although, despite not trusting it
politically, his love of the west never deserted him. His shock at the
Russian defeat in the Crimea was repeated, if not so publicly, at France's
rout in the Franco-Prussian War.
His personal happiness was marred by several blows. Elena's death of
tuberculosis in 1864 shattered him. Family bereavement followed. Two of
Elena's children by him died, as well as his eldest son Dmitrii, his
daughter Maria, and his brother. With that dark humour which never left him,
Tyutchev compared his existence, rapidly emptying of those close to him, to
the game of patience in which one by one cards vanish from the pack. All the
same, till the end he was unable to resist the charms of a young, pretty
woman, as a jocular album contribution tells us in 1872 [376]. It expresses
doubt at what his senses tell him, in other words that a fine day (the
woman) has arrived in November (his old age).
Increasing ill health and anguished thoughts of his own death tormented
him during the final years, although a certain amount of probably harmless
womanising was still possible. The widow Elena Bogdanova was his last fling
and, while nothing is thought to have come of it, it showed the aged
Tyutchev still capable of that selfishness which could all too easily be
interpreted as lack of concern for his own family. Such difficulties and
grief accompanied at this late stage a growing reputation as a poet. While
the poetic output of the last half dozen years of his life is often
considered mediocre, he composed several masterpieces during this period.
They cover the common themes of personal suffering and ageing [284, 309],
man's relationship as an individual to Nature [289], nature description,
sometimes with a clever political subtext [295, 297, 298], superbly
indignant attacks on narrow-minded people [300] and the Vatican [370],
epigrammatic profundities [311, 347, 385], and an astonishing, elegiac
description of the gardens of Tsarskoe Selo [307]. Despite composing lyrics
of genius, Tyutchev remained totally uninterested in his work.
In January 1873 the first of several strokes partly paralysed him and
on July 15th. he died.

CRITICAL

Pantheism is a synthetic view of the universe, an outlook bringing
together all facets of creation, making of all things one and not permitting
any categorisation of existence into "nature", "man", "God" or "gods".
Tyutchev certainly appears to be a pantheist. Whether there is ultimately a
consensus of opinion about the question of his poetic attitude to nature,
suffice it to say that many of his lyrics are so replete with sensation in
the face of its beauties that "pantheistic" is one of several labels which
will endure over the years.
In short, often aphoristic lyrics written in simple, lucid Russian -
despite a number of archaisms, which remain quite easy to cope with - he
depicts nature as an ordered, palpable entity with which man is often at
one. Equally there are lyrics expressing his sense of being cut off from
nature, in which he is aware of currents of disorder. Tyutchev's poetry -
and Tyutchev the man, in many ways - are bipolar. Tyutchev's poetic images
for this order and disorder are "cosmos" and "chaos", and he employs a wide
range of vocabulary to describe them. Chaos is frequently seen to be a
result of man's drawing back from the whole in order to observe existence,
split it into separate phenomena and compartmentalise these. When Tyutchev
writes of that aspect of existence we commonly refer to as "nature", he
indulges in no trite pathetic fallacies; his apostrophes to nature are
deeply experienced statements of wonder and empathy. There is no vapid
philosophising, drawing of predictable moral conclusions nor attempt to
construct scientific or philosophical structures to explain things; his
scenes represent his sense of man's physical and mental oneness with the
universe, the universe not only of space, but of time. "In Tyutchev's
poetry, the temporal epochs of human life, its past and its present
fluctuate and vacillate in equal measure. The unstoppable current of time
erodes the outline of the present." (A:20/487)
In sensing man's position in the universe, Tyutchev produces in his
best lyrics a feeling of genuine awe. The reader feels the movements of the
air and the sea, the heat of the sun on peaks, warm rain from a spring sky,
and such nature phenomena are there for their own sakes. When he describes
mountain summits as bozhestva rodnye/gods who are our cousins [49], he does
more than simply transplant classical deities into a given landscape after
the fashion of the eighteenth century mimicking its Roman mentors. He is,
indeed, behaving more like many classical authors themselves, for whom
nature was literally peopled by gods.
Dealing with a world Tyutchev felt was teeming with its own kind of
life leaves the reader with the impression that man, while observing nature,
is himself one of its creations. In the best poems, the immediately
accessible visual-audial-tactile level, the "feel" of the poem, is more than
merely a set of references to Hebe, Zeus, Pan or Atlas, "titanising" nature,
as Gregg puts it (A:14/78). In Tyutchev, mythologisation is a powerful
poetic technique and involves an ability to animate a scene in such a way as
to recall to us a common, ancient sense of belonging and oneness. To claim
that simple "titanising" is taking place is to demean this writer, whose
poetic statements bear some resemblance to Vico's. The latter's "new
science" castigated "our civilised natures" because by them "we ... cannot
at all imagine and can understand only by great toil the poetic nature of
these first men" (B:43/22). Tyutchev resurrects an ancestry scientific man
had apparently forgotten. Natural objects and phenomena in his nature poems
are portrayed in a manner strikingly innovative for the age, precisely
because of this skilfully manipulated awareness that man is literally part
of nature and not apart from it. "Myth" in Tyutchev is neither toy nor
pretty poetic game. Myth is a kind of truth every bit as valid as the
scientific "truth" he attacked in the early poem addressed to A. Muravyov,
A.N.M. [13]. Myth is seen as ancient man's way of explaining the universe
and, years after Newton and Descartes, it remained as valid as ever to
Tyutchev, despite, or perhaps because of being "unscientific". In this sense
Tyutchev fits into the broad Romantic mould of Lamartine and Hugo, who
represented a revolt against the rationalism of the pre-Revolutionary years
in France.
As for the difference in feel between the earlier "European" nature
poetry and the later "Russian" lyrics, while his attitudes and emotions were
subject to different ageing and environmental influences, I feel it is glib
to consider that "the image of nature, which had been largely mythocentric
in the early Munich years and anthropocentric in the following decade, is
now very largely its own excuse for being." (A:14/193) Tyutchev's attitude
towards nature never changed. He was a floating particle in it, unable to
comprehend it, unlike Pascal who believed he could understand it through
reason, and whether we have in mind the lush, warm, bustling quality of the
Munich years (Kozhinov rightly mentions the mnogolyud'e/populousness of the
early years (A:17/352-353)), or the desertedness of the Russian works, the
same awareness of being subservient to nature is evident. The changes
affecting Tyutchev the man, the poet, the diplomat, the errant husband did
not alter the sense of awe with which he dealt with the natural world around
him.
Tyutchev produces some amazing results. Sometimes it is as if a mystery
is about to unfold over the earth, as when nocturnal lightning-flashes tease
the clouds, Kak demony glukhonemye/Vedut besedu mezh soboi/like deaf-mute
ghouls/debating heatedly [298]. In Son na more/A Dream at Sea [92], and Kak
okean ob''emlet shar zemnoi/Just as the ocean curls around Earth's shores
[64], the boundary between two kinds of reality, that of dream/hallucination
and diurnal, observable existence is hazy. Man is often described as being
abandoned and frighteningly alone in an incomprehensible, boundless
universe, and when this is not stated it is implied. Behind the cosmos, the
chaotic elements of the thing that is Tyutchev-in-nature are ever-present,
part of an essential, inescapable reality, a Pascalian duality evident from
the earliest poems, in his letters and refusing to leave him in peace even
in his final years.
At first glance the western-nature lyrics are his most attractive
works. They are certainly the most numerous and, even permanently settled
back in Russia, he often wrote poems of reminiscence in which some of the
magic of the European days raises its head. They are descriptions of
sun-soaked lands, vernal and aestival days, warm nights by the Mediterranean
beneath clear, star-filled skies. They are also, as a rule, skilfully
anthropomorphic. When it comes to concreteness, incredible accuracy of
detail and photographic precision in placing objects in a landscape, those
poems describing Russia's countryside are far superior and earn Tyutchev a
special place in Russian letters as a poet who, despite his dislike of his
native land, has produced among the finest verses possible about the bleaker
aspects of that country, so much so that one questions the traditional
approach whereby he is seen as a poet of the West who also wrote about
Russia. The sharp-limned landscapes of the "Russian" poems are almost
entirely lacking in the "European" ones, whose unbelievable landscapes are
deceptive, for they are frequently vague. In them the reader feels heat but
does not always see a great deal to suggest it to the eye. In the greatest
Russian poems, things are generally "seen".
In Russia it is not often the case that laughing, benign nature
distracts him, makes him feel contented. He observes the harsh reality of
his surroundings for what it is and depicts it with unerring sureness of
touch. His Russian nature poems are not indicators of any sense of
well-being. Many of them are "cold" and it is in them that we discover some
of the most wondrous visual effects of his entire oeuvre. In Na vozvratnom
puti/On the Journey Home [241], ponderous clouds and stagnant pools make a
feeble hearkening back to western blueness (11.14-16, pt.2) mediocre by
comparison. The perfectly placed strand of spider-web across a furrow in
Est' v oseni pervonachal'noi/There is a fleeting, wondrous moment [233], is
evidence of the poet's huge talent in describing scenes, here implying, as
Tolstoy noted, restfulness after hard work by the peasants in the fields by
the careful positioning of a single, aptly chosen object. In these and
others, heady mythologisations are supplanted by sad, bleak external
reality. But the resulting poetry is astonishing.
This is not to say that there are no "warm" poems describing the
Russian countryside. The movement of Tikhoi noch'yu, pozdnim letom/Quiet
evening late in summer [153], eight lines produced as if in a single
exhalation, not even constituting a sentence, is not exceptional. In
Neokhotno i nesmelo/Timidly, unwillingly [151], simple images culminate in a
charming image of the sun shyly peaking down at a land "crumpled"
(smyatennaya) by a warm shower. There are others. While as descriptions they
are better, there is, nonetheless, something missing, and it is something in
the poet himself: quite simply, while geographically at home, in spirit he
is not. This ability to create superb poetry about locations he does not
enjoy living in is further evidence, if it were needed, of his gift.
When Tyutchev is at his best in those early years (1822-44) when he
lived and worked in Western Europe, he is truly great. In one of his
masterpieces, Letnii vecher/A Summer Evening [41], the almost magical sense
of peace is achieved by transforming the earth into a giantess from whose
head the setting sun rolls heavily, while stars become creatures physically
hoisting up the sky and a nature-goddess sensually splashes her feet with
cold water after a day of oppressive heat. There is in such works a sense of
excitement and sensual delight, occasionally a hint of apprehension, in the
presence of natural beauty which cumulatively produces skilful landscapes,
remaining at once superb natural descriptions and indicators of the poet's
state of mind. The picture is wonderful, unparalleled in that era, and it is
doubtful if any purely concrete treatment could improve upon it. In Snezhnye
gory/Snowy Mountains [49], the earth is an enormous female expiring in the
sun while youthful mountain peaks play games with the sky. By stark contrast
one of the very few early Russian nature poems, Zdes', gde tak vyalo svod
nebesnyi/Here the sky stares inert [68], contains sparsely sprouting bushes
and lichens, ugly creatures of nightmare, inmates of some fevered dream even
before Tyutchev uses that smile (Kak likhoradochnye gryozy/like fevered
dreams).
Tyutchev will always be best known for his nature poetry which has,
perhaps, been anthologised at the expense of other kinds. His nature lyrics
are extremely simple to read, relying on short, uncomplicated verses and
generic language (in Tyutchev there are few birches, oaks or elms; there are
many "trees"). As in the lyrics of Pasternak, it is often as if we are
surveying a scene for the first time, objects and their surrounding
phenomena appearing as they were "on the first day of creation". (See
[100].) Such poems as those described are, in addition, much more than a
series of nature descriptions of genius.
His poems contain images so nodal that they become the lynchpins of
whole poetic scenarios. Son translates both "sleep" and "dream". Tyutchev is
a master at playing with this word. Dreams become part of diurnal life,
linking man with his inner life. Nature sleeps and dreams change into young
deities playing around woods and mountains. Sleep can be the erotic state of
half-slumber or the nightmarish version of hell blazing from the night sky.
In the form of half-sleep, or dozing, it forms part of daily life and we all
readily daydream (his words for this kind of dreaming being gryozy and
mechty). Dream, attained through sleep, may be a harking back to ancient
memory, individual or collective. Son zheleznyi/iron sleep represents the
atrophied intellects and hearts of the Russia of Nicholas I. Sleep can be
the romantic escape route from daily reality into fantasy. From the very
beginning, in such an early work as an adaption of Heine's Ein Fichtenbaum
steht einsam/A spruce tree stands alone [21], he is mesmerised by the
quality of dream, for "it... (Heine's poem - FJ) is a dream-poem. Its melody
soothes asleep the Argus-eye of common sense ... And again, it is a poem
about a dream; about the bitter sweetness of all passionate yearning for
things so remote that only in dream can they be ours". (C:23) Sleep/dream is
tantalisingly multi-purpose. What is more, it does not develop through a
series of stages as a poetic image. Rather, as part and parcel of life at
any one moment, it is present from the start.
"Night", "Time", "Space" - these and others are concepts of the first
importance to Tyutchev. His expression of what lies behind the facade of the
universe and those dark elements within man's inner being owes more than a
little to Pascal, one of whose Pensees goes, "The eternal silence of these
infinite spaces frightens me" (B:31/233). Tyutchev once remarked in a letter
to Ernestine (1858), "I don't think anyone can ever have felt themselves as
empty as I do faced by these two oppressors and tyrants of humanity: time
and space". Night in Tyutchev is the poetic image often covering
economically and simply the vast notions of time and space as they affect
man in his struggle through life. A given scene in Tyutchev has little to do
with any Schellingian idea of some primordial blackness out of which we
gradually move. Such an "evolution" does not exist in Tyutchev. He is
preoccupied with eternal night forever threatening man while ever aware of
fullness, of man being part of a living nature, a result of its creative
impulse. However he expresses his feelings about his universe of cosmos and
chaos, whether Tyutchev/man is central or peripheral, Nature does not
change.
There are too many strands to Tyutchev's talent as a poet of nature to
deal with in such a short introduction. There is lyrical position, the
up-down movement of so many of his pieces, be it someone looking down at a
river along which a steamer chugs [111], or as if flying and gazing down
into a valley [48], staring up into the sky at star-deities looking down at
him [167,176], or experiencing the sickly, hallucinogenic sensation of
floating above a nightmare storm [92]. The use of a sudden flash from or
into a different time, sometimes almost a different universe, is common, its
earliest manifestation being Problesk/The Gleam [27]. Weaving natural
phenomena into the very body of a woman, as in the raindrops image of
[102,106] and the sky-woman picture of [257], is one of his most effective
techniques, and the sense of some sound being almost out of earshot [100],
are but a few of the different and powerful techniques Tyutchev brought to
Russian poetry.
Tyutchev was renowned for the attentions he paid to women; not to an
ideal, to some poetic notion of femininity, but to flesh-and-blood women.
"Tyutchev knew the woman (zhenshchinu - FJ) (for depth of passion, no-one
has yet matched him), but Femininity (Zhenstvennoe - FJ) was the field of
Lermontov, Fet, Vladimir Solovyov, Blok" (C:20, vol.1/217). There are many
poems to many women and matching up verse and female can be an amusing
guessing game. His lines vary from K Nise/To Nisa [25], apparently written
in a fit of pique - he clearly did not always get his own way, sexual or
otherwise - to K N. N./To N. N., a poetic masterpiece of lust [51], through
the playfully lightweight Cache-cache/Hide and Seek [40], the mysterious,
languorous Ital'yanskaya villa/An Italian Villa [127], dealing with his
affair with Ernestine, the poems to Elena which show lovers' arguments and
recriminations, to his final old man's reminiscences about past glories.
Tyutchev the love poet does not allow of anything other than a woman's full
commitment to him, shows his irritation at Elena's demands to be the one
woman in his life, and treats of his awareness of his lifelong selfishness.
There is a dramatic quality to some of these poems, even those with no other
protagonist (for Tyutchev's lyrics can be monologues, the audience before
him and another character just off stage, listening). Equally, the love
poems give space to the genuine and soft aspect of the emotion and to
Ernestine's strength.
Love in the lyrics is a mixture of deep, genuine, tender feeling and
lust, fired, especially in the Deniseva years, by a sense of conflict. His
love affair with Elena produced gems of poetic anger, as in Chemu molilas'
ty s lyubov'yu/What you guarded in your heart [200]:
Akh, esli by zhivye kryl'ya

Dushi, paryashchei nad tolpoi,
Eyo spasali ot nasil'ya
Bessmertnoi poshlosti lyudskoi.
***
God, if your soul had wings to leave your body,
to lift you by the nape
from the crudeness of the crowd,
to keep you safe
from man's eternal rape!
Equally he can address himself with unconcealed cruelty, almost
contempt:
I, zhalkii charodei, pered volshebnym mirom,
Mnoi sozdannym samim, bez very ya stoyu -
I samogo sebya, krasneya, soznayu
Zhivoi dushi tvoei bezzhiznennym kumirom
***
a weak magician in a little magic role
created by myself, and faithlessly I face it,
blushingly aware of my part,
the lifeless idol of your living soul [199].
In Ital'yanskaya villa/An Italian Villa [127], having taken the reader
through a soothing description of the villa, its cypresses and babbling
fountain, Tyutchev, there with his mistress, Baroness von Dornberg, while
his family was in St. Petersburg, makes those very natural items voice the
lustful sensations undoubtedly running through the lovers:
Vdrug vsyo smutilos': sudorozhnyi trepet
Po vetvyam kiparisnym probezhal, -
Fontan zamolk - i nekii chudnyi lepet,
Kak by skvoz' son, nevnyatno prosheptal
***
Suddenly - turmoil:
A spasm quivered through the branches.
The fountain fell silent,
yet from it some wondrous sound,
muffled, as if in sleep, shivered.
Admittedly the poem concludes as the poet openly wonders whether he and
his mistress have crossed a "forbidden threshold", suggesting that the life
they are living right then is "wicked", that their love is "turbulently
hot", but until that final stanza, love is in the hands of the nature
surrounding them.
Spurred on by the possible marriage of Gorchakov to his niece and by
the attendant gossip, Tyutchev attacked the scandal-mongers in an indignant
work in which Nadezhda Akinfeva's soul is "cloudless", its "azure"
untroubled by wagging tongues. He concludes with a typical piece of
cleverness:
K nei i pylinka ne pristala
Ot glupykh spletnei, zlykh rechei;
I dazhe kleveta ne smyala
Vozdushnyi shyolk eyo kudrei.
***
Not a speck of dusk adheres
when those nauseating churls
sow their stupid calumny
which cannot even crumple
the airy silk of her curls [300].
The physical attributes of the woman, dealt with in terms of the sky
and the air around her (the speck of dust floating in it), become as
important in this poem as the direct effect exerted on her by what society
had to say about the affair. The superb music of Vostok belel. Lad'ya
katilas'/The east whitened [106], with its liquid repetitions running
through each stanza, bears a long with it a concrete, possibly sexual
situation which is inseparable from the verbal expression of the coming of
dawn.
There is a great deal of self-centredness in Tyutchev's depiction of
love. In a remarkable work on Elena's final days [275], he produces one of
his most characteristic types of poem, one in which nature and woman are
somehow interlinked, nature remaining, as always, indifferent to human
suffering:
Ves' den' ona lezhala v zabyt'i,
I vsyu eyo uzh teni pokryvali.
Lil tyoplyi letnii dozhd' - ego strui
Po list'yam veselo zvuchali
***
All day she lay oblivious.
To lie across her body shadows came.
Outside the tepid rain of summer streamed,
splashing through the trees in happy games
As warm, summer rain falls through branches, gaily and loudly
splashing, the dying woman comes to and mutters how much she had loved it
all. Shadows, literally and figuratively, gather over her, yet Tyutchev
saves his burst of anguish for the realisation that he will have to
"survive" her death. This is not the only example of a lyric in which he
complains that he must survive someone else's agony.
The image of love as the one thing Tyutchev could forever hold on to,
despite the vicissitudes of a fate he so often reviled, stayed with him till
his death. The very last word he wrote was "love":
Voskresnet zhizn', krov' zastruitsya vnov,
I verit serdtse v pravdu i lyubov'
***
Life lives again, again blood flows
and my heart believes in truth and love. [393]
It remains to look at the political poems. They have never been
seriously studied as poetry. Not all are tasteless. Some are even good. A
few, perhaps, may be better than a small number of his non-political lyrics.
In the quality of their indignation and the unswervingly accurate, clever
sniping backed up by witty rhymes and memorable metres, they will have
caused more than one pompous figure to wriggle uncomfortably. Some, of
course, are dreadful, but Tyutchev was fully aware of this. Conscious all
the time of his every line being the subject of scrutiny of the censors of
whom he was, in later life, an influential member, he knew precisely what to
say, to whom, when and how, although he did occasionally get it wrong and
found his own works the target of the editing pencil. (See [39, 132, 370].)
Gregg (A:14/146) appears to see a flaw in Tyutchev's personality which
produces such apparent ravings as those lines from Russkaya Geografiya/A
Russian Geography [149], in which the poet describes the Nile and the Ganges
as elements of the Russian empire. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
Tyutchev was an exceptionally intelligent and cunning writer and chose his
themes and times carefully. It should not be forgotten that from the time he
began writing till the year he died, Russia was embroiled in one ajor
foreign-policy adventure or war after another, among them the Napoleonic
invasion of 1812, the Russo-Turkish war (1828-9), three Polish uprisings
(1830, 1846, 1863), the Crimean catastrophe (1853-6) and the Khivan campaign
of 1873. Nationalism is a heady force, especially at times of war and
depression, and, bearing in mind Russia's eternal paranoia about invasion,
borders and ice-free ports, Tyutchev's nationalistic outpourings can easily
be understood. It is inaccurate and misleading in the extreme to attribute
these political works to some psychological aberration. To claim that the
ideology of the political verse is "expounded with the repetitive rigidity
of a child's catechism, their realia .. the kings, swords, flags and altars
of a boy's adventure book ... enunciating with obsessive regularity the
themes of betrayal of Russia, punishment and the necessary submission to
authority" (A:14/146) is to misunderstand verse which, while taking the
message seriously, in his heart of hearts Tyutchev must have cringed at. To
continue by saying that if "ultra-nationalism is taken to represent an
adult's refusal to accept maturity, then it becomes (as in Tiutchev's case)
an infantile disorder" (ibid.) is to make of relatively straightforward
matters something complex and employ a totally inappropriate vocabulary to
make the point. When it came to politics, Tyutchev always knew precisely
what he was saying.
Frequently a mediocre political pronouncement starts or finishes
powerfully, the poetic mediocrities reserved for the central "message" part
of the work. In [268] he begins thus:
Uzhasnyi son otyagotel nad nami,
Uzhasnyi, bezobraznyi son:
V krovi do pyat, my b'yomsya s mertvetsami,
Voskresshimi dlya novykh pokhoron.
***
We've been burdened by a horrible dream,
a horrible, ugly dream:
up to our ankles in blood, we're fighting corpses
resurrected for fresh funerals.
The poem then develops quickly along overtly nationalistic, largely
non-lyrical lines, culminating in a call to Russia to stand firm when faced
with foreign hostility. There is a warm start and a gently eerie finish to
[357]:
Nad russkoi Vil'noi starodavnoi
Rodnye teplyatsya kresty -
I zvonom medi pravoslavnoi
Vse oglasilis' vysoty.
..........
..........
V tot chas, kak s neba mesyats skhodit,
V kholodnei, rannei polumgle,
Eshchyo kakoi-to prizrak brodit
Po ozhivayushchei zemle.
***
Over ancient, Russian Vilnius
kindred crosses glimmer.
Orthodoxy's pealing bronze
makes all the heavens shudder.
..........
..........
and as the moon's about to leave the sky,
in that early morning chill,
across the land just waking up
a spectral visitor wanders still
The opening of Gus na kostre/Hus at the Stake [356] parallels the lyric
poem Pozhary/Fires [331]. The political piece begins:
Kostyor sooruzhyon, i rokovoe
Gotovo vspykhnut' plamya; vsyo molchit -
Lish' slyshen lyogkii tresk, i v nizhnem sloe
Kostra ogon' predatel'ski skvozit.
***
The pyre has been built. The fateful
flame's about to flare and all is silent,
save for gentle crackles as deep within the pyre
the treacherous fire filters.
The more lyrical of the two works is a treatment of the cunning,
treacherous beast which is the fire:
Na pozharishche pechal'nom
Net ni iskry, dym odin, -
Gde zh ogon, zloi istrebitel',
Polnomochnyi vlastelin?
***
On this sad, scorched site
no sparks, only smoke.
Where's the fire, malicious destroyer,
omnipotent master?
Many of Tyutchev's political poems are more complex than has often been
thought. They have their genesis in the lyrical mind of the poet and,
irrespective of their content, what is at times only a residual degree of
lyricism often imbues them with a poetic quality which successfully
reinforces their political message.
The three thematic groups, nature, love and politics, all too briefly
dealt with above, sum up Tyutchev's poetic preoccupations. This is not to
say that he did not have other themes. There are justly famous religious and
philosophical poems, but a number of the religious works are inextricably
linked with politics and many of his philosophical lines are scattered
through works which more properly belong in one of the other categories. One
reaches a point in Tyutchev where it becomes impossible to classify
accurately, for themes and imagery spill across borders. And just as his
political works are not all bad, so many of his religious lyrics, far from
being "flaccid little exercises in other people's piety" (A:14/137-9), are
"inspired and noble", possessing a "depth and sincerity" which "cannot be
doubted" (A:18vii/328). His philosophical works are equally genuine.
Tyutchev did not present a system of ideas in his lyrics, rather expressing
"moods and problems which the leading thinkers were only beginning to tackle
and of which others were not yet even aware". (ibid./330-1) These moods and
problems of which Lane speaks are dealt with, often subtly, certainly not
always overtly, in poems of many kinds.
No matter how a reader reacts to Tyutchev's oeuvre as a whole or to one
or the other of his broad categories, the poet must ultimately be judged on
his greatest lyrics. In the thirties, no Russian poet produced such a work
as Letnii vecher/A Summer Evening [41]. Lines containing the echoing
depression of Bessonnitsa/Insomnia [47] flowed from the pen of neither
Pushkin nor Lermontov. There are many other examples of the uniqueness of
this poet: the egocentric, strange detachment of a mind floating above a
world which might be real or unreal, as in Eshchyo shumel vesyolyi den'/The
happy day was loud [52], the almost sexually explicit final stanza of K N.
N./ To N. N. [51], the slow, languorous movement and ominous imagery of
fading and death of Osennii vecher/ An Autumn Evening [73], the Pascalian
picture of man hanging lost in an abyss of Kak okean ob''emlet shar
zemnoi/Just as the ocean curls around earth's shore [64], and the pithy,
philosophical comment made with impressive economy, as in Silentium!/Stay
Silent! [83], containing his most famous line, Mysl' izrechennaya est'
lozh'/A thought you've spoken is untrue.
Tyutchev's existing poetic works consist of just under four hundred
pieces. Approximately half of these are translations, occasional poems and
the political verse. Of the remaining fifty per cent not all poems are of
equal merit and his best works are very short. It is remarkable that on the
basis of such an insignificant output in terms of lines written, over such a
long period, Tyutchev should be considered at least the equal of Lermontov
and by no means far behind Pushkin in the pantheon of Russian poets,
although such a situation is not unique. After all, Kafka wrote little
fiction. Tyutchev's importance is attributable not only to the very high
quality of poems written in a relatively new literary age, that which began
in Russia at the end of the eighteenth century and developed apace
throughout the "golden" nineteenth, when Russia boasted scores of clever,
talented poets whose work was by no means inferior to that of their Western
counterparts. Ultimately, perhaps, we judge him on that originality, that
sense of being different which is a characteristic of the voice out of place
in its time, for Tyutchev's most celebrated lyrics are brilliant, often
troubling works which do not properly represent the first third of the
nineteenth century. So many observations inspiring his lyrics triggered
conflict in his mind. His scenes, even at their most idyllic, are parts of a
larger picture of anxiety. Turmoil and brooding questioning are central to
Tyutchev's view of the universe and he expresses them with a very modern,
uncompromising sharpness which appeals to our own age rather more, perhaps,
than the florid, immense variety of Pushkin and Lermontov.

FOOTNOTES

1. Tyutchev's parents were Ivan (1776-1846) and Ekaterina (nee
Tolstaya, 1776-1866). He had a brother, Nikolay (1801-70) and a sister,
Darya, (1806-79), married name Sushkova). Apart from these, Sergei, Dmitrii
and Vasilii died in childbirth.
2. Prior to the decree of February 14th. 1918, Russia used the Julian
calendar which was twelve days behind the Gregorian in use in the West. The
two dating systems are referred to as Old and New Style and all dates in
this book are Old Style.
3. His first wife was the widowed Eleonore Peterson (nee Countess von
Bothmer, 1799-1838), four years older than he and with three children of her
own. She had three daughters by Tyutchev, Anna (1829-89), Darya (1834-1903)
and Ekaterina (1835-82). His children by his second wife, Baroness Ernestine
von Dornberg (nee Pfeffel, 1810-94), also a widow, were Maria (1840-72),
Dmitrii (1841-70) and Ivan (1846-1909). His mistress, Elena Deniseva
(1826-64) bore him Elena (1851-65), Fyodor (1860-1916) and Nikolai
(1851-65).

* THE POEMS *

1. DEAR DAD!

On this happy day, a sonТs tender feelings
seek a gift for you, but what sort?
A bunch of flowers? But the blooms are all over
and meadows and valleys have lost their colours.
Shall I ask the Muses for some verses?
IТll ask my heart.
HereТs what my heart has told me:
embraced by your fortunate family,
gentlest of men, father-philanthropist,
true friend of good, protector of the poor,
may your precious days flow in peace!
Your loving children and subjects all around you,
on every face you will see joy.
Thus from on high, the sun
looks down with smile upon flowers
brought to life by its beams.

2. NEW YEAR, 1816

Already the heavensТ great luminary,
pouring abundance and light from on high,
has traced its yearly path around the sky,
rising in grandeur in a new domain.
Behold! Clothed in a glittering dawn,
penetrating the whitening vault of these etherial regions,
flying down with his fateful urn
comes the SunТs new son, the New Year!
His forerunner has vanished from the face of the earth
and on the current of revolving ages,
like a drop in the ocean, has drowned in eternity!
This year will pass too. HeavenТs statute is sacred.
Oh, Time! EternityТs mobile mirror!
Everything disintegrates, falls beneath your hand.
Your boundaries, your beginning are hidden
from feeble, mortal eyes.
..........
Aeons are born and disappear once again,
one century erased by yet another.
What can flee the wrath of malicious Chronos?
What can stand its ground before this awesome god?
A bleak wind whistles through ruined Babylon!
Beasts graze where Memphis once prospered!
Around TroyТs toppled stones
stinging thorns are thickly entwined!
..........

And you, oh son of luxury, mortal voluptuary,
your life of idle bliss and comfort
rolls peacefully on! But youТve forgotten, unfortunate man,
that we must all gaze at the shores of fearsome Cocytus.
Your elevated rank, your flatterers, your gold
will not save you from death! Can you really not have seen
how frequently fire-winged lightning
strikes the brows of towering cliffs?
..........
Yet still your greedy hand has dared
to snatch the daily bread from orphans and from widows,
casting families into joyless exile!
Blind man! The path of riches leads to ruin!
The subterranean dwelling has opened before you.
Oh, victim of Tartarus! Oh, victim of the Furies,
the glitter of your splendour, vandal,
will not enchant these dread goddesses!
..........
There you will see the keen axe forever
hanging by the finest hair above your head;
your ulcerated flesh will be garbed
not in purple cloth, but in a blanket of writhing worms!
You will lay your torn members upon a bed
not of the finest, softest down to sweetly lull them,
but no, upon scorching sulphur,
and you will piercingly, eternally howl!
But what is this? This terrifying throng! These bloody shades
maliciously grinning are hurrying towards you!
They died of barbaric persecution;
for this barbarity, await your just reward at their hands!
Suffer, agonise, evil doer, victim of hellТs vengeance!
Your forgotten grave is now covered by grass!
The voice which flattered you up here
has forever fallen completely silent!

3. TO TWO FRIENDS

On this blessed day, one of you adopted
the name and virtue of that maiden
who struggled in the name of sacred religion;
nature conferred upon the other one existence.
She engineered it that in both, feelings and deeds
should constitute mutual joy,
setting an example to the fair sex.
..........
Separation oppresses you,
oh true friends! The time will soon come,
that pleasant, sweet, blissful time of meeting,
and in an outpouring of your hearts
youТll finally see her,
forgetting past suffering!
4.
Let envy gnaw ZoilusТs heart!
Voltaire, he cannot harm you!
The Muses protect their fostered ones:
into eternityТs temple,
Oh wondrous one, theyТll lead you.

5. A LETTER FROM HORACE TO MECENATUS INVITING HIM TO

DINNER IN THE COUNTRY (HORACE).
Come, desired guest, my beauty, my joy!
Come, the comradely goblet awaits you here,
the rose garland, the sweetness of tender songs!
Kindled not by the flattererТs hand,
the aromas of anemones and lilies pour fragrantly onto the feast
and baskets full of fruit gladden your eye and palate.
Come, righteous man, protector of the people,
true son of the fatherland, uncompromising friend of monarchs,
fortunate foster child of the Castalian maidens, come into my humble abode!
Let magnificent columns and the gilded masses of temples
entice the greedy gaze of the unthinking crowd.
Leave the careworn city for a while,
recline in the shade of leafy groves. Peace awaits you here.
Under the roof of the rural penates
where everything is beautiful and breathes simplicity,
where the cold glitter of purple and gold are alien,
thatТs where the comradely goblet is sweet!
The brow furrowed by thought looses its gloomy aspect here.
In the dwelling of our fathers, everything pours joy onto us!
Heavy-footed, heavenly Leo has already stepped
into the regions of heat and along a flaming path
flows across the bright skies! In a sacred, silvan coppice,
where a strange haze fuses with coolness,
where a trembling, quiet light glimmers through the leaves,
a playful freshet barely moves,
whispering in the dusk with the sedge along the banks.
Here, at the hottest times, in front of a dense thicket,
a shepherd and his flock sleep in the cool shade
and in rose bushes gentle zephyrs sleep.
And you, high devotee of Themis, protector of the defenceless,
you spend your days burdened by cares,
and our compatriotsТ happiness is the good and worthy fruit
of your unremitting endeavours.
On their behalf you would like to know what fate has in store,
but the stern ruler of Earth, Heaven and Hell
has wreathed the future in a dense, eternal mist.
Be reverential, men born of earth!
What? This earthly dust will dare to try to comprehend what is heavenly?
Will it dare to tear the veil of mystery?
The very fastest mind will numb in confusion
and this turbulent sage will be the godsТ laughing stock!
Wandering through this thorny wilderness,
we can pluck one bloom, catch a fleeting moment.
The future is for destiny, not us.
So we leave it to the whim of the higher ones!
What is time? A swift current rolling the crystal of sapphire waves
through peaceful glades and along banks luxuriant in abundant swards.
Across the ripplesТ silver, the sunТs golden light
plays and slips; but give it an hour and, quickly tempestuous,
forgetting its shores, forgetting its peaceful movement, itТs lost in
the boundless sea,
in the shoreless emptiness of vast waters!
But wait: suddenly from louring storm-masses rain erupts from black depths.
The water rises, roars, breaks its banks and a furious wind stirs up the waves!
Blessed, a hundredfold blessed, is he who knows repose, gazing moved at the
celestial Guide
which flows to rest in NeptuneТs domains,
who, overjoyed, can say to himself: I have lived!
Tomorrow, through a leaden cloud, let
the omnipotent god of thunder throw a crimson mantle to
envelope the darkening air,
or let sunlight once more scatter through the skies,
for mortal man it makes no difference, and what the winged
years have taken away with them from earthТs sad face
into the repository of time
not even the Father of Nature himself will alter.
This world is the plaything of malicious fortune.
She casts her conceited glance at the earth and shakes the entire universe
through blind whim!
Unfaithful, today she cast her shadow across me;
she showers me with riches and honours,
but tomorrow, suddenly spreading her wings, she will direct her flight at others.
I am despised. I do not protest and, both sorrowful witness
and victim of the fateful game, I offer her gifts and garb myself in virtue.
Wreathed in storms, let the southern wind stir and raise the salty depths
and fuse the black hills of the seaТs seething waters with
thunder clouds, ripping fragile shipsТ rigging,
destroying everything in its fury!
Protected by the skies of my gentle homeland,
I shall not burden the gods with prayers;
but friendship and love, among the waves of life,
will guide my bark unharmed into harbour.

Omnipotent am I while weak,
a ruler yet a slave.
I lose no sleep
if I do good or if I evil wreak.
I give a lot, get little back,
I answer to none but Number One,
and if I want to beat someone,
then IТm the one who gets the smack.

7. URANIA

It has been revealed! Is it not a dream? A new world! A new force,
like a flame, has enfolded my ecstatic spirit!
Who taught me, a youth, to soar like an eagle?
Behold this priceless gift of the Muses! Behold these wings of inspiration!
I fly and this world vanishes before me,
this world, swaddled in a misty, constricting
shroud of turmoil and vanity has gone!
Like the sunТs golden beams, the ether has touched my eyes
and blown earthly dust from them.
I behold the dwellings of the all-highest ones
whence, through open doors of mystery,
by the good will of fate, MnemosyneТs daughters flow towards us,
honour, joy, beauty for all races, for every age!
..........
The measureless sea stretches under my feet,
and in the blue light of the gentle waves
the sky is aflame with burning stars,
like the faces of gods in a pure heart.
Expectation is like a quiet trembling.
All around is sacred silence.
..........
Behold! Like the moon emerging from clouds
UraniaТs islet lifts from silvered foam.
A steady light pours all around me
born of the smile of goddesses.
The sounds of lyres rise higher.
The world drowns in enchantment!
..........
Setting aside the shades of the ethereal cover
and the CharitesТ magic belt,
Urania has adopted her own image
and a starry crown burns on the goddess!
On earth, what captivated us as a dream
presents itself up here as Truth.
..........
Only here, under a clear sky,
will lifeТs murky current brighten;
only here, forgotten by Aquilon,
it flows deep and bright!
Only here is lifeТs genius fair,
here, where roses of pure pleasure last forever,
is PoetryТs garland eternally young!
..........
Like Pharos for enlightened souls and minds,
the temple of the Heavenly One has been erected
and Wisdom invites those captivated by what is heavenly
to taste the nourishing feast laid out up there.
All around the beneficial one, in gold-blossoming dawns,
on high thrones, in the radiance of gods,
there sit in their splendour the saviours of mortals
creators of good, of order, of cities.
Behold eternally youthful Peace, with golden chains
binding families, peoples, monarchs;
Justice with its eternally unmoving scales;
Fear of God, preserver of sacred altars;
and you, Compassion, joy of those who suffer!
You, Loyalty, your brow inclined against the anchor,
Patriotism, the native landТs protection,
and cold Valour with burning sword;
you of the ever bright eyes, Patience,
and Labour, you undeviating healer and minion.
Thus do the highest powers hold counsel!
..........
Among them, around them in sacred reverence,
around the slopes of cloud-like mountains,
flowing in mysterious circles,
is the bright choir of the sciences and knowledge.
Alone Urania, like a sun among the stars,
preserves harmony and steers their paths.
At a motion of her mighty staff
the boon of enlightenment flows from land to land.
Where formerly there was dark night,
there is the phenomenon of radiant day;
like a river of stars across the heavens
reaching, she embraces the universe and pours lifeТs gifts
onto the West, the East, the North and the South.
Reveal yourself to me, universe of years which have flown by!
Tell me, Urania where was your first temple,
your throne, your people, teacher of all ages?
The mysterious East! Your turn has been and gone!
Your earliest day has flowed by! From nearby gates
the Sun haughtily passes through the dwelling of its birth
and flows on, languorous and doubting monarch.
Where is Babylon here? Where Thebes? Where is my city?
Where is illustrious Persepolis? Where is Memnon, my herald?
They are not here! Its rays are lost in the steppes
where they are sorrowfully met by the hunter or the ploughman,
fruitlessly digging the burning sands or sadly, bashfully slipping
across the mossy ribs of the pyramids.
Hide yourself, gloomy aspect of frail glory!
The sun hurries into the distance.
On the shores of the Aegean the laurel has bowed
a welcoming head to it, and on the hills of Hellas
AtheneТs green myrtle has twined itself around its altar.
The blind Singer called it to him in solemn song,
horsemen and steeds, leaders and chariots,
the assembly of gods who left Olympus;
the mortal blows of AresТs hand,
and the sweet songs of shepherds;
Rome rose, and the thunder and sweet-sounding songs of Mars
resounded a hundredfold across TiberТs hills;
and the swan of Mantua, having ploughed up the ill-fated ashes of Troy,
rose and poured his eternal light upon the seas!
But what meets my gaze? Where, where have you hidden yourself,
heavenly one? She flees, like a pale spectre in the dark.
The worldТs morning star has set.
Everywhere there is chaos and darkness!
УNo! The light of the sciences is eternal
It will not be embraced by the ungovernable gloom.
Its fruit is imperishable and will not die!Ф
Urania speaks and brandishes her sceptre, and from iron fetters,
Italy liberates its pale, sore-covered head,
tears the bonds of savage serpents, foot on the lionТs neck.
Everything began here! The holy ground,
valleys, the bowels of mountains, streams, woods
and you, Vesuvius! You, fiery abyss,
fearsome beauty of threatening nature!
You have returned everything which, in insatiable fury,
frenzied Saturn wanted to hide from us!
The blossom of Hellas and of Rome has issued from the ashes!
Once more the sun has begun to flow along its bountiful path.
Nowhere will the ranks of dreadful battles
nor spells, nor languid charms,
nor massed hordes, nor malicious Hell,
on his most sublime paths, forbid the eagle of Ferrara access:
on fiery wings he has brought to the temple of Jerusalem
victory and a crown.
There the nymphs of the Tajo, there the waves of the Guadalquivir
flow to meet you, young Singer,
bringing to us songs from the shores of another world.
But who are these two geniuses standing there?
Like radiant seraphim, guardians of the gates of Eden
and high priests of incomprehensible mysteries,
one from BritainТs waters, the other from the Alps,
they reach miracle-working hands to each other.
Alien to what is earthly, they raise their eyes to the heavens
in the heat of divine reveries!
Why does the face of the watery depths burn?
Where do the exultant waters of the Thames hurry?
Why this sacred trembling, Alps, Appennines?
Earth, be reverent! Lend your ears, people!
The immortal singers promise you God:
one, like the son of thunder, thunders about the Fall,
the other, like grace, rings out salvation
and the path which leads to the heavens.
And behold, amid the snows of the deep land of midnight,
beneath the glint of cold dawns, beneath the whistling of icy blizzards,
he rose from Kholmogor, like a strong, high cedar,
he stands, ascends and takes in everything around him with his strong boughs.
Lifting to the clouds, his head glistens with immortal fruit
and there, where gleaming metal is buried,
there he digs through the soil with his deep roots.
Thus the Russian Pindar arose! He raised his arms to the skies
that he may block the path of flaming storms.
With MinervaТs lance he struck the bowels of earth
and golden treasures flowed forth.
He stretched his imperial gaze across the sea
and his light burns, like Castor and Pollux!
..........
The singer, on the grave of the father, the hero-tsar, laid
fresh laurels, and he has illuminated ElizabethТs
priceless days of peace and bliss.
Then, spilling out, light from the northern lights
was reflected on the steep shores of the Araks
and the geniuses reached their hands to gaze that way
and a new Thebes gleamed red in the rays.
There, there, in the land of the morning star, the singer of Felitsa arose!
..........
He who keeps the secrets of destiny foresaw the hero-tsar in his cradle.
He is now with us! He has flowed down from the heavens,
The assembly of royal geniuses has flown down with him,
has surrounded his throne; GodТs spirit reposes above him!
The Muses have joyously sung the praises
of You, oh tsar of our hearts - a Man on the throne!
..........
By your all-powerful hand the gates of Janus have closed!
You have protected us with silence. You are our glory, our beauty!
Meekly bowing to your throne, storms sleep on high and in the vales.
And here, where everything flows from your goodness,
here, once again a genius of enlightenment,
gleaming with the light of renewal, the happiness of his days is blessed!
Here he swears sacred oaths that, constant, faithful,
on his glittering height, following the behests and example of the monarch,
he will rise, leaning on Faith, to his divine destination.
8.
Inconstant, watery gulfs finally behind him,
the swimmer attains the longed-for shores.
In the harbour, his flight in the wilderness over,
he re-acquaints himself with joy!
Exulting, will he not then drape
his mighty bark with flowers?
Beneath their luxuriant, shining verdure
will he not hide the scars of dark tempests and seas?
..........
You too with fearless glory sundered
the seasТ expanses with your rudder
and today, my friend, stately in peace,
rejoicing, you fly into your haven.
Quicker to the shore, onto friendshipТs bosom
incline your head, oh singer,
that I might weave sprigs from ApolloТs tree
into his foster-childТs hair!

9. ON PUSHKINТS ODE TO FREEDOM

Alight with the fire of freedom
and drowning out the noise of chains,
the spirit of Alcaeus has awoken in the lyre
and slaveryТs dust has fled it.
Sparks have scattered from the lyre
and in a stream,
like a divine flame, they have fallen
onto the pale brows of tsars.
..........
Happy is he who with a firm, bold voice,
forgetting their rank, forgetting their thrones,
is born to speak sacred truths
to inveterate tyrants!
And you, fostered by the muses,
have been rewarded by this great lot!
..........
Sing and with the power of euphony
soften, touch, transform
autocracyТs sold friends
into friends of goodness and beauty!
Singer, trouble not our civic calm,
darken not the royal glitter!
Beneath the kingly velvet,
let your magic strumming
soften hearts, without alarming!

10. CHARON AND KACHENOVSKY

Charon
Are you really from the land of the living, brother?
YouТre so dry and thin. In truth, IТm ready to swear here and now
that your unclean spirit has long been languishing in Hades.
Kachenovsky
Well, friend Charon. IТm skinny and dry from books
and - why hide it any longer?
IТve been full of bile, vengeful and bad-tempered,
my life as useless as a burned out match.

11. SOLITUDE (LAMARTINE)

Glancing from a craggy height, how often
I sit pensive in the shade of dense thickets,
eveningТs varied pictures unfolding before me.
Here a river foams, the beauty of the valley,
leaving me, fading in the dark distance;
there the slumbering ripples of an azure pond
are bright in deep silence.
Through the dark foliage of trees
I see duskТs last ray still wandering.
The moon slowly rises from the north
on a chariot of clouds and from a lone belfry
drawn-out, indistinct peals are heard all around.
The passer-by listens, and the distant bell
fuses its voice with the dayТs final sounds.
The world is beautiful! Yet rapture
has no place in my withered heart!
Like an orphaned shade I wander through a foreign land,
dead, the light of the sun powerless to warm me.
My gaze slips sadly from hill to hill,
slowly extinguished in the fearsome void.
Alas, where shall I meet that on which my gaze might rest?
There is no happiness, for all natureТs beauty!
And you, my fields, copses and valleys,
you are dead! LifeТs spirit has flown away from you!
What do you have for me now, joyless scenes?
There is one missing from the world, and the whole world has emptied!
Let day break, let nocturnal shades descend,
both darkness and light are repellent to me.
My fate knows no change
and thereТs eternal grief in the deeps of my soul!
But is the wanderer to languish long in his prison?
When shall I abandon this earthly dust for a better world,
that world where there are no orphans,
where what you believe in comes to pass,
where there are suns of truth in imperishable skies?
Then, perhaps, there will shine through
the saving object of my secret hopes,
to which my soul here still strives,
which it will embrace only there, in my native land.
How brightly the assembly of stars burns above me,
the divinityТs living thoughts!
What a night has thickened upon the earth,
and how dead this earth is in the sight of the heavens!
A storm springs up and a wind, and a desolate leaf is eddied!
And for me, me, like the dead leaf,
it is time to leave lifeТs valley.
Bear me away, tempestuous ones, carry off this orphan!

12. SPRING (DEDICATED TO MY FRIENDS)

Love of the earth, charm of the year,
spring smells sweetly of us!
Nature is throwing a feast for creation,
a coming-together feast for its sons!
..........
The spirit of life, strength and freedom
rises, fans around us!
Joy has poured into our hearts,
like an echo of springТs celebration,
like the life-creating voice of a god!
..........
Where are you, sons of Harmony?
Come, with bold fingers
touch the slumbering strings,
warmed by the bright rays
of love, of ecstasy, of spring!
..........
Just as in full, flaming bloom,
at morningТs first, young light
roses glisten and burn;
as the zephyr in its joyous flight
scatters their aroma,
so do you, life-joy, pour yourself into everything.
Singers, letТs follow you!
Let our youth soar, friends,
around the bright blooms of good fortune!
..........
This feeble gift of grateful love is yours,
this simple blossom, with little aroma.
You, my mentors, will accept it with a gracious smile.
Thus does a feeble child, as a token of its love,
bring to its motherТs breast
the flower it picked in a meadow!

13. A.N.M.

You have no faith in wondrous fancies.
Reason has destroyed everything
and, subjugating to constricting laws
the air, the seas, the land,
like prisoners, has laid them bare.
It has dried to its depths that life
which breathed a soul into the tree,
gave body to the incorporeal!
..........
Where are you, oh ancient peoples?
Your world was a temple for all the gods,
You read the book of Mother Nature
clearly, without glasses!
No, youТre not those ancient peoples!
Our age, my friends, is not like theirs.
..........
Oh slave of learned vanity,
fettered by your science!
Vainly, critic, you chase off
their gold-winged dreams.
Believe me - experience is all the proof you need
the magic temple of good fairies
even in a vision, is more joyful
than, in waking life, languishing bored
in your squalid shack!

14. HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE (SCHILLER)

Andromache
Once more, Hector, do you hurl yourself into the storm of battle
where, unapproachable with his sword of steel,
the vengeful Pelides fights furiously?
Who will look out for HectorТs son?
Who will teach him his lordly duty,
instil fear of the gods into the baby?
Hector
Am I to pine in burdensome peace?
My heart thirsts for the coolness of battle,
thirsts to avenge Pergamum,
ancient dwelling of my fathers!
If I fall, saviour of my homeland,
I shall gaily go down to the shores of the Styx.
Andromache
In these halls of fame am I fated
to see your sword idle and rusting?
Are all of PriamТs kin condemned?
Soon, where there is neither love nor light,
where the dusky Lethe flows,
soon your love will die!
Hector
All my soulТs hopes, all my impulses
will be swallowed by the silent waters,
but not HectorТs love!
Do you hear? TheyТre rushing off... The flame of battle is burning!
The hour has struck! My son, my wife, Troy!
Endless is the love of Hector!

15.

Along the fateful shore of life,
swept up and left by nature,
a fiery and a lively youth
played, unaware of danger.
The Muse took in the orphaned boy
and he became her family.
She wore a rug of poetry,
luxuriant and lovely.
When heТd matured, nurtured by
the MuseТs good example,
a surplus of sensation led
him off to FreedomТs temple.
He made no gloomy offerings in
the service of his idol,
just proffering a fiery harp,
just scattering some petals.
There was one more priority,
itТs worthy of a mention,
for Cupid played around his head,
demanding his attention.
An arrow was the godТs kind gift.
As soon as he was able,
OrpheusТs wife became
the subject of a fable.
Reality was just a dream,
his world was what he made it.
Thus heТs attracted earthly fame,
thus heaven will reward him.
HeТs sharp of intellect and quick,
of rich imagination,
and only ever argued to
defend his dissertation.

16.

Do not endow us with the spirit of idle gossip!Ф
Okay. But from now on, we agree,
by virtue of our agreement,
donТt expect any prayers from me!

17. TO WINEТS DETRACTORS (FOR WINE, INDEED, BRINGS JOY TO MANТS HEART).

WeТre far too quick to criticise.
WhatТs wrong with liking drink?
Drinking wineТs a healthy joy
no man of sense denies.
..........
Curses and grief to those who dare
to dispute whatТs so blatantly clear.
I summon the heavens to the box
to take the oath in this affair.
..........
Our forebear took a bite -
blame his wife or blame the snake -
tasting the forbidden fruit.
We know the rest. It served him right.
..........
Well, I agree, it must be said,
the old man was at fault;
he knew he had the grape
yet let an apple turn his head
..........
Honour and glory has Noah earned,
conducting himself with skill,
becoming friendly with the wine
when water he had spurned.
..........
Neither quarrels nor reproaches
could spoil his drinking pleasure,
the juice of the grape he often poured
into his cup at times of leisure.
..........
All of his best efforts
God himself has blessed.
They both reached an agreement,
divine good will to test:
..........
Should any of his sons not learn
to love to take a drink -
the scoundrel! - Noah intervened:
the blackguard was condemned to burn.
..........
So let us stand and raise a glass
letТs sup it out of piety,
so that along with Noah
through heavenТs gates weТll pass.

18. AN EPISTLE TO A.V. SHEREMETEV

Your good genius had difficulty
getting you back home,
my brother by blood and in sloth,
away from manoeuvres and training,
barracks, alarms, incarcerations,
from your submissive, military existence.
At home with your friends, in casual dress,
reconciling peace with service,
you have hung up your idle sabre
in the hero-agronomistТs garden.
Okay then. Free once more, could you ever
be faithless to your favourite dream?
Inactivity can spell trouble, friend,
If youТve no-one to share it with.
Take my friendly advice
(the Oracle would speak in verse
and always convinced its listeners):
amongst the beauties of Moscow
no doubt itТs easy to find
a pretty girl of fifteen,
whoТs bright, who has spirit and serfs.
Leave for a while the plough of Tolstoy,
forget chimerae and rank,
get married and in the worldТs full sense
be the aide-de-camp of your wife.
Then weТll surrender to inspiration,
Hymen will wake up the Muse.
IТll sacrifice my sloth to her,
just you overcome your own!

19. SONG OF JOY (SCHILLER)

Joy, first-born of creation,
daughter of the great Father,
as a glorifying offering
we devote our hearts to you!
Whatever the whim of the world has separated,
your altar brings together once again,
and the soul you have warmed
drinks love in your rays!
..........
Chorus
Get into one circle, children of God!
Your father is looking at you!
His summoning voice is sacred
and his reward is true!

..........
Whoever has foreseen the sweetness of the heavens,
who has loved on this earth,
who has drawn joy from a dear glance,
share our joy.
Everything which one heart to anotherТs heart
has echoed in a brotherТs breast;
whoever cannot love, out of the circle
with you, leave in tears!
..........
Chorus
Family of souls! Oh, heavenly ray!
Almighty link!
It leads to the heavens
where the Unknown One dwells!
..........
At the breasts of good nature
everything which breathes drinks Joy!
All creations, all nations
are pulled along behind her.
She has given us friends for times of unhappiness,
the vine, the garlands of the Charities,
sensuality to insects,
to the angel - a place before God.
..........
Chorus
Hearts, what do you revere?
Or is it the creator informing you?
Here there are only shadows. The sun is there.
Seek it above the stars!
..........
Eternal joy feeds
the soul of GodТs creation
with the mysterious power of fermentation.
The cup of life is ablaze.
It has teased the grass up into the light,
in suns it has developed chaos
and in space, not subservient
to the astronomer, it has poured it!
..........
Chorus
As worlds roll on one behind the other
behind the ever-moving finger,
we flow on to our destination
bravely, like a hero to battle!
..........
In the bright mirror of truth
your image shines in our eyes,
your jewel burns at the bottom
of the bitter phial of experience.
Like a cloud of coolness, you
appear to us amidst difficulties,
you shine like the morning of rebirth
through the cracks in tombs!
..........
Chorus
Believe in the guiding hand!
Our griefs, tears, sighs
are preserved in it like a pledge
and will be redeemed one hundredfold.
..........
Who can comprehend providence?
Who will indicate its path?
In our heart let us seek revelation,
the heart signifies the divinity!
Away from the earth, enmity!
Let soul be kin to soul!
Let us sacrifice vengeance and buy friends,
purple - with the price of sackcloth.
..........
Chorus
We have forgiven our foes.
In the book of life there are no debts;
there, in the sanctum of worlds,
God judges how we have judged!
..........
Joy swells the grape,
joy fires the cups,
softens the heart of the savage,
enlivens the breast of the despairing!
The foam sparkles up to the sky.
Hearts are fuller.
Friends, brothers - onto your knees!
This cup is for the all-bountiful one!
..........
Chorus
You, whose thought gave birth to spirits,
you, whose glance has burned worlds!
Let us drink to you, great God!
Life of worlds and luminary of souls!
..........
To the weak - brotherly service,
to the good - brotherly love,
the loyalty of oaths - to friend and foe,
as a tribute to duty - all the heartТs blood!
The bold voice of the citizen
to the council of earthly gods.
Solemnise the sacred deed.
Eternal shame to his enemies.
..........
Chorus
Our hand to yours, father,
we stretch for all eternity!
Give eternity to our oaths!
Our oaths are the hymn of hearts!

20. TEARS

O lacrimarum fons....
Friends, I love to let my eyes caress
the sparkling, deep red of the wine,
or peer through the foliage
at the scented ruby of the vine.
..........
I love to watch creation deep
in spring time in sweet fragrance
when the world is slumbering sweetly
and is smiling in its sleep!
..........
I love the face of a pretty girl
ablaze in the breeze of spring,
her cheeks folding into dimples,
the sensual silk of her curls.
..........
But what are VenusТs delights,
the juice of the grape and rosesТ aromas,
compared to you, oh sacred well of tears,
the dew of the godТs morning light!
..........
Heavenly beams play upon them
and, refracted in fiery showers,
on the storm-clouds of existence
they sketch rainbow-living colours.
..........
And should the pupils of mortal man
be brushed by the wings of the angel of tears,
then the mist will vanish in tearful swirls
and a sky of seraph faces
will before our eyes unfurl.

21. FROM A FOREIGN LAND (HEINE)

In the gloomy north, on a bleak crag,
a lone, white cedar stands in the snow
and has fallen sweetly asleep in the frosty mist,
and the blizzard lulls its sleep.
..........
It dreams all the time of a young palm
which, in the EastТs distant regions,
beneath a burning sky, on a scorched hill,
stands and blossoms, alone.

22. (HEINE)

Be open with me, my love:
are you some spectre
of the sort occasionally produced
by the poetТs fiery mind?
..........
No, I canТt believe that: the dear light
of these cheeks, of these eyes,
this little anlge mouth,
no poety will conjure that up.
..........
Basilisks and vampires,
the winged horse and the toothed serpent,
these are his idolТs dreams,
this is what the poetТs good at dreaming up.
..........
But you, your airy figure,
the magic colour of your cheeks,
this artfully submissive glance,
no poet will come up with that.

23. TO MY FRIENDS (ON SENDING THEM SCHILLERТS SONG OF JOY)

Friends, what the divine one sang
in a fiery outburst of freedom,
in the full emotion of Existence,
when to natureТs feast
the Singer, her favoured son,
called all nations into one circle;
and with an exulting soul,
in his eyes, a life-creating ray,
from the foaming cup of Genius,
drank the health of people!
..........
Should I then sing this sacred hymn
far from those close to my heart,
in anguish which I cannot share,
to sing of joy on my silent lyre?
Gaiety has lost its voice in her,
its playful strings
are soaked by tears of sadness and torn by Separation!
But, friends, youТre no stranger to inspiration!
In a secondТs heartfelt ecstasy
involuntarily IТd forgotten my lot
(a transient, but sweet oblivion!)
I flew in soul to what has taken its course
and sang of joy while I thought about you.

24. TO N.

Your dear gaze, with innocent passion filled,
the golden dawn of your heavenly feelings
serve as a silent reproach to them,
at propitiation it is unskilled.
..........
These hearts in which there is no truth
flee, my friend, as they would flee a judgement,
fearing as they fear childhood memories
the loving gaze of your youth.
..........
What is good for me are your eyes,
like the water of life, in the deeps of my being,
your living gaze which lives in me -
deep down I need it, like breath, like the sky.
..........
Heavenly, shining only in the skies,
such is the light of souls in bliss,
During nights of sin, this pure flame
burns in a fearsome abyss.

25. TO NISA

Nisa, Nisa, just get lost!
My friendship means nothing to you.
You played with me and then you tossed
me away from those who admire you.
..........
Indifferent and carefree,
you gullible little tease,
you do like laughing at me.
My gift of true love couldnТt please.
..........
Nisa, Nisa, IТd have been true,
but you prefer to play the field.
It seems my feelings just never appealed.
Nisa, IТve just had enough of you!

26. THE SONG OF THE NORSE WARRIORS (HERDER)

Cold, bright,
day has awakened.
The early cock
has shaken its wings.
Warriors, leap up!
Rise, oh friends!
Brisker, brisker
to the feast of swords,
to the fight!
..........
Our leader is before us!
Be men, oh friends,
and behind the mighty one
let us strike like a storm!
..........
We shall hurtle like a whirlwind
through clouds and thunder,
to the sun of victory
following the eagle!
..........
Where the battle is darkest, the warriors closer,
where shields are spliced, where swords are woven together,
there he will strike, the all-scattering Thor,
and a fiery-starred path burning with blood
he will slash through to his men in the iron night.
After him, after him, into the ranks of the enemy,
bolder, friends, after him!
Like mountain masses, like a sea of ice,
we shall tear through and constrain them!
..........
Cold, bright,
day has awakened.
The early cock
has shaken its wings.
Warriors, leap up!
..........
It is not a foaming cup of fragrant mead
which the rosy morning hands to the heroes;
nor does the love and conversation of voluptuous women
warm your soul and enliven your life;
but you, renewed by the coolness of sleep,
will be carried up by the waves of bloody battle!
..........
Warriors, leap up!
Death or victory!
To the fight!

27. THE GLEAM

Have you heard an Aeolian harp
deep in the night
carelessly brushing midnight,
sleeping strings waking
to trouble the silence,
resounding, fading fast,
as if a final cry of anguish
had echoed there and died?
The breezeТs every breath
stings them to sorrow:
perhaps a lyre fell to earth,
playing dirges for lost bliss.
Captive, our souls soar in immortal skies,
gathering memories
as we gather the dear shades of friends,
clasping them tight against our breasts.
How readily we believe with living faith,
how glad and bright our hearts become:
youТd think the sky had turned to ocean in our veins,
had coursed and swept us through them!
Such a lot cannot be ours.
Strangers to the sky soon tire.
We are common dust. We cannot breathe such fire.
With a momentТs effort we barely manage
a short-lived, troubled, trembling glance
from the window of our daily dream,
half-rising, staring round the sky.
The sky is weighty on us.
A single beam can blind us and weТll fall.
Peaceful sleep does not await us.
Exhausting dreams reclaim us.

28. IN MY ALBUM FOR MY FRIENDS (BYRON)

As the travellerТs attention tarries
on cold tombstones,
so let my friendsТ attention go
to the writing of a familiar hand!
..........
In many, many years
it will remind them of a former friend:
УHeТs no longer with you,
but his heart is buried there!Ф

29. SAKONTALA (KALIDASA/GOETHE)

What the young year gives to flowers -
their maidenly blush;
what the mature year gives to fruit -
their royal purple;
what pampers and gladdens the glance,
like a pearl, growing in the seas;
what warms and enlivens the soul,
like omnipotent nectar:
the whole colour of the treasure box of dream,
the whole, full colour of creation,
and, in a word, a sky of beauty
in rays of imagination,
everything, everything Poetry has poured
into you alone, Sakontala.

30. DECEMBER 14TH., 1825

Tyranny itself seduced you.
Its sword has mown you like reeds.
The Law is incorruptibly impartial.
The LawТs infallible in word and deed.
Disloyalty is shunned by our people.
TheyТll scorn your names. Abuse will heap.
Your sons will never know your exploit,
hidden in time, a rotten carcass buried deep!
...........
Victims of foolish notions!
Perhaps you had a youthful vision!
Perhaps you thought you saw
your thin blood trickling,
covering the ice-caps
as if alone it could thaw
that age-old polar face.
Why, it would scarce have time to sparkle
when up thereТd gust a breath of iron winter
to murder every tiny trace!

31. (HEINE)

Sadness stole into my heart and I vaguely
recalled the past;
everything was so cosy then,
and people lived as in a dream.
..........
Now itТs as if the world has disintegrated:
everythingТs upside down, everyoneТs been knocked over.
The Lord-God in his HeavenТs dead
and SatanТs expired in Hell.
..........
ItТs as if people live in the world reluctantly.
Everywhere thereТs grumbling, everywhere thereТs dissent.
Were it not for a crumb of love in a person,
IТd have long ago left this world.

32. QUESTIONS (HEINE)

Above the sea, the wild northern sea,
a young man stands,
anguish in his breast, doubt in this mind,
and gloomily he asks the waves,
УOh settle lifeТs riddle for me,
this agonisingly ancient riddle
over which hundreds, thousands of heads
in Egyptian, Chaldaean caps
embroidered with hieroglyphs,
in turbans, mitres and skull-caps,
be-wigged and shaven,
hosts of poor, human heads
have spun and withered and sweated.
Tell me, what is the significance of man?Ф
Where is he from, where is he going,
who lives above the starry vault?
As they did before, the waves roar and grumble,
and the wind blows, driving on the clouds,
and the stars gleam cold and bright.
The fool stands, waiting for his answer!

33. THE SHIPWRECKED MAN (HEINE)

Hope, love, everything, everything has perished!
A pale, naked corpse
thrown up by the angry sea,
I lie on the shore,
on the wild, bare shore!
Before me is the watery wilderness,
behind me, grief and misfortune,
and above me the clouds indolently wander,
the skyТs monstrous daughters!
Into misty vessels they scoop the sea water
and with their burden, tired,
drag themselves into the distance
and once again pour it into the sea!
Joyless and endless labour,
and vain, like my life!
The sea roars, the sea bird moans!
The past is wafted into my soul.
Past dreams, extinguished visions
rise, tormentedly joyful!
A woman lives in the north!
A beautiful image, regally beautiful!
Her figure, shapely as a palmТs,
is wrapped all around in white, voluptuous material;
the dark billow of her luxuriant curls
flows like a night of blissful gods
from a head crowned with plaits
and softly flutters in light ringlets
around her pale, dear face,
and from her dear, pale face
her frank, fiery eyes
shine like a black sun!
Oh fiery black sun,
oh how many, many times in your rays
have I drunk the wild flame of ecstasy,
drunk, grown number, shuddered,
and with heavenly, dovelike meekness
a smile has fanned across your lips,
and your proudly dear mouth
has breathed words as quiet as moonlight
and as sweet as the fragrance of roses,
and the spirit reviving in me has taken flight
and soared like an eagle to the sun!
Be silent, birds, stop roaring, sea.
Everything has perished, happiness and hope,
hope and love! IТm alone here,
thrown up onto the desolate shore by the storm.
I lie prostrate and with my glowing face
I scrabble the wet sand of the seaТs depths!

34. (HEINE)

As the bright moon sometimes
sails out from the clouds,
so, alone in the night of the past,
a joyous ray shines to me.
..........
We were all sitting on deck,
carried along by the Rhine,
the green banks
stretching out before us,
..........
and at the feet of a charming lady
I sat reflective,
and on her dear, pale face
the quiet breeze flamed.
..........
Children sang, played tambourines,
there was no end to the noise,
and the sky became bluer,
and the heart more spacious.
..........
As in a dream, flying by went
mountains and castles on hills
and they shone, reflected
in my dear companionТs eyes.

35. THE SPIRITТS GREETING (GOETHE)

On an old tower by a river
the spirit of a knight stands

and as soon as he sees my boats,
he sends them a greeting:
..........
УBlood once boiled in this breast,
my fist was made of lead,
and there was a heroТs marrow in my bones,
and I could knock the goblet back!
..........
I stormed through half my life,
and other half I wasted:
and you sail on, sail on, little boat,
wherever the current takes you!Ф

36. FROM WILHELM MEISTERТS APPRENTICESHIP (GOETHE)

1
He who has not eaten tears with his bread,
who has not in life sat entire nights
crying on his bed,
is unfamiliar with the heavenly powers.
..........
They lure us into existence,
make a crime of weakness,
and after it they torture us to death.
No misdemeanour goes unpunished on this earth!
2
He who would be a stranger in the world
will soon be one.
Ah, people have someone to love,
what are our needs to them!
..........
So! What am I to you?
WhatТs my misfortune to you?
ItТs mine alone
and IТll not be split from it!
..........
As the lover steals hidden to his darling:
УAnswer me, love, are you along?Ф
so by night and day wandering
around me goes anguish.
Sadness is all around me!
Ah, is it only in the grave
that IТll manage to get away from them all?
In the grave, in the damp earth,
there theyТll throw me!

37. HEGIRA (GOETHE)

West, North and South are crumbling,
thrones, kingdoms are being destroyed.
Get yourself off to the distant East,
drink the patriarchal air!
In games, songs, feasting
renew your existence!
..........
There I shall penetrate in secret
to the hidden sources
of primeval generations
which directly hear
the voice of divine commands
without racking their minds.
...........
Sanctifying the memory of our forebears,
where foreign ways are sickened,
where balance has been preserved in everything
and thought is narrow, faith is spacious,
where the strong, esteemed word
is like a living revelation!
..........
Now with shepherds beneath copses,
now in the blossoming oasis
I shall rest with a caravan,
trading in aromatics.
I shall keep an eye on all movements
from the desert into the settlements.
..........
The sacred songs of
will sweeten the steep paths:
their vociferous guide,
singing in the pure firmament,
awakens the late stars
and irks the camelsТ steps.
..........
Now I shall be intoxicated by indolence in baths,
true to the teaching of :
my lady friend tossing aside her veil,
shaking ambergris from her curls,
and the poetТs honeyed tones
rouse desire in heavenТs maidens!
..........
Do not impute this haughtiness
to superstition;
know that every word of the poet
in a light swarm, greedy for light,
knocks at the gates of paradise,
imploring the gift of immortality!

38. A SPRING STORM

I love MayТs first storms:
chuckling, sporting spring
grumbles in mock anger;
young thunder claps,
a spatter of rain and flying dust
and wet pearls hanging
threaded by sun-gold;
a speedy current scampers from the hills.
Such a commotion in the woods!
Noises cartwheel down the mountains.
Every sound is echoed round the sky.
YouТd think capricious Hebe,
feeding the eagle of Zeus,
had raised a thunder-foaming goblet,
unable to restrain her mirth,
and tipped it on the earth.

39. NAPOLEONТS TOMB

SpringТs soul brings nature back to life
and everything shines, celebrating peace:
the skiesТ azure, the blue sea,
that wondrous tomb, the cliff!
All around are trees in thick, new colour,
their shadows, in the general silence,
barely rippled by the breathing of the waves
on the marble, warmed by spring.
..........
A thunder of his victories long ago fell silent,
but their echo still resounds.
..........
A great shade has filled manТs mind,
and his solitary shadow upon a wild shore,
alien to everything, consoled by sea-birdsТ shrieks,
listens to the oceanТs roar.

40. HIDE AND SEEK

ThereТs her harp in its usual corner.
By the window, carnations and roses.
On the floor a midday sunbeam dozes.
TimeТs up. So whereТs she hiding?
..........
WhoТll help me catch this teaser?
Come on out, sylph! WhereТs your lair?
I can feel your magical nearness
abundantly poured into the air.
.........

Carnations peak slyly, nestling beside
more fragrant, warmer roses,
but I know whoТs wrapped in your blossoms,
I know who youТre trying to hide.
........
Was that your harp I heard?
Do you think you can hide in its golden strings?
YouТve brought the metal to life!
I can feel it shuddering as it rings.
..........
See the dust dancing in the sunТs shimmers,
Like living sparks in kindred flames!
Stop whirling, dear guest,
magical being. How can I not know youТre there?

41. A SUMMER EVENING

Earth nods its head.
A glowing sphere rolls
into the ocean, which enfolds
the calm, evening red.
..........
Bright stars start rising,
heads still moist.
They take the sky and hoist
it far over the horizon.
..........
Sweetness shudders through the land
as if, freed from the heat,
natureТd scooped spring waters in her hand
and splashed her burning feet.

42. OLEGТS SHIELD

УAllah, pour your light on us!
Oh beauty and strength of the faithful!
Terror of the two-faced heathens!
Your prophet is Mohammed!Ф
..........
УOh, our fortress and our bulwark!
Great God, lead us now
as once, from the desert,
you led your chosen people!Ф
...........
Deep midnight! All is still!
Suddenly from behind a cloud the moon shines down
and there above the gates of Istanbul
it lights up OlegТs shield!

43. A VISION

There is an hour at night when all the world is silent.
Sights are seen. Miracles are done.
The living horse and chariot of creation
stampede the heavens in unbridled run.
..........
Night draws in, thick Chaos heavy on the seas.
Oblivion presses on the earth, like Atlas.
Alone on the MusesТ virgin soul
in seer-dreams the gods inflict unease.

44. BYRON (ZEDLITZ)

1
Come in with me - this dwelling is empty.
The gods have let this house go to ruin.
Their altar has been cold a long time and thereТs been no change
for silence standing guard here. On the threshold
the attendant does not meet us with a welcome.
Only the walls echo our voices.
Why, oh son of the Muse,
most favoured son, you, endowed with the gift
of the inextinguishably fiery word,
why did you flee your own roof?
Why did you betray your fatherТs hearth?
Ah, and where, in untimely repose,
did this tempest which carried you off, speed you?
2
So, a mighty dweller once lived here.
Here he breathed song and his breathing
did not seem like that of the playful babbling
of the breeze in the fragrant bird-cherry.
No, his song, more threatening than the thundering clouds,
like divine anger, now brooding, now bursting into flame,
hurtled across the misty firmament.
Suddenly above a green cornfield or an unfading garden
it tore off the rivets
and spewed out darkness and ice and flame,
scorched with fire and furrowed with hail.
Only in those spots where the cloud had torn
did the skyТs azure smile charmingly!
3
They say the frenzied singing of demons
drove those who listened mad.
Thus it was with him, like an unearthly force,
it tore up all the depths of his souls
and on the very bed it awakened crime.
Breathing stopped, the heart ached
and something constricted the breast.
Like a layer of air, thinning all around,
he sucked the living blood from our veins
and in the struggle we ran out of strength
and could not throw off the tyranny of the charm,
while he himself, as if for a laugh,
refused to wave his staff and break the fascination!
4
And is it any wonder that a memory of the sublime
visited your soul with involuntary sadness!
Fate did not create a swan of you,
dipping its wing into the crimson waves
when the sunset burns above the currents
and it swims, admiring itself,
between a dual dawn.
You were an eagle and from your native crags
where you wove your nest, and in it, as if in a cradle,
storms and blizzards lulled you.
You plunged into the skiesТ depths, inexhaustible,
soared high above sea and earth,
but your eye sought only corpses!
5
Ill-fated spirit! Like the glow of a conflagration
was your bloodily-dull mirror,
glittering in luxuriant, fresh bloom,
so wildly reflecting the world and life!
With the imprint of the sacred gift upon your brow
and with the sceptre of power at this unearthly council
in this confused world, you loved
to send visions to trouble our mundane lives!
In yourself, as if in an allegory,
a menacing legend was resurrected for us,
but our gaze cannot recognise you:
are you a titan, whose heart is the food of the raven,
or are you the raven, tearing the titan?
6
He abandoned the dwelling of his fathers,
where their silent shades wander,
where dear pledges have remained,
and just as all day long the waves are stirred by the wings
of the sea bird, dweller of bleak cliffs,
so the gods decreed that he should pass
along lifeТs road,
nowhere finding a peaceful, bright haven!
Vainly battling with people, with himself,
he strove to grasp earthly happiness by force.
Above him was Fate, inimical omnipotent!
He followed it up to snowy summits,
dropped down into dales, swam across sea-troughs!
7
Fugitive from his native land, the bard now hurtles
to meet the sun, riding the tempestuous element,
where Lisbon, glowing in the burning sky,
is embraced by the golden crown of the azure bay,
where the earth burns fragrantly
and where fruits, ripening on dusty boughs,
are yet more fragrant, fresher.
Then he uttered a greeting to you,
country of love, of heroism, of adventures,
where even now their mellifluous genius
seems fanned by the magic light
of AlhambraТs patterned colonnades
or the sweet-scented thickets of Granada!
8
Now laying out a devout funeral feast,
surrounded by a swarm of departed spiritis,
anguished he walks around that plain,
where the world cast its die in glorious battle,
where this fearsome, iron justice was meted out!
This land, branded by fate,
beneath the keen foot
still trembles involuntarily even now,
like a tundra of blood. Here, in dreadful torments,
ranks of valiant hearts have been trodden into the ground
and their ash lies layered around the plain.
Enemies, they fell quiet together,
some thirsting for, some thrilling in their vengeance!
9
The bard goes on and sees before him
the grape-bearing, eternally youthful Rhine,
and here and there, on vine-covered heights,
a castle flashes, even today fanned
by magic, mistily golden legends!
And there in the distance, shining and cold,
a massive titan has risen up,
Switzerland! There, life is as if behind a fence.
The horn blows, torrents sing more freely,
in the mountains, as if in the chalice, lakes are deep,
there is light on the hills, in the valleys cool shade
and above it all icy heights,
now pale, now fierily alive!
10
Then from the heights, where waters separate
into the wide, southern plains,
hurling their currents as if going to a feast,
whence more than once, like glacial avalanches
northern tribes have torn down
into Italy, his own estate,
he takes his inspiration.
The heavenly spirit moves around this land of wonders,
he rocks the high laurel and dark myrtle,
he breathes beneath the vaults of bright mansions,
takes away from blossoming breasts the scent of roses
and rustles like a transparent blanket
above the slumbering, ruined past!
11
But to the blossoming, deserted East
the singer was drawn by an all-powerful passion,
to his imaginationТs favourite land!
Once more before his demise he saw
this world of violence, indolence, voluptuousness,
where life and destruction embraced
in luxuriant desolation
and like friends in the evening light
mountain peaks grew, where once there lived happy brigandage.
There, beyond the cliff, is the pirateТs white sail,
here the horn of the moon, burning on a mosque,
and the pure remains of the Parthenon
against the virginal rosiness of the heavens.
12
But you annulled the union of this creation,
spirit of freedom, immortal element!
Battle flared up between Despair and Power!
Blood flowed like spring waters
and in the night the earth drank them without a twinge of conscience.
Only a glowing, like a lamp above a grave,
burned above it on high.
And will it happen soon - only providence knows -
will dawn come and will the tempestuous gloom disperse?
But let the young day brighten with love
on the spot where the spirit of the singer wanders,
where in the gloaming of sickly hope
death closed his earthly eyelids!
13
The singer faded away on the sacrificial altar of battle!
But nowhere did his song fall silent,
though from his breast, torn by passions,
more than once it flowed bloodily;
the magic staff never fell from his hand,
but it moved only the powers of hell!
At odds with the heavens
the high divinity of suffering
was for him a hostile riddle
and, drinking to his fill from the healing cup,
he thirsted for poison, not for healing.
His eyes stared into the subterranean horror.
He turned his back on the starry glory of the night!
14
Thus he was, mighty, majestic,
exulting critic of creation!
But is his lot worthy of envy?
Like the parental gift of existence
he acquired that which was conferred by fame!
But was he, appropriated by this demon,
either fortunate or at peace?
The shining of the stars, the happy beam of the morning star
only rarely blew away the gloom of his soul
where storms howled.
He has quietened now, a burned out volcano.
And the late luminary of immortality
sadly looks down on him from the night skies.

45. THE MEANS AND THE END

IТm in no hurry to receive garlands from you,
though I am partial to your praises
when I meet them along the way.
..........
Although the ballast does not determine
where and how the ship will float,
it certainly alleviates its voyage.

46. TO THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS I

Oh Nicholas, conqueror of peoples,
you have justified your name! You have conquered!
You, the warrior raised up by the Lord,
have restrained the fury of his foes.
The end of cruel trials has come,
the end of unspeakable torments has come.
Exult, Christians!
Your God, the god of grace and battle,
has wrenched the bloody sceptre from unclean hands.
..........
It is to you, to you, the ambassador of his commands,
to whom God Himself has entrusted His fearsome sword
to lead his people from the shades of death
and forever sever the age-old chain.
Above your chosen head, oh tsar,
grace has shone like a sun!
Paling before you,
the moon is wreathed in darkness.
The Koran will not hold sway.
..........

Hearing your wrathful voice from far away,
the Ottoman gates trembled.
At the mere wave of your hand
they will fall to the foot of the cross.
Complete your work, the salvation of people.
Say, УLet there be light!Ф and there will be light!
Enough bloodshed, tears shed,
enough beaten woman and children,
enough has Mohammed cursed Christ!
..........
Your soul does not thirst for earthly fame,
your gaze is not fixed on the mundane.
But He, oh tsar, by whom powers are kept in place,
has pronounced sentence on your foes.
He himself turns his face from them.
Blood has long since washed away their evil power.
Above their heads the angel of death patrols.
Istanbul retreats.
Constantinople rises once again.

47. INSOMNIA

Monotonous dying of the hours:
midnight is telling a tedious tale
in a foreign language we canТt fail
to recognise as ours.
..........
Who can claim it never befell
him to hear timeТs muffled groans
stab his soul at night, the drone,
when allТs quiet, of a prescient farewell?
..........
ItТs as if the world had been orphaned
by irresistible fate chased and caught,
and nature, after we had fought,
had marooned us, each on his separate island.
..........
Before us there stands our existence,
a spectre on earthТs edge,
and with our friends and with our age
it pales into the distance.
..........
While under the sun there is a birth,
a new and youthful tribeТs begotten
and it has long since been forgotten
that we, our friends, our age, were ever on this earth!
..........
At times, performing some gloomy rite,
we can her metallic sighs
bemoaning our demise
in the silence of the night.

48. MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS

Morning smiles blue across country
refreshed by rainstorms over night.
Dew-bespeckled, through the mountains
a valleyТs a snail-track of light.
Above it all the soaring summits
are half in misty curtains caught,
as if they were the airy ruins
of castles sorcerers had wrought.

49. SNOWY MOUNTAINS

Midday soars.
It pauses, now holds steady.
It sears the grasslands,
skims and scalds the rills.
Its sheer rays strike dusky woods
which spread beneath the haze.
Below, there is a steel-bright mirror.
Blue currents in the lake invite quick streams
to leave the heat, to scamper by smooth boulders
and plunge beneath the waters into kindred dreams.
While in blissful, fragrant sweetness,
spread-eagled in the sweltering haze,
far overhead, like gods we know as cousins,
above the land thatТs left to die,
the mountainsТ icy peaks play with
the fiery blueness of the sky.

50. THE FINAL CATACLYSM

When natureТs final hour strikes
and earthly matter has disintegrated,
the visible universe will be flooded.
In the waters GodТs face will be reflected.

51. TO N. N.

You know how to love.
YouТre such a good actress,
and when weТre in a crowd
(and they canТt see us!)
and my leg touches yours,
you answer me without a blush.
You always look so absent
and youТre callous.
As your breasts move,
as you glance around and smile,
that hateful guardian of a husband
admires your servile beauty!
Thanks to people, thanks to fate
youТve learned the cost of secret joys.
YouТve learned about the world,
that world which will betray us!
Treason flatters you!
VirginityТs first blush has left
your youthful cheeks,
as morning sunshine ravishes young roses
of their sweet-smelling soul.
So be it!
In scorching summer heat
our feelings are more flattered,
our eyes more tempted
by parting a vine in the shade
and watching the grape,
through dense, tight leaves,
oozing its blood.

52.

The happy day was loud
and streets shone with crowds
and shadows, cast by evening cloud,
flew across bright buildings.
From time to time the noise would float
to me, sounds of heavenly existence;
theyТd merge into a single note,
a hundred sounds, loud but muffled.
The day moved on. I fell asleep.
SpringТs languor exhausted me.
Was my oblivion fleeting? Was it deep?
More strange was the awakening.
The hubbub in the streets had stilled.
Silence reigned completely.
On the walls, where evening shadows milled,
something somnolent was glittering.
Through my window panes there gleamed
a pallid star which kept a secret,
and as it peered at me it seemed
it was a guardian of my slumber.
It seemed to me as if IТd been
abducted by some loving genie
which craftily and quite unseen
had sped me to a land of shadow.

53. EVENING

Melting in the air above the valley,
distant bells are chiming
like flocks of flapping cranes,
dying away in the rustle of leaves,
bright, like the swelling sea of spring,
crystal-like, like day at a distance,
while faster, quieter,
shadow lies around the valley.

54. MIDDAY

Misty noon breathes idly.
Idly waters play.
Pure skies are sun-scorched.
Cloud-wisps idly melt away.
Clasped in hot embrace,
nature drowns in sultry doze.
Pan himself seeks calm,
deep in the quiet of caves,
deep in nymph-repose.

55. THE SWAN

Eagle, plumb the clouds,
talk to lightning,
drink sunlight
into your motionless eyes,
but envy the swan,
the pure, white swan.
In a dual abyss,
the deity has clothed you
in the pure element,
that god which cherishes omniscient vision,
so that the swan is captured,
surrounded on all sides
by the full, starry glory of the sky.

56. SCENES FROM A JOURNEY (HEINE)

УItТs going to be a nice dayФ, my friend said,
glancing at the sky from the window of the carriage.
Yes, itТll be a nice day,
my praying heart repeated,
and it shivered in sadness and bliss!
It will be a nice day! The sun of freedom
will burn more animatedly and hotly now than
the aristocracy of nocturnal luminaries!
And the happiest tribe will bloom,
conceived in arbitrary embraces,
not on the iron bed of coercion
beneath the strict customs scrutiny
of the spiritual police, and in these souls,
free-born, there will flare boldly
the purest fire of ideas and feelings
incomprehensible to us, by nature slaves!
..........
Thus I thought and climbed from my carriage
and with a sincere, morning prayer
stepped onto the dust, sanctified by immortality!
As beneath a high, triumphal vault
of vast clouds, the sun rose
victorious, bold and bright,
announcing a fine day to nature.
But at the sight I was so melancholy,
like the moon, still a visible shade
pale in the sky. Poor moon!
In the deep night, alone, orphaned,
it completed its bitter path
while the world slept and only
owls, apparitions and bandits caroused.
And today before the young day, rising in glory,
rays ringing forth joy
and shot through with the dawnТs purple,
it runs off. Just one more glance
at the luxuriant universal light
and like a fine wisp of smoke it flies from the sky.
..........
Ah, equally incomprehensible to them
will be that night in which their fathers
joylessly languished their entire lives
and carried on a despairing battle, a cruel one,
against foul owls and subterranean vampires,
monstrous things begotten of Erebus!
Ill-fated warriors, all the spiritТs strength,
all the heartТs blood we have exhausted in battle,
and pale, prematurely decrepit,
the late day of victory will light us up!
The fresh immortality of the young sun
will not enliven exhausted hearts,
will not bring fire once more to dulled cheeks!
We shall hide before them, like the pale moon!
I donТt know nor do I seek to foresee
what the Muse has in store for me! The poetТs laurels
may or may not grace my gravestone!
Poetry was to my soul
a childlike-divine toy
and the judgement of others perturbed me little.
But place a sword on my tomb, my friends!
I was a warrior! I fought for freedom,
and served her in truth and faith
in her sacred battle all my life!

57.

You saw him in polite company,
one moment happy,
getting all his own way,
then gloomy, absent,
unsociable, full of mysterious thoughts.
Such was the poet. You despised the poet!
..........
Look at the moon: all day it seems
exhausted, a pitiful wraithe.
Wait till night falls,
then you see this radiant god
enfolding sleeping copses in its beams!

58.

Among societyТs gossips,
in the pointless noise of day,
at times my gaze, my movements, feelings, words
just canТt be happy, donТt know what to say.
Forgive me, love!
Look, in daytime misty-white,
the bright moon barely glimmers,
but let night come: it pours into a clear mirror
the fragrant, amber nectar of its light!

59. FROM FAUST, PART 1 (GOETHE)

1
As in days gone by, before you is heard
the dayТs luminary in the system of the planets
and along its predetermined course
thundering, it completes its flight!
Seraphs marvel at it,
but till now who has comprehended it?
As on the first day, incomprehensible
are the deeds, Almighty, of your hands!
..........
And swiftly, with miraculous swiftness,
the earthТs globe turns,
replacing the quiet light of the sky
with the deep darkness of night.
The waves roar over the seaТs abyss,
gouging out its rocky shore,
and the chasm of waters with its cliffs
the earth in its fast flight bears away!
..........
And incessantly storms howl,
and fling the earth from region to region,
and oppress the waters and plough up the air,
and weave a mysterious chain.
The precursor-destroyer has flared up,
tearing itself from the clouds, thunder has roared,
but we in the world, all-retainer,
praise your day and sing peace.
The seraphs are amazed at you!
The heavensТ praise thunders to you!
As on the first day, incomprehensible
are the deeds, Lord, of your hands!
2
УWho called me?Ф
УOh, horrible sight!Ф
УWith a powerful and persistent charm
you gnawed my magic circle and not in vain, and now ...Ф
УYour aspect benumbs me!Ф
УWas that not you praying, like one in a frenzy,
to see my face and hear my voice?
I inclined myself to your persistent call
and here I stand before you! What despicable fear
has suddenly possessed your soul, titan?
Is this the breast whose creative power
created a world, nourished and cultivated it
and, hoping for unterrestrial valour,
with indefatigable effort
strove to bring itself up to us, the spirits?
Is this you, Faust? And was that your voice,
pestering me with despairing prayer?
You, Faust? This poor, helpless dust,
imbued throughout with my breath,
shuddering to the very depths of his soul?Ф
УDo not dispirit my head with this fiery contempt!
You will not turn it aside!
Yes, spirit, I am Faust, I am like you, I am your equal!Ф
УThe tempest of events and the swell of the fates
I turn around,
I raise up,
I hover here, I hover there, high and low!
Death and Birth, Will and Fate,
waves in conflict,
elements in dispute,
life in its changes,
the eternal, solitary current!
Thus does the fateful fabric hum on my loom,
weaving for God a living garment!Ф
УWith what insuperable affinity,
immortal spirit, you attract me to yourself!Ф
УOnly to that nature you have dreamed up
are you alike - not to me!Ф

3
УWhat do you want of me,
what do you seek in my dust?
Sacred voices, you sing out there,
there, where hearts are both purer and more tender.
I hear the news, but can I believe it?
Oh faith, faith, kindred mother of miracles,
shall I dare raise my glance there,
whence the blissful message flies?
Ah, but accustomed from childhood to it,
this kindred sound, this masterful sound
still entices me to existence!
It would happen that the heavens would kiss
me in the silence of Sunday.
I heard the trembling of sacred bells
in the depths of my soul,
and the prayer was living sweetness to me!
The soulТs urge to be one with heaven
carried me off to woods and dales
and, drenched in warm tears,
I created a new world for myself.
About happy youthТs game,
about bright spring would this glad news be.
Ah, and at that solemn hour
the recollection of them would master my soul!
Sing out, voices, play again, sacred hymn!
My tear flees! Earth, I am yours once more!Ф
4
Why destroy in empty depression
the blissful possession of this hour?
See how evening shines and scatters around
the huts with their greenery.
The day is through, and to other skies
the dayТs luminary brings life.
Oh, where are the wings that I might fly after it,
sticking close to its rays, following its path?
A beautiful world lies at my feet
and, eternally evening, laughs.
All the heights glow, there is peace in every valley,
a silvery brook flows down to golden rivers.
Above a chain of untamed mountains, silvan lands,
the god-like flight is wafted,
and already in the distance you can see shining
in its gulfs the ocean.
But the bright divinity inclines its head to the waters
and suddenly the mysterious might of its wing
has come to life again and chases after the departing one
and once more the soul drowns in currents of light.
Day is in front of me, night behind.
At my feet a plain of water, the sky above my head.
Lovely dream! A vain one! Farewell!
To match the wings of the soul soaring above the earth,
weТll not find corporeal ones in a hurry.
But this gust, this urge skywards and into the distance,
is a natural inclination,
all people have it in their breast
and at times it comes to life in us,
when, during spring, above our heads,
the larkТs song tinkles from a cloud,
when over a steep, wooded slope
the eagle, spreading its wings, soars,
when over lakes or the empty steppe
the crane hurries home.
5
There was a king, so few they are now,
faithful up to his death.
As he died, his loved one
gave him a goblet.
..........
He valued it greatly
and frequently drained it,
his heart beating strongly in him
the moment he picked it up.
..........
When his turn came
to quit this world,
he divided out his possessions,
but did not give away the cup.
..........
And into the castle above the sea
he summoned his friends
and, taking his farewells of them,
he sat there carousing.
..........
When he drank for the last time
the fiery liquid,
he leaned out over the abyss
and tossed the cup into the waters.
..........
To the bottom of the sea the goblet sank,
it sank and vanished from view,
his heart began to beat
the king had drunk his last drop!
6
Almighty spirit, you have given me everything, everything
I prayed for! Not for nothing
did your face lean radiant to me!
You gave me all of nature to possess
and showed me how to love it. You allowed me
not to be a mere, idly-amazed guest
at her feast, but admitted me
into the very depths of her breast,
as into the heart of a friend! The ranks of earth-born
filed past me and you taught me,
in a thicket, in the open, or on the seasТ bosom,
to see brotherhood there and to love it!
When a storm creaks and whistles through conifers,
a giant pine smashes the neighbouring trees with a crack
in a crash of falling boughs, indistinctly a rumble
arises all around and, unsteady, the hillsides groan.
You lead me into a peaceful cavern,
and you present me
to the eyes of my very soul and its world,
its wondrous world, you reveal for me!
Let the all-sweetening moon rise
in its meek brilliance and to me there fly
from craggy mountains, from the humid pine forest,
the silver shades of past ages,
and in the stern consolation of contemplation
they soften me with their mysterious influence!

60. FROM THE FIFTH OF MAY (MANZONI)

Lofty presentimentТs
urges and languor,
the soul, thirsting for mastery,
in its seething aspirations,
the coming together of designs
as unfeasible as dream,
..........
all of this he experienced,
happiness, victory, incarceration,
and all the partiality of fate,
and all the bitterness!
Twice he was cast down into the dust,
twice he gained the throne!
..........
He appeared: two centuries
in cruel conflict,
seeing him, suddenly made peace,
as they would before omnipotent destiny.
He commanded them to be silent
and sat between them in judgement!
..........

He disappeared and in exile saw out
his incredible times,
the object of a measureless envy,
of measureless compassion,
the object of frenzied enmity,
of blind devotion!
..........
Just as over the heads of the drowning,
growing into a huge wall of foam,
is the wave which at first played with them,
and the longed for shore
vainly visible to palpitating glances
appears from above,
..........
so memory above his soul,
gathering, lies heavy!
How often this soul desired
to speak out
and, stupefied, onto the sheet already begun,
the hand suddenly fell!
..........
How often before dayТs end,
a day of joyless torment,
lowering his lightning-flashing eyes,
folding his arms across his breast,
he would stand, letting the past
possess him!
..........
In his mindТs eye he saw the campaign tents,
the plains of battle,
the long glint of infantry ranks,
currents of cavalry formations,
an iron world breathing
by one command alone!
..........
Oh, beneath such a burden
his heart lost its energy
and his spirit sagged ... but a powerful
hand came down to him
and, merciful, to heaven
raised him!

61. FROM PHEDRE (RACINE)

We had just left the gates of Trezene.
He sat on his chariot, surrounded
by his bodyguard, as silent as he.
He took the Mycaenas road,
absently giving his horses free rein,
these lively, fiery horses,
so proud in their usual ardour,
today heads down, gloomy, quiet,
seeming to be in accord with him.
Suddenly from the watery depths a cry came,
troubling the airТs silence,
and at that moment some fearsome voice
from beneath the earth replied with a groan.
EveryoneТs blood froze in their chests
and the keen horsesТ manes stood up.
But then, white above the watery plain,
a wave rose, like a mountain of snow,
growing, getting nearer, smashing into the shore
and throwing up a monstrous beast.
Its head was armed with horns,
its spine covered with yellowish scales.
A terrible bull, a frenzied dragon,
in innumerable coils it came out.
The shore, shaking, groaned from its roaring;
the day, indignant, shone on it.
The earth shifted. The wave which had tossed it out,
as if fear-stricken, lapped back.
Everyone hid, seeking salvation in flight.
Only Hippolytus, true son of a hero,
only Hippolytus, allowing fear no access,
stopped the horses, seized his lance
and, flinging the steel with his accurate arm,
opened a deep gash in the monster.
The beast howled, feeling the pain of the spear.
Raging, it fell at the horsesТ feet
and, scrabbling at the ground, from its bloody jaws
poured stench and flame around them!
Fear seized the horses. They sped off,
not heeding the voice, not obeying the reins.
The charioteer vainly tried to tame them,
but off they flew, blood from their mouths staining the bridles.
Some god, it is said, with his trident
prodded their steaming flanks.
They flew across rocks, patches of undergrowth.
The axle creaked and broke. The fearless Hippolytus
from his smashed, crushed chariot
fell to earth, enmeshed in the reins.
Forgive my tears! This mournful scene
will forever call tears from me!
I saw, alas, your son
dragged by the horses he had reared, bloodied,
crying to them, his shouts scaring them more.
They ran, they flew with the ripped driver.
Behind them I sprinted with the guards,
his fresh blood marking our path,
blood on the stones, in the prickly thorns
bloody clots of hair hanging.
Our maddened cries carried across the land!
But finally the crazed steedsТ
ardour calmed down. They stopped
near where your forefathers
lie at rest in ancient tombs!
I ran up, I called. With enormous effort
opening his eyes, he gave me his hand:
УThe might of the heavens kills me off in my prime.
Friend, do not abandon my Aricia!
When that day comes when my parent,
dissipating the gloom of fearsome slander,
is finally convinced of his sonТs innocence,
oh, to console a complaining shadow,
let him alleviate his prisonerТs
lot! Let him return to her.Ф
The hero died at these words,
and in my arms which held him
there remained a corpse, savagely distorted,
a sign of the horrible punishment of the gods,
unrecognisable even by a fatherТs eyes!

62. NIGHT THOUGHTS (GOETHE)

I pity you, hapless stars!
So beautifully, so brightly do you burn,
willingly lighting the marinerТs way,
unrewarded by God or man!
You donТt know love. YouТve never known it!
Unstoppable, the gods of time lead you
through the skyТs limitless night!
Oh, what a path you have traversed
since the moment when, in my sweetheartТs arms,
I sweetly turned off from midnight and you!

63. FROM A MIDSUMMERТS NIGHTТS DREAM (SHAKESPEARE)

1
Lovers, madmen and poets
are forged from one and the same imagination!
One sees demons which donТt even exist in Hell
(the madman, that is), another is equally insane,
the passionate lover, seeing, entranced,
HelenТs beauty in a dark-skinned gypsy.
The poetТs eye, in bright frenzy,
turning round upon itself, sparkles and slips
from sky to earth, from earth to sky,
and, let his imagination but create forms
for unknown creatures, then the poetТs wand
transforms them into people and gives
aerial shades a place and a name!
2
The hungry lion has begun to roar
and the wolf has howled at the moon.
Having got through a day of labour,
the poor ploughman has fallen asleep.
..........
The coals are going out on the fire,
the eagle owl has begun to screech
and to the invalid on his death-bed
has predicted an early shroud.
..........
All cemeteries at this time
from yawning graves
into the moonТs damp dusk
send forth their dead!

64.

Just as the ocean curls around earthТs shores,
our earthly lifeТs embraced by dreams.
Night comes and brings the element
and night intensifies its roars.
..........
Now, thereТs its voice, persisting, pleading.
The magic skiff is straining to be free.
Now out it goes, its human cargo leading
into the dark, immeasurable sea.
..........
HeavenТs vaultТs aflame with starry glory.
From every side, as long as weТre afloat,
its mystery staring from the deeps,
that fiery chasm engulfs our boat.

65. FROM HERNANI (HUGO)

Forgive me, great Charles! Great, unforgotten,
this voice should not be troubling these walls,
disturbing your immortal dust, oh giant,
with the buzzing of passions living but a moment!
This European world, the creation of your hand,
how great it is, this world! What a possession!
With two chosen leaders above it
and the entire purple-born throng beneath their feet!
All other powers, authorities, possessions
are legacies and accidents of birth,
but God Himself has given the pope and the caesar to the earth
and through them, providence makes chance observations of us.
Thus it reconciles order and freedom!
All of you, in disgrace serving the people,
you, electors, you, cardinals, the diet, the synod,
youТre all nothing! The Lord decides, the Lord commands!
Let a thought be born among the people, a thought conceived over the ages,
first it grows in the shade and rustles in hearts,
suddenly it has become flesh, enticing the people!
Princes forge a chain for it and stop its mouth,
but its day has arrived and boldly, majestically
it has stridden into the diet, appeared at the conclave,
and with a sceptre in its hands or a mitre on its head,
has pressed all crowned heads to the ground.
Thus are the pope and caesar all powerful - everything earthly
happens only by and through them. Like a living mystery
heaven appeared on their earth and the entire world,
peoples and monarchs, was given to them as a feast!
Their will organises the world and encloses the edifice,
creates and destroys. This one decides, the other divides.
This one is Justice, the other is Strength - in those two
exists their own supreme law and there is no other for them!
When both leave the altar,
one in purple, the other in the white garb of the tomb,
the world, benumbed, sees this pair in the radiance of their magnificence,
these two aspects of the divinity!
And to be one of them, one! Oh, a disgrace
not to be him! And in the breast to feed this urge!
Oh, how fortunate, resting in his tomb,
was this hero! What a fate God sent him!
What a destiny! And what then? This is his tomb, here.
So this is where it ends, alas, everything there was
of the law-giver, the leader, the governor, the hero,
the titan, his head rising above all times,
like the one who ruled the whole of Europe,
whose title was Caesar, whose name was Charles the Great,
the most famous of famous names even today,
great, as great as the world, and itТs all contained in here!
Seek out dominions and weigh the handful of dust
of him who had everything, his power revered as much as GodТs.
Fill with thunder the whole of earth, build, raise up
your columns to the clouds, ever higher, height upon height,
although your fame has touched the immortal stars,
thatТs its limit! Oh monarchy, oh power,
oh, what are you? All the same, do I too not seek power?
A mysterious voice promises me: It is yours. Mine.
Oh, if it were but mine! Will the prophecy come to pass,
to stand on the height and enclose creation
on high - alone - between heaven and earth
and see the entire world in echelons below me:
first monarchs, then - at various stages -
the elders of inherited and masterly households,
there are the doges, the dukes, the princes of the church,
there the sacred family of knightly ranks,
there the clergy, the armies, and there, in the misty distance,
at the very bottom, the people, innumerable (INDEC),
the seaТs deep abyss tearing at its shore,
the hundred-sounded rumble, cries, lamentations, occasional bitter laughter,
mysterious life, immortal movement,
wherever you cast your glance across the deeps, theyТre all in movement,
a threatening mirror for the consciences of monarchs,
the opening where the throne perishes and the mausoleum floats to the surface!
Oh, how many enigmas there are for us in your dark confines!
Oh, how many monarchies lie on the bed, like the skeletons
of huge vessels constricting the free depths,
but you breathed on them and the freight sank to the bottom!
And all this world is mine, and I shall fearlessly seize
the rod of authority in this world! Who am I? The progeny of dust!

66. THE SEA HORSE

Ardent horse, sea-horse,
pale-green maned,
gentle, loving-tamed,
raging, wild-playing,
fed by violent storms
in GodТs open plains!
He taught and trained you
to play, to leap at will.
..........
I love you when you bound
madly, arrogantly strong,
tossing your thick mane,
sweating, foaming,
dashing fast storms against the shore,
gaily neighing, galloping,
drumming cliffs with your hooves,
white-flecked, flying!

67. THE SINGER (GOETHE)

УWhat sounds are they in front of my house,
what voices before my gates?
Let the song ring out before us
in our high tower!Ф
The king spoke, the page runs,
the page returned, the king speaks:
УQuickly, admit the old man!Ф
..........

УPraise and honour to you, oh knights,
adoration to you, my ladies!
How can one count the stars in the sky?
Who knows their names?
Though my gaze is drawn to this paradise of wonders,
look down. Now is not the time
To idly entertain my eyes!Ф
..........
The grey-haired singer shut his eyes
and gaily struck the strings.
The eyes of the bold were bolder still,
while the ladies bowed bashful heads.
The king was captivated by the playing.
He sent for a golden chain
with which to honour the grey-haired singer!
..........
УDonТt give me any golden chain.
I am not worthy of such a reward.
Give it to your knights,
fearless in battle.
Give it to your scribes,
adding to their other toils
this golden burden!
..........
I sing at GodТs will,
like a bird in the sky,
not seeking recompense for my songs,
for the song is reward enough!
IТd ask one boon of you, just one,
and thatТs a golden goblet
filled with bright wine!Ф
..........
He took the cup and drank it dry
and spoke with heat in his heart:
УLet God bless such a household
where this serves only as a meagre gift!
Let him send his favours to you
and let Him comfort you on this earth
just as you have comforted me!Ф

68.

Here, the sky stares inert
at the gaunt earth.
Tired nature, sunk in slumber,
lies, fettered, nightmare-girt.
..........

Here and there, pallid birches,
grey moss, scanty bush,
like dreams tormenting us in fever,
trouble the deathly, peaceful hush.

69. PEACE

The storm has passed.
Thunder-smitten, the tall oak
is prostrate, smouldering still,
boughs trickling blue smoke
through the greenery, where,
for a while now, louder, fuller,
throughout the storm-refreshed copse,
bird-song resounds,
and a rainbow has settled
the end of its arc among
the green summits.

70. TO TWO SISTERS

I saw you both together
and at once saw you in her:
that quiet glance, tender voice,
that charm of early morning
wafting from your head!
..........
As if in a magic mirror
everything was clearly defined again:
the joy, the sadness of past days,
your youth, now wasted,
my love, now dead!

71.

I recall that day.
For me, it was the morning of lifeТs day:
silently, she stood before me,
her breasts rising like waves,
cheeks reddening, like dawn,
getting hotter, glowing, burning!
Then suddenly, like a young sun,
a golden world of love
burst from her breast and
I saw a new world!

72. CICERO

The Roman orator was speaking
as citizens started to fight:
УI rose late, and while I was walking
was chased and captured by RomeТs nightФ.
So be it! But making your farewells, you saw
in grandeur and with awe,
RomeТs bloody star go down.
..........
Blessed is he who visits this life
at its fateful moments of strife:
the all-wise sent him an invitation
to speak with them at their celebrations.
HeТs the witness of high affairs,
knows their councils, sits on them,
and a living god while there,
has drunk immortality with them.

73. AN AUTUMN EVENING

In the brightness of autumn evenings
there is a touching, mysterious charm:
an ominous glitter, motley trees,
a light, languorous rustle of scarlet leaves,
a hazy, quiet blueness
across the sadly orphaned world
and, presaging gathering storms,
at times a gusty snap of wind.
Loss. Exhaustion. And on it all
there is that gentle smile of fading
which, in a thinking creature, we should call
the divine shame of suffering.

74. LEAVES

Let pines and firs
jut out all winter,
curled up and sleeping
through snows and blizzards.
Their meagre greens,
like a hedgehogТs spines,
might never yellow -
theyТre never fresh.
..........
But we, weТre a light tribe,
blossoming, glittering
such a short time,
guests on our branches.
All the fine summer
weТre beautiful people,
playing with sunbeams,
bathing in dews.
..........
The birds have stopped singing,
flowers stopped blooming,
sunbeams have paled,
breezes have dropped.
So why hang on? And why go yellow?
Surely itТs better
to fly away with them?
.........
Faster, wild winds,
faster, faster!
Snatch us quickly
from boring boughs.
Tear us, hurl us away.
We donТt want to wait.
Fly, come fly
and weТll fly with you!

75.

Crossing Livonian fields ...
Baltic emptiness, sand
and the dull emptiness of this colourless land
allowed my soul to yield
to contemplation of its former sad plight,
a dark and bloody state
when its citizens, prostrate,
kissed the spurs of invading knights.
I stared at a deserted water-course.
Along its length were silent spinneys.
I thought, УYouТve had quite a journey,
you peers of the past, youТve forced
a path into our lives
from the shores of another time and place!Ф
So many questions!
Such frustration! I strive
for an answer, I try to tease just one.
But nature names no names,
smiling in her ambiguous, mysterious way,
like an adolescent, by chance peeking in on night games
and keeping his secret during the day.

76.

Sand gives softly. Hooves sink.
We ride. ItТs late. Light starts to fade.
The shadows of the pines along the roadside
have merged into a single shade.
The woodТs dark heart grows denser, blacker.
ItТs such a melancholy place!
Night scowls, a hundred-eyed wild creature.
From every bush it leers and pokes its face!

77. THE WANDERER

Zeus is kind to the poor tramp.
His patronage enables
this exile from the cares of home
to sit as a guest at HeavenТs table!
..........
This wonderful creation of their hands,
this world so varied in its every feature,
unwinds before him as he goes,
for him to love, for him to use, to be his teacher.
..........
Through hamlets, fields and towns
the brightening road extending,
he wanders freely the entire earth.
He sees it all, to God his praises sending!

78. MADNESS

Where the earth is seered,
in the skyТs misty haze disappears,
in carefree gaiety
lives pitiful insanity.
..........
Beneath rays which burn,
digging into flaming sands,
his glassy gaze is turned
to seek things far above the land.
..........
Suddenly heТll leap, wary as a beast,
pressing his ear against the parched soil,
avidly sure some sound will reward his toil.
With mysterious pleasure his features are creased.
..........
He thinks he hears currents bubbling their mirth
as they course beneath the ground,
and he thinks itТs a cradle-song heТs found
as they noisily burst from the earth.

79. THE ALPS

Throughout blue nights
glisten mountainsТ eyes,
eyes of death, eyes of fright,
by icy horror paralysed.
Charmed by some spell
till DawnТs first beams,
in hazy menace they dream,
like all those ancient kings who fell.
..........

But let the East begin to shine
and the fatal charms are broken.
High up and first in line
the eldest brother has awoken.
From the head of the next there rolls
a stream onto the heads of all the others,
till, glistening in crowns of gold,
all the familyТs resurrected with the brothers!

80. INFECTED AIR

I love GodТs wrath, this Evil!
Invisible, mysterious, poured through everything:
in the flowers, in the glass-clear stream,
in the rainbow-rays, in the very sky of Rome.
The same high, cloudless sky,
your breastТs same sweet breath,
the same warm wind rustling tree-tops,
the same scent of roses.... All of this is death!
..........
Who knows, perhaps nature has her sounds,
aromas, colours, voices
presaging our final hour,
sweetening our final torment,
and as the fates encroach
and call earthТs sons from this life,
perhaps their messenger uses them,
weaving a veil to hid his face
and his fearsome approach!

81.

We walk behind our age
as Creusa walked behind Aeneas.
As we go a little way, we weaken,
but if we hurry on, we fall behind.

82. VERNAL WATERS

Snow is still white in the fields
but spring is in the waterТs voice.
Running, the waters wake the sleepy banks.
They run, they glisten, they rejoice.
..........
УSpring is coming, spring is coming!Ф
in every direction they shout.
УWeТre the young springТs runners,
with the news she has sent us out!Ф
..........
Spring is coming, spring is coming!
In a bright, rosy round-dance plays
a frolicking, happy bustle
of MayТs warm, quiet days.

83. STAY SILENT!

Stay silent, out of sight and hide
your feelings and your dreams inside.
Within your soulТs deep centre let
them silently rise, let them set
like stars in the night. DonТt be heard.
Admire them, DonТt say a word.
..........
How can your heart itself express?
Can others understand or guess
exactly what life means to you?
A thought youТve spoken is untrue.
You only cloud the streams youТve stirred.
Be fed by them. DonТt say a word.
..........
Making living in yourself your goal.
There is a world within your soul
where mystery-magic thoughts abound.
By outer noise they will be drowned.
TheyТll scatter as day is bestirred.
Just heed their song. DonТt say a word!

84.

As a piece of paper
smoulders, catches, burns
on glowing embers,
the flames indistinct
and hidden at first,
licking, eating words and lines,
so life is sadly gnawed away,
vanishing a little at a time,
so am I snuffed out,
a fraction every day -
intolerable monotony!
Oh, my dear Christ,
let me once, just once
range flame-like at will,
not languishing, and not tormented,
bursting into brilliance
before - just going out!

85. TO....

Lips which greet me with a smile,
a young girlТs rosy complexion,
your gaze which is bright and which sparkles....
it all entices me to pleasure.
..........
Ah, this gaze in passionТs fire
on gossamer wings sends out desire,
and with some magical power
locks hearts in its fabulous tower!

86.

Just as Agamemnon brought this daughter
as an offering to the gods,
asking the indignant heavens
for the breath of fair winds,
so we, over woeful Warsaw,
have struck a fateful blow,
and at this bloody price weТll buy
RussiaТs integrity and peace.
..........
Away from us, inglorious wreath
woven by a servile hand!
Not for the koran of autocracy
did Russian blood run like a river!
No! We were animated in the fight
not by any love of carnage,
not as trained and bestial janissaries,
and not because, as executioners, we must subdue!
..........
A different thought, a different belief
beat in RussiansТ hearts:
we needed to maintain the integrity of authority
by the saving storm of example,
to gather under one Russian banner
kindred generations of Slavs,
to lead them in the campaign of enlightenment,
all of one mind, like a host!
..........
This higher consciousness
led our valiant people.
It boldly takes upon itself
the vindication of heavenТs ways.
It senses above its head
a star in the invisible heights
and unswervingly follows the star
to its mysterious destination!
..........
Pierced by your brotherТs arrow,
fulfilling destinyТs pronouncement,
you fell, single-tribed eagle,
onto the purifying fire!
Believe the word of the Russian people:
your ashes will be preserved by us in sanctity,
and our general freedom,
like the phoenix, will be reborn in them!

87.

УThe storm howls more evilly, screaming its spite.
Caress me, my lover, cling to me tight.Ф
УOh darling, I fear the skiesТ vengeful power.
DonТt talk of forbidden love at this hour.Ф
УThe song of the storm is so sweet as it gusts
and lulls us on our bed of lust.Ф
УOh, remember the sea and the miserable sailors,
gracious lord, shelter all of those wretches.Ф
УIn the seaТs broad ravines let the waves roam at will.
They wonТt breach our refuge nor shatter this still.Ф
УOh darling, donТt say that, such talk is not right.
DonТt you know who is out on the ocean this night?!Ф
Lamenting and trembling, her voice fades away
and silent and still in the darkness they lay.
The storm went quiet. The tempest cleared.
The clock on the wall was all they could hear,
and silent and still in the darkness they lay,
and over the pair a strange terror played.
Fearsome and sudden, thunder crashed round
and the building was shaken right down to its founds.
The baby screamed out, despairing and wild,
and the mother leaped straight to the source of the sound,
but the moment she reached the bed of her child
she crashed to the ground in a swoon.
In the lightning flashes which sundered the gloom,
the ghost of her husband was clearly seen
where he sat by the cot at the end of the room.

88. PEACE IN SPRINGTIME (UHLAND)

Oh, do not bury me
in the damp earth.
Cover me, hide me
in the thick grass!
Let breezes breathe
and rustle in the grass,
let a distant pipe play songs,
let bright, quiet clouds
sail above me!

89.

You were the best leaf
on humanityТs high tree,
nourished by its purest sap,
grown in the sunТs purest rays!
..........
More harmonious than all
you shook with its great soul,
prophetically talking with storms,
happily playing with breezes!
..........

Not a late wind, not late summer rain
tore you from your native branch.
Fairer than many, outliving so many,
you simply fell, like a leaf from a garland.

90.

Two demons served him.
Two forces merged wondrously within him:
in his head, eagles soared,
in his breast, serpents writhed,
a daring eagle-flight
of wide-spanned inspirations;
and in the very riot of audacity
there was a calculating serpent.
But not sanctifying power,
a force of which the mind cannot conceive,
illuminated his soul
nor stepped towards him.
He was of earth, not GodТs flame.
He proudly sailed, despised the sea,
but on the hidden reef of faith
his fragile boat was smashed.

91. A PROBLEM

After tumbling down the mountain, a stone lies in a valley.
How did it fall away? Right now, no-one knows.
Did it tear from the heights on its own?
Or was it cast down by the will of another?
Aeons have flowed by, yet no-one knows the reason why.

92. A DREAM AT SEA

Our boat was being tossed by the storm and the sea.
I slept as each wave for its whim toyed with me.
Deep within me two immensities met.
Helpless, I lay by their playing beset.
All around me, like cymbals, the rocks clashed strong,
the waves called each other, the winds sang their song.
By all this chaos of noise I lay drowned,
but my dream was borne over the chaos of sound.
Magically silent, painfully bright,
it flew lightly above the thundering night.
Through the rays of my fever its world could be seen:
the ether shone bright. The world became green.
There were labyrinth-gardens, pillars and halls,
assemblies were massed there, in silence stood all;
I thought all were strangers, but many I knew;
I saw magic creatures. Mystery-birds flew;
The heights of creation, a god, I bestrode.
Far beneath me a motionless universe glowed.
But I heard from below, like a sorcererТs wail,
the sea-deeps my wanderings stormed and assailed,
and into my silence of dreams burst the lash
of tempests, of howls, of the seaТs frightful crash.

93. (BERANGER)

IТm ending of days in a ditch.
IТm weak and old with no strength to go on!
УHe drinks, canТt you see?Ф they say about the tramp.
Just so long as they donТt pity me!
Some, walking off, shrug their shoulders,
some throw the beggar a copper!
How a nice journey, friends! Damn you all!
I can finish my days without you!
ЕЕЕ.
IТve laboured through, IТve coped with the years,
clearly people donТt die of hunger.
Perhaps, I thought, on a bed
they will at least let me die,
but their hospitals and gaols
are all full! You canТt even force your way in!
You were nourished on the open road.
Where you lived and grew (INDEC), old man, there you will die.
..........
I approached master craftsmen to start with,
wanting a trade in order to eat.
УWeТve barely work for ourselves!
Pick up your bag. Get out and beg.Ф
I dragged myself over to you, rich men,
gnawing at bones from your table,
sharing the scraps with your curs,
but I, poor man, wish you no ill.
..........
I could have gone stealing, I, a wretched tramp,
but shame always fettered my hand.
Only now and then on the open road
did I pilfer wild fruits from the trees.
Because among you I have been a beggar,
you made me an orphan for life.
More than once I sat in the lock-up,
but who sold you the sunlight?
...........
What are you and your fame to me,
your commerce, your liberties, your victories?
You are all wrong in my eyes.
The beggar has no native land!
Once, the armed intruder came
and captured our splendid town,
and I, like an idiot cried in vexation,
cursing the foe who fed me!
..........
Why did you not crush me
like some venomous reptile?
Or why did you not teach me -
- alas! - to be a useful bee?
From your embraces, mortal folk,
I was excluded from my earliest years.
IТd have blessed you, brethren, I would.
Instead, as he dies, the tramp curses you!

94. THE SKALDТS HARP

Skald-harp, long ago your poet-master
left you to oblivion in this dusty room,
but as soon as the moon, enchanting the gloom,
splashes a ray in your corner,
then your strings perform a magic tune,
like troubled souls in delirious swoon.
When it breathes on you, what life swirls
in your heart as you recall past days?
Memories of nights when voluptuous girls
told old stories, sang sweet lays,
or when, in these gardens still fair and green,
seeking trysts, their light feet tripped unseen?

95.

I like the service of the Lutherans.
Their worship is severe, simple yet imposing.
I understand the lofty lessons
in these bare walls, in this empty temple.
..........
CanТt you see? Preparing to leave,
faith presents itself to us for the final time:
itТs barely crossed its threshold,
yet already its house stands bare and empty.
..........
ItТs barely crossed its threshold,
the door not closed behind it,
but here its hour has struck. Pray to God.
ItТs the last time you will pray.

96. (HEINE)

With which of the two has fate decreed
that I should fall in love?

Daughter and mother are fair indeed,
like each other, each uniquely charming.
..........
How her untried, youthful members
sweetly agitate my mind!
Yet the charm of those brilliant glances
is omnipotent over my soul.
..........
Flapping my ears in contemplation,
I stand just as BuridanТs friend did,
between two hay ricks, staring,
wondering which of the two would be the sweeter?

97.

From land to land, from town to town
like a whirlwind, Fate sweeps people on.
It may suit you or it may not,
why should it care? - Move on, move on!
..........
A well-known sound is blown:
the wind sings loveТs final farewell.
So many tears are left behind.
Ahead, thereТs mist. Ahead is the unknown!
..........
УOh, wait, look back!Ф
Where are you running? Why run at all?
LoveТs dropped behind
WhatТs better in the world than that?
..........
LoveТs still falling back,
in tears and in despair.
Have pity on your pain,
your bliss you should spare!
..........
Bring to mind the bliss
of so many, many days.
All thatТs dear to your soul
youТre abandoning along the way!
..........
ItТs not the time to summon shades:
that time is now dead dark.
The shadows of departed souls
are far more dread, the dearer they were.
.........
From land to land, from town to town,
a mighty whirlwind sweeping people on.
It may suit you or it may not,
why should it ask? - Move on, move on!

98.

I remember a golden time.
I remember a country my heart loved well.
Day became dusk. We were together.
Below us in shadow the Danube sang.
Where, white upon a hill,
a ruined castle stared into the distance,
you stood, young elfin creature,
leaning on the mossy granite.
Your young leg touched
the age-old keepТs remains
while the sun dallied in its farewells
to the castle, the hill and to you.
A quiet, passing breeze
playing with your dress,
and from wild apples, flower after flower
strewn lightly around your shoulders...
Without a care, you stared into the distance,
the skyline dimmed in hazy beams.
The day burned out; the song called louder
from the river in its darkening banks.
In carefree joy you spent the happy day.
Sweetly the shade of swiftly-flowing life
passed over us and flew away.

99.

My soul, youТre an Elysium of shades,
silent shades, beautiful shades which shine
and play in this stormy age no role,
having no part in joy, in grief,
in anything of their design.
..........
Elysium of shades, yes, you my soul!
Can you and life have my dealings,
you, ghosts of all my best, now long-past days,
estranged by poles
from men who have no feelings?

100.

How sweetly sleep lies on the green garden
taken by nightТs blue in blissful swoon,
and through the apple-blossom-whitened boughs
how sweetly filter rays from the golden moon!
As on the first day of creation, with mystery
the starry hosts burn in the shoreless sky,
and there are heard the shouts of distant music;
still louderТs the voice of the brook nearby.
Across earthТs day thereТs been unfurled a curtain
All movementТs been exhausted, energyТs consumed.
Above the sleeping town, as if in forest-summits,
a wondrous nightly humming is resumed.
Where is it from, this noise beyond our comprehension?
Has sleep let loose a spirit-world of thoughts,

the thoughts of men (we hear them yet see nothing)
to crowd with them the chaos night has brought?

101.

No, Mother-Earth, my tenderness for you
IТm powerless not to display!
I do not thirst for pale delights of fleshless spirits.
Your loyal son IТll stay.
Compared to you what are the joys of heaven,
or of spring, when love is in full stream,
or the blissful world of May in flower,
or the golden sun, or the glow of dreams?
..........
IТd rather spend all day in deep inaction,
springТs warm air drinking deep and true.
At times, across the distant, pure skies
sail cloud-wisps which my eyes would eagerly pursue.
IТd wander aimless, doing nothing,
and stumble inadvertently
upon a lilacТs fresh aroma,
or on a shining reverie.

102.

Silent air enwrapping
me, storm-threatening,
crickets louder singing,
rosesТ aromas sharper rising ....
..........
From behind a white, hazy cloud
thunder rattles round the land.
Lightning scampers round the sky,
sewing for its waist a band.
.........
Life-surplus overflowing,
nectar pouring
through the air, scorching,
melting through my veins, burning ...
..........
Girl, what things excite
the gauze across your breasts,
darkening and troubling
your eyesТ moist light?
..........
Why do you turn so pale?
What chases your maidenly blush?
What presses onto your bosom?
Why do your lips start to flush?
..........
Through silken lashes
tears form -
are they early raindrops
of the coming storm?

103.

Willow, why do you lower
your head to the river,
letting, like hungry mouths,
your leaves a-quiver
try to catch the fleeing stream?
..........
All the longing, all the shuddering
of every leaf above the stream!
Still the river runs and glistens,
basking in the sun and splashing,
flowing by and mocking you.

104.

Foul night, misty night ...
Is that a skylarkТs voice,
is that you, morningТs lovely guest,
at this late, dead hour,
pliant, playful, bright with song
at this dead, late hour?
Like the fearful laughter of the insane,
it wrenched my soul. It caused me pain.

105.

Into the grave the coffinТs lowered.
All around, the mourners press.
They jostle, pushing, breathing heavy.
Corruption presses on my breast.
The grave is still uncovered.
The pastor stands just where the coffin lay.
He is dignified and learned.
His funeral sermonТs under way.
ManТs fragility he preaches,
the Fall, the blood which Jesus shed.
We hear this clever, worthy discourse.
In different ways our thoughts are led.
..........
Incorruptible, pure,
boundless over all the earth - the sky!
And birds! Their voices bursting loud,
wheeling round the airy world,
they scatter, sing and fly!

106.

The east whitened.
We were scarcely moving.
The canvas gaily flapped against the prow.
As if the sky had been upturned,
the sea beneath us trembled.
..........
Dawn reddened
and she had started praying.
SheТd worn a veil.
She took it from her brow.
She breathed a prayer, and when she turned
the sky within her eyes exulted.
..........
Dawn flamed.
Her head was slowly sinking.
Her neck gleamed whitely, cowed,
and down her youthful cheeks were burned
the traces of her fiery tears.

107.

Blue-grey mingling.
Colour darkening.
Silence possesses sound.
Life and movement have drowned
in the rippling unrealness of dusk,
in a distant hum.
Unseen in the night, a moth sings.
Longing seeks words. Anguish comes.
Everything is me.
I am everything.
..........
Quiet twilight, sleeping twilight,
pour into my being.
Silent, aromatic languor,
take the world, flowing,
bring peace, bring still.
Oblivion, haze.
Sensation, take me, overfill
my soul,
give me void.
In the worldТs sleep
pour me, fold me,
let me be destroyed!

108.

The kite lifts from the field.
It heads towards the sky.
Sharper it wheels,
higher weaving flight.
It strikes the sky-slope,
dwindles, leaves my sight.
Nature, you give such gifts!
Strong wings!
They pound with life,
with force, unbridled power they lift!
While on the dusty earth and in my sweat stand I -
Earth-King!
This king would leave his earth.
This king would like to try!

109.

What a wild ravine!
A spring runs at me,
hurrying down to a house-warming.
I stay up here where the pine stands.
Now IТm higher still,
sitting, joyful, quiet.
Run to your valley.
Go on, stream,
see what itТs like among people!

110.

The whole world starts as sunlight streams
to wake it, like a bird which shakes its feathers.
Fine, fine! Beneficial dreams
have passed my by while visiting the others.
Despite the morning freshness
wafting through my tousled hair,
I feel a heavy weight upon me:
yesterdayТs dust, yesterdayТs glare!
ItТs all so piercing and savage
and I detest in every way
the shouts, the talk, the tumult, all the movement
of the youthful, fiery day!
Red rays falling seer my eyes.
Night, night where are your covers,
your dusky silence, dews, your cool moonrise?
GenerationsТ ancient remnants,
you who have outlived your age,
how valid, yet without foundation,
your grievances which fill a lengthy page!
How sad to be a dusky shadow
whose limbs and bones are tired and frail,
to have to meet the sun and movement,
behind new tribes to trail.

111.

Far into the shining distance,
where the fleeing mountains go,
famous river, river Danube,
eternally your waters flow.
..........
There of old, as goes the saying,
during clear nights of blue,
fairies weaved a round-dance, swaying
under waters, on them too.
..........
Waves would sing, the moon would listen.
High on overhanging hills
knightly castles stared down at them,
watching them with fear-sweet thrills.
..........
With an unterrestrial glimmer,
captive, in a prison spurned,
winks exchanging with the dancers,
lights on ancient towers burned.
..........
All the stars would hearken to them,
wave of them succeeding wave.
Quietly, one to the other
words of conversation gave.
..........
Fastened in ancestral armour,
on the wall the warrior-guard,
as if in sleep, in strange enchantment,
to the tumult listened hard.
..........
Should he almost fall a-slumbering,
clearer the din would roll.
With a prayer heТd quick awaken
and continue his patrol.
..........
Everything has gone. The years have seized it.
Danube, fate has not missed you:
now your lotТs to see the steamers
chugging up your waters blue.

112.

Across vine-covered hillsides
go sailing golden clouds.
Below, its waters swelling greenly,
the river darkens, calling loud.
My gaze climbs slowly from the valley
and bit by bit the peaks are found.
Upon the very summit
there is a temple, bright and round.
..........
Into that unearthly dwelling
mortal foot will never go.
There is such light there.
Desertedly so pure, air flows
to silence sounds which reach the heights.
ThereТs only nature-life up there,
and something wafted, lightly festive,
thatТs like a SundayТs silent air.

113.

Why do you howl, night wind?
Why do you complain insanely?
Your voice is strange. What does it mean?
First muffled, pitiful, then loud?
My heart understands your tongue,
your tale of madness it canТt,
and at times you uproot and plough up
frenzied noises in your words!
..........
DonТt sing these songs,
these fearsome songs
of ancient Chaos, kindred Chaos!
How avidly the inner soul of night
hears the beloved tale!
It wants to burst from the breast,
it wants to merge with the boundless.
Oh, do not wake the sleeping storms -
Chaos writhes beneath them!

114.

The stream has frozen and dulled,
hiding beneath the hard ice.
Colour has faded. Sound has died.
Ice has fettered everything.
Only the streamТs immortal life
does not submit to winterТs omnipotent will:
the water flows on and as it babbles
it troubles the deadly still.
..........
So in the orphaned breast,
murdered by the winter of existence,
happy youth no longer flows,
and the stream no longer sports,
although beneath the icy bark
there is still life, thereТs still a murmur,
and at times there can be heard
the streamТs mysterious whisper.

115.

I sit deep in thought and alone,
gazing at dying coals
by tears blurred.
Sadly thinking of past days,
I look for ways
to speak my gloom.
I find no words.
..........
The past - well, has there been a past?
WhatТs now - will that forever last?
It will go by.
It will go by as everything will pass.
Drowning in timeТs dark morass,
each year will fly.
.........
Year after year, age on age!
Why does man presume to rage?
Such chaff is man!
HeТll wither very quickly too.
Each summer, blossom, chaff anew
is natureТs plan.
..........
All that we knew once more weТll know.
Once again will roses grow.
Thorns will too.
But you, my flower, pale, forlorn,
in summer you wonТt be reborn.
LifeТs not for you.
..........
The hand that plucked you was my own.
The bliss, the grief I felt is known
only on high.
Stay, then, upon my breast until
all breath of love in it is stilled,
the final sigh.

116.

EarthТs face is still a melancholy thing,
although the air is breathing spring,
and in a field a dead stalk shivers
while foliage on the pine-trees quivers.
As NatureТs waiting to revive,
already through her thinning dreams
she senses that spring is alive
and, though unknowingly, she beams.
..........
You slept too, my soul -
What is it now exciting you,
caressing and kissing your sleep
and dressing your dreams in gold?
Snow-blocks, melting, glisten,
skies gleam bluely, blood is playing.
Is this springТs tender, gentle bliss?
Can this be female love IТm sensing?

117. WinterТs spite is vain

for its time has come at last.
Knocking at the panes,
spring has cast
it out and everythingТs in turmoil,
bustling Winter out,
and skylarks in the blueness
have taken up the shout.
Winter is still fussing
and grumbling at the spring.
The latter laughs right in her face,
her noise is louder still.
The evil sorceress is wild.
She grabs a pile of snow.
She runs away and starts to throw
it at the pretty child.
That hardly causes Spring much grief:
she washes in the snow,
and just to spite her enemy,
her cheeks begin to glow.

118.

Brilliant snow shone in the valley,
has melted, has gone.
Spring crops gleam in the valley.
They will fade, they will go.
Which century now stands before me
on snow-summits, sparkling white?
Now the morning light is sowing
red, fresh roses on their heights.

119. THE FOUNTAIN

Look, a living cloud,
the radiant fountain throws
its flaming spray, scattering
moist mist towards the sun,
tossing rays up to the sky,
touching forbidden heights
and once again, a fire-coloured dust,
is sentenced to fall back to earth.
..........
Water-course of human thought,
inexhaustible water-course!
What incomprehensible law
tosses and urges you up there?
How greedily you reach out to the sky!
But an invisible, fateful hand
diffracts and pulls your stubborn stream
in showers of spray back down to the land!

120.

My soul would like to be a star,
but not when these bright things in midnight skies,
like living eyes,
shine, stare upon, gaze
at our sleepy earth-world from afar.
No, but during daytime when,
as if theyТre hidden
in a searing sunbeam-haze,
in pure, unseen expanses,
like deities,
to burn more brightly they are bidden.

121.

Nature is not what you think it is:
itТs not a mould, not a soulless face.
It has a soul. It has freedom.
It has love. It has a tongue.
..........
You see a leaf and bloom on a tree:
did some gardener glue them on?
Or in a kindred womb did the fruit ripen
by the play of outer, alien forces?
..........
They donТt see and they are deaf,
living in this world as if they were blind.
Suns donТt breathe for them.
The oceanТs waves possess no life.
..........
Rays have never come down into their soul.
Spring has never blossomed in their breast.
Forests donТt talk in their presence
and starry nights are dumb for them.
..........
In unearthly tongues,
agitating rivers and woods,
theyТve never held discourse
with a friendly storm!
..........
The faultТs not theirs.
Can a deaf-mute understand an organТs life?
Alas for them, theyТd be unmoved
by the voice of their own mother!

122.

ThereТs not a spark of feeling in your eyes.
When you speak, your words are lies
and thereТs no soul in you.
Stand fast, my heart, right to the end:
godless, creation has to fend,
so prayingТs pointless too.

123.

I love your eyes, dear,
their fiery-playful games,
their sudden upward glances
slowly looking all around
like lightning-flames.
..........
ThereТs a more potent spell:
eyes lower.
A mouth hungers.
Lids almost close.
Sullen arousal glows.

124.

Last night in enchanted dreams,
the moonТs last ray
languidly lit your lashes,
while in late sleep you lay.
Silence went quiet around you,
shadows frowned darker,
the even movements of your breast
flowed louder through the air.
Quiet-streaming, quiet-wafting,
as if a breeze had borne it in,
dimly lilac, hazily light
through your bedroom came a fluttering,
an invisible running
across rugs which were glimmering,
clutching the edge of the blankets
and the sides of the bed, crawling,
unfolding like a ribbon
onto your bed like a writhing snake,
teasing beneath your bed curtain
until with a life-shining quiver
it felt your young breasts,
with a loud, rosy cry
it opened your lashes,
felt their silk .... caressed ....

125. JANUARY 29TH., 1837

Who fired the shot?
Who stilled the life which quivered
in the poetТs heart?
In whose hands was the fragile phial shivered?
Innocent or deserving blame,
in the eyes of earthly justice
and branded forever by heaven,
Regicide will be his name.
Into a dark, timeless deep
you were suddenly swept from existence.
Peace to you, poet!
I wish you bright peace in your sleep.
In spite of vain discourse,
your lot has been divine and great.
You were the godТs mouthpiece,
but you lived.
In your veins, warm blood coursed!
This noble blood has silenced jeers
staining honourТs name.
Now in the sacred shade you rest,
beneath the banner of our peopleТs tears.
Let Him pass judgement!
He can hear the flow of blood spilled.
You will be first love in a youthful breast:
in RussiaТs heart eternally dear!

126. DECEMBER 1ST., 1837

So, hereТs where weТre fated
to say our final farewell,
farewell to everything by which we lived,
which killed your life, reducing it to ashes
in your tormented breast!
..........
Farewell.
After many, many years
youТll recall this land with a shudder,
this coast, these hot noons,
where eternal brightness, long blossoming reign,
where, with the breath of late, pale roses,
DecemberТs air is warmed.

127. THE ITALIAN VILLA

Bidding farewell to the days,
leaving cares to sleep beneath the cypresses,
blissfully joining the blessed dead,
it slumbered in a blessed haze.
Now, when many years have passed,
guarded by magic sleep
in its flowery keep,
it submits to heavenТs desires.
HeavenТs care is so loving!
Warm southern winters, many a summer
have wafted here in semi-slumber,
their wings not even brushing ...
Then we came in ...
stepped into the trance.
So dark, so peaceful for so long!
The fountain sang a still and shapely song.
Through a window a cypress cast us a glance.
Suddenly - turmoil:
a spasm quivered through the branches.
The fountain fell silent,
yet from it some wondrous sound,
muffled, as if in sleep, shivered.
What was it, love?
Had something made that wicked life
which coursed through our veins, turbulently hot,
step over a forbidden threshold?

128.

Is it so long, blessed South
since you and I stood face to face
and, like a god unmasked,
you revealed yourself to me, a new arrival,
opening your ways to this visitor from the North?
ItТs a long time - though without rapture,
but with good reason moved by new feelings -
since I have listened intently to the song
of the great Mediterranean waves!
And their song, as in times gone by,
was full of harmony
just as when, from a kindred bosom,
the bright cypress rose in beauty.
They have not changed today.
As before, they glisten noisily
and across their azure plain
sacred spectres glide.
But I have had to say farewell,
called to the North once more.
Across me once again there falls
its endless leaden sky.
there, at the worldТs frontier,
in the golden, bright South,
I see you again at a distance.
You glisten, fairer still,
brighter, fresher.
More audible is your voice
reaching out to my soul!

129.

What gentle, tender joy, what enamoured pangs
are in your eyes, your passionate gaze alighting on him!
Empty of thoughts, mute ... mute as if stricken by heavenly fire!
Suddenly, over-filled with sensation, from your heart being full,
shuddering, crying, you threw yourself down ...
But soon good sleep, like a childТs, free of cares,
visited the silk of your lashes,
and your head lowered onto his arms,
and more tenderly than a mother, he cared, he petted you ...
Your weeping died on your lips ... your breathing was even,
and your sleep was quiet and sweet.
And now... Ah, if you could have dreamed
what the future held for us both,
as if stung, youТd have woken with a scream
or passed into a different dream.

130.

Tired by travel, we made
a stop and rested.
Our brows felt the same shade.
Our eyes lifted to the distant skyline.
..........
Time climbs its slope, inflexibly.
It pulls apart what it once tethered.
Some power whips man on, invisibly.
Sad, alone, through endless space he falls.
Now, friend, have you ever sought
to find again that life we spent together?
What things befall
a look, a tone of voice, debris of thoughts?
That which exists no longer - did we dream it all?

131.

Watch the west flaming up
in eveningТs dull glow,
the east darkly clothing itself
in a cold, blue-grey comb!
Are they enemies?
Or is the sun one for both?
With its immovable wholeness
dividing, does it unite them?

132. SPRING

No matter how oppressive is the hand of fate,
is human deceit,
no matter how deeply they furrow our brows,
wound our hearts,
no matter how severe are the trials
to which we daily must succumb,
what can resist the breath of
and that first encounter with spring!
..........
Spring does not know us,
us, our grief, our malice ...
Her gaze shines with immortality.
ThereТs not a wrinkle on her brow.
She obeys her own laws.
At the appropriate time she flies down,
bright, blissfully indifferent,
as befits a goddess.
..........
She scatters blossoms on the earth.
She is fresh, like the first spring.
Was there another before?
She doesnТt need to know.
The sky is cloud-covered.
These clouds are her own, leaving not a trace
of the extinct life of former springs.
..........
Roses do not sign about the past,
nor do nightingales sing it.
Dawn does not shed tears
of fragrance for the past,
and terror of the ineluctable end
does not flow from trees and branches.
Their life, like the boundless ocean,
is entirely poured into the present.
..........
All the game, the sacrifice of individual life!
Come, throw off the deceit of feelings
and throw yourself lustily, omnipotently
into this life-creating ocean!
Come on, in its ethereal stream
wash your suffering breast
and in this divinely all-peaceful life
for just one moment be a guest!

133. DAY AND NIGHT

On to the secret world of spirits,
across this nameless chasm,
a cloth of gold has been draped
by the high will of the gods.
This glittering cover is day,
day, which enlivens the earth-born,
heals the suffering soul,
friend of gods and man!
..........
Day will fade. Night has come.
ItТs here, and from the fated world
it rips the cover of plenty
and tosses it aside,
revealing the abyss
with all its mists and fearsome sights.
No wall divides us from them,
which is why weТre afraid of the night!

134.

DonТt believe the poet, girl!
DonТt ever make the dread mistake
of calling him your own,
and, more than flames, and more than anger from above,
be sure you fear the poetТs love!
..........
DonТt think youТll win the poetТs heart
with your little-girlish soul.
The flames of lust you wonТt conceal
behind a virginТs delicate veil.
..........
Omnipotent and elemental,
the poet hides an inner weakness:
he may not want to harm you, girl,
but his crown will scorch your maidenТs curls!
..........
The rabble, never thinking,
may praise or revile him, but they will soon see
that he does not sting the heart like a snake,
he sucks it like a bee.
..........
The poetТs hand is pure:
your sanctuary will be respected,
but he might choke the life from you by chance,
beyond the clouds you might well be abducted!

135.

With such a lovely, sympathetic greeting
from an unattainable height
I beg you not to confuse the poet,
not to test his dream!
..........
He spends his life forgotten in the crowd.
At times their passions find him.
I know the poetТs superstitious,
but he rarely serves the powerful.
..........
Before all earthly idols
he walks and bows his head,
or else he stands before them,
confused and timorous, yet proud,
..........
and should a living word
fall suddenly from their lips,

should he, through earthly grandeur,
see all the charms of a female flash,
..........
and fully, humanly aware
of their omnipotent beauty,

should wondrously refined features
shine on him like a sudden dawn,
..........
ah, how his heart takes fire!
how he exults, how charming he becomes!
He may be useless at serving,
but he knows how to revere!

136. TO HANKA

Must we stay apart forever?
IsnТt it time that we woke up,
shaking hands
with relatives and friends?
..........
WeТve been blind for centuries
and, like wretched blind men,
have wandered directionless,
lost, aimlessly.
..........
When by chance
we bumped into each other,
more than once, bloody rivers flowed
and swords tore kindred breasts.
..........
The sea of this mad enmity
bore fruit a hundredfold:
more than once a tribe has perished,
or ended up in exile.
..........
Non-believers, foreign hate
divided us, scattered us:
the Germans stole the homes of some,
the Turks preferred to violate.
..........
Now in this dark night,
here on the heights of Prague,
the valiant warriorТs modest hand
has lit a beacon in the gloom.
.........
Oh, what rays
have lit up all parts!
Clearly now we see the face
of this entire Slavonic land!
..........
Mountains, steppes and coasts
are illuminated by this miraculous day,
from the Neva to Montenegro,
from the Carpathians to the Urals.
..........
Dawn breaks over Warsaw,
Kiev has opened its eyes.
Vysehrad has begun to speak
with golden-domed Moscow!
..........
The dialects of our brothers
once again make sense.
Now that theyТre awake, the grandsons see
what they grandparents only dreamed of!

137. THE BANNER AND THE WORD

Into a bloody storm, through the flames of war,
announcing salvation, the Russian Banner
had led you to immortal victory.
In memory of this sacred union, itТs not surprising that
behind the Russian Banner the Russian Word
has come to you in kinship.

138. FROM A RUSSIAN, HAVING READ EXTRACTS FROM MISTER

MICKIEWICZТS LECTURES.
May the Heavenly King bless
your happy enterprise,
son of undoubted calling,
son of reconciling love.
..........
Not in vain have you boldly cast aside
the tatters from your shoulders.
God has conquered, your eyes are open.
You were a poet, now you are a prophet.
..........
We sense the approach of Light:
your inspired Word,
like a herald of the New Testament,
has been heard throughout the Slavonic World.
..........
We sense the Light, the Time is near,
the final bulwark has crumbled.
Rise up, scattered race,
unite, merge into one People.
..........
Leap up, not as Poland, not as Russia,
rise up, you Slavonic Family!
Throwing off your sleep, be the first
to utter the words: СHere I am!Т
..........
You, supernaturally able
to heal all enmity in yourself,
on your enlightened soul
let GodТs Grace repose!

139.

Unreal manТs so simple to efface,
such a trifle when heТs present,
such a nothing when heТs absent.
A single point is all his life can span.
His absence is the whole of space!

140.

I stood by the Neva, my gaze
fixed on the giant of St. IsaacТs.
Its golden cupola was glinting
through a murk of icy haze.
..........
Timid clouds sailed
onto winterТs night sky.
Frozen in a deathly still
beneath the ice, the current paled.
..........
Sad, silent memories came
of lands whose sun burns.
At this very moment,
GenoaТs luxuriant gulfТs aflame.
..........
Wizard of northern lands,
am I caught by your enchantment?
Am I really held in fetters
against you by your granite hand?
..........
If only some spirit passing by,
wafted through the misty evening,
could swiftly carry me from here
back to my sultry, southern skies!

141. COLUMBUS

A crown for you, Columbus!
Boldly mapping the outlines of Earth
and once for all fulfilling
DestinyТs unfinished business,
you rent the veil with your godlike hand
and into GodТs light, from the limitless murk,
you pulled a new world behind you,
an unknown world, an unexpected one.
..........
Thus are linked and united forever
in a union of blood
that reasoning genius of man
and natureТs creative power.
Let him but utter a secret word
and nature, with a whole new world,
is forever ready to respond
to his kindred voice!

142. A REVERIE

УWhat gift can I make at the end of the year?
WinterТs wind has killed the turf,
flowers die and leaves have faded.
At this dead time, no living things stir.Ф
..........
Many a sweet and dear leaf was kept
in your herbarium. Your loving fingers
wake in fragrant pages
a History of a love which slept,
..........
a History of youthful, living recollections,
a History which will never know oblivion,
and on whose embers you blew for just a moment,
glowing again in your faithful collection.
..........
You suddenly found two flowers
while leafing through dried remains,
and by some secret magic
in my hands they regained their colours.
..........
Two flowers, both of them fair,
living red, rare of scent,
a shining rose, a glistening carnation.
Perfume and flame bathed the pair.
..........
And youТd like to see
some meaning in this strange enigma.
Need I explain it, my dear?
You insist? Very well, I agree.
..........
When a flower starts to wane,
sadly losing colour, withering,
and you bring it near a fire
you will see it bloom again.
..........
So it happens that when we face
the fatal day, dreams and designs act thus:
when memoriesТ pallor dulls our hearts,
they bloom again in DeathТs embrace.

143. THE SEA AND THE CLIFF

Raging, seething,
lashing, whistling, roaring,
leaping for the skies,
the unassailable skies ...
Is it hell, some hellish force
beneath the boiling cauldron
churning up the deeps,
some hellish fire
turning the sea-world upside down?
..........
Frenzied wave-onslaught ....
Nothing stops it, nothing can ...
Roars, whistles, screams, howls ...
Smashing cliffs along the coast ...
Peaceful, haughty,
unmoved by the clowning sea,
motionless, changeless,
born at creation, you stand, our titan!
..........
Battle-maddened,
leaping into fateful struggle
waves come howling back
to beat against your granite face...
The changeless stone
dashes aside the noisy onslaught.
Scattered waters fall apart.
Impotent gusts fall grumbling away.
..........
Stand, mighty cliff!
Just wait awhile.
The thundering waves will tire
of warring with your foot.
Exhausted by its spiteful game
the sea will be subdued.
Forget this howling affray.
Beneath the foot of the titan,
the waves will slink away.

144.

A heavy sky which night has prematurely assailed....
A monstrous river-floe, ice-dulled...
Powder-snow is flailed
around granite quays, threaded, pearled.
The seaТs closed in. The living are hurled
into retreat, the living, troubled world.
In the dim dusk-glow lulled,
the pole attracts: its faithful cityТs pulled.

145.

Longing, desires still ravage
my soul which strives to reach you.
In recollectionТs twilight
I try to catch your image.
I canТt forget your face.
It is a lovely constellation,
timeless, in every place,
unreachable, not knowing fluctuation.

146.

By which can human wisdom more surely be enhanced:
German unityТs Babylonian tower,
or the sly republican structure
of the outrages witnessed in France.

147.

A cloud bank, bright and high
covers earth with fleeing shades.
УThatТs our lifeФ, you sighed,
Уnot the cloud lit up by rays,
but that shadow running away.Ф

148. TO RUSSIAN WOMAN

Far from the sun and nature,
far from light and art,
far from life and love
your youth flashes by.
Living feelings deadened,
dissipated dreams ...
Your life flows by invisibly
in this deserted, nameless place
on this unnoticed earth,
as a misty cloud just disappears
in the dull and hazy sky
of endless autumnТs murk ...

149. A RUSSIAN GEOGRAPHY

Moscow and PeterТs town, the city of Constantine,
these are the cherished capitals of the Russian monarchy.
But where is their limit? And where are their frontiers
to the north, the east, the south and the setting sun?
The Fates will reveal them to future generations.
..........
Seven internal seas and seven great rivers
from the Nile to the Neva, from the Elbe to China,
from the Volga to the Euphrates, the Ganges to the Danube.

This is the Russian empire and it will never pass away,
just as the Spirit foretold and Daniel prophesied.

150.

Holy night has climbed across the sky,
joyful, dear day,
a golden coverlet, is folded back,
that cover cast across the chasm.
Like a vision, the outer world has faded.
Like an orphan, man stands impotent and naked,
facing the dark abyss.
Abandoned to himself, his intellect is obsolete,
his thought is homeless.
In a great ravine heТs immersed,
in his soul,
and from outside thereТs no support,
no limit ...
Like a long-gone dream,
that which was life-bright appears,
and in the alien,
in the unresolved,
in the nocturnal,
his birthright looms clear.

151.

Timidly, unwillingly
sun looks at fields.
Thunder rumbles in a cloud ...
Earth frowns.
..........
Gusts of warm wind ...
Distant growls, spots of rain ...
Greening meadows
greener under threat of storm.
..........
Splitting a cloud -
a blue lightning-streak ...
White, flying flame
hems its edge.
..........
More raindrops...
Dust eddied up from fields.
Thunder claps
are bolder, angrier.
..........
Once more peeks the sun
askance at fields...
Drowning in brilliance -
the crumpled land.

152.

So once again we meet,
unlovely relative,
where I first thought, first felt.
Now, misty-eyed
in the light of fading day,
my childhood looks at me.
..........
Ah, feeble, poor, unclear spectre
of forgotten, enigmatic happiness!
Faithless, detached,
I gaze at you, fleeting guest.
YouТve become so alien to my gaze,
like my little brother who died at birth.
..........
No, it wasnТt here, my deserted land,
my soul was never at home here.
Not here did I celebrate the flowering
of wonderful youthТs great feast.
Oh, not in this earth did I bury
everything by which I lived, everything I held so dear!

153.

Quiet evening, late in summer,
as the stars glow in the heavens,
as beneath their dusky glimmer
slumbering cornfields ripen...
in their silent, soothing radiance,
in the stillness of the night,
undulating, golden wavelets
in the moonlight splashed with white...

154.

When clinging, murderous cares
sicken us, when, like a pile of stones,
life lies on us, it happens sometimes, God knows how,
that something joyfully sudden warms our bones.
The past embraces, fans around us.
That fearsome burden briefly rises from us.
........
So sometimes, in the fall,
when fields are empty, copses bare,
skies are pale and duller are the dales,
a warm, moist breeze can blow,
and before it a dead leaf rolls.
ItТs just as if spring had poured over our souls.

155.

Tears of people, tears of people,
morning and evening you fall,
pouring invisibly, poured in obscurity,
never an end to you, flowing so constantly,
flowing as rain in its torrents careers
deep in the autumn, when night covers all.

156. TO THE MOST HONOURABLE FILIPP FILIPPOVICH VIGEL ON HIS

NAME DAY
As a token of my love, accept this picture,
understanding it, of course, and the value which we place
on you, though donТt forget, if youТll forgive my saying,
we like you a lot, though itТs not for your face.

157.

Across an azure plain of water,
chugging on its trusty way,
a fire-breathing, stormy-tempered
sea-snake bore us all away.
..........
From the sky the stars shone down,
sparkling was the waterТs swell.
Drops of sea-dust in a blizzard
swirled and soared and round us fell.
..........
On the deck we sat together,
many overcome by sleep.
Wheels were singing ever louder,
stirring up the noisy deep.
.........
Now our happy group fell silent,
womenТs chatter, womenТs noise,
and, supported by fair elbows,
pleasant thoughts and dreams were poised.
..........
On the river dreams are drifting,
under the magic moon they play.
On the quiet-breathing waters
to a lullaby they sway!

158. DAYBREAK

Not for the first time is the cock crowing.
ItТs crowing animatedly, briskly and boldly.
In the sky the moon has gown paler.
The Bosphorous waters have begun to glow red.
The bells are still silent,
but dawn is aglow in the east.
Endless night has passed by.
Soon there will come the bright day.
..........
Russia, arise! Your time is at hand!
Arise to serve Christ!
Crossing yourself, has the time not arrived
to strike the bell in the city of Tsargrad?
..........
Ring out your good news.
May it resound throughout the East!
ItТs calling and awaking you.
Be valiant, arise and gird yourselves for battle!
..........
Clothe your breast in the armour of faith,
and go with God, almighty giant!
Oh Russia, the dawning day is great,
the universal, Orthodox day!

159.

Once again I see your eyes.
Your southern gaze alone
has dissipated the slumberous cold
of a sad, Cymmerian night.
Before me rises up once more
a different land, a native land,
as if through the sins of their fathers
itТs a paradise perished for the sons.
..........
Stately laurels rustle,
ripple the pale blue air.
The quiet breathing of the sea
wafts through summer heat.
All day ripening in the sun -
the golden vine.
A fabulous past of ancient tales
wafted from marble arcades.
..........
Like an ugly dream
the fateful north has vanished,
the light, fair vault of the sky
shines above me.
Once again with avid eyes
drinking in this bracing light,
beneath those pure rays
I recognise a magic land.

160.

How he loved the native firs
of his beloved Savoy.
How melodiously their boughs
rustled above his head.
With what sensual thought
their majestically gloomy
dark, wild, strange plaint
entranced his mind.

161. LAMARTINE

ApolloТs lyre, oracle of the gods,
in his hands is the harp of Aiolos,
and his thoughts are winged, mellifluous,
as they float in the air, lulled by his words.

162. NAPOLEON

1
RevolutionТs Son, with a fearsome mother
fearlessly you entered battle,
drained of your strength in the struggle.
Your despotic genius could not overcome her!
Impossible conflict, pointless labour!
You carried it all in yourself.
2
Two demons served him.
Two forces merged wondrously within him:
in his head, eagles soared,
in his breast, serpents writhed:
a daring eagle-flight
of wide-spanned inspirations:
and in the very riot of audacity
there was a calculating serpent.
Yet no sanctifying power,
a force of which the mind cannot conceive,
illuminated his soul nor stepped towards him.
He was of earth, not GodТs flame.
He proudly sailed, despised the sea,
but on the hidden reef of faith
his fragile boat was smashed.
3
And there you stood, and Russia stood before you!
Prescient sorcerer sensing battle,
you yourself uttered the fateful words:
СLet her destiny come about!Т
Your oath was not in vain:
Fate echoed your voice!
But from exile you tossed another riddle
at the fateful echo.
Years have passed. Now back from cramped exile
the corpse has returned to its native land.
On the banks of the river you loved,
turbulent spirit, youТve rested now,
but you sleep lightly. Tormented during the night,
sometimes you will rise. YouТll gaze at the East.
Suddenly, alarmed, youТll flee, as if youТd sensed
the breeze which ushers in the dawn.

163.

The loving heart cowers,
admitting sadness, anguish, fear.
I cry УStop!Ф to the fleeing hours.
УThe moment could be here
when a chasm yawns between usФ.
.........
Frightful worry, implacable terror
constrict my wearied heart.
IТve lived too much for both of us.
The past has weighed too heavy on my back.
LetТs keep our love apart from memory.
Let history never claim us.

164. POETRY

Through conflagration, through thunderТs roars,
through seething passion,
burning in elemental strife,
she comes to us from on high,
to earth-bound children,
with her gaze, her clear eyes
bright-shining,
and across the mutinous seas
a gentle oil of peace
cups in her palm ... and pours.

165. ROME AT NIGHT

Rome sleeps in the blue night.
The moon has risen, taken possession.
The city slumbers in unpeopled grandeur,
its thoroughfares awash in glorious light.
..........
How sweetly Rome lies slumbering in the rays.
How akin is the moon with RomeТs ancient dust,
as if the lunar world, the sleeping city,
were one and the same: magic, theyТve outlived their days!

166. VENICE

The doge of free Venice,
among its azure ripples,
a groom porphyrogenitus,
to great and wide acclaim,
yearly wed his Adriatic.
..........
Not for nothing did he cast
his ring into these waters:
entire aeons, not just years,
(peoples marvelled at the wonder)
did this magic warrior-ring
bind them with its spell.
..........
Loving, peaceful did the couple
settle to a life of fame.
Three centuries, or maybe four,
mightier and wider growing,
spreading out into the world,
the shadow of the lionТs wing.
..........
And now? Into oblivionТs waves
so many rings were thrown!
Generations came and went.
These wedding rings have now become
the links of heavy chains!

167.

Feasting finished, choirs quiet,
wine-jugs drained,
fruit-baskets scattered,
glasses left with wine unfinished,
crumpled party crowns on heads,
only incense-sticks still smoking,
in the bright, deserted chamber,
having feasted, late in rising,
stars were shining in the sky,
night had reached its midway point.
..........
Above the restless city,
over courts and houses,
thoroughfares and noisy clatter
and the dull, red lighting,
over sleepless crowds of people,
over all this earthly tumult,
in the high, too distant heavens
pure stars were burning,
answering the gaze of mortals
with their uncorrupted shining.

168. PROPHECY

This is not the murmur of rumour in the land.
This news was not just born for us.
It is an ancient voice! A voice from on high:
УThe fourth age comes to a close.
It will come to pass and the hour will crash out!Ф
.........
Then SofiaТs ancient vaults
will once more house ChristТs altar
in restored Byzantium.
Fall before it, oh Tsar of Russia.
Rise as Tsar of all the Slavs!

169.

For the third year now, the tribes have run amok.
Spring has come. With every spring,
like a flock of wild birds before a storm,
the noise is more alarming. The cries become a Babel.
..........
Princes and rulers weighed by heavy thoughts,
fingers trembling on the reins,
minds depressed by ominous anguish.
PeopleТs dreams are wild as fever.
..........
But God is with us! Tearing from its bed,
a mad thing, full of threat and gloom,
suddenly rushing at us is the abyss!
..........
But your gaze did not darken!
The wind screamed. But... УIt will not be so!Ф
You spake, and once again the waters fell away.

170.

Your cowardice canТt be measured, you dwarf!
Squirm and wriggle as much as you like,
youТll not entice holy Russia
with your sceptical soul.
..........
Or will she renounce all her sacred hopes,
using up all her convictions,
that which is her calling,
just for the likes of you?
..........
Or are you so dear to providence,
so friendly with it, at one with each other
that, caring for your sloth,
it suddenly stops dead?
..........
Let whoever does not believe in holy Russia get on with it,
as long as she believes in herself,
and God will not postpone victories
to please peopleТs cowardice.
..........
What was promised her by the fates
way back in her cradle,
bequeathed by the ages,
by the faith of all her tsars,
.........
what OlegТs troops
went out to achieve by the sword,
what CatherineТs eagle
covered with its wings:
..........
the crown and sceptre of Byzantium,
you wonТt deprive us of that!
The universal fate of Russia,
No! YouТll not block that off!

171.

Lord, send your comfort
to him who, during summerТs scorching heat,
like some poor beggar past a garden,
along a hot road drags his weary feet,
..........
who gazes in passing across a fence
at the shades of trees, at valleysТ golden grain
and at the inaccessible coolness
of softly bright, luxuriant plains.
..........
Not for him have forests woven
a welcome with their boughts and fronds;
not for him have fountains scattered
a misty haze above their ponds.
..........
A being made of mist, an azure grotto
tries vain enticement at his gaze;
his head cannot be cooled and freshened
by the fountainТs dewy haze.
..........
Lord, send your blessing
to him who, trailing through lifeТs heat,
like some poor beggar past a garden,
along a dry road drags his blistered feet.

172. ON THE NEVA

Once again the river surges
and the starlight seems to float,
once again has love entrusted
to the waves its secret boat.
..........
Between the river and the starlight
it slips, as if a dream befell
in which this pair of spectres travelled
far off across the riverТs swell.
..........
Are they slothful children
idling at the dead of night?
Are they blissful spirits
of this earth-world taking flight?
..........
Flowing hugely, like the sea,
luxuriantly, richly swelling,
Neva, conceal the modest boat,
its secret never telling!

173.

Midday breathes its hottest
through my window opened wide
into my peaceful bedroom.
Everything is still and dark inside.
..........
Sweet aromas live there,
wandering in the dusky shade.
In the sweet dusk of half-slumber
rest yourself and fade.
..........
A tireless fountain in the corner
sings away the nights and days.
Invisible dew it showers
on the dark, enchanted haze.
..........
In the glimmer of the half-light,
by some secret passion seized,
over an enamoured poet
a reverie is lightly breezed.

174.

Forget all cares, donТt reason deep!
ItТs mad to seek, a half-wit judges.
YouТll heal your daily wounds with sleep.
Take what tomorrow brings and bear no grudges.
..........
Live life and live it stoically:
live sadness, happiness and cares.
DonТt wish, donТt pine regretfully.
The dayТs lived through. Send God your prayers!

175.

Swelling, darkening waters
turn leaden in inclement air.
Through their severe lustre, rainbow hues
stroke the eveningТs crimson glare.
..........
It scatters golden sparks,
it sows fiery roses
and the current bears them down.
Above the dark-azure river
the tempestuous, fiery evening
tears off its crown.

176.

Unsullied gods of light
glow through azure nights.
Glory, stars, glory to your splendid rays,
glory to that which lasts without decay!
EarthТs ephemeridae,
the instant we are born we start to fail,
watching, greeting as we pass you by:
УThose about to die shout their immortal Hail!Ф

177.

Prophetic sleep enfolds
sad, half-clad trees.
Perhaps every hundredth summer leaf,
glistening with autumn gold,
still trembles in the breeze.
..........
I share the scene, moved at the sight
when, through storm-clouds breaking,
suddenly on the mottled sheens
of exhausted, faded leaves
thereТs a lightning-splash of light.
..........
How charming are fading powers!
How delightful the sight
when what once so lived and flowered
is now so impotent and frail,
smiling at its own last rites!

178. TO COUNTESS E. P. ROSTOPCHINA (IN REPLY TO HER LETTER)

Just as under a snow drift of sloth,
as if enchanted by winter,
I slept the sleep of some departed soul,
interred, yet still alive!
..........
And right above me I sense,
neither awake nor yet asleep,
that itТs as if spring has been wafted in,
as if something sang of spring.
..........
ThereТs a familiar voice, a wondrous voice,
sometimes a lyreТs note, at times a womanТs sigh,
but I, unwakeable sluggard,
suddenly could not reply.
..........
I slept fettered by burdensome sloth,
during an eight-month winter,
as the just souls of the dead slumber
in the fateful Stygian murk.
..........
But this semi-sepulchral sleep,
no matter how it stretched above me,
itself, omnipotent sorcerer,
hastened to my assistance.
..........
It caught for me
expressions of old friendship
and into musical visions
it embodied the familiar voice.
..........
Now I see, as if through a haze,
a magic garden, a magic house,
and in the castle of the Unsociable fairy
suddenly the pair of us appeared together!
..........
Together! And her song resounded
and from the secret porch
chased the brash braggard
and the loathsome flatterer.

179. TWO VOICES

1
Be manly, my friends, in the fight do not tire.
The struggleТs unequal, the conflict is dire!
Silent above you - the stars in the sky.
Beneath you are graves. Just as silent they lie.
..........
Olympus leaves gods not a thing to desire.
Eternally carefree, from work they donТt tire.
Troubles and labours belong to mankind.
Man cannot know victory. DeathТs all he finds.
2
Be manly, fight on, my brave friends.
The battle is brutal, it seems without end.
Stars revolve silently over your heads.
Far below you - the mute, distant graves of the dead.
.........
Let Olympus with envious eyes gaze down
on this war of inflexible hearts.
The fighter who falls beneath DestinyТs darts
has torn from their grasp the victory-crown!

180.

The desired structure,
the monolith of world Slavdom
will be raised only when, in full solemnity,
Russia and Poland can be at peace,
and these two will be reconciled
not in Petersburg, not in Moscow,
but in Kiev and in Tsargrad.

181. THE WAKE

Regal Troy has fallen.
PriamТs city has been destroyed
and the Achaeans, preparing
their homeward voyage,
sat in their vessels
along the shores of the Aegean,
singing songs of praise,
loudly glorifying all the gods.
УRing out, victorious voices!
Ships, wing yourselves
to the shores of our native land,
on the path home, along a trouble-free way!Ф
..........
In a long line too
there sat a sadly pale family,
the wives and maidens of fallen Troy,
complaining and crying
in the great and general grief,
crying for themselves,
and with the victorious, wild shouts
their wild lament was fused.
УBitter captivity awaits us
there, far off, in a foreign land.
Farewell, native land!
How the lot of the dead is to be envied!Ф
..........
To make the sacrifice,
Calchas, priest of offerings, got up,
to sacrifice to the town-founding Pallas,
praying to the town-destroyer,
to the ominous strength of Poseidon
who engirdles the world,
and to you, aegis-bearer,
Zeus, who darkens the ether!
УToppled, annihilated
is the great city of Ilion!
The long, long quarrel has been resolved.
The judgement of the gods is immutableФ.
..........
Leader of dreadful hordes,
the king of kings, the son of Atreus,
cast his eye around the crowds of people,
having kept intact the order of his ranks.
With sudden anguish
the royal gaze darkened:
many of them had come to Troy,
few had returned.
УSo rise louder, voices of praise!
Sing and be joyful a hundredfold.
He who knows the golden return
has not been carried off by hostile fate!Ф
..........
But not all are judged by God
to have a peaceful, joyful return:
on the threshold of many homes
does Murder stand guard.
СAlive and well, returned from the battle,
in his own temple he perished!Т
Inspired by all-bountiful Athena,
thus spoke inspired Odysseus.
УOnly that home is steady and durable
where the law of the family is sacred:
the gullible way of women
is disloyal and shamefulФ.
..........
With his wife, snatched in battle,
happy one more, Atreus
puts his arm around her splendid waist,
and his passionate looks are glad.
A wicked end awaits that which is wicked
Punishment follows dishonesty.
In heaven, the godsТ court does not slumber!
ZeusТs law rules.
A wicked end to a wicked beginning!
Zeus, governing by his rule of law,
visits fearsome vengeance on the law-breaker,
on him and his family.
..........
УItТs good for fortuneТs favouritesФ,
said AjaxТs younger brother,
Уto honour with praise
the despotism of the Olympians.
Unsubservient to a higher power
is fortune in her whims:
Friend Patroclus is long in his grave
and Thersites still lives!
Destiny throws the dice
with her capricious hand.
Be happy and sing songs
if the luminary warms you!
..........

Be consoled, my dear brother!
Your memory is eternal!
You are the indestructible bulwark
of the Achaean children in their struggle!
On that fearsome day, that bloody day,
you alone stand for all of them!
But it was not the powerful one, it was the cunning one
who won the great revenge.
Not by the victorious hand of the foe,
but by your own did you fall.
Ah, but itТs often the best of people
who are destroyed by pernicious anger!Ф
..........
And now to your masterly
shade, valiant Pelides,
your son, Pyrrhus, glorious warrior,
prepares a libation.
УMy parentФ, he pronounced,
Уno-one but you has Zeus, the great designer,
raised to such earthly stature.Ф
On earth, where nothing is constant,
there is no good higher than glory.
The earth will take our mortal dust.
The famous name is imperishable.
..........
УAlthough about the fallen, the vanquished,
the victorious cries say nothing,
but among your far-off family,
Hector, you will be great!
Worthy of eternal memory,
saving his country,
honourable, brave warrior.Ф
Thus the son of Tidaeus foretold.
Honour to him who unquailing
has lain down his life for his brothers!
The conqueror may have conquered,
but the fame of the fallen is more sacred!
..........
Now old Nestor, venerable
reveller, taking his cup, stands,
and the vessel, wreathed in ivy,
he gives to Hecuba:
УMother, drink, this healing stream
and forget your loss!
The magic juice of Bacchus is powerful,
it heals us miraculously!
Mother, taste the healing stream
and forget destinyТs law.
It heals miraculously,
this magic gift of Bacchus.Ф
..........
And the power of ancient Niobe
is oppressed by evil grief,
but she drank the wondrous juice
and was consoled.
Just let the goblet at the table sparkle
with paradisal wine
and into the Lethe our grief will fall
falling like a key to its bed.
Yes, while in the cup there plays
the all-powerful wine,
grief is carried away to Lethe,
our grief drowns in the Lethe!
..........
And there rose at the farewell
the soothsayer-wife,
and she fulfilled a prophecy,
an inspired one,
taking one last time
the burned out ruins of her home:
СSmoke and steam is all our life is,
immortality, oh gods, is for you alone!Т
As the plumes of smoke waft away,
so our days go by!
Gods, only you are eternal,
everything earthly goes by!Т

182.

Across the riverТs broad expanse you see,
as the waters come back to life,
floe following floe
into the all-embracing sea.
..........
Rainbow-glistening during the day,
or sailing through the murk of night,
ineluctably they thaw,
in the same direction they float away,
..........
all of them merging, large and small,
shadows of their former selves,
like the element uncaring,
as into the fateful pit they fall!
..........
Ah, human ego, you seduce
the mind of man!
Is this your only fate?
Is this your only use?

183.

How we murder while we love!
How, filled with passionТs blind fury,
we are so consummately skilled
at destroying what is closest to our hearts!
..........
Was it long ago, proud of your gains,
that you told herself, УSheТs mine!Ф?
Not a year has passed. Now ask yourself,
УWhatТs left of her?Ф
..........
Where have the roses gone from your cheeks,
the smile from your lips, the sparkle from your eyes?
Tears have scorched every part of you,
burning ruts with their fiery streams.
..........
You remember the first day you met,
that first, that fateful time,
her magical gaze, the way she talked,
her childlike, vivacious laugh?
..........
WhatТs left? Where has it gone?
And was the dream long-lived?
Alas like summer up in the north,
it was just a fleeting guest.
..........
She served her time in FateТs dread gaol -
your love did that for her -
lying across her life
like a shame she had never deserved.
..........
A life of denial, a suffering life!
In the depths of her soul
she clung to those memories she could,
though even they let her down!
.........
And she was shunned on earth.
All charm has passed her by.
Flooding in, the crowd trampled hard
into the mud whatever had bloomed in her soul.
..........
From this long calvary what,
like ash, has she managed to save?
Pain, evil, bitter pain,
pain without joy, without tears!
..........
How we murder while we love!
How, filled with passionТs blind fury,
we are so consummately skilled
at destroying what is closest to our hearts!

184.

How I love to find again the source
of your lifeТs early years,
listening, my heart entranced,
to its unchanging narrative.
What freshness! What mystery!
Walking these happy banks once more,
what a soft and tender light
bathes this misty sky!
What blossoms coloured the banks
of this stream which flowed so purely!
What beautiful reveries
were reflected in its blueness!
When you have spoken of your childhood,
which I have incompletely understood,
I have felt my body lifted in a breeze
and floating like veiled spring.

185.

I donТt know whether grace will touch
my sickly-sinful soul.
Will it rise from the dead?
Will this spiritual torpor pass?
..........
If only my soul could find
peace here, on this earth,
that state of grace would be you,
you, my earthly providence!

186. THE FIRST LEAF

Young leaves are turning green.
See the youthful foliage
where birches standed wafted,
airily, hazily green,
part-translucent, like mist.
..........
TheyТve been dreaming of spring a long time,
spring and golden summer,
but now these living dreams,
beneath the first blue sky,
have burst upon the day.
..........
What beauty in these new-born leaves
washed in sunshine,
casting their first shadows!
And from their stirring we can hear

that in these thousands, through these shadowy masses,
you will not find a single leaf thatТs dead!

187.

YouТve often heard the admission:
СI am not worthy of your loveТ.
She may be my creation,
yet how poor I am before her!
..........
Faced by your love,
it hurts to think back about myself.
I stand there, silently revering,
and I bow my head to you.
..........
When at times, so meekly,
with such faith, with such prayer,
involuntarily you kneel
before that dear cradle,
..........
where she sleeps, your creation,
your unnamed cherub,
remember my humility
before your loving heart.

188.

Today itТs not the flesh - the spirit is laid bare.
Man longs in desperation.
He strives to leave the darkness for the light,
protesting and rebelling once heТs there.
..........
Through non-belief heТs dry and burned,
he tolerates what man should never bear,
aware at every step that he is ruined, not trying
to attain that faith for which heТs always yearned.
..........
The door stays closed though he may grieve.
HeТll never offer prayers nor tears.
HeТll never call, УMy God, admit me, for I do have faith!
Come to my aid, for I cannot believe!Ф

189. THE WAVE AND THE THOUGHT

Thoughts and the smooth ebb and flow of the tides
are simply one element having two sides.
In the cramped heart, in the breadth of the ocean,
in here they are captives, out there in free motion...
Always the same flow and ebb of the seas,
always that spectre of empty unease...

190.

Heat has not congealed
this glittering night in July
and above the dulling earth
the storm-pregnant sky
shimmers in summer lightning.
..........
Like heavy eyelids
lifting over earth,
through scampering lightning
threatening pupils
flashing now and then...

191.

Separation has this lofty meaning:
if love lasts years,
if but a day it takes,
loveТs just a dream
and weТre a moment dreaming,
and whether early, whether late the waking,
the time must finally arrive when we awake.

192. (GOETHE)

Do you know the land where the myrtle and laurel bloom,
where deep and pure is the azure vault of the sky,
where the lemon flowers, and the golden orange
burns like a fire beneath its dense foliage?
Have you been there? There, there would I
like to hide away with you, my love.
..........
Do you know that summit with a path along its steep sides?
The nag wanders across the misty snows.
In mountain crevices there lives a family of snakes,
the avalanche thunders and the waterfall roars.
Have you been there? There, there with you
lies our path. LetТs go away, my sovereign.
..........
Do you know the house of marble columns?
The hall shines and the cupola is radiant.
Idols look out, sad and silent.
УWhat is it with you, poor child?Ф
Have you been there? There, there with you,
letТs go away quickly; letТs go, my parent.

193.

Day turns to evening. Night approaches.
Shadows lie longer down slopes.
Clouds fade away
as it becomes late and evening encroaches.
..........
I do not fear the murk of night!
Nor do I regret the fading day

as long as you, my magic spectre,
as long as you donТt leave my sight!
..........
Let your wings capture
me, soothe the agitation in my heart,
and the shade will be bliss indeed
for a soul in rapture.
..........
Who are you? Where are you from? How can I decide
if youТre of heaven or of earth?
Perhaps you live in heaven,
but thereТs a passionate, female soul inside!

194.

Summer thunderТs a happy ogre
eddying flying dust
when a storm, welling darkly huge,
troubles the blue of the sky,
and when a sudden dart of madness
pounces on a grove, making trees shudder
wide-leaved and noisily.
As if beneath some unseen foot,
the woody giants bend
their tops in anxious grumbles
of a secret conference.
Through the quick alarm
not a single bird stops whistling,
and somewhere in the middle of it all
the first yellow leaf,
tumbling along a road, announces fall.

195. FROM WILHELM TELL (SCHILLER)

Coolness and comfort waft up from the lake.
The youth has dozed off, lulled on the shore.
Blissful sounds
he hears in his sleep;
the faces of angels
singing on high.
..........
And now heТs come out of his heavenly slumber,
embraced and caressed by the swell,
and he hears a voice,
like the thrumming of strings;
УCome, handsome boy,
into my embrace!Ф

196.

Not in vain has the gracious god
made the little bird easily scared.
To ensure it survives this life,
itТs been created well and truly timid.
..........
No good will come of it. The poor bird
has to live with people, as part of the family of man,
and the nearer to them, the nearer to Fate.
ItТll come to no good in their hands.
..........
Now hereТs a little bird which a girl,
from its fledgling feathers, from the very nest,
has nurtured, helped to grow
neither regretting nor sparing
caresses nor effort.
..........
But despite all the love and concern
you spend on it, love,
the day will come, my girl, youТll not avoid it,
when your careless ward
will perish at your hands.

197. PREDESTINATION

Love, tradition states,
is a union of kindred souls.
They join together, they combine,
fatefully they mingle
and itТs a duel ordained by fate.
..........
Whichever is the tenderer
in this one-sided war of two hearts,
more surely, ineluctably will find
love and sad, numb delight ... and pain
as its exhausted, languid gain.

198.

DonТt tell me that he loves me as he used to,
that, just as he used to, he places value on my life.
DonТt! HeТs inhuman and heТs driving me to ruin,
although his hand is shaking with the knife.
..........
Indignant then in tears, depressed then angry,
mad about him, stung to my very soul, I ache,
I suffer, cannot live ... Him, him alone I live by,
but what a life! My heart just wants to break!
..........
He measures out my air. He is so careful, meagre.
Why, his worst enemy would get a bigger share.
How painful now, how difficult my breathing,
although I do still breathe - ItТs life I cannot bear!

103

199.

Don't trouble me with your complaints,
although you're fully justified.
Much more than me they'll envy you,
your love and passion side by side.
I gaze in envy, angrily,

200.

What you guarded in your heart
like a tiny, frightened beast,
praying, protecting,
fate has grabbed by the scruff
and thrown into a lions' feast.
..........
The animals stormed
the inner sanctum of your heart,
and you were ashamed,
you could not help yourself,
at the secrets their claws ripped apart.
..........
God, if your soul had wings to leave your body,
to lift you by the nape
from the crudeness of the crowd,
to keep you safe
from man's eternal rape!

201.

I knew a pair of eyes. Oh, what a sight!
God knows I loved them dearly!
My soul could not be torn
from their magic, passionate night!
..........
Inscrutable was that gaze,
where life was bared to its depths,
such suffering I sensed there,
and such a depth of passion!
..........
Melancholy was their breathing,
deep in their dense lashes' shade,
languid as pleasure,
fateful as suffering.
..........
And on such marvellous days,
it never happened once
that I would meet them unperturbed,
without a tear springing to my eyes.

202. TWINS

There are twins. For the earthborn
they are gods, Death and Sleep,
like brother and sister wondrously akin,
Death's the gloomier, Sleep is gentler.
..........
But there are two more twins:
there are no finer twins in the world,
and there's no fascination more fearsome
than he who's surrendered his heart to them.
..........
They're no in-laws. Their union is one of blood,
and only on days ordained by fate,
with their unsolvable mystery
do they charm us, enchant, fascinate,
..........
and who, in an excess of sensation,
when blood boils and freezes in his veins,
can claim he's never tasted your temptations,
Suicide and Love?

203.

Mobile comme l'onde
Ocean-waves,
self-willed waves,
whether at rest or play,
how full you are of wondrous life!
..........
Laughing in the sun,
tossing back the sky's reflection,
heaving, throwing breakers at the world
in your watery, wild wilderness.
..........
I find your quiet whisper sweet,
caressing, love-filled;
your restless murmuring I hear,
your prescient moans.
..........
In the wild element,
gloomy or glad,
in your quiet, blue night
guard the secret you have taken.
..........
Not a treasured ring-gift
did I drop into your swell.

Not a precious stone
did I bury in your deeps.
.........
No, at a fateful moment,
lured by mysterious delight,
all my soul, my living soul,
I buried on your bed.

204. TO THE MEMORY OF V.A. ZHUKOVSKY

I saw your evening. It was fair!
Making my final farewell,
admiring its clear serenity,
utterly warmth-imbued ...
Oh, they burned and shone,
your rays, poet, your farewell rays.
Meanwhile, slowly we discerned
his night's first stars.
..........
He knew no falsehood. His was a wholeness of spirit.
In him, everything was in close harmony.
With such benevolent cordiality,
he read me those tales from Homer,
blossoming, radiant tales
from childhood's early years.
Meanwhile, the dusky, mysterious light
of the stars crept over them.
..........
In truth, he was whole and pure in spirit,
dove-like, though not despising
the serpent's wisdom; he understood it.
A pure dove's spirit wafted through him
and by this spiritual purity
he was a man, strong, shining from within.
His soul was elevated to a harmony.
Harmoniously he lived, harmoniously he sang!
..........
This lofty structure of his soul
which gave him life, nourished his muse
like the best fruit, like his greatest exploit,
he bequeathed to an agitated world.
Will the world realise it, evaluate the gift?
Are we worthy of this token?
Perhaps it was not about us that the divinity said,
"Only those of pure heart see God"!

205.

The sun is shining, waters glisten.
Everything smiles, everything lives.
Forests rustle joyously,
bathing in the blueness of the sky.
..........
Trees are singing, waters glisten.
Love has dissolved in the air
and the blossoming world of nature
is ecstatic in life's abundance.
..........
But in all this surplus of sensation
no joy is more acute than a single smile of emotion
from your tormented soul.

206.

The forest is entranced
by Winter the Magician.
Under velvet snow
it's mute, immobile, glistening
wondrously with life,
standing enchanted,
neither dead nor alive,
entranced by a magic dream,
entirely covered, fettered
by light links of snow.
Should winter's sun cast a sudden flare
glancing across its summits,
not a thing will shiver in it.
It will sparkle and flame
and be blindingly fair!

207. LAST LOVE

On the final slope of years
our love's more tender, more superstitious.
Shine on, shine on, parting light!
Shine on, last twilit love!
..........
Half the sky is dark.
Only in the west a glimmer prowls.
Slow down, slow down, departing day,
stay longer, longer, charm.
..........
Should blood run thinner,
tenderness is just as full.
Ah, last love,
bliss you are, and hopelessness!

208. THE NEMAN

Neman, majestic Neman, is it you,
you flowing before me?
You, so long, so gloriously
guarding Russia faithfully?
Once, only once, by the will of God,
you let the Antichrist affront
the sacred integrity of our Russian land
and doing that, you made it firm forever!
..........
Neman, do you remember the past,
the day of that fateful year
when he stood above you,
he, that mighty southern demon,
when you, as now, flowed on,
surging under the bridges of the foe,
when he caressed you with his eyes,
with his wondrous eyes?
..........
His companies knew victories,
their banners gaily flapping,
the sun picked out their bayonets,
beneath the cannon bridges groaning,
and from on high, just like a god,
he seemed to soar above them,
moving, watching over every item
with his wondrous eyes.
...........
Just one thing he did not see,
this wondrous warrior, did not see
that there, upon the other bank, there stood
Another. Stood. Waited.
The companies went by
with awesome, warlike faces.
The inescapable Hand of Fate
put its stamp on every one.
..........
So, the companies had victories,
their banners blowing in the wind.
Their bayonets were like lightning,
sparkling as their drums resounded ...
Oh, they were countless!
Of this innumerable host marching by,
not a tenth, not a tenth,
escaped that fateful stamp!

209. A SPIRITUALISTIC PREDICTION

Days of battle and solemnity will come.
Russia will regain the frontiers bequeathed to her
and old Moscow will be
the newest of the three capitals.

210. TO A. S. DOLGORUKAYA

In her there lives charm, a marvel of pure delicacy,
a charm of mystery and melancholy,
and her soft presence is like an obscure dream
with which, without knowing how, the soul is filled.

211. SUMMER, 1854

What a summer! Such a season!
It's got to be pure magic.
How, I wonder, have we earned this
for no apparent reason?
..........
In some alarm my eyes are meeting
this glitter and this light.
Is someone poking fun at us?
Where is the source of such a greeting?
..........
Ah, it's like a youthful smile
on a woman's lips and in her eyes,
not ravishing, not tempting us,
disturbing our old age a while.

212.

What is more impotent and sad
than not knowing?
Who has the courage to say,
"See you soon!"
across an abyss of two or three days?

213.

You're not in the mood for verses,
our kindred, Russian tongue!
The harvest is ripe, the reaper is ready,
an unearthly time has come to pass.
..........
Lies have become steel incarnate.
God has somehow allowed
not a whole world to threaten you with calamity,
but an entire hell to threaten your downfall!
..........
Every blasphemous mind
and every-God-reviling race
has dredged up monarchies of murk
in the name of light and freedom!
..........
Preparing a cell for you,
they foretell your ignominy,
yours, the Word, life, enlightenment
of better days to come!
..........
Oh, in this stern trial,
in this final, fateful struggle,
be faithful to yourself,
justify your deeds to God.

214.

To merit one word, one comma, one full stop
of his inimitable pencil,
a devil would be converted,
an angle would offer itself to the devil.

215. ON THE OCCASION OF THE ARRIVAL OF THE AUSTRIAN ARCHDUKE AT THE

FUNERAL OF THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS

No, there's a limit to one's patience,
there's also a limit to shamelessness!
I swear by his imperial shade,
not everything can be endured!
.........
No matter how loudly all around
people send up wails of anguish,
get this Austrian Judas away,
away from his royal tomb!
.........
Away with their traitor's kiss,
and let all their breed of apostles
be branded by one name:
Iscariot, Iscariot!

216.

Redness. Flaring.
Sparks spurt and fly.
Over the water there's a dark orchard.
From its copses coolness sighs.
Dusk. Heat. Shouting.
There's a dream I'm wandering through.
There's one thing I keenly sense:
you're in me while I'm with you.
..........
Crackle after crackle. Endless smoke.
A naked, protruding pall.
In inviolable peace,
leaves waft and rustle.
I'm fanned by their breath.
I catch your passionate words.
Thank God that I'm with you.
Being with you is paradise to me.

217.

In life there are moments you cannot convey,
the earthly paradise of selflessness.
Tree-tops rustle high above me
and only heavenly birds talk to me.
All that is vile and false becomes so distant.
All that is so touchingly-impossible so near and so light.
Then I feel good and things are sweet. There's peace within my soul.
Fanned by drowsiness, I say, 'Time, please wait!'

218.

These poor villages, this sorry nature!
Long suffering is native to you,
land of our Russian people!
The proud foreign glance
cannot comprehend - would not even notice! -
what shines secretly through
your humble nakedness.
Burdened by his cross,
throughout your length and breadth,
in the rags of a slave, the Heavenly King
has walked, blessing you, my native land!

219.

From sea to sea the wire goes,
a slippery thread of iron.
Fame and grief are in abundance
at times along its path.
..........
Following it with his eyes,
the traveller will note at times
prescient birds which perch
along the grapevine.
..........
From the plain a raven
rises, blackly sitting on the line,
sitting, cawing,
gaily flapping wings.
..........
And it shouts and it exults
and it wheels above the wire.
Does the raven sense the blood
of news from Sevastopol?

220. TO COUNTESS ROSTOPCHINA

Oh, in these days, these fateful days,
of trials and of losses,
let her return be a joyful one
to those places dear to her heart!
.........
Let the good spirit
speed her on to meet that
handful of friends still living,
so many dear, dear shades!

221. 1856

Blindly we face Fate.
It's not our task to tear away its cover.
These words are not my own,
but the prophetic rambling of spirits.
..........
We're a long away from our aim.
A storm is howling, a storm is growing,
and there you have it, in an iron cradle
the New Year's born in thunder.
..........
It's features are fearsomely stern
and there's blood on its hands and its brow,
but it's brought to man on his earth
more than alarms of war.
..........
It'll be more than just a warrior,
for it administers the punishments of God.
Like a late avenger, it will strike
a blow long thought out.
..........
It's sent for battles and reprisals,
it bears two swords:
one, the bloody sword of war,
the executioner's axe is the other.
..........
But for whom? For one neck along?
Is our entire nation doomed?
The fateful words are muffled.
Sleep beyond the grave is never clear.

222.

Oh, my prophetic soul!
Oh heart filled with alarm!
You'd think you beat upon the threshold
of a twofold existence.
..........
Yes, you inhabit two worlds:
your day is sickly, passionate,
your night prophetically unclear,
like the revelations of spirits.
..........
Let the suffering breast
be agitated by fateful passions.
The soul is ready, just like Mary,
to cling eternally to the feet of Christ.

223.

Be quiet, please! Don't dare wake me!
Oh, in this criminal, shameful age,
not to live, not to feel is a lot to be envied.
It's a pleasure to sleep, more pleasurable to be a stone.

224.

Yes, sleep is sweet, but it's sweeter not to have been!
In these times of misfortune and supreme shame
seeing nothing, feeling nothing, is indeed a high pleasure!
Don't dare wake me... I beg you, speak quietly!

225.

To serve God and Russia was never your intention.
Your conceit alone deserved your full attention.
Whether good whether bad, your every task
was nothing but spectral, false invention.
You had no throne - you wore an actor's mask!

226.

For him who served his native land
with faith and love,
served with thought and blood,
served with the word, served with his soul,
and whom providence has placed, not without good reason,
on the path of new generations,
a path of many difficulties,
and raised among the ranks of reliable warriors...

227.

What I've managed to keep alive
of hope, faith and love
has merged into one prayer:
survive, survive!

228.

A door should be open or closed.
You're starting to annoy me, dear,
so why don't you go to Hell!

229. TO N. F. SHCHERBINA

I fully understand the meaning
of your sickly dream,
your struggle, your striving,
your alarmed service
before the ideal of beauty.
..........
Like an imprisoned Hellene
sinking into sleep out in the steppes,
beneath blizzard-filled Scythian skies,
who hallucinates about golden freedom
and the sky of his native Greece.

230. (SCHILLER)

Fortune had an argument with a favourite
and flew off to poor Wisdom:
"Sister, give me your hand and my grief
will be lightened by your friendship.
..........
With my best gifts
have I showered him, like his mother,
and what does he do? Never satisfied,
he dares to call me mean!
..........
Sofia, believe me, let's be friends!
Look, here are piles of silver.
Throw aside your spade. You no longer need it.
I'll be enough for you, dear sister."
..........
"Fly off!" Wisdom answered her.
"Don't you hear me? Your friend curses life -
save the madman from the knife,
but I've no need of Fortune."

231.

His fine day has disappeared in the West,
having embraced half the sky with an immortal twilight,
and he, from the depths of northern skies,
he himself looks down on us like a prophetic star.

232.

Above this ignorant crowd
of people not yet awake,
will you ever rise, Freedom,
will your golden rays gleam?
..........
Your ray will shine and revive them,
chasing sleep and mists,
but old, rotten wounds,
the weals of abuse and contempt,
..........
the decaying of souls and the void
that gnaws the mind and pains the heart,
what can heal that, what can cover it up?
Only you, Christ's pure image.

233.

There is a fleeting, wondrous moment
during autumn's early days:
time stands motionless, time's a crystal,
evenings bathe in brilliant rays.
..........
Where sickles swung and crops were toppled,
there's just an empty wasteland now.
A strand of glittering web is all you notice
across an idle track cut by a plough.
..........
The air has emptied. Birds no longer chatter,
though there's some time to wait for winter's snow and rain,
and pure and warm, a gentle blue is flowing
across the resting plains.

234.

Look at the coppice!
Foliage awash in scorching sun,
wafting sweet comfort around me,
from every bough and leaf it runs!
..........
Let's go inside and sit above the roots
of trees fed by that rill,
where trees waft in their thousands
the stream which whispers in the dusky still.
..........
Delirium runs her fingers through the leafy summits
suspended in the midday heat
and every now and then an eagle screeches,
from very far away.

235.

When your eighteen years
will be a dream for you as well,
with love, with quiet tenderness,
remember it, remember us.

236. TO E. N. ANNENKOVA

Are you trying to borrow the features
of a northern girl, a frail, languishing creature
born amid the gloom of forests,
you, laughing, shining songstress?
I cannot help it, forgive me,
but it seems to me, on seeing this picture,
that an orange-blossom bathed in light
is trying to mimic a birch-tree.

237.

At times when there is
depression in our breasts,
when the heart is tormented,
when ahead there is only mist,
when, powerless and static,
we're so crushed
that even our dear friends' consolations
cease to amuse us,
suddenly a sun-ray greets us,
stealing stealthily up,
fire-colouredly splashing
in a stream across the walls,
and from the benevolent sky,
from the blue heights,
a sudden fragrance
flutters into our window
..........
Admonitions and advice
are not what it brings
and it will not save us
from fate's calumny,
but we sense its power,
hear the bliss in it,
and we feel less anguish,
and it's easier to breathe.
Just as wonderfully paradisal,
aerial, bright -
- but a hundredfold! -
your love has been to me!

238.

She was sitting on the floor
sorting letters which were old,
holding them before she threw them out
like ash gone cold.
..........
Her look was strange
while she held those pages she knew so well,
as if she were a soul which peered down
at its abandoned shell.
..........
So many irreversible events,
such life fulfilled and filled
with minutes of love and joy across the years!
How many grief-packed minutes killed!
..........
Silent, I stood to one side
and my knees were ready to bend
as a fearful sadness crept into my heart,
as if at the ghost of a dear, old friend!

239. PEACE

When what we called our own
has left us forever
and, as if we lay in our grave,
there's a heavy weight upon us,
..........
we can always cast a fleeting glance
across the waters' slope
where streams flow headlong,
wherever the current leads.
..........
Jostling each other,
the currents run, hurry
to some fateful summons
they've heard in the distance.
..........
Vainly we observe them.
They'll never return,
but the longer we watch,
the easier we breathe.
..........
Tears spring to our eyes
and through them we see,

excitedly bubbling,
everything more swiftly born away.
..........
The soul becomes oblivious
and feels right then
that it too is borne away
by omnipotent waters.

240.

Late in autumn
I love the park of Tsarskoe Selo,
when a still half-dusk
seems to drown it in slumber
and winged visions of white
in the lake's dull glass,
voluptuously mute,
hang limply in the dusk.
.........
On the royal steps
of Catherine's halls
lie twilight shadows
of early October evenings.
Like thickets of oaks,
the gardens darken.
Like a reflection of a glorious past,
out of the murk with the stars
a golden cupola emerges.

241. ON THE JOURNEY HOME

1.
Dismal hour, dismal sight ...
Speeding onwards through the night ...
Look, a phantom rising from the dead,
the moon has risen in the misty air,
lighting up the wastes ahead ...
There's far to go - do not despair!
..........
As we ride, into my mind
steals the place I've left behind ...
Its moon's alive and it delights
in breathing Lake Leman's cool air.
Wondrous country, wondrous sights!
There's far to go - on through the night!
2.
I was born here,
where giant snow-clouds list
and let faint hints of blue
filter down to touch dark woods
muffled in late autumn mist.
..........
No life at all here ...
Boundless silence, dull and bare ...
The scene's drab greyness broken
only where stagnant pools, touched by first ice,
are glinting here and there.
..........
Not a sound here,
nor colour, movement - life's a drying stream.
Submissive to his fate,
in an oblivion of exhaustion
man exists but in a dream.
His eyes are dulled like fading day.
Although he's only just been there,
he can't believe in lands where lakes reflect
blue mountains caught in golden rays.

242.

There are many tiny, unnamed
constellations in the lofty sky,
indistinguishable one from the other
to our weak, hazy eyes.
..........
No matter how they shine,
it's not for us to judge their glitter.
Only the telescope's wondrous power
may be able to reach them.
..........
But there are different constellations,
sending different rays:
like fiery-living suns
they shine to us at night.
..........
Their bracing, joy-bearing
beacon is a boon to our souls
everywhere, on land and sea.
We see it everywhere before us.
..........
Delight of this earthly world,
they are the beauty of the kindred heavens,
and for these stars you don't need glasses.
You can see them if you're myopic.

243. FOR HER IMPERIAL MAJESTY

Glamour, illusion, magic and fable:
all render homage and fall at your feet.
One feels, wherever you appear,
that Truth is the one adorable feat.

244. FOR GRAND DUCHESS HELENE

In this palace, whatever takes place,
nothing is unlikely and everything is in its place:
faery is always at home here,
for that is the way things are done here.

245. A DECEMBER MORNING

The moon's still out.
Night has still not budged,
just ruling, unaware
that day is coming to,
albeit lazily and timidly.
Ray after ray creeps out of cloud,
though night in majesty
still shines across the sky.
Just give it three or four more moments
and night will dissipate,
while in its blinding fullness
day will show itself and claim the earth.

246. TO E.N. ANNENKOVA

Into daily life
come radiant dreams
by which we're suddenly whisked off
to unfamiliar lands, to magic worlds,
alien, yet worlds our soul knows well,
..........
and from the light-blue sky we see,
in an unearthly radiance wafting down,
a different nature,
having neither dawn nor sunset.
Another sun is shining there.
..........
Everything is better, brighter, larger,
so far from what is earthly,
so different to everything we're used to
and in the pure, flaming sky
the soul is so light-heartedly at home.
..........
We've woken up. The vision ends.
We've no means to restrain it.
Beneath a dull, still shadow,
life grabs us back again,
condemns us to our cell.
..........
Persisting, there's a sound we barely hear,
ringing out above us,
before our soul, tormented, longing,
that irresistible glance remains,
that very smile we glimpsed in dreams.

247. FROM JAKOB BOHME

Whoever has combined in himself
Time and Eternity,
has protected himself
from every grief.

248.

"Sceptical" sums up the way I feel,
Holy Russia, about your worldly affairs:
once you were a peasant shack.
You now have a corner under the stairs!

249.

Tracing its path across the sky,
does the sun know
that it alone pours life into nature
with its golden brilliance,
..........
that with its rays God draws
tracery on blossoms,
gives the gift of fruit to the farmer
and scatters pearls around the river?
..........
You, casting (your dear)
glance around, do you know
that all my life and strength
are in your fiery gaze?

250.

From these empty lands, from this wintry weather,
go to that land where the sea always shines,
go with a greeting, my feeble lines,
go on with you, greet my daughter.

251. REMEMBER

(Vevey 1859 - Geneva 1860)
I recall her final glances
at this land, this lake, these mountains
luxuriantly glorious in the west's last beams.
As if through the mist of a laboured illness,
she tried at times to catch a wondrous spectre.
She was so in sympathy with this entire world.
..........
How in their dim outlines she loved
these mountains, waves and stars,
loved with her keen, loving soul.
And in dissolution's approaching strife,
what tender feelings lived in her
before this ever-youthful life.
..........
The Alps gleamed, the lake breathed.
It was here, through tears, that we came to understand
that whoever's soul is regally bright,
whoever has kept it alive to the end,
at the terrible, fateful moment,
will always be as they were.

252.

Though I've built my nest in valley,
still there are times when I know
that somewhere far above me, life-pulsing
aerial currents flow.
At times like that I'd leave this stifling world,
towards those heights impelled,
when everything which suffocates
I desperately need to repel!
..........
I can gaze for many hours
at inaccessible massifs
which pour their coolness, rain such showers
noisily towards me!
In sudden iridescence
bursts into light the virgin snow.
That's when I see the traces on the summits
where unseen angels go.

253.

Old Hecuba, alas, so long so sorely tried,
after many reverses and disasters,
finds refuge in your youthful goodness,
rested and washed by your side.

254. ON THE OCCASION OF PRINCE PYOTR ANDREEVICH VYAZEMSKY'S JUBILEE.

The Muse has catholic tastes,
unequal in her generosity,
one hundredfold more godlike than good fortune,
but equally capricious.
..........
Some she'll foster at daybreak,
kissing their young curls' silk,
but should the breeze blow warmer
she will flee as they awake.
..........
Others, in a hidden meadow, by a brook,
she'll visit unexpectedly,
delight with a chance smile,
but she'll make her first tryst her last!
..........
That didn't happen to you:
catching you in youth with perfect timing,
she loved you with passion in her soul
gazing long and hard at you.
..........
She didn't pass you by. With time to spare
she nourished, caressed, cared tenderly
for your talent. Her love became
more tender year by year.
..........
Just as with the years the strength and fire
of the noble vine develops,
so in your goblet hotter, brighter,
inspiration poured.
..........
Never did such wine as now
crown your cup of fame.
In honour of the goddess, prince,
let's raise the foaming vessel!
..........
In honour of the goddess who nobly preserved
the sacred legacy of the soul,
our native tongue. Let her grow freely
and fulfil her great task!
..........
Then, reverently silent,
we'll hold a sacred repast for the dead,
a triple libation
to three unforgettably dear ones.
..........
There is no echo to the voice that calls them,
but on this bright festival of your saints-day
is there anyone who cannot feel their presence,
Zhukovsky, Pushkin, Karamzin!
..........
We believe right now that these invisible guests
leave their celestial world
to hover lovingly among us,
sanctifying our feast.
..........
In the name of your Muse, we follow
with a goblet to drink a toast.
Let the wine in this bright cup
sparkle and foam for years!

255.

Once I was a major, many years ago.
You promised me a future:
the glitter of a general's epaulettes.
What rank I have now beats me,
but as your batman, it's time to go,
Field Marshall of the Russian intellect.

256. TO ALEXANDER II

You seized your day, marked out in this age
by the lord's great grace.
He displaced the form of slavery from man,
returned the younger brother to the family.

257.

I knew her even then,
in those fabulous years when,
before the morning ray
of the earliest days,
a star already drowns in the blue sky,
and she was as she'd always been,
filled with that fresh charm
of pre-dawn darkness
when, unheard and unseen,
dew touches flowers.
At that time her life
was so complete, so whole
so alien to things of earth,
you'd think she too had travelled far,
hiding in the sky just like the star.

258.

Not for nothing have your remembered the sounds
of Russian from childhood,
caring for them within yourself with lively sympathy.
Now, at the height of your science and between two worlds,
you stand as a universal mediator.

259. TO PRINCE P.A. VYAZEMSKY

It's not the same now as it was six months back.
There's no longer that close circle of friends.
Great nature herself celebrates your jubilee.
See to what lengths she has gone
to prepare this feast for you,
all this shoreline, this sea,
this whole wondrous world of summer.
With its foot on the last step
and with light poured over it,
this magnificent day says farewell to its poet.
Fountains quietly waft and plash,
the garden breathes in slumberous coolness,
and Peter's limes rustle so jubilantly above you.

260.

Play while above you
the sky is still cloudless.
Play with people, play with fate,
you - life destined for battle,
you - heart greedy for storms.
..........
How often, tormented by sad dreams,
I look at you in anguish,
my gaze clouding with tears.
Why? What have we in common?
You're going to live, I'm going away.
..........
I've sensed the morning dreams
of the barely woken day,
but late, living storms,
passions' outbursts, passions' tears,
no, none of this is for me!
..........
But perhaps in summer heat
you'll recall your spring.
Oh, remember this time too
as we would a vague dream
escaping us as dawn approaches.

261. ON SENDING THE NEW TESTAMENT

Fate did not select for you
an easy nor a happy lot,
and very early on you entered
into unequal combat with merciless life.
..........
You fought with rare courage
and in this fateful struggle
every fibre of your soul endured
the very harshest trials.
..........
No, life did not defeat you
and in the hopeless fight
not once, my dear, not once did you betray
the truth in your heart, nor yourself.
..........
But earthly powers are feeble:
malicious life will suddenly rage insanely
and, as if about to be buried,
we will suddenly feel such depression.
..........
At such times, remember
this book with love,
let all your soul incline to it
and rest, the way you'd sink into your pillow.

262. TO BOTH NICHOLASES

We wish all the very best
to both Nicholases
and greet them with heartfelt sincerity.

263.

He used to be a gentle cossack.
The fool now tries to administrate.
He's Philip's son, I suppose, but still
he's no Alexander the Great.

264. TO A.A. FET

My heartfelt greeting to you,
and, such as it is, here's my portrait.
Sympathetic poet, let it
tell you, silently at least,
how dear your greeting was to me,
how touched my soul was by it.

265.

Nature has endowed some with a sense
which is prophetically sightless from its birth.
They feel with it, they hear waters
dark-flowing in the deeps of earth.
..........
You are beloved of the great Earth-Mother:
more coveted by far your lot has been,
for often, through the surface cover,
into her very eyes you've seen!

266. THE SACRED MOUNTAINS

Quietly, softly over Ukraine,
the July night lies
like a fascinating secret.
The sky has gone in so deeply on itself,
the stars burn so high
and the Donets glistens in the dark.
..........
Sweet hour of peace!
The peeling of bells, the prayers, the psalms
of Svyatogor are silenced.
Beneath the walls of their dwelling,
illuminated by the moon,
the monks sleep in peace.
..........
A gigantic outcrop,
wondrously white,
the cliff stands above the Donets,
raising its cross to Heaven
like an eternal sentry
guarding the monks.
..........
It is said that in its womb,
locked away, as if in a grave,
a wondrous monk lived
in severe abnegation for many a year,
shedding so many tears before God,
lavishing so much faith!
..........
It's for that that at night,
with a strength that lives even today,
above the Donets the cliff stands,
and, with this sacred place of prayer,

abundant in grace even today,
it enlivens the sleeping world.

267.

For itself this story speaks,
the plot's not hard to unravel:
our dirty Russian pub has travelled
right up to the Caucasian peaks.

268.

We've been burdened by a horrible dream,
a horrible, ugly dream:
up to our ankles in blood, we're fighting corpses
resurrected for fresh funerals.
.........
These battles have already lasted eight months,
this heroic ardour, the treachery and lies,
a den of thieves in a house of prayer,
crucifix and dagger in the same hand.
..........
The entire world seems drunk on falsehood.
There's every form and trick of wickedness!
No, never has God's justice been so insolently called
to battle by the injustice of man!
..........
This cry of blind sympathy,
a universal summons to frenzied conflict,
the depravity of minds, the distortion of the word,
it's all risen up and threatens you,
..........
oh native land! Such a call to arms
has not been heard since the earliest times.
Russia, it seems you have a great significance!
Be valiant, stand firm, be strong and overcome!

269. TO HIS GRACE PRINCE A.A. SUVOROV

Humane grandson of a martial grandfather,
forgive us, nice prince,
for honouring the Russian cannibal,
we Russians not having asked Europe's permission!
..........
How on earth can we excuse this cheek to you?
How can we justify agreeing with
someone who stood up for and saved the integrity of Russia,
sacrificing everything to his calling,
..........

who took upon himself, in desperate conflict,
all the responsibility, all the labour, all the burden,
and who, raising it to life, shouldered
the entire, poor, tormented tribe,
..........
who, chosen to be the bull's-eye of all sedition,
stood and stands, peaceful, unharmed,
in spite of foes, their lies and evil-mouthing,
in spite, alas, of his own people's banalities?
..........
So let this letter to him from us, his friends,
be a shameful piece of testimony!
What we need, prince, is your great grandfather.
At least he'd have signed it himself!

270.

Just as now and then during summer
a bird will flutter into the room,
bringing with it life and light,
announcing, illuminating,
pulling after it into our nook
the blossoming world of nature,
green woods, living waters
and the gleam of a blue sky,
so did our guest pay
a transient, aerial visit
to our stuck-up stifling world,
shaking us all from sleep.
Warmed by her presence,
life shook its feathers anew,
and even Peter's summer
thought of thawing out when she arrived.
While she was here, old age became young again
and experience became an apprentice.
She twisted this diplomatic milieu
around her little finger.
It was as if our entire house came to life,
choosing her as its inhabitant,
and already we were less troubled
by the tireless telegraph.
But all charms are short-lived.
It's not their lot to stay with us,
so now we've had to say goodbye,
though we'll not forget for a long, long time
those unexpectedly charming impressions,
those dimples on rosy cheeks,
those comfortably stately movements,
and that upright figure,
and hearty laugh and resonant voice,
the semi-cunning light of her eyes,
and that long, fine hair
which even fairies' fingers couldn't hold.

271. TO N.I. KROL

Cold September rages.
Russet leaves fall from trees.
Dimming day is a haze.
Night falls. Mist rises.
In my heart and to my sight -
everything so colourlessly cold,
unresponsively sad.
A sudden song bursts out
and by some charm
the mist curls up and flies away,
the sky is blue once more,
clothing itself in radiance,
and everything is green again,
everything turns into spring.
This fantasy stayed with me
all the time your little bird was singing.

272. FEBRUARY 19TH., 1864

With his last, quiet steps
he approached the window. Evening was coming
and with rays as pure as grace
it shone and burned in the west.
He recalled that year of renewal,
that great day, that day born of the New Testament,
and the shade preceding death shone
from his face, emotion-filled.
..........
Two cherished, kindred images
which he bore in his heart like a sacrament,
appeared to him: the tsar and Russia,
and he blessed them both and with all his heart.
He lowered his head to his pillow,
the final struggle accomplished.

Then with love did the saviour himself
release his true, obedient servant.

273.

Not always does the soul have sickly dreams:
spring's arrived, once more the sun will beam.

274.

The breeze has dropped and lighter is the breath
of the blue assembly of Geneva's waters.
A boat rows across it again.
Another swan ripples it.
The sun burns all day as if it were summer.
Trees sparkle in motley hues,
their frail showiness lulled
by the air's caressing billow.
And there, peacefully solemn,
disrobed since early morning,
Mont Blanc is shining
like some unearthly revelation.
My heart could forget everything here,
could forget all its torment,
If only back home there were one grave less.

275.

All day she lay oblivious.
To lie across her body shadows came.
Outside the tepid rain of summer streamed,
splashing through the trees in happy games.
..........
She lay for quite some time absorbed
as slowly she came round,
consciously immersed in thought,
beginning to listen to the sounds.
..........
As if conversing with herself,
she said, and she was fully aware,
(I was with her, crushed, but still alive,)
"Oh, I loved it all so much out there!"
..........
You love - at loving as you could,
no-one's yet arrived.
Oh Christ, without my heart exploding,
to have this to survive!

276.

Like an unresolved mystery,
living charm breathes in her.
We note with a tremor of alarm
the quiet life of her eyes.
..........
Is this charm terrestrial in any way?
Is it some earthly grace?
My soul would like to pray
but my heart strives to adore

277.

Oh, this south, oh, this Nice!
How their glitter troubles me.
Life's like a bird that's been shot
and wants to rise but cannot.
It wants to spread its wings,
it wants to fly again
but they just hang,
feeble, broken things,
and it grips the ground
and shivers in impotent pain.

278.

No matter who you are, just meeting her,
with pure or illicit thoughts,
you will suddenly feel more acutely
that there's a better world, a spiritual one.

279. AN ENCYCLICAL

Once, the hammer of the justice of the Lord
smashed and destroyed the primal temple
where the high priest gasped his last,
impaled upon his own sword.
..........
More fearsome, more implacable, God demands that he atone
on these days of heavenly judgement
in apostate Rome, and capital sentence will be passed
on that Pretender to Christ's throne!
..........
Passing centuries disguise
black deeds and lying rumours,
but God in his justice cannot pardon
this latest in a string of lies.
..........
No human being will win
the right to kill this earthly ruler,
living by the sword of man so long himself.
He will be destroyed by his own fateful words:
"Think for yourself and you sin!"

280. TO PRINCE GORCHAKOV

Yours has been a fateful calling,
but whoever summoned you will be observing.
All that is best in Russia, anything with life in it,
is watching you, believing, waiting.
You saved the honour
of deceived, insulted Russia.
Nothing deserves more praise.
Today you're faced with other feats of bravery.
Stand up for the thought, save the spirit.

281.

Ocean-billows, night-surging,
here radiant, there blue-grey,
living creature, washed in moon-rays,
breathing, striding, glimmering...
The water-world has no skyline. Bare
but for sparkling movement, growling thunder.
The sea is shot with dull light.
How good it is in the unpeopled night!
Sea-flanks swell above, monstrous currents under.
Whose feast is this? What celebration?
Waves rush, thunder, glisten.
Stars sense them, gaze, listen.
in this shining, in this agitation,
in a dream I am lost.
Into this world I would sink whole,
I would stand up to my soul
immersed, ocean-tossed.

282.

When God has deferred assent,
no matter how the loving soul suffers,
its suffering will never win it joy,
though it might come to realise itself.
..........
Soul, my soul, you gave yourself wholly
to cherished love alone,
breathing by it, suffering by it.
May the Lord bless you, soul!
..........
He, the charitable, the omnipotent,
He, warming with his rays
luxuriant flowers blossoming in the air,
and the pure pearl on the bed of the sea!

283. IN REPLY TO AN ADDRESS

Friends, you're behaving like boors,
to native Russia delivering your snub.

You think you're members of the English Commons?
You're only members of the English Club!

284.

In the martyrdom of my stagnation
are hours and days which intensify the pain.
Their weight is crushing, fatal's their oppression.
Verse can't endure it, verse cannot explain.
.........
Everything dies. Tears and affection
close their doors! So empty and dark all around.
The past no longer wafts its clear shadow:
like a corpse, it lies beneath the ground.
..........
Above it, in bright reality,
loveless, where sun-rays never fall,
there's an impassive, soulless world
which neither knows, nor can remember her at all.
..........
I'm alone in my submissive tedium.
I want to know myself, to be aware;
I can't, a shattered boat thrown up by breakers
upon a nameless shore that's wild and bare.
..........
Lord, let me burn with suffering.
Dispel the deathliness cramping my soul.
You've taken her, but all the living torment,
the painful memory of her leave whole.
..........
Let me remember her, life's task fulfilling,
fighting her final conflict of despair,
loving with love so fierce and so burning,
facing fate and people's slander unafraid,
..........
her, her who, never defeating fate,
vowed all the same that fate would never win,
her, her who till the end was able
to bear such pain, to pray, believe - to love!

285.

Dying, he doubted,
tormented by an ominous thought,
but not for nothing had God spoken in him.
God is loyal to His chosen ones.
..........
One hundred years of toil and woe have passed
and now, more manly with each passing day,
our Native Speech, given full play,
celebrates his wake.
..........
No longer ensnared,
freed from former fetters,
in all its intellectual freedom
it pays its compliments to him.
..........
And we, grateful grandsons,
for all his good deeds,
in the name of Truth and Learning,
sing Eternal Memory.
..........
Yes, his significance is great,
true to the Russian mind
he fought for Enlightenment for us,
not enslaving us to it.
..........
Like that Old Testament fighter
who struggled till dawn
with an unearthly Power
and survived the nocturnal battle.

286.

In Nice the tsar's son is dying.
They'll forge shackles for us out of this.
"It's God's vengeance for the Poles" -
that's what they're saying here in the capital.
..........
Whose crazy, narrow brain
could give birth to such ideas?
Whose? Some Polish priest's?
Or one of Russia's minister's?
.........
Oh, all these fateful rumours,
this criminal, wild mumbling
of our native land's black sheep
will not be heeded by Russia!
..........
Learn your lesson! Let's not hear
that fearful cry resound, as in the past:
"Treason's abroad! The tsar's been taken!"
Russia won't save him then!

287. APRIL 12TH., 1865

It's all been decided and he is at peace,
he, enduring till the end,
though it seems he was worthy before God
of a different, better crown,
..........
another, better inheritance,
the inheritance of his god,
he, our joy since childhood,
he wasn't ours, he was His.
..........
But between him and us
there are bonds stronger than nature:
with every heart in Russia
now he prays for her,
..........
for her, whose sorrow and trials
are understood and gauged only by the one
who, sanctifying herself through suffering,
stood crying by the cross.

288.

How truly has the common sense of folk
defined the sense of words:
not for nothing, it's clear, from "caring"
has it derived the term "to croak".

289.

Est in arundineis modulatio
musica ripis.
The sea is harmony.
Shapely in debate, all elements cohere.
Rustling in the river's reeds,
musical designs inhere.
..........
Imperturbable form is the outward sign
of nature's utter consonance.
Only our spectral liberty
imparts a sense of dissonance.
..........
Whence this disharmony? How did it arise?
In the general chorus, why this solo refrain?
Why do our souls not sing like the sea
and why must the thinking reed complain?
.........
And why, from earth to the farthest stars
(even today there's no reply)

do we hear a protest in the void,
the soul's despairing cry?

290. TO MY FRIEND YA. P. POLONSKY

Living sparks no longer answer friendly banter.
There's deepest night in me. Dawn it will not see.
Soon there'll fly into the gloom, unnoticed,
The dying fire's thin smoke, the last there'll ever be.

291.

You commanded, though, perhaps, in jest,
and I shall carry out your orders.
This is no place for hesitation, nor for reason,
and even wisdom is crazy about you,
..........
and even he, your glorious grandfather,
though he'd out-argue all of Europe,
gave in in the unequal battle
and sued for peace at your feet.

292. TO PRINCE VYAZEMSKY

There's the telegraph if you've got no legs.
Let it bear to you my partly ailing verse.
May God preserve you in his goodness
from all kinds of squabbles, alarms, troubles,
as well as from insomnia at night.

293.

Poor Lazarus, wretched Iros,
with effort and in turmoil
I write to you, getting up from my sick bed,
and let my lame greeting
be given wings by the telegraph.
..........
Let it hasten it on, playing,
to that wonderful, bright corner
where all day, never silent,
it's as if a rain storm
sings in green copses.

294.

It's fifteen years today, my friend,
since that blissful fateful day
when she breathed all her soul into me,
poured her whole being into me.
..........
It's already a year now, uncomplaining, not reproaching,
everything lost, that I greet my fate:
to be so frightfully alone until I die,
as alone as when beneath the earth I'll lie.

295.

The East is doubtful, silent.
Everything is keenly quiet.
What is it? Dream or expectation?
Is day distant or near?
The mountains' napes are barely white.
Mist still lies on woods and dales.
Towns sleep. Hamlets doze,
but just look up ...
..........
Look: see the band of light
which seems to glow with hidden passion.
Brighter, more alive,
burning right through ...
Another moment - across
the boundless skies
a universal pealing heralds
the sun's triumphant rising.

296. ON THE EVE OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF AUGUST 4TH., 1864

Wandering along the highway
as daylight quietly dies...
Depressed. My legs don't want to move.
My darling, can you see me?
..........
It's getting darker, darker over all the earth.
Day's last glimmer flying off...
That's the world I shared with you.
Angel, can you see me?
..........
Tomorrow we pray and grieve.
Tomorrow we recall that fateful day.
My angel, wherever souls go,
My angel, can you see me?

297.

Unexpectedly and brightly,
moist across the blueness of the sky,
an airy arc has been erected.
Triumphant, it will soon pass by.
One arm has plunged into the forest.
Beyond the clouds the other sweeps.
Half the sky it has encompassed.
It's reached its highest point and sleeps.
..........

This iridescent vision
is pure delight for human eyes.
It's given us for just a moment,
so catch it. In your grasp it lies!
Look again. It's paling.
One second more its colours glow.
It's gone. It's vanished just as surely
as what you breathe and live by goes.

298.

Sad night creeps
across an earth beset
neither by thought nor threat
but by joyless, sluggish sleep.
Lightning brightens the scowls,
winking intermittently
like deaf-mute ghouls
debating heatedly.
..........
A sign has been agreed:
the sky's alight. A sudden surge
snaps from the murk with sudden speed
and fields and distant woods emerge.
Then again they're under shrouds.
You sense it all go darkly still up there,
and if in camera some high affair
they'd ratified above the clouds.

299.

Not a day relieves the soul of pain,
of pain about the past,
seeking words, not finding them,
drying, drying with every day,
..........
just like the anguish-burning exile,
bemoaning his lost land,
discovering on the bed of the sea
that it's buried in the sand.

300.

Let foul slander rage,
labour to crush her with lies.
Every demand quails
before the candour of her eyes.
..........
Sincere and lovely,
of wondrous form,

her cloudless soul's a sky
untroubled by storms.
.........
Not a speck of dust adheres
when those nauseating churls
sow their stupid calumny
which cannot even crumple
the airy silk of her curls!

301. TO COUNTESS A.D. BLUDOVA

However meagre life becomes,
however much we're forced to come to terms
with what is clearer every day in any case,
that just surviving isn't living,
..........
in the name of a dear past,
in the name of your father,
let's promise one another
never to betray ourselves.

302.

So he's saved! Could it turn out otherwise?
A sense of joy has flooded Russia.
But amidst the prayers, amidst our grateful tears,
one thought persists and gnaws our hearts:
..........
with just one shot, everything in us has been insulted,
and there seems no escape from this slap in Russia's face.
It lies, alas, a despicable blot
on all the history of the Russian race!

303.

When what we have said is echoed far and wide
by a soul sympathetic to its sense,
we need no other recompense -
we're satisfied, we're satisfied.

304. TO PRINCE SUVOROV

Two disparate tendencies
join in you,
you holy fool who cannot save his soul,
you clown without a scrap of wit.
..........
It seems that Nature's grand design
was creating then condemning you
to deeds you needn't answer for,
to words that go unpunished.

305.

In God's world it can happen
that snow will fall in May,
but Spring doesn't grieve,
knowing her time will come.
.........
Despite its raging,
this untimely fool is powerless.
Blizzards and storms have already abated,
summer storms are on their way.

306.

When our disordered exchequer
doesn't simply thresh around,
but runs itself aground,
just sitting like a crab,
who will come to save her,
well who, if not a sailor?

307.

Lake's still currents,
gold-glinting roofs,
past glories in abundance
in the lake.
Life plays. Sun burns.
Under both, here,
a wonder-wafting past,
wafted by its own enchantment.
Golden sun glints,
lake-currents glimmer.
Here the great past
seems to breathe oblivion,
slumbering sweetly, carefree,
unworried, unalarmed
in wondrous dreams
by the momentary tremor
of swan-voices.

308.

On his funeral pall,
instead of wreaths, we've inscribed some simple words:
"Oh Russia, were it not for yours.
he'd have had no enemies at all".

309.

When our decrepit energies turn traitor,
when, like former tenants,
we let our house to the young,
save us then, good spirit,
from faint-hearted reproaches,
from slander, from animosity
at our changing life,
from feelings of suppressed spite
at the world which is being renewed,
where new guests sit
at the feast prepared for them,
at the bitter, galling awareness
that the current no longer bears our boat,
that there are other vocations,
that others have been called forward,
from everything that
(the more ardently - the deeper)
we have concealed so long,
because more shameful than ageing, aged love
is an old man's peevish passion.

310.

The pale, blue sky
breathes warmth and light
and greets Peter's city
with an unheard of September.
..........
A warm, moist fullness in the air
waters fresh foliage
and quietly ripples
through the stately pennants.
..........
The sun sows glittering heat
along the deeps of the Neva.
Everything gleams and wafts like the south
and life is like a dream.
..........
More free and easy, more welcoming
is the vanishing day,
and the shade of autumn evenings
is heated by summer comfort.
..........
At night, multi-coloured
lights flame...
enchanted nights,
enchanted days.
..........
It's as if nature's strict rules
had been relaxed
in favour of the spirit of life and freedom,
of the inspirations of love.
..........
It's as if, eternally indestructible,
the eternal order had been destroyed
by the loving and loved
human soul.
..........
In this caressing radiance,
in this blue sky
there's a smile, there's an awareness,
there's a sympathetic reception.
..........
And sacred emotion
with the gift of pure tears
has come to us like a revelation
and echoed through everything.
..........
What was unprecedented till now
our knowing people has understood,
and the week of Dagmar
will cross the generations.

311.

Russia is a thing of which
the intellect cannot conceive.
Hers is no common yardstick.
You measure her uniquely:
in Russia you believe!

312. ON THE JUBILEE OF N.M. KARAMZIN

On Karamzin's great day,
at this fraternal funeral feast in his memory,
what should we have to say before the fatherland,
what, that she could respond to?
..........
With what reverent praise,
with what living sympathy
shall we honour this glorious day,
this national, family festival?
..........
What respects shall we send you,
you, our good, pure genius,
amidst the perturbations and doubts
of these much-troubled years
..........
with their ugly mixture
of impotent justice and glaring lies,
so hateful to a soul
which is high, passionate about goodness,
..........
a soul, such as yours was
when it still fought on here,
but which headed irrepressibly
for God's invocatory voice?
..........
We shall say, be a guide to us,
be an inspiring star,
illuminate our fateful dusk,
wholesome, free, wise spirit,
..........
able to bring all together
into an unbreakable, whole structure,
everything humanly good,
reinforcing it with Russian feeling,
..........
able, your neck unbending
before the crown's charms,
to be a friend of the tsar to the end
and a true subject of Russia.

313.

Russian star, will you always seek
mists to stay concealed,
or like an optical illusion
will you forever be revealed?
..........
Will you really be to avid eyes
which seek your glow at night
an empty, mocking meteor
aimlessly scattering its light?
..........
Murk thickens. Grief deepens.
Disaster's slipped its tether.
See whose flag is sinking in the ocean.
Wake up, wake now, or drown forever!

314. IN ROME

An edifice was raised in ancient Rome,
Neron building himself a golden palace.
At the very granite foot of the palace
a blade of grass engaged the caesar in a dispute:
"I'll not give in to you, you know that, earthly ruler,
and I cast aside your hateful burden."
"What, not give in to me? The world groans beneath me!"
"The whole world is your servant, but my servant is Time."

315.

Although it has slipped from the face of the earth
there remains in the souls of tsars a retreat for truth.
Who has not heard the solemn word?
Age passes it on to age.
..........
And what now? Alas, what do we see?
Who will give shelter to, who will look after the divine guest?
Lies, evil lies have corrupted all minds,
and the whole world has become lie incarnate!
..........
Once again the East is smoking with fresh blood,
there's carnage once again, everywhere there's wailing and weeping,
and again the feasting executioner is in the right,
and the victims are given up to slander!
Oh, this age, nurtured on dissension,
soulless age with a malicious intellect,
in the squares, in palaces, on thrones,
everywhere it's become the personal foe of truth!
..........
But there remains one powerful retreat,
one sacred altar left for truth:
in your soul, our Orthodox tsar,
our good-hearted, honourable Russian tsar!

316 .

It's not the first time the East has been in turmoil,
not the first time they've crucified Christ there,
and with their shield the powers protect
the pallid horn of the moon from "the cross".
A cry goes up: "Crucify him, crucify him!
Give them over once more to slavery and to torment!"
Oh Russia, surely you can't hear these sounds
and, like Pilate, wash your hands.
Don't you see, it's your heart that's bleeding!

317.

Above prostrate Russia
there arose in a sudden storm
Peter, nicknamed the Fourth,
Arakcheev the Second.

318.

How I love the cherished pages
of this posthumous album,
how everything about them is so kindred and close,
how full it all is of spiritual warmth!
..........

How the sympathetic strength of these lines
has fanned me with the past!
The temple has emptied, the thurible's fire has gone out,
but the sacrificial smoke still rises.

319.

"The smoke of the fatherland is sweet to smell!"
Thus a former age, poetically, would speak.
But ours forever seeks sunspots as well
and smuts our fatherland with smoke that reeks!

320. SMOKE

Once there stood a mighty, beautiful wood here,
it rustled greenly, this magical forest,
but not really a forest, rather an entire world of variety,
filled with visions and wonders.
..........
Sunlight filtered through, shadows shimmered;
the racket of birds would not be stilled;
swift deer flashed through thickets
and the hunter's horn resounded now and then.
..........
At the cross-roads, chatting and greeting,
meeting us from the silvan half-light,
entranced by a kind of wondrous light,
swarms of familiar faces.
..........
What life, what charm,
what a luxuriant, bright feast for the soul!
Unearthly creations there seemed to be to us,
but this marvellous world was close to us.
..........
And once again to the mysterious forest
we have come in our former love.
But where is it? Who has brought down the curtain,
dropped it from the sky to the earth?
..........
What's this? A spectre, spells of some sort?
Where are we? Can we believe our eyes?
All that's here is smoke, like the fifth element,
smoke, joyless, endless smoke!
..........
Here and there ugly stumps stick through
where the fire's left it bare,

and white flames run across the burned boughs
with an ominous crackling.
..........
No, it's a dream! No, the breeze will spring up
and bear away the spectre of smoke
and once more our wood will be green,
as it was, magic, kindred.

321. TO THE SLAVS

A heartfelt greeting to you, brethren,
from all corners of Slavdom,
greetings to you all, without exception!
A family feast is prepared for you all!
Not for nothing has Russia called you
to a festival of peace and love;
but you must realise, dear guests,
that here you're more than guests - you're family!
..........
You're at home here, and more at home
than in your own native land,
here where the rule of foreign powers is unknown,
here where there is but one tongue
for all of us, rulers and ruled,
and where Slavdom is not held accountable
for the grave original sin.
..........
Although we've been split apart
by inimical fate,
we're still one race,
the scions of a single mother!
That's why they hate us!
You'll not be forgiven for Russia
nor Russia forgiven for you!
..........
They're worried to death
by the fact that the Slavonic family
is telling friend and foe to their faces
for the first time, "Here I am!"
At the memory which will not go away
of a long chain of evil deeds,
Slav self-consciousness,
like divine retribution, will terrify them!
..........
Long ago on European soil,
where falsehood grew so luxuriantly,
long ago with the learning of the Pharisee,
a dual truth was created:
for them - law and justice,
for us - violation and deceit,
and antiquity reinforced
them, as the inheritance of the Slavs.
And that which lasted centuries
has not dried up today,
and weighing down on us,
above us, gathered here ...
Still smarting from old pains
is all our modern times ...
The field of Kosovo has not been touched,
the White Mountain not levelled to the ground!
And among us - no small shame -
in the Slav medium kindred to all,
the only one who's walked away from their disgrace
and has not succumbed to their enmity
is he who for his own kind everywhere and always
has been the foremost miscreant:
they will only honour our Judas
with their kiss.
..........
Shamefully conciliatory tribe,
when will you become a race?
When will your time of differences and adversity
become redundant,
and when will a cry ring out for unity
and bring down that which divides us?
We'll wait and trust in providence
which knows the day and the hour.
And this faith in God's justice
will no longer die in our breasts,
though many sacrifices and much sorrow
will still be met by us on the way ...
It lives - this supreme achiever -
and its judgement is not meagre,
and the word liberator-tsar
will reach out beyond the Russian border.

322. TO THE SLAVS

Man mu? die Slaven an die Mauer drucken.
They shout, they threaten:
"Watch, we'll squeeze the Slavs to the wall!"
Well, let's hope they don't burst apart
during their ardent onslaught!
..........
Yes, there's a wall, all right, but it's a big one
and it's not hard to push you against it.
But what benefit would come from it?
That's what I can't figure out.
..........
That wall is fearfully resilient,
although it's a granite cliff.
One sixth part of the globe
it long ago encompassed.
..........
More than once it's been stormed,
here and there a couple of stones have been broken off,
but after that the warriors
retreated with bruised foreheads.
..........
It stands as it has always stood,
watching, a martial fastness.
It's not so much that it's threatening,
but... every stone in it is alive.
..........
So let the frenzied attempts
of the Germans constrict and press you
to its embrasures and its shutters,
Let's just see what they get hold of!
..........
No matter how blind enmity rages,
no matter how their violence threatens,
this kindred wall will not give you up,
it will not repulse its own people.
..........
It will part before you
and, like a living bulwark for you,
will stand between you and the enemy
and move closer to them.

323. POSTSCRIPT TO THE POEM ENTITLED TO HANKA

Thus I appealed, thus I spoke.
That was thirty years ago.
Efforts are more determined.
Evil is nastier.
..........
You, standing now before God,
man of justice, sacred shade,
let all your life be a guarantee
that the desired day will come.
..........
For all your constancy
in the battle which has still not ended,
let the first All Slav festival
be an offering to you!

324.

It's a waste of time. You'll not make them see sense.
The more liberal they are, the coarser they are.
Civilisation is a fetish to them,
but its idea is inaccessible to them.
..........
However much you grovel to it, gentlemen,
you'll not gain recognition from Europe:
in her eyes you will forever be
not the servants of enlightenment, rather its serfs.

325. ON THE JUBILEE OF PRINCE A.M. GORCHAKOV

In these bloodily fateful days
when, calling a halt to its fighting,
Russia has sheathed her sword,
her sword, pitted in battle,
he was summoned by the will of authority
to stand guard, and he stood,
and he conducted on his own with Europe
a valiant, unequal struggle.
..........
For twelve years now
this obstinate dual has lasted.
The world of foreigners wonders.
Russia alone can understand him.
He it was who first guessed what the problem was,
and he it was who first boldly recognised
the Russian spirit as the union of strength,
and this crown is his just reward.

326.

In these days of madness, if a noble prince sinks
to decorate Christ's torturer with his own hand,
if we recall the saying, perhaps you'll understand:
"Evil be to him who evil thinks".

327.

However burdensome the end,
that thing we'll never comprehend,
our mortal suffering's exhaustion,
more horror in our souls is roused

by watching one by one being doused
our every cherished recollection.

328.

A righteous punishment is being meted out
for a grievous sin, a thousand-year old sin.
There will be no appeal, the blow will not be deflected,
and God's justice will be seen by everyone.
..........
It's the righteous punishment of divine justice
and whoever you might call to for support,
judgement will be passed and the papal tiara
will for the last time be bathed in blood.
..........
And you, its innocent bearer,
let God save you and bring you to your senses.
Pray to Him, that your grey hair
be not dirtied by spilled blood.

329. ON READING THE IMPERIAL DESPATCHES, PRINTED IN THE JOURNAL DE ST. PETERSBOURG.

When expiation is accomplished
and once more dawn illuminates the East,
oh, how they'll then understand the meaning
of these magnificent lines!
..........
How the first bright ray of daybreak,
touching, will bring brilliant flame,
gilding and making sacred
these prophetic pages!
..........
And in an outpouring of national sentiment,
like pure, divine dew,
a tear of gratitude
from free peoples will start to gleam on them!
..........
In them is written a whole story
about what was and what is.
Having unmasked Europe's conscience,
they have saved Russia's honour!

330.

Once more by the Neva I stand.
Once more, as in the past,
as I were alive, I stare
at these sleeping waters.
..........

There's not a spark in the sky's blue.
Everything's stilled in pale enchantment.
Alone along the pensive Neva
currents of moonlight stream.
..........
Am I dreaming all this,
or am I really seeing
what we saw by this very moon
when we were both still alive?

331. FIRES

As far as the eye can see,
horizon-wide,
massive, threatening cloud,
column upon column,
a chasm of smoke hanging over the land.
Dead bushes spreading out,
grasses smouldering, unburning,
a row of charred firs
thinned out on the horizon.
On this sad, scorched site
no sparks, only smoke.
Where's the fire, malicious destroyer,
omnipotent master?
Stealthily here and there,
like some red beast
crawling through the undergrowth,
the living fire runs!
Let twilight come
Smoke and darkness merge.
With consoling flames
the beast illuminates his camp.
Before the might of this elemental enmity,
silent, arms drooping,
stands sad man,
stands a helpless child.

332.

Clouds melt in the sky.
Beaming in the heat,
the river runs, sparkling
like a steel mirror.
..........
It's hotter by the hour.
Shadows retreat to silent oak thickets.

From whitening fields
wafts honey-scent.
..........
What a wondrous day! Centuries will pass
and in the same eternal order
and river will sparkle and flow
and meadows will breathe in the sun.

333. TO MIKHAIL PETROVICH POGODIN

Here's an unsightly list of my verses.
Without glancing at them, I present them to you,
not controlling my sloth enough
to take at least a quick look through them.
..........
In our age verses live a second or two,
born in the morning, dying towards evening.
Why make a fuss? The hand of oblivion
will carry out its editorial task with precision.

334. IN MEMORY OF E.P. KOVALEVSKY

In the ranks of the fatherland's forces
yet another bold warrior's fallen
and yet again all honest, Russian hearts
will sigh at their grievous loss.
..........
This living soul was valiantly
true to himself, always and everywhere,
this living flame, often smoking
as it burned in suffocating milieux.
..........
Unembarrassed, he believed in truth and
all life long he battled the vulgar and the petty.
He fought, not once giving up.
He was a rare man in Russia.
.........
Not only will Russia lament his passing:
he was dear in that alien land,
and where blood flows joylessly
there too will flow tears of recognition.

335.

The well-wishers of the Russian press,
as do all of you, gentlemen,
make her feel sick, but the trouble is
that she doesn't actually throw up.

336. A HEINE MOTIF (HEINE)

If death is night, if life is day,
ah, you mottled day, you've exhausted me!
Shadows thicken above my bed.
Drowsiness attracts my head.
..........
Impotent, I yield to it.
But through the mute murk a dream persists,
somewhere there, above, the clear day's glistening
and an invisible choir sings of love.

337.

You weren't born a Pole,
though you still feel you're one of the szlachta,
and you're Russian, you must be aware,
only in the estimation of the Third Section.
..........
Slave of influential gentlemen,
with what noble valour
your freedom of speech allows you to fulminate
against all those whom you've muzzled!
..........
Not in vain have you served
with your pen the aristocracy.
In which servants' quarters
did you acquire this knightly manner?

338.

"No, I can't see you..."
Thus indeed I spoke
not once but a hundred times,
while you, you wouldn't believe it.
.........
In one thing my informer is wrong,
if he really has decided to inform,
why, interrupting me,
did he not bother finishing what he was saying?
..........
And now he pesters me,
this course, insolent-joker,
putting aside his notion,
to re-establish my literal text.
..........
Yes, I said, and more than once -
it wasn't an isolated incident -
We still can't see you -
without that sympathetically deep,
..........
heartfelt and holy love,
with which - how can one not be aware of this? -
the whole of Russia has become accustomed
to admire its best star?

339.

With which heartfelt, simple greeting
shall we commemorate the holy memory
of the thousandth anniversary
of this great day marking Cyril's death?
..........
What words can we impress upon this day,
if not words uttered by him,
when, bidding farewell to his brother and friends,
he reluctantly abandoned your dust, Rome?
..........
Participating in his work,
over a whole span of ages, across so many generations,
we too furrowed for him,
amidst temptations and doubts.
..........
Like him, we in our turn, not finishing our work,
we too will leave it and, recalling
his sacred words, then we'll call them out:
"Don't betray yourself, great Russia!"
..........
Don't believe foreigners, motherland,
their duplicitous wisdom or their insolent deceits,
and, like blessed Cyril, you too must not reject
your great service to the Slavs.'

340.

It's not given us to foretell
how our words will echo through the ages,
but sympathy is given us
as grace is given us.

341.

There are two powers, two fateful powers.
We spend our lives under their ban.
From cradle to grave our lives are never ours.
They are Death and the Judgement of Man.
..........
You don't resist them, you just kneel
and they don't answer for their deeds.
They show no mercy. They don't heed
our protests. Their verdicts allow no appeal.
..........

Death's a gentleman who does not dissemble.
Unmoved by all considerations, he's of single mind.
He reaps his brethren, struggling or submitting blind
when beneath his scythe as equals they assemble.
..........
Society is different: disharmony and strife
this jealous leader will not tolerate.
He will not cut you honest and straight
but by the roots will rive your life.
..........
And woe to him, alas, twofold woe
to that youthful, energetic pride
which with smiling gaze and decisive stride
into that unequal battle dares to go.
..........
When, fatefully aware of all his rights,
with the blossoming courage which beauty has planted
in him, unflinching, by his task enchanted,
he encounters slander and he fights,
..........
no mask covers his eyes
He'll not be humbled, beaten, pushed.
See, from his brow he's brushed
abuse and menaces: 'Let them criticise!'
..........
Yes, woe to him: the more artless,
the more guilty he'll appear.
Such is the World: it plays the brute
where the guilt's more humanly sincere.

342. MAY 11TH., 1869

The word of the Gospel has now taught us all
in its sacred simplicity,
all of us gathered here once again at this general celebration:
"Standing on its rocky summit,
the City will not conceal itself from the gaze of man."
..........
Let this proclamation not be in vain,
let it be our behest,
and we, fraternally celebrating this great day,
let us place our union on such a summit
so that all may see it, all the fraternal tribes.

343.

Just as the trees
in Peter's plantations
have grown splendidly
in Catherine's valley,
so may the living Russian word,
now sown here,
send down deeper roots and grow.

344. TO O.I. ORLOVA-DAVYDOVA

Here, where destiny's gifts are illuminated by spirit,
justified by philanthropy,
involuntarily man is reconciled with fate,
the soul consciously makes friends with Providence.

345. TO ANDREY NIKOLAEVICH MURAVYOV

There, on the summit of an overhang
an aerial, iridescent temple
goes off into the skies, a wonder to the eyes,
as if soaring to heaven,
where the First-Named Andrey's
cross still shines today,
white against the skies of Kiev,
sacred observer of these places,
..........
reverently leaning
your dwelling against its feet,
you live there, no idle dweller,
at the decline of the working day.
And who without humility could
not revere in you today
the union of life and aspiration
and steadfast firmness in the battle?
..........
Yes, many, many tribulations
have you endured and overcome.
Live, then, not in vain awareness
of your deserts and good deeds,
but for love, for example,
so that people might be convinced by you
of what can be accomplished by effective faith
and the constant structure of thought.

346. IN THE COUNTRY

What's all this desperate yelling,
racket and flapping of wings?
Such bedlam's somewhat out of place.
Who's responsible for such things?
Geese by the river, a flock of ducks,
suddenly frightened, scatter.
Where to? Do they know themselves?
They're like lunatics with their clatter.
.........
What sudden alarm
makes all these voices go at once?
It's not a dog, it's a four-legged devil.
A demon-dog has burst into the farm.
Self-confident to a fault,
this riotous fellow who loves to brag
has totally ruined the regal peace
and chased all the birds for a gag.
.........
As if he'd like to follow them,
just to rub it in,
he shows that he has nerves of steel
as his wings he tries to win.
Why all this movement? Where's the sense?
Such waste of energy cannot be right!
What is it that instils such fear
that it puts the geese and ducks to flight?
..........
Ah, but there's a purpose, to it all, you see:
someone noticed a stagnant creek
and for the sake of progress
swift action was the decree.
So, benevolent Providence
slipped the urchin from his chain
so that the purpose of their wings
they should never forget again.
..........
Though in much that happens today
there doesn't seem much sense,
that very genius of the age
is ready to explain it all away.
Some of you might think he's merely barking,
but there's a higher role that he's fulfilling:
he wants to understand and then release
the logical faculty of ducks and geese.

347.

Nature is a sphinx.
The truer she kills you
with her eternal riddle,
it's more than likely,
for centuries,
the truer she has fooled you.

348. TO THE CZECHS FROM THE MOSCOW SLAVS

Brethren, to your festivals,
meeting you in your exultation,
Moscow comes to meet you
with reverent hope.
..........
In the midst of ecstatic turmoil,
in the heat of great agitation,
she brings to you a guarantee,
a guarantee of love and union.
..........
Take from her hands
that which once was yours,
that which the old Czech family
bought for itself at such a price,
..........
such a fearful price
that even today the memory
is your best sanctuary,
your life blood.
..........
Take the Cup! Like a star
in the night of fates it has shone to you,
and it has raised your impotence
above the world of man.
..........
Oh, remember what a beloved sign
it was to you,
and that it was in the inextinguishable fire
that it was acquired.
..........
And of this great payment,
the property of great fathers,
for all their hard labours,
for all their sacrifices and sufferings,
..........
you allow yourself to be deprived
by foreign, audacious falsehood,
you allow it, alas, to smear
the honour of your fathers and God's truth!
..........
And are you condemned for long
to bear this heaviest of sentences,
this spiritual captivity,
oh Czech people of one blood?
..........
No, no, not in vain did your forefathers
call down grace upon you,
and it will be given to you to understand
that there is no salvation for you without the Cup.
..........
It alone will finally solve
for you the riddle of your people:
in it there is spiritual freedom
and the crown of union.
.........
Approach this wondrous Cup,
gained by your best blood,
approach, step closer to it
with hope, faith and love.

349.

No matter how we're crushed by separation,
it compels us to succumb.
The heart has another tormentor,
harder to tolerate, more painful still.
..........
The moment of separation has passed.
All we're left with in our hands
is a single cover
that we can only half see through.
..........
We know that underneath this gauze
lies everything which pains our soul.
Like some strange, invisible being
it hides from us, stays silent.
........
What's the point of such trials?
The soul can't help being confused.
On the wheel of bewilderment
it cannot stop being whirled.
..........
The moment of separation has passed
and we don't dare, when the time is ripe,
touch then pull aside
this cover we find so hateful!

350. TODAY'S EVENT

Pennants on the Dardanelles,
festive cannon thundering.
Skies are clear, bright waters swell.
Tsargrad is exulting
..........
with every reason to rejoice,
for all along enchanted coasts,
the jolly-hearted pasha
has invited guests to merry toasts.
..........
He regales them all most handsomely,
his dear allies from the West.
He'd pawn his whole authority
to give them nothing but the best.
..........
From the very sagest reaches
in their Frankish ships they spill.
Can you blame them, can you really,
when Mohammed foots the bill?
..........
Thunder of cannon, crash of music!
All of Europe's come to berth,
every power in the world
enjoys this carnival of mirth.
..........
See this lively western orgy -
frenzied, shouting, in it pours,
shares the secrets of the harem,
bursting open secret doors.
..........
Against the luscious backdrop
of wondrous mountains and two seas
this Christian princes' congress
with Islam is extremely pleased.
..........
No end to their embraces.
They cannot overdo their praise.
Stars glow in the West,
oh, behold their joyous rays!
..........
All the dearer, brighter yet
one shines bright while they carouse,
the fairy in her coronet,
the daughter born of Rome, his spouse.
..........
Notorious in her theatre
of elegance and ploys,

a second Cleopatra,
royal privilege enjoys.
..........
A joy to all, she means no harm,
appearing in the East,
and every head was bowed to her
the sun has risen from the West!
..........
Only where the shadows wander
through the mountains, through the vales,
far from all this noise and racket,
only where the shadows wander
in the night, from fresh-hewn weals,
slashed by scores of heathen swords,
Christian blood still freely pours.

351. TO A.F. HILFERDING

Your failure's such a glittering success
I cannot wait to offer my congratulations,
and it has brought you yet more honour,
a source of edification to the rest.
..........
The whole world has already heard
precisely how you've served our country
- apart, that is, from native Germans-
across the years with the Russian word.
..........
Ah no, they really know what you've achieved,
in this inimical Slavonic world,
and as I've said, the whole world knows
the credit's yours alone, and this is why they're peeved.
..........
Throughout this whole enormous place
they've met you more than once:
the Balkans, with the Czechs, and on the Danube,
everywhere they've met you face to face.
..........
Without going back on what they said -
- most valiant until this moment -
how can they let you in their secret citadel,
through the walls of their ivory tower tread,
..........
this place the Russian Treasury underwrites
for the sake of these glorious defences,

admit you, you, this brave German garrison,
never having lost a fight?

352. TO YU. F. ABAZA

Harmony has power over souls,
a boundless reach.
All living people love to hear
the notes of its dusky, kindred speech.
..........
Something groans within them, violently heaving,
a spirit-prisoner in chains
pleading for freedom, struggling.
It will be heard. It begs for birth. It strains.
..........
It's not like that when you are singing:
different feelings rise.
In your song there is full freedom,
an end to strife, an end to everything that ties.
..........
Bursting from this prison of pain
it grasps the links which held it, severs, rends.
Wild-willed the soul exults,
its sentence at an end.
..........
This infinitely mighty summons
causes light and dark to roll
apart and from within we hear no music -
we hear your living soul.

353.

I read my rebuke,
which was eloquent and lively.
I said it all so nicely,
I'm satisfied, so I approve.

354.

Thus has providence judged:
the imminent grandeur
of the great Slavonic tsar
shall be proclaimed to the universe
not by almighty thunder's drumming,
but by a mosquito's noisy humming.

355. FROM EGMONT (GOETHE)

Joy and grief in living ecstasy,
thoughts and the heart in eternal agitation,
exulting in the sky, languishing on earth,
passionately exulting,
passionately pining,
life knows bliss in love alone.

356. HUS AT THE STAKE

The pyre has been built. The fateful
flame's about to flare and all is silent,
save for gentle crackles as deep within the pyre
the treacherous fire filters.
..........
Crowding closer, people fanned by darting smoke.
All are here, uneducated folk,
here the oppressed and the oppressor,
violence and falsehood: knights and clergy,
..........
here the treacherous kaiser, here the high assembly
of imperial and spiritual princes,
and he himself, the hierarchy of Rome,
sinful in infallibility.
..........
She's here too, simple old woman,
unforgotten since those times,
crossing herself and sighing,
bringing, like a penny, her kindling to the pyre.
..........
Like a sacrificial offering,
your great and righteous man before us all,
already fanned by fiery brilliance,
praying, voice untrembling,
..........
this sacred teacher of the Czechs
unwavering witness to Christ,
stern exposer of Vatican lies
in all his high simplicity,
..........
betraying neither god nor his own people,
undefeated, battling on
for holy truth and for His freedom,
for everything which Rome called heresy.
..........
In spirit he's in Heaven, in family love
he's here still, among his people,
shining, knowing that it was his blood
which flowed defending the blood of Christ.
..........

Oh country of the Czechs, born of one stock!
Do not renounce his legacy!
Oh, finish off his spiritual feat,
celebrate this union of brothers!
..........
Severing the chains with which that holy fool, that Rome
oppressed you for so long,
on Hus's inextinguishable pyre
melt the final link!

357.

Over ancient, Russian Vilnius
kindred crosses glimmer.
Orthodoxy's pealing bronze
makes all the heavens shudder.
..........
Fearsome deeds forgotten.
Gone the ages of temptation.
Heavenly lilies blossom
across the blight of desolation.
..........
Sacred ways are coming back,
traditions fine of early days.
Only the most recent past
has dropped into the realm of shades,
..........
whence, as in a hazy dream,
before the world's awake,
our very peace of mind
this past still wants to shake,
..........
and as the moon's about to leave the sky,
in that early morning chill,
across the land just waking up
a spectral visitor wanders still.

358. K.B.

I met you and the past
came back to life in my dead heart.
Remembering a golden time,
my heart became so warm.
..........
Just as in late autumn
there are days, the transient hour,
when suddenly spring wafts again
and something stirs within us,
..........
so, winnowed within by the breath
of fullness my soul knew in those years,
with a rapture I thought I'd forgotten,
I stare into your dear face.
..........
As if we'd been apart for ages
I stare at you and think I'm dreaming,
and suddenly sounds unsilenced in me
could be heard within me, but louder!
..........
That was more than reminiscence:
my life began to talk once more,
as did in you that very same charm,
as did in my soul that very same love!

359.

Tired and in one piece, I got here on time,
today I say farewell to the white hat,
but parting with you - that didn't go well.

360. TWO UNITIES

Blood's pouring over the brim of the cup
filled to overflowing by the wrath of God,
and the West is drowning in it.
The blood is spattering you, my friends, my brothers!
Slavonic world, pull closer together!
..........
"Unity", an oracle of our century has said,
"can only be welded by iron and blood."
Well, we'll try welding it with love.
Let's see which lasts the longer.

361.

Submissive to a high command
standing guard over thought,
we haven't been too diligent,
despite the carbine in our hand.
..........
We didn't want the job at all.
We rarely threatened and chose to be
a mere guard of honour
rather than have the warder's key.

362.

Whatever life might have taught us,
still the heart believes in wonders:
there is a strength which never wanes,
there is untainted beauty,
..........
and earthly fading
will not touch unearthly flowers,
and in the midday heat
the dew on them will not dry up,
..........
and this faith will not deceive
whoever lives by it alone.
Not everything which has flowered here will wither.
Not all that has been will pass by!
..........
But the grace of this faith for the few
is accessible only to those
who in life's stern trials,
like you, still loving, were able to suffer,
..........
have been able to cure
others' ailments by their suffering,
who have laid down their soul for their friends
and endured everything to the end.

363.

Yes, you have kept your word:
moving not a cannon, not a rouble,
our native Russian land
once more exercises its rights,
..........
and the sea bequeathed to us,
once more with its free billows,
forgetting the short-lived shame,
kisses its native shore.
..........
Fortunate is he today who gains a victory
not by blood but by the intellect,
happy he who can find in himself
Archimedes's centre of gravity,
..........
who, full of brisk patience,
has combined calculation with valour,
he it is who has stuck to his aspirations,
who has dared at the apt moment.
..........
But is the confrontation over?
And how will your mighty lever
strengthen stubbornness in clever folk
and lack of awareness in fools?
..........

364.

I'm bewildered, and let me say
I find it incredible, most profound:
My daughter, blushing-red and blond,
Wants to become a sister in grey!

365.

Brother, you have been with me so long.
Now you've departed to our common goal,
leaving me where everything is bare,
a solitary figure on a solitary knoll.
..........
Must I wait here long on my own?
Give it a day or a year and I'll vacate
this spot from which I gaze into the evening murk,
not knowing what will be my fate.
..........
Non-being is so simple! Nothing leaves a trace.
With or without me, whom does it concern?
Snows will sweep the steppes. The gloom will be the same
and everything will stay precisely in its place!
..........
You can't count losses. Someone's counted every day.
That vibrant life's already far behind.
Ahead, there's absolutely nothing and I, just as I am,
along the fateful queue pick out my way.

366.

Happy New Year, all the best,
and constant success to you.
That's a greeting from a loving dog,
take it with all my sympathy.

367.

A fool we've known for ages,
the bustlesome old censor
feeds any old way on our flesh,
God bless him!

368.

I'm half asleep and I can't
work out this combination:
I hear the whistle of runners on the snow
and the chirruping of spring swallows.

369. THE BLACK SEA

Fifteen years have passed since then.
A whole gamut of events has come to pass,
but faith has not deceived us,
and we hear the last rattle
of Sevastopol rumbling.
..........
The last, thunderous shot
suddenly rang out, life-creating.
The last word in the cruel battle
has only now been spoken.
It is the word of the Russian tsar.
..........
And everything which till so recently
had been raised up by blind hostility,
so insolently, so arbitrarily,
has crumpled in on itself
before his authoritative honour
..........
And there you have it: free element,
as our national poet would have said,
you roar as you did in days of yore,
and your blue waves roll on
and you sparkle in proud beauty!
..........
Fifteen years you spent
in forced confinement in the west.
You didn't give in, you didn't complain,
but the hour struck and the violation ended.
It fell like a key to the sea bed.
..........
Once again your importunate billows
call on your kindred Russia,
and into this feud, reasoned out by God,
great Sevastopol awakes
from its enchanted sleep.
.........
And that which you, in days of old,
hid from martial inclemency
in your sympathetic breast
you'll give us back, without casualties -
the immortal Black Sea fleet.
..........
Yes, in the heart of the Russian people
this day will be consecrated,
it is our external freedom,
it will illuminate the grave's shadows
of the St. Peter and Paul vault.

370. THE VATICAN'S ANNIVERSARY

There was a day of judgement and censure,
that fateful, irrevocable day,
when to ensure a long fall,
he stepped onto the highest rung
..........
and, constricted by God's design,
and driven to that height,
with his infallible foot
he stepped into the bottomless emptiness,
..........
when, obeying others' passions,
the plaything and victim of dark forces,
so blasphemously-equably
he proclaimed himself a divinity.
..........
Suddenly a parable was created and appeared
about the new Man-God
and to sacrilegious tutelage
Christ's church was betrayed.
..........
Oh, how much dissension and turmoil
since then has that infallible one caused,
and how beneath the storms of these debates
blasphemy ripens and temptation grows.
..........
In fear seeking God's truth,
suddenly coming to are all these tribes,
and as with the thousand-year old lie
it's finally poisoned for them.
..........
And it is powerless to overcome
this poison, flowing in their veins,
in their most treasured veins,
and will it flow long, and where will it end?
..........
But no, however stubbornly you fight,
falsehood will surrender, the reverie will dissipate,
and the Vatican Dalai-Lama
will not be summoned to be the vicar of Christ.

371.

Of the life that raged here,
of bloody rivers that stained the ground
what's survived whole, what has come down to us?
You can see them now, a couple of mounds.
..........
Two or three oaks have taken root,
spreading wide, bold and fair,
rustling leaves, and they don't care
whose dust, whose memory they uproot.
..........
Ignorant of her past, nature seems.
Alien to her are our spectral years.
We are vaguely aware that we exist
as shadows in her dreams.
..........
Completing life's useless game,
one by one her children
she devours in her peace-making abyss,
welcoming, treating every one the same.

372.

Enemy of narrow negativity,
he always kept up with the age:
as a man he was a Russian,
he was a man before a sage.

373. TO THE MEMORY OF M.K. POLITKOVSKAYA

Elle a ete douce devant la mort.
The meaningful word
has once more been vindicated by you:
in the destruction of everything earthly,
you were meekness and love.
..........
At the very portals of sepulchral gloom,
at the last, there was no lack
of abundant love in your soul,
there was an inexhaustible supply.
..........
And that very loving power
with which, not betraying yourself,
you endured till the end
all life's labour, all the day's malice,
..........
that rejoicing power
of benevolence and love,
not giving way, made a home
for your last hours.
..........
And you, humble and obedient,
defeating all death's fears,

went placidly to meet it,
as if at your father's summons.
..........
Oh, how many souls who loved you,
oh, how many familiar hearts,
hearts, living by your life,
will be stricken by your untimely end!
..........
It was late when I met you
on my path through life,
but with sincere anguish
I say "Farewell" to you.
..........
In these days of desperate doubt,
these days, suffering from lack of faith,
when denser all around the shadows press
onto the ruined earthly world,
..........
oh, if in this fearsome division
in which we're destined to live,
there's still one revelation,
there's an unbroken link
..........
with the great mystery of death,
then this, we see and believe,
is the exit of a soul like you,
their exit from our darkness.

374.

On this day of the Orthodox East,
this sacred, sacred great day,
spread wide across the whole world your peals
and clothe all Russia in them!
..........
But do not limit your summons
to the frontiers of Holy Russia.
Let it be heard throughout the world,
let it overflow its brim,
..........
with its distant wave
embracing that vale
where my own child
fights with wicked sickness,
..........
that bright land, where in exile
fate drew her,
where the breathing of the southern sky
she drinks as she would a medicine.
..........
Oh, cure this ailing girl,
pour joy into her soul,
so that in Christ's resurrection
her whole life would itself be resurrected.

375.

There's peace and harmony between us,
that was clear from the word go
Let's greet each other, then,
making the sign of the cross,
you with me, me with you.

376.

These dates are so illogical!
What a mess this calendar is!
Outside it's winter, as far as I remember,
and yet in fullest bloom,
as charming as only she can be,
I'm greeting spring in late November!

377.

Here's a whole world, living, varied,
of magic sounds and magic dreams!
Oh, this world, so youthfully handsome,
is worth a thousand other worlds!

378.

Saviour, I see your mansion decked out,
but I have no clothes to enter it.

379.

In my grave I'd love to lie
as now upon my bed I lie.
Silently, eternally I'd hear you
as centuries passed by.
..........
The following poems were written during the last six months of Tyutchev's
final illness. During this period he suffered a number of strokes.

380. NAPOLEON III

You too have completed your fateful campaign,
duplicitous inheritor of great powers,
man not of the fates but of blind chance.
You're a sphinx whose riddle the coarse crowd solved
but, the irresistible preacher
of God's justice, not of earth's,
you demonstrated to the world indeed
how unsteady everything is if there's none of this truth there:
you spent twenty stormy years
pointlessly agitating the world,
you sowed a lot of lies in the world
and started a lot of tempests,
and you scattered what was left
and wasted what had been built up!
The people who laid the crown upon you
became dissolute thanks to you, and perished:
and, true to your calling,
stirring up the terrified world with your game,
like a stupid child
you gave it over to a long period of instability.
There's no salvation in lies and violence,
however you might boldly arm yourself with them,
not for man's soul nor for his affairs.
Listen while you celebrate, whoever he might now be,
armed to the teeth with violence and deceit,
your turn will come, and sooner or later
you'll be defeated by it!
But in expatiation of dark deeds
you bequeathed to the world one great lesson:
let people and lords make sense of it
and each one who would compete with you;
only there, only in that native family,
where a living link with a higher power is sensed
and where it's reinforced
by mutual faith and a free conscience,
where all its conditions are sacred
and the people take heart in it,
whether he stands by the throne
or stands vigil at the head
of the death bed, where the tsar's son lay,
and all the people recently
stood around that bed
in Orthodox prayer.
Oh, there's no place for treason here,
or for various kinds of cunning,
and extremely pitiful would be he
who would insult this people
by either slander or suspicion.

381.

To you, ill in a distant land,
it occurred to me, also suffering and in torment,
to send you this verse,
so that together with the happily splashing sea
it would fly into your window,
a distant echo of your native waters,
and the Russian word, though for only a moment,
would interrupt the singing of the Mediterranean.
From that company, far from foreign,
in which you were the soul and the love,
where today with concentrated attention
they keep an eye on your illness with sincere compassion,
let him be closer than ever before, part of your soul,
that best of men, that purest of souls,
your dear, good, unforgettable husband!
The soul, with which yours was fused,
preserving you from harm's temptations,
with which you spent all your life as one,
fulfilling honourably your difficult task,
that of an exemplary, Christian widow!
..........
Greetings to you from that shade,
dear and blessed to us both,
who spent so little time among us,
suffered bravely and loved hotly,
rushing away from this vale of tears,
where she succeeded in nothing, alas,
in her long, heavy, exhausting struggle,
forgiving people and fate for everything.
And her native land she loved so much,
that, being no warrior,
she still offered her life to her country.
She could not have parted with it in time,
if another life could have saved it.

382.

British leopard,
why get so riled at us?
Why do you wave your tail
and growl so vexedly?
Where's the source of this sudden alarm?
What have we done wrong?
Is it because, having penetrated deep into
the central Asian steppes,
our northern bear,
our all-Russian man of the land
refused to surrender his rights
to defend himself, even biting back?
To show his friends that he means business,
he's not about to let the world
see him as some hermit-fakir.
He's not willing to let the world,
right in public view,
see him offer his body as a meal
to all the snakes and creatures of the steppes.
"No, that's not the way it will be!" -
and he raised his paw.
The leopard was so cross at this:
"Ah, scoundrel! You bounder!"
our lion roared in anger.
"How dare this simple bear defend itself
in my presence, raising its paw,
even snapping at me!
You'll see, it'll come to such a pass
that he'll start to think he has the same rights
as me, the radiant lion.
We cannot tolerate such mischief!"

383.

Of course, it is harmful to the well-being of the state
to form a particular monarchy within it,
but it's not compatible with the needs of the subjects
to awaken in the Khanate an individual Khanate,
to renew the traces and accords of long gone years
and, pushing to one side all today's accords,
set up a new structure
and self-appointed, whimsically,
suddenly in many-throned Moscow
intellectually eclipsed, in God knows what intellectual gloom,
suddenly to declare yourself a revived baskak
of a non-existent Horde.

384.

In days of misfortune and trouble
when from the Golden Horde
baskaks were sent to Moscow,
I'm sure that even they
would choose to despatch to the capital
their more civil Tartars,
as far as these two words can be compatible,
but certainly the best they had at their disposal,
and they wouldn't have sent Durnovo,
though perhaps it's all much ado about nothing.

385.

In punishment, God's taken everything away:
my health, my strength of will, the air, my sleep.
No, you're the only thing he's let me keep,
a guarantee that I'll still pray.

386. SPRING IN ITALY

Fragrant and bright,
even since February spring has been entering gardens,
and here the almond has suddenly come into bloom
and its whiteness has infused all the greenery.

387.

We surrender you to the sun of the south.
It alone, we must admit,
can love you more warmly than our own,
although while here you have a tsar and winters,
we wouldn't swap these places
with any other countries.
Here your heart stays with us.
Go then, leave with God,
but - your heart on it as a token -
say you'll quickly return to us.
And when you leave, from all sides,
even from the wretched bed of suffering,
let prayers and good wishes
hurry after you,
the solemn wishes of all Russian souls.

388.

Here are some fresh blooms for you
in honour of your name day.
I spread more blossoms
and myself, I wither so fast.
I'd love to pick a handful of days,
to weave one more garland with them
for my name-day girl.

389. APRIL 17TH., 1818

In the first dawn of my days,
it was early morning in the Kremlin,
it was in the Chudovoy monastery,
I was in a quiet, modest cell,
the unforgettable Zhukovsky lived there.
I awaited him, and, while waiting,
I heard the moaning of the Kremlin bells.
I paid close heed to the bronze storm
which arose in the cloudless sky,
suddenly replaced by a salvo of cannon.
Everyone shuddered, comprehending this howl.
Festive Moscow burned so
with irridescent blue banners
on this first azure-golden spring day.
Here for the first time
I understood the news
that in the world there was a new dweller
and a new royal guest in the Kremlin.
At that moment you were endowed to the earth.
From that moment this recollection
has been burned into my soul
dearly, like grace.
Over many years that has not changed,
it's accompanied me loyally all my life,
and now, in early morning,
it's as dear to me
and has illuminated my sad sick-bed
and proclaimed a celebration of grace.
I always imagined
that the very hour of this early event
would be a good omen in my life
and I wasn't mistaken: my whole life has passed
under this gentle, beneficent influence.
Good fortune was allotted me
by gracious fate,
and all my age I (above myself)
saw the one constellation,
his constellation, and let it be till the end
my single star,
and many, many times
let it give joy to this day and this world and us.

390. TO HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY ALEXANDER II

Good-hearted tsar, tsar with an evangelistic soul,
with a sacred love to what is close to you,
favour us, powerful one, by accepting
this hymn of simple gratitude!
You, embracing with your love
not hundreds, but thousands of people,
have with its wings
benevolently covered my wretched self today,
I have not declared myself in any way,
and can have no claim to the tsar's attention
other than that of my own suffering!
You have deigned to look after me
with your beneficent attention
and, my spirits having risen, you have calmed me.
Oh, be a renowned and praised tsar
but not as a tsar, rather as God's vicar,
lending your ear not only to the bright legions
of your chosen ones, your heavenly servants,
but also to the isolated, cut-off groans
of beings lost on this earth,
listening to their worshipful praise.
What shall we wish for you, tsar?
Loud celebrations and victories?
You find no joy in them!
We'll wish something better,
like this: in proportion as
you are summoned by sacred fate
to act here, in this sad vale of tears,
that you will be recognised more and more for what you are,
a friend who does not dissemble, a friend of good.
This is your just and loyal image,
this is the best glory and honour for us!

391. INSOMNIA (A MOMENT AT NIGHT)

At night in a deserted town
there's an anguish-laden time
when darkness grips streets tight
and mist reigns in every corner.
There's quiet calm. The moon has risen
and the moon's blue-grey glimmer
picks out a few churches lost in the distance.
The glint of gilded heads, a sad, dull yawn,
strikes bleakly at unsleeping eyes.
Our heart is an orphan-child,
lamenting and crying,
despairingly moaning over love and life,
vainly praying, bemoaning.
All around is empty murk!
My pitiful groans last an hour or so
but, weakening, finally go.

392.

Although he wasn't born a Slav,
Slavdom's taken him to its heart
and all his life he's served it honourably.
He's done a lot, though he's lived little,
and the initiative of much is down to him,
and he has proved, alone and in the field,
that he can be a warrior of valour.

393.

Fate sends days
to wrack and twist my body,
to turn its fearsome fingers in my soul.
Life presses down, a choking nightmare.
Happy am I when on such days
the all-merciful God sends me
the best of priceless gifts,
a friend's sympathetic hand,
a warm, living hand
which, touching me only lightly,
dissipates numbness,
scatters the fearsome nightmare from above
and turns the tables on Fate's cruel blows.
Life lives again, again blood flows
and my heart believes in truth and love.

* NOTES *

These notes comprise information gleaned from a wide variety of
sources. Tyutchev's translations of other poets appear in the main body of
the text. All Russian, German and French sources are in my own translations.
The English versions of works in Latin and Italian are referred to in the
Acknowledgements and Bibliography. All poems not written by Tyutchev are
given in full below with literal translations. Titles are given in the first
instance in their original languages, Russian being transliterated,
subsequently translated and where appropriate abbreviated, e.g. Herder's
Ideen zur Geschichte der Philosophie der Menschheit becoming Ideas.
I have relied on the dating established by such Russian scholars as
Chulkov and Pigaryov and I rarely differ from their generally accepted
conclusions. When I do I make this clear. We know the dates of most poems
written after 1849, but many of the earlier ones are notoriously difficult
to pinpoint. We can often rely on nothing other than Tyutchev's handwriting,
inconsistent throughout his life, although a certain spidery, "Gothic"
scrawl does appear to be a favourite style. Sometimes a sheet of paper on
which he has scribbled a few lines bears a dated watermark, though that
proves little. Marginally more reliable is the fact that the censor's stamp
had to appear on any work to be published, but this simply indicates the
latest possible date. His friends and relatives sometimes tell us when poems
were produced. Post-1847 lyrics sometimes appear in letters. These,
therefore, are generally more easily datable, though not always definitely
so. Tyutchev's letters and those written by members of his family and close
friends are an extremely important source of information. We can be fairly
sure about the dates of poems written for special occasions and those with a
political theme. He was especially keen on having the latter published, for
they are often statements intended for the authorities and the reading
public. Style is of minimal help. Once Tyutchev casts aside the
neo-classical medium, his style and limited vocabulary change little. As a
reader comes to know this writer, intuition begins to play a large part,
but, of course, one commentator's intuition is different to another's. It
is, ultimately, probably true to say that there is a consensus about the
chronology established by Soviet scholarship.
With the broadest range of readers in mind, not all of whom will have a
knowledge of European history and literature nor of the Classics, I offer
and explain a wide variety of literary and historical references. My
possibly unattainable aim is to satisfy both specialists in various fields
and the educated reader with a love of Russian literature but no knowledge
of its language. I rarely delve into the intricacies of rhyme, metre and
structural characteristics. In any case, such a job has recently been done
by A. Liberman (A:19) I completed the best of my work and published a small
portion of it early in 1983 and neither he nor I came into contact with each
other till early in 1998. I have attempted to include as much material of
interest as space will allow in order to give the widest possible picture of
Tyutchev and his background. Clearly this is a bottomless pit and if certain
matters seem to be dealt with skimpily, it is only to make room for others
which seem to me more important or interesting.
The first entry in each note is the date or postulated date of the
Tyutchev poem. A number in square brackets after the name of a work is its
number in the collection I have used, e.g. Pascal's Pensees [163], and, in
the case of a Tyutchev poem, its number in this book. Extracts from letters
are followed by the date of the letter.

ABBREVIATIONS

NE Written no earlier than
NL Written no later than
LET.DAR Letter to Darya
LET.ERN. Letter to Ernestine
(INDEC)/(...) Indecipherable/doubtful word or phrase
TR A translation of

Months are generally abbreviated, and other abbreviations are of the
standard type (i.e. "vol." for "volume").

1. Probably 1813 or 1814. The poet's father, Ivan (1776-1846), was "a
reasoning man with a calm, common sense approach to things ... unusually
good-hearted, mild-mannered and placid with a rare moral sense ... neither
intellectually sharp nor talented". (A:1/19)
2. Late Dec. 1815-early Jan. 1816. The twelve-year old Tyutchev
experiments by adapting Horace (65-8 BC), by whom he was much influenced at
this early stage of his writing life. Quintus Horatius Flaccus, born in
Venusia in south-eastern Italy, having unwisely sided with Brutus, escaped
the rout of Philippi. His poetry earned him the attention of Vergil among
others and he was introduced to the great arts patron, Gaius Cilnius
Maecenas, who admitted the young writer to his circle of friends in 38 BC.
Maecenas and Horace became friends and the former gave the poet the small
country estate he had always craved. Horace worked about ten years before
producing the first three books of his eighty eight carmina/odes.
This poem will be the same as one entitled Vel'mozha. Podrazhanie
Goratsiyu/The Grandee. An Imitation of Horace and read by A. Merzlyakov
(1778-1830) at a session of the Society of Lovers of Russian Letters on
February 22nd. 1818. Professor Merzlyakov was one of a generation of
imitative writers of meagre talent whose contribution to the development of
Russian literature in this period it would be uncharitable to ignore, for he
genuinely loved poetry and, if forgotten now, enthused many young writers
with his own passion for writing. Together with heavy neo-classical works he
wrote skilful songs in a folk style. A large proportion of Tyutchev's poem
deals with the unmasking of a shamelessly hard-hearted noble, this theme
elbowing aside the new year one. The poem contains echoes of a whole range
of Russian poets of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, such as
M. Lomonosov (1711-1765), N. Gnedich (1784-1838) and Merzlyakov, as well as
some of the more innovative and important ones, for example G. Derzhavin
(1743-1816) and N. Karamzin (1766-1826).
Tyutchev was taught Latin by his tutor, Semyon Raich (1792-1855), and
his reading of Horace and other Roman poets is evident in certain works.
Chronos: the youngest son of Uranus (Heaven) and Gaia (Mother Earth).
Often mistakenly regarded as Time personified.
Memphis: the Egyptian city named in honour of this daughter of Nilus,
god of the Nile.
Ilion: Troy.
Cocytus: one of the rivers of Hell, extremely cold and running parallel
to the Styx. It formed part of the expanse of water to be crossed by the
souls of the dead on the path to Hades.
Eumenides: the Furies.
3. Dec. 4th. 1816. Addressee unknown. The reference in l.2 is to the
martyr St. Barbara, on whose day the poem appears to have been written. The
konets/end of l.14 is probably intended to be nakonets/at last.
4. May 8th. 1818. Tyutchev possessed a copy of Abbe Jacques Delille's
two-volume translation of the Aeneid, in which Delille levels unflattering
criticism at Voltaire's Henriade (published 1805). Reworking some verses of
I. Dmitriev (1760-1837) addressed to M. Kheraskov (1733-1807), Tyutchev
appears to accuse Delille of envy. The lines are written on a copy of the
Henriade.
Kheraskov wrote two vast epics, Rossiada/The Rossiad and Vladimir the
former modelled on La Henriade and dealing with the taking of Kazan by Ivan
IV ("The Terrible"), the latter with Prince, later Saint Vladimir's
introduction of Christianity into Russia. Both were immensely popular at the
time. Dmitriev was a Karamzinian, writing elegant verse and rejecting the
epic norm. One of the founders of the Russian Sentimental school, he
translated and adapted French poets. He wrote several Nadpisi/Inscriptions
to accompany portraits and the following is clearly the inspiration for
Tyutchev's epigram:
Puskai ot zavisti serdtsa zoilov noyut;

Kheraskovu oni vreda ne nanesut:
Vladimir, Ioann shchitom yego pokroyut
I v khram bessmert'ya provedut.
***
Let the hearts of zoiluses be tormented by envy,
they'll do no harm to Kheraskov.
Vladimir and John (Ivan IV - FJ) will protect him with
their shield and lead him into immortality's temple.

Zoilus: a Greek grammarian who, thanks to his attacks on Homer, gave
his name to carping, bitter criticism.

5. NL Feb. 1819. TR Horace. A variation on a theme of Ode 29 (Book
III).
Tyrrhena regum progenies, tibi
non ante verso lene merum cado
cum flore, Maecenas, rosarum et
pressa tuis balanus capillis.
..........
iamdudum apud me est. eripe te morae,
nec semper udum Tibur et Aefulae
declive contempleris arvum et
Telegoni iuga parricidae.
..........
fastidiosam desere copiam et
molem propinquam nubibus arduis;
omitte mirari beatae
fumum et opes strepitumque Romae.
..........
Plerumque gratae divitibus vices
mundaeque parvo sub lare pauperum
cenae sine aulaei et ostro
sollicitam explicuere frontem.
..........
iam clarus occultum Andromedae pater
ostendit ignem, iam Procyon furit
et stella vesani Leonis,
sole dies referente siccos:
..........
iam pastor umbras cum grege languido
rivumque fessus quaerit et horridi
dumeta Silvani, caretque
ripa vagis taciturna ventis.
..........
tu civitatem quis deceat status
curas et Urbi sollicitus times
quid Seres et regnata Cyro
Bactra parent Tanaisque discors.
..........
prudens futuri temporis exitum
caliginosa nocte premit deus,
ridetque si mortalis ultra
fas trepidat. quod adest memento
..........
componere aequus; cetera fluminis
ritu feruntur, nunc medio alvio
cum pace delabentis Etruscum
in mare, nunc lapides adesos
..........
stirpesque raptas et pecus et domos
volventis una non sine montium
clamore vicinaeque silvae,
cum fera diluvies quietos
..........
irritat amnis. ille potens sui
laetusque deget, cui licet in diem
dixisse 'vixi: cras vel atra
nube polum Pater occupato
..........
vel sole puro; non tamen irritum,
quodcumque retro est, efficiet neque
diffinget infectumque reddet,
quod fugiens semel hora vexit.'
..........
Fortuna saeva laeta negotio et
ludum insolentem ludere pertinax
transmutat incertos honores,
nunc mihi, nunc alii benigna.
..........
laudo manentem; si celeris quatit
pennas, resigno quae dedit et mea
virtute me involvo probamque
pauperiem sine dote quaero.
..........
non est meum, si mugiat Africis
malus procellis, ad miseras preces
decurrere et votis pacisci
ne Cypriae Tyriaeque merces
..........
addant avaro divitias mari.
tunc me biremis praesidio scaphae
tutum per Aegaeos tumultus
aura feret geminusque Pollux.
***
Tyrrhenian offspring of kings, for thee
there is mellow wine in an unbroached cask,
with the flower of roses, Maecenas, and
pressed-out unguent for your hair.
..........
Now for a while with me. Snatch yourself from delaying;
neither be gazing always at Tibur the well-watered,
nor at Aefula's sloping field, and
the hill of the parricide, Telegonus.
..........
Leave abundance, the bringer of weariness, and
your mass (of masonry) approaching the steep clouds.
Cease to marvel at
the smoke and riches and noise of blessed Rome.
..........
For the rich, a change is often pleasant,
and neat suppers in the small house of the poor,
without drapes of purple,
have smoothed their anxious brow.
..........
Now the bright father of Andromeda
shows his hidden fire, now Procyon rages
and the star of the furious lion,
as the sun brings on the dry days.
..........
Now the tired shepherd with his languid flock
seeks the shade, and the stream, and shaggy
Silvanus's grove; and the silent
river-bank lacks wandering breezes.
..........
You are concerned for what condition may best suit the state,
and on the city's behalf you are anxious
what the Seres are preparing, and Bactria ruled over (once)
by Cyrus,
and the factious Tanais.
..........
The prudent god keeps Don in dark night, the outcome of
future time,
and he laughs if a mortal is anxious
beyond measure. That which is present, remember to
govern properly.
..........
The rest in a river's manner is carried along,
which at one time peacefully slips down in the midst
of its channel
to the Etruscan sea,
at another time
..........
rolling along water-smoothed stones and tree-trunks
it has scratched away and beasts and houses, not
without noise (echoed) from the mountains
and the neighbouring wood
when the wild flood
..........
excites the great river. That man rules himself
and lives happy who can say each day
"I have lived: tomorrow, let
the Father occupy the pole with a black cloud
..........
or with the bright sun, he will make not make to be in rain
what lies behind; nor
will he undo or render unreal what the fleeting hour
once brought along".
..........
Fortune is happy in her cruel work and
persists in playing (her) insolent game.
She transforms uncertain honours,
and now to me, now to another is kind.
..........
I praise her while she stays. If she flaps her swift
wings, I surrender what she gave me, and in
my virtue I wrap myself, and an honest
poverty I seek that has no dowry.
..........
It is not my way, if the mast creaks with African
gales, to fly to wretched prayers
and to make bargains with vows,
lest (my) Cyprian or Tyrian cargo
..........
should add riches to the greedy sea.
(Even) then, the breeze and the Heavenly Twins will bear me,
with the help of a two-oared boat,
safe through the tumults of the Aegean Sea.

Castalian maidens: the Muses.
Penates: the household gods of a Roman family.
Cyrus: once ruled Bactria, near the Aral Sea.
6. Probably 1815-20. The manuscript bears the words, "A translation by
F.T...v". The source has yet to be located. Tyutchev's lines are early
evidence of his knack of being able to produce snappy, limerick-like verses,
a talent which stood him in good stead during his years as a government
official whenever he felt the need to deliver poetic slaps to the faces of
those in power who incensed him by their stupidity. In its tongue-in-cheek,
colloquial tone it joins a handful of early works such as [10,16,17], which
owe little to the predominantly neo-classical, odic style of these years and
are evidence of the poet's sense of humour.
7. NL June 1820. The influences are too numerous to mention. It is
characteristic of poems of the time which were read aloud at solemn
university gatherings. Most were poetically unremarkable. Merzlyakov's Khod
i uspekhi izyashchnykh iskusstv/The Progress and Successes of the Fine Arts
is a good example. There are echoes of Karamzin's Poeziya/Poetry, M.
Muravyov's (1796-1866) Khram Marsa/The Temple of Mars and Schiller's
(1759-1805) Die Kunstler/The Artists. On the other hand, brief lyrical
interludes lighten the turgid bulk of this work, early hints of the more
intimate, succinct Tyutchev soon to emerge.
Urania: one of the nine Muses, sometimes called "Pierides". Normally
the muse of astronomy, here she is divine beauty incarnate.
Mnemosyne: mother of the nine muses.
Charites: The Graces, goddesses of feminine beauty who also bestowed a
love of nature upon human and divine hearts.
Aquilon: god of the northern wind.
Pharos: the lighthouse on the island of Pharos near Alexandria. Pharos
was also the boatman who brought Helen and Mecenatus back from Troy. He died
of a snakebite on the island of a Nile estuary which bore his name.
Persepolis: the ancient capital of Persia. Perseus was the son either
of Odysseus and Musicaa or of Telemachus and Polycaste, daughter of Nestor.
Memnon: son of Eo (Dawn). Through the gigantic statue, one of those
raised by Amenhotep III, Memnon is said to have greeted his mother with
harmonious sounds each morning.
Pallas: also Athene and various others. The myrtle was, in fact,
dedicated to Aphrodite, goddess of love, whose other plant was the rose.
the blind singer: Homer,
Ares: the Greek god of war.
the swan of Mantua: the Roman poet Vergil (Publius Vergilius Maro,
70-19 BC) was born in Mantua.
the eagle of Ferrara: the Italian poet Torquato Tasso (1544-1595). He
spent several happy years at the court of Duke Alfonso II of Ferrara. His
masterpiece was Gerusalemme liberata/Jerusalem Liberated, a heroic epic in
twenty cantos. Afflicted by a persecution mania which resulted in seven
miserable years in gaol, he ended his days a wreck of a man. In European
literature he became a symbol of misunderstood genius. Like other literary
and historical figures of interest to Tyutchev, he bestrode two ages, in his
case that of the high Italian Renaissance shortly before the Council of
Trent (1554-63) convened to combat the Reformation and, in his mature years,
the period of the Counter Reformation.
Tajo and Guadalquivir: Spanish rivers.
the young singer: the Portuguese poet, Luiz Vaz de Camoes
(1524[?]-1579/80). Camoes wrote Os Lusiadas/The Men of Portugal, a heroic,
nationalistic epic extolling the exploits of the young Portuguese nation,
based on the Aeneid. Portugal was at the time of the poem conscious of its
aspirations to taking a substantial share of maritime trade.
the two geniuses: John Milton (1608-74) and the German poet Friedrich
Klopstock (1724-1803). Klopstock wrote Der Messias/The Messiah. He was
influenced by Horace, Milton and Edward Young (1683-1765).
the Russian Pinder: Mikhail Lomonosov (see [285]). Lomonosov was a
pioneer in the techniques of analytical chemistry and a founder of and
professor at Moscow university. He also wrote on the subject of Russian
grammar, contributing to the simplification of Russian. His Russian grammar
appeared in 1775. He conducted astronomical observations and, while not
officially credited with the discovery, which like much of his scientific
work went unnoticed, was the first to announce, on May 26th. 1761, that
Venus had an atmosphere. He wrote neo-classical poetry and was one of
Russia's first serious, modern intellectuals. One of his greatest
achievements was his contribution to the development of a new, more supple
Russian language. He defined the relationship between Old Church Slavonic
and Russian, rid the language of many barbarisms, yet used foreign words
where they were useful. In 1739 he wrote, "I cannot rejoice enough at the
fact that our Russian language is not only not inferior to the Greek, the
Latin and German in vigour and heroic sonority but also like them is capable
of versification, but with its own natural and peculiar genius". (B:24/164)
father and hero-tsar: Peter I ("The Great").
the singer of Felitsa: Gavriil Derzhavin. Derzhavin was the first major
Russian poet to break away from the imitative neo-classical eighteenth
century and bridge the gap between it and the early days of the golden age
of Russian literature.
Lines 172-195: a glorification of Alexander I. The expression na trone
chelovek/(Be) a man on the throne is borrowed from Derzhavin's Na rozhdenie
v severe porfirorodnogo otroka/On the Birth of a Youth Born in Purple in the
North (1779):
Bud' strastei tvoikh vladitel',
Bud' na trone Chelovek!
***
Be the master of your passions,
on the throne be a Man!
Janus: Jupiter's equal in Rome. During times of war, the doors to his
temple remained open, closing in peace time. The reference here is to the
Napoleonic invasion of Russia in 1812 and to the campaigns which Russia
subsequently carried on beyond her borders up till 1814.
8. Sept. 14th. 1820. Addressed to Tyutchev's close friend and tutor,
the poet-translator, Semyon Raich (born Amfiteatrov). This poem refers to
Raich's completion of his translation of Vergil's Georgics (Virgilevy
Georgiki. Perevod A.R., published 1821). For a long time Tyutchev was the
only one allowed to read Raich's work on the Roman poet. Another of
Tyutchev's friends, M. Pogodin (1800-75), wrote unkindly of Raich: "Tyutchev
possesses rare and brilliant talents, but sometimes takes a lot on himself
and makes extremely badly founded and biased judgements; for example, he
says that Raich translates Vergil's Eclogues better than Merzlyakov does.
Every single one of Raich's verses is constructed around the same metre.
There is no nuance. They are all identical. He would be better translating
not Vergil but Delille. That would be a more suitable task for him". (A:20,
vol. 2/13)
Apollo's tree: the laurel.
9. Nov. 1820. Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) wrote Vol'nost'.
Oda/Freedom. An Ode in 1817 shortly after leaving school, a youthfully
uncompromising poem in comparison with Tyutchev's rather lame plea to
would-be revolutionaries to soften their approach. Here we encounter
Tyutchev's inability to accept fundamental upheaval when discussion and
diplomacy might always work. The reader will encounter many images
suggesting that change in any shape or form perturbs Tyutchev. Stanza 1 of
Pushkin's work contains the following lines:
Pridi, sorvi s menya venok,
Razbei iznezhennuyu liru...
Khochu vospet' Svobody liru,
Na tronakh porazit' porok.
***
Come, tear the garland from me,
smash my effeminate lyre.
I want to sing on the lyre of Freedom,
to strike the shame which sits on thrones.
In the odes of the Greek poet Alcaeus (fl. 600 BC) there are many
anti-tyranny motifs. He was a rebel and terrorist and the source of some of
Horace's political odes.
The writer and historian, M. Pogodin, a student friend of the poet,
mentions in his diary that he and Tyutchev discussed Pushkin, "... his ode,
Freedom, the free, noble spirit of the thought which for some time now has
made itself known to us". (Nov. 1st. 1820)
10. Nov. 1820. Tyutchev was a renowned scribbler and is alleged to have
produced several epigrams during Kachenovsky's lectures at Moscow
University. Gregg points out that Tyutchev's constant chatter once drew a
"baleful stare" from the professor. (A:14) Unfortunately only this epigram
has survived. The Professor of Archaeology and the Theory of Fine Arts was
an opponent of anything new and sharply criticised Pushkin in the pages of
Vestnik Evropy/The Messenger of Europe, which he edited at the time. The
epigram may have been prompted by Kachenovsky's attack on Pushkin's newly
published poem, Ruslan i Lyudmila/Ruslan and Lyudmila. It is easy to imagine
several such epigrams aimed at the lecturer by his students. Pushkin wrote
the following in 1821:

Klevetnik bez darovan'ya,
Palok ishchet on chut'yom,
I dnevnogo propitan'ya
Ezhemesyachnym vran'yom.
***
A talentless slanderer,
he seeks out the cane by scent,
and his daily nourishment
by his monthly lies.

The "monthly lies" refers to The Messenger of Europe.
Charon: the ferryman responsible for the transfer of souls from the
land of the living to Hades.
11. NE 1820-NL first half of March 1822. TR Lamartine (1790-1869):
L'Isolement/Solitude, [1] of Meditations Poetiques/Poetic Meditations
(1820).

Souvent sur la montagne, a l'ombre du vieux chene,
Au coucher du soleil, tristement je m'assieds;
Je promene au hasard mes regards sur la plaine,
Dont le tableau changeant se deroule a mes pieds.
..........
Ici, gronde le fleuve aux vagues ecumantes,
Il serpente, et s'enfonce en un lointain obscur;
La, le lac immobile etend ses eaux dormantes
Ou l'etoile du soir se leve dans l'azure.
..........
Au sommet de ces monts couronnes de bois sombres,
Le crepuscule encor jette un dernier rayon,
Et le char vaporeux de la reine des ombres
Monte, et blanchit deja les bords de l'horizon.
..........
Cependant, s'elancant de la fleche gothique,
Un son religieux se repand dans les airs,
Le voyageur s'arrete, et la cloche rustique
Aux derniers bruits du jour mele de saints concerts.
..........
Mais a ces doux tableaux mon ame indifferente
N'eprouve devant eux ni charme, ni transports,
Je contemple la terre, ainsi qu'une ombre errante:
Le soleil des vivants n'echauffe plus les morts.
..........
De colline en colline en vain portant ma vue,
Du sud a l'aquilon, de l'aurore au couchant,
Je parcours tous les points de l'immense etendue,
Et je dis: Nulle part le bonheur ne m'attend.
.........
Que me font ces vallons, ces palais, ces chaumieres?
Vains objets dont pour moi le charme est envole;
Fleuves, rochers, forets, solitudes si cheres,
Un seul etre vous manque, et tout est depeuple.
..........
Que le tour du soleil ou commence ou s'acheve,
D'un oeil indifferent je le suis dans son cours;
En un ciel sombre ou pur qu'il se couche ou se leve,
Qu'importe le soleil? Je n'attends rien des jours.
..........
Quand je pourrais le suivre en sa vaste carriere,
Mes yeux verraient partout le vide et les deserts;
Je ne desire rien de tout ce qu'il eclaire,
Je ne demande rien a l'immense univers.
..........
Mais peut-etre au-dela des bornes de sa sphere,
Lieux ou le vrai soleil eclaire d'autres cieux,
Si je pouvais laisser ma depouille a la terre,
Ce que j'ai tant reve paraitrait a mes yeux?
..........
La, je m'enivrerais a la source ou j'aspire,
La, je retrouverais et l'espoir et l'amour,
Et ce bien ideal que toute ame desire,
Et qui n'a pas de nom au terrestre sejour!
..........
Que ne puis-je, porte sur le char de l'aurore,
Vague objet de mes voeux, m'elancer jusqu'a toi,
Sur la terre d'exil pourquoi reste-je encore?
Il n'est rien de commun entre la terre et moi.
..........
Quand la feuille des bois tombe dans la prairie,
Le vent du soir s'eleve et l'arrache aux vallons;
Et moi, je suis semblable a la feuille fletrie:
Emportez-moi comme elle, orageux aquilons!
***
Often on a mountain, in the shade of an old oak,
at sunset, I sit sadly down;
I let my gaze wander across the plain,
whose changing picture unfolds at my feet.
..........
Here the river's foaming waves growl.
It meanders, drowning in the dark distance;
there, the motionless lake extends its sleeping waters
where the evening star rises in the blueness.
..........
On these peaks, crowned with dark woods,
dusk still throws a final ray,
and the misty chariot of the queen of shadows
rises, already whitening the horizon's edge.
..........
However, leaping from the gothic spire,
a sacred sound spills into the air.
The traveller stops, and the village bell
mingles its sacred sounds with the day's final noise.
..........
But my soul remains indifferent to these soft images,
experiencing neither charm nor delight.
I contemplate the land, as would a wandering shade:
the sun of the living no longer warms the dead.
..........
Vainly glancing from hill to hill,
from south to north, from dawn to sunset,
I cover all points of the immense expanse,
and I say, "Happiness awaits me nowhere".
..........
What are these valleys, palaces, thatched cottages to me?
Pointless things whose charm for me has vanished;
rivers, rocks, forests, dear places of solitude,
it takes only one person to be absent, and the whole world
is depopulated.
..........
Let the sun start or finish its path,
I follow it indifferently across the sky;
whether it sets or rises in a clear or dark sky,
what's the sun to me? I expect nothing of the days.
..........
If I could follow it on its immense journey,
everywhere my eyes would see emptiness and deserts;
I ask nothing of anything it illuminates
I ask nothing of the vast universe.
..........
But perhaps beyond the boundaries of its orbit,
places where the true sun lights up other skies,
if I could leave my shell here on earth,
what I've dreamed of so much would appear to my eyes?
..........
there, I should be intoxicated at the spring where I breathe,
there I should find once more hope and love,
and this fine ideal which every soul desires,
and which has no name on its earthly sojourn!
..........
Why can I not, born on dawn's chariot,
indistinct object of my desires, impel myself to you?
Why do I remain on this land of exile?
Earth and I have nothing in common.
..........
When the leaf from the woods falls onto the plain,
evening's wind rises and swirls it off to the valleys.
I am just like that withered leaf.
Bear me off as you go, stormy northern winds!

One of the leading French Romantic writers of the 1820s, Alphonse de
Lamartine became an influential politician, heading the Provisional
Government after the 1848 revolution. The religious and sentimental
character of the Poetic Meditations made the small group of poems extremely
popular during a period in France when intuition was ousting reason as a
means to self-knowledge. There is a strong pantheistic streak in the work of
many writers of the time. The first major treatment of Tyutchev's links with
French literature is (A:32, 111/148-167), in which Surina points out that
images in some of Tyutchev's original poems can be traced to Solitude.
12. NL Apr. 1821. Tyutchev's vocabulary changes little over the years.
A significant number of words, formulae and images in this mediocre poem are
repeated in later lyrics of genius. Examples are the favourite obveyat'/to
winnow, fan; pri pervom ... svete/at (the) first light; and the child at the
end of the poem who also appears, in adolescent guise, in [75].
13. Dec. 13th. 1831. Dedicated to A. Muravyov (1806-74). A former pupil
of Raich. Muravyov's earlier years were characterised by rationalist views,
giving way in later life to an adherence to Orthodoxy and church ritual.
(See [345]). Tyutchev's thoughts echo those of Raich as expressed in the
latter's thesis on didactic poetry. Expounding his theory of ancient man,
Raich wrote that the ancients "observed nature at a distance which favoured
the imagination and through the veil which covered it; today, people study
it close at hand and, as it were, armed with spectacles. Certain of them,
describing objects, present us with living, laughing, attractive scenes, and
still more often with statues; other draw landscapes which are often dead.
The most pleasant location without living beings, especially man, can afford
us no lasting pleasure; we want to see ourselves in everything and
everywhere. The ancients did not like a soulless nature, and their
imagination often peoples it with living creatures. In brooks they saw
Naiads; beneath the bark of a tree beat the heart of a Dryad; in valleys,
Nymphs weaved round-dances. This is why the ancients' descriptions are
always short, living. They had no need to seek innumerable nuances to
describe an object; all they had to do was personify it and the reader saw
before him breathing imagines, spirantia signa (B:33/250-251).
Raich might well be describing the best of Tyutchev's nature lyrics
here, where an undoubted sense of living nature contains the conviction that
any rationalist view of nature, such as Pascal's "Par la pensee, je le
comprehends" is misguided.
14. Jun. 1822. TR Schiller: Hektors Abschied/Hector's Farewell from
Gedichte/Poems (pt. 1, 1804). An earlier edition was entitled Abschied
Andromachas und Hektors/The Farewell of Andromache and Hector. A slightly
different version is sung by Amalia in the drama Die Rauber/The Robbers, II,
2 (1781).

Andromache
Will sich Hektor ewig von mir wenden,
Wo Achill mit den unnahbar'n Handen
Dem Patroklus schrecklich Opfer bringt?
Wer wird kunftig deinen Kleinen Lehren
Speere werfen und die Gotter ehren,
wenn der finstre Orkus dich verschlingt?
Hektor
Teures Weib gebiete deinen Tranen,
Nach der Feldschlacht ist mein feurig Sehnen,
Diese Arme schutzen Pergamus.
Kampfend fur den heil'gen Herd der Gotter
Fall ich, und des Vaterlandes Retter
Steig' ich nieder zu dem styg'schen Flu?.
Andromache
Nimmer lausch' ich deiner Waffen Schalle,
Mu?ig liegt dein Eisen in der Halle,
Priams gro?er Heldenstramm verdirbt.
Du wirst hingeh'n wo kein Tag mehr scheinet,
Der Cocytus durch die Wusten weinet,
Deine Libe in dem Lethe stirbt.
Hektor
All mein Sehnen will ich, all mein Denken,
In des Lethe stillen Strom versenken,
Aber meine Liebe nicht.
Horch! der Wilde tobt schon an den Mauern,
Gurte mir das Schwert um, la? das Trauern,
Hektors Liebe stirbt im Lethe nicht.
***
Andromache
Does Hector want to turn away from me forever,
where the unapproachable hands of Achilles
make a terrible sacrifice to Patroclus?
Who in the future will teach the little one
to throw the javelin and honour the gods
if the dark Orkus devours you?
Hector
Dear wife, control your tears,
my fiery longing is for the field of battle.
These arms protect Pergamum.
Fighting at the hearth of the gods
I fall, and, saviour of the fatherland,
I will go down to the river Styx.
Andromache
Never more shall I hear the sound of your weapons
as the iron lies idly in your hall.
Priam's great line will be ruined.
You must go where day no longer shines.
The Cocytus sobs in its desolation.
Your love will perish in the Lethe.

Hector
All my longing, all my thoughts
will I drown in the Lethe's still waters
but not my love.
Listen! The maniac is raging at the walls.
Strap on my sword, leave your tears.
Hector's love will not die in the Lethe.

Schiller was renowned for his sense of high seriousness and his belief
that literature was a civilising force with a capacity to alter the ways of
individuals and societies. The above poem comes from a play in which Karl
Moor indulges in what appears to be indiscriminate brigandage and murder as
he leads a band of friends against tyrants, for personal and social reasons.

Pergamum: Troy.
the little one: Astyanax.
the maniac: Achilles.

15. The 1820s. Raich defended his master's degree on April 29th. 1822.
The date of the poem has been postulated by Pigaryov as 1822. Korolyova
considered 1827-28 more likely as at this time Raich published his
translation of Jerusalem Liberated. Raich's balladic metre created heated
argument. Tyutchev's poem imitates this metre and he could have been firmly
on his friend's side in the debate although, equally, he was his own man
when he felt like being so.
16. Early 1820s. A quotation from a Lenten prayer by Efrem Sirim
(Ephraim the Syrian, c. 306-378). Ephraim's mystical and poetical works are
used in the Syrian liturgy.
17. Early 1820s. Tyutchev's hedonistic views of this period are in good
company with this and the previous [16] humorous lines of the free-thinking,
extremely confident and self-possessed young man whose belief in himself and
the comfortable world around him had yet to be shaken.
18. Jan. 1823. Dedicated to Tyutchev's first cousin, Aleksei.
Sheremetev served as lifeguard in the horse artillery. He proceeded to an
appointment as aide-de-camp to Count P. Tolstoy who commanded the Fifth
Infantry Corps, billeted in Moscow where Sheremetev's mother and sister were
in residence.
...who has spirit and serfs: Tyutchev employs an untranslatable pun on
dusha, one of his favourite words, which can mean "soul", "heart",
"feeling", as well as "serf". In this line he uses two difference cases of
the same noun to suggest the liveliness and "spirit" of the young girl as
well as the "serfs" who would come with her estate. The most famous use of
the noun in this sense is, of course, in Gogol's (1809-52) Myortvye
dushi/Dead Souls. The word dusha takes on a predominantly spiritual sense in
a number of later poems.
Nadezhda Sheremeteva (1775-1850) was Tyutchev's aunt. She corresponded
with Gogol and Zhukovksy. Her son-in-law, I. Yakushkin, was sentenced to
twenty years hard labour for his open involvement in the Decembrist
movement.
The hero-agronomist is Count Pyotr Tolstoi, one of the foremost figures
of the Moscow Agricultural Society.
19. Feb. 1823. TR Schiller: An die Freude/To Joy, from Part 2 of the
Poems.

Freude, schoner Gotterfunken,
Tochter aus Elisium,
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt,
Alle Menschen werden Bruder,
Wo dein sanfter Flugel weilt.
Chor
Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Ku? der ganzen Welt!
Bruder - uberm Sternenzelt
Mu? ein lieber Vater wohnen.
..........
Wem der gro?e Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinene Jubel ein!
Ja - wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!
Chor
Was den gro?en Ring bewohnet
Huldige der Simpathie!
Zu de Sternen leitet sie,
Wo der Unbekannte thronet.
..........
Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brusten der Natur,
Alle Guten, alle Bosen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Kusse gab sie uns and Reben,
Einen Freund, gepruft im Tod,
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.
Chor
Ihr sturzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahndest du den Schopfer, Welt?
Such ihn uberm Sternenzelt,
Uber Sternen mu? er wohnen.
..........
Freude hei?t die starke Feder
In der ewigen Natur.
Freude, Freude treibt die Rader
In der gro?en Weltenuhr.
Blumen lockt sie aus den Keimen,
Sonnen aus dem Firmament,
Spharen rollt sie in den Raumen,
Die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt!
Chor
Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen,
Durch des Himmels pracht'gen Plan,
Laufet Bruder eure Bahn,
Freudig wie ein Held zum siegen.
..........
Aus der Wahrheit Feuerspiegel
Lachelt sie den Forscher an.
Zu der Tugend steilem Hugel
Leitet sie des Dulders Bahn.
Auf des Glaubens Sonnenberge
Sieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,
Durch den Ri? gesprengster Sarge
Sie im Chor der Engel stehn.
Chor
Duldet mutig Millionen!
Duldet fur die bess're Welt!
Droben uberm Sternenzelt
Wird ein gro?er Gott belohnen.
..........
Gottern kann man nicht vergelten,
Schon ist's ihnen gleich zu sein.
Gram und Armut soll sich melden,
Mit den Frohen sich erfreun.
Groll und Rache sei vergessen,
Unserm Todfeind sei verziehn.
Keine Trane soll ihn pressen,
Keine Reue nage ihn.
Chor
Unser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet!
Ausgesohnt die ganze Welt!
Bruder - uberm Sternenzelt
Richtet Gott, wie wir gerichtet.
..........
Freude sprudelt in Pokalen,
In der Traube gold'nem Blut
Trinken Sanftmut Kannibalen,
Die verzweiflung Heldenmut --
Bruder fliegt von euren Sitzen,
Wenn der volle Romer kreist,
La?t den Schaum zum Himmel spritzen:
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist!
Chor
Den der Sterne Wirbel loben,
Den des Seraphs Hymne preist,
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist,
Uberm Sternenzelt dort oben!
..........
Festen Mut in schwerem Leiden,
Hulfe, wo die Unschuld weint,
Ewigkeit geschwor'nen Eiden,
Wahrheit gegen Freund und Feind,
Mannerstolz vor Konigsthronen -
Bruder, galt' es Gut and Blut -
Dem Verdienste seine Kronen,
Untergang der Lugenbrut.
Chor
Schlie?t den heil'gen Zirkel dichter,
Schwort bei diesem goldnen Wein:
Dem Gelubde treu zu sein,
Schwort es bei dem Sternenrichter!
***
Oh, Joy, you beautiful, divine spark,
daughter of Elysium,
drunk with excitement, we enter
your shrine, oh heavenly one.
Your magic reunites
whatever convention has divided.
Under your soft wings,
all men become brothers.
Chorus
Millions, embrace!
I want to kiss the whole world!
Brothers, above the firmament
a dear father must dwell.
..........
Let those who have the good fortune
to be a friend,
those who have won a lovely woman,
join in the exultation!
Yes, whoever can call one soul
on earth his own!
Those who have never managed this
skulk away in tears.
Chorus
Let all who inhabit the universe
pay homage to sympathy!
It leads to the stars
where the Unknown has his throne.
..........
All brings drink joy
from the breasts of nature,
all, be they good or bad,
follow its trail of roses.
Joy gave us kisses and the vine,
a friend proving friendship through death.
Even a worm can feel lust
and cherubs enjoy the presence of God.
Chorus
Are you prostrating yourselves, oh millions?
Oh world, do you know your Creator?
Look for him above the firmament,
he must dwell above the stars.
..........
Joy is the powerful force
behind eternal nature.
It is joy that moves the cogs
of the universe's great clock.
It entices the flowers out of their buds
and the suns from the firmament.
It spins heavenly bodies in spaces
never plumbed by the astronomer's telescope.
Chorus
If you want to fly happily like its suns
across the sky's magnificent plain,
brothers, go your way, full of joy,
like a hero going to victory.
..........
From the fiery mirror of truth
it smiles at the investigator
and it leads those who are patient
to the steep hill of virtue.
On the sunny mountain of faith
its banners are seen billowing
Through the cracks in broken coffins you see it
standing in the choir of angels.
Chorus
Millions, suffer with courage!
Suffer for the better world!
Up there above the firmament
a great God will reward you.
..........
One cannot avenge oneself on gods.
It's good to be like them.
Sorrow and poverty shall come
and rejoice together with gladness.
Let's forget grudges and revenge,
let's forgive our deadly enemies,
so that they may not have to shed tears
and be consumed by remorse.
Chorus
Let's wipe the slate clean!
Let the world be at peace!
Brothers, above the firmament
God will judge the way we've judged.
..........
Joy bubbles in goblets,
in the grape's golden blood
cannibals drink gentleness
and despair - heroism.
Brothers, fly from your seats,
when the full glass is passed around
let the foam spray sky-high:
raise this glass to the good spirit.
Chorus
Raise this glass to the good spirit
there above the firmament,
who is praised by the swirling stars
and by the hymns of the seraphs!
..........
Let's have staunch courage in heavy suffering,
help for innocence in tears.
oaths kept forever,
truth when dealing with friend or foe,
manly pride when facing royal thrones,
should it cost us our possessions and lives,
may virtue be rewarded and evil perish!
Chorus
Gather closer in the circle,
swear on this golden wine
to keep the oath,
swear it by the judge of the stars!
/home/moshkow/bin/KOI: Can't reopen pipe to command substitution (fd 4): No child processes

In st. 4, as in Die Gotter Griechenlands/The Gods of Greece (1788), we
encounter Schiller's theme of imagination being threatened by rationality,
an important notion recurring through Tyutchev's mature lyrics and given
informal, if in places pedestrian treatment in Ne to, chto mnite vy,
priroda/Nature is not what you think it is [121].
20. Jul. 21st. 1823. The epigraph is from Thomas Gray's (1716-1771)
Alcaic Fragment: O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros/Oh fountain of tears
which have their (1738):
O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit!
***
Oh fountain of tears which have their sacred
sources in the sensitive soul! Four times
fortunate is he who has felt
thee bubbling up, holy nymph,
from the depths of his heart!
the Pafian queen: Aphrodite, whose temple was in the town of Pafos, on
Cyprus.
21. 1823-24. TR Heine [33] of the collection entitled Tragodien nebst
einem lyrischen Intermedzzo/Tragedies with a Lyrical Intermezzo (Apr. 1823),
one of several sections which make up the German poet's Buch der Lieder/Book
of Songs (1827).
Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
Im Norden auf kahler Hoh'.
Ihn schlafert; mit wei?er Decke
Umhullen ihn Eis und Schnee.
..........
Er traumt von einer Palme,
Die, fern im Morgenland,
Einsam und schweigend trauert
Auf brennender Felsenwand.
***
A spruce tree stands alone
in the north, on a bare hill.
It is sleepy. With a white blanket
Ice and snow cover it.
..........
It dreams of a palm
which, far off in the east,
grieves, lonely and silent
on a burning cliff.
Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) was a complex figure whose work abounds in
images of love, nature and revolution. History is of the greatest importance
in his work. Heine one claimed that everything he had ever written had taken
its inspiration from one great gottfreudige Fruhlingsidee/Good-joyful
spring-idea.
He and Tyutchev were good friends, although there is little documented
evidence. In a letter of 1828, Heine writes, "By the way, you know Count
Bothmer's daughters in Stuttgart, where you have often been? One of the
same, no longer exactly young, but infinitely charming and secretly wed to
the best friend I have here, a young Russian diplomat called Tyutchev, and
the still very young, wonderfully pretty sister are the two ladies with whom
I have the most comfortable, easily relations. These two, my friend
Tyutchev, and I often make up a foursome to eat together at lunchtime and in
the evening, where I find a few more beauties, chatter to my heart's
content, mostly ghost stories, and generally believe that I have discovered
a beautiful oasis in life's desert".
Tyanyanov (C:4iii/16) considers that the poems by Heine which Tyutchev
translated were "not so much those close to Tyutchev in theme, as those that
are characteristic of Heine's manner". This is partly true, but a close
study of the translations invariably throws up favourite themes.
All Tyutchev's extant translations from Heine are from the Book of
Songs.
22. NE Apr. 1822 and NL Dec. 1830. TR Heine: [16] of Tragedies with a
Lyrical Intermezzo.
Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:
Bist du nicht ein Traumgebild,
Wie's in schwulen Sommertagen
Aus dem Hirn des Dichters quillt?
..........
Aber nein, ein sollches Mundchen,
Solcher Augen Zauberlicht,
Solch ein liebes, su?es Kindchen,
Das erschafft der Dichter nicht.
..........
Basilisken und Vampire,
Lindenwurm and Ungeheur,
Solche schlimme Fabeltiere,
Die erschafft des Dichters Feur.
..........
Aber dich und deine Tucke,
Und dein holdes Angesicht,
und die falschen, frommen Blicke -
Das erschafft der Dichter nicht.
***
Darling, you must tell me today,
are you not a dream-picture
of the kind which on hot summer days
springs from the brain of the poet?
..........
But no, such a mouth,
such magic light in the eyes,
such a dear, sweet child,
the poet will not create that.
..........
Basilisks and vampires,
green dragons and monsters,
such dreadful creatures of fable
are what the poet's fire produces.
..........
But you and your spite
and your sweet face,
and your false sanctimonious look,
the poet can't create that.
Tyutchev's ending is less unkind than Heine's, probably evidence of
different attachments.
23. 1823-4, probably shortly after he went abroad. The theme of
separation is now making itself felt, Tyutchev returns to this idea of being
away from friends and family throughout his work and in numerous letters.
The first stanza does not, strictly speaking, make sense, but this is not an
unusual thing in Tyutchev, who seemed impatient with grammar on more than
one occasion.
24. Nov. 23rd. 1824, the poet's twenty-first birthday. Addressee
unknown, though Nisa [25] is a possibility. Tyutchev cleverly mixes images
of a young girl's "gaze" living within him, both physically and spiritually.
It becomes as essential as the sky, always an important idea of freedom and
security, and as breath itself. In a later superb poem, Ya znal eyo eshchyo
togda/I knew her even then [257], a woman and the sky become
indistinguishable images.
25. NL autumn 1825. Addressee unknown, but if it is the young woman of
[24] it indicates a dramatic change of attitude.
26. NL autumn 1825. A variation on a theme of Herder based on the poem
Morgengesang im Kriege/Morning Song in War Time, [17] of the
Volkslieder/Folk Songs, subtitled Skaldisch/Norse (bk. 2, pt. 1).
Tag bricht an!
Es kraht der Hahn,
Schwingt's gefieder;
Auf, ihr Bruder!
Ist Zeit zur Schlacht!
Erwacht, erwacht!
Unverdrossen
Der unsern Fuhrer!
Des hohen Adils
Kampfgenossen,
Erwacht, erwacht!
..........
Har, mit der Faust hart,
Rolf, der Schutze,
Manner im Blitze,
Die nimmer fliehn!
Zum Weingelage,
Zum Weibsgekose
Weck' ich euch nicht;
Zu harter Schlacht
Erwacht, erwacht!
***
Day breaks!
The cock crows,
shaking its feathers.
Up, brothers!
It's time for battle!
Wake up, wake up!
..........
Untiring
Our leader!
Comrades in battle
of the great aedile,
wake up, wake up!
Har of the strong fist,
Rolf the protector,
men in lightning flashes
who never flee!
To the wine feast,
to women's kisses
I do not awake you:
to hard battle
awake, awake!

The writer and philosopher Johann Gottfried Herder (1744-1803) was
influential in the fields of folklore and philology. He knew Goethe and
exerted a significant influence on his development. In essays forming part
of Von deutscher Art und Kunst/On German Character and Art, he attempted to
demonstrate that folk song was the source of all literature. He believed in
the close relationship between nature, i.e. man's physical environment, and
the cultural evolution of the human race. Herder was also convinced that
nation states ought to be independent, equal and brotherly. This idea of
self-determination went down well with those Slav states less powerful than
their vast eastern neighbour, but this warm-hearted man's ideas evoked
little sympathy in authoritarian states such as Russia. His Ideen zur
Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit/Ideas on the Philosophy of the
History of Mankind and Folk Songs served to convince many Slav patriots that
they, indeed, carried the future in their hands. Karamzin introduced Herder
into Russia, as he did so many writers.
The source of the Herder poem is the Heimskringla/The Circle of the
World, a cycle of sixteen medieval Icelandic sagas. This poem concerns the
final battle of the great hero-king Hrolf kraki, told by his great champion,
Biarki.
Har: Har the hard-gripping, a warrior.
aedile: a Roman officer.
27. NL autumn 1825. R. Brandt considers the possibility that Raich's
Aeolian harp was the poem's inspiration, though Pigaryov points out that
during Tyutchev's stay in Russia in 1825 Raich was not in Moscow. The
presence or absence of such an instrument is probably unimportant, though
Tyutchev did often write on the spur of the moment, so could well have heard
such a harp or something which reminded him of it.
The techniques of using a sound or object out of place is common in
Tyutchev's work. As here, where the harp perturbs the listener, so a lark's
voice at night [104] and the chirruping of swallows [368] when snow still
lies are two examples of many which make him question the evidence of his
senses.
28. NL mid-1826. TR Byron Lines Written in an Album at Malta. (Sept.
14th. 1809); one of his occasional pieces from 1807-24.
As o'er the cold, sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou views't this page alone,
May mine attract thy pensive eye!
..........
And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

Byron addresses his poem to a woman, Tyutchev to his friends.
Despite huge popularity in Europe, Byron (1788-1824) exercised little
if any direct influence on Tyutchev, although his involvement in the Greek
struggle for independence would certainly have interested Tyutchev, for whom
the Eastern Question became an obsession.

29. NL mid-1826. A loose adaptation of Goethe's quatrain from
Nachlese/Late Harvest (1791).

Will ich die Blumen des fruhen, die Fruchte des spateren Jahres,

Will ich, was reizt und entzuckt, will ich, was sattigt und nahrt,
Will ich den Himmel, die Erde mit einem Namen begreifen;
Nenn ich Sakontala dich und so ist alles gesagt.
***
The early year's blossoms, the late year's fruits,
that which stimulates and delights, which satiates and nurtures,
Heaven and earth, all this I want to give a name to.
I name you Sakontala, and that's enough said.

Goethe (1749-1832) is arguably the greatest German writer. His works
exhibit an incredible variety of form, theme and style. Throughout his life
he wrote poetry, prose, drama, scientific essays and autobiography. Even the
profundities of his conversations were recorded by his young secretary,
Eckermann, among others.
Popular in the eighteenth century, the original was written by the
Indian poet Kalidasa (fl. 400 AD?) whose work is characterised by long,
lyrical, descriptive passages inbued with delicate sentiment. The Sanskrit
was translated by the Englishman William Jones in 1789 and into German by G.
Forster in 1791. Karamzin translated sections into Russian for the
Moskovskii zhurnal/The Moscow Journal. Tyutchev's poem contains echoes of
Act II, in which the king, enamoured of the hermit's daughter,Shakuntala
attempts to express his feelings to Vidusaka the clown, who suggests that he
"has lost his relish for dates and longs for the (sour) tamarind".

King You have not seen her; and, therefore, you speak thus.
Vidusaka That indeed must be charming, which excites even your admiration.
King Friend, what need is there of many words?
..........
..........
This immaculate beauty is like a flower not yet smelt, a
delicate shoot not torn by the nails; an unperforated
diamond; or fresh honey whose sweetness is yet
untasted; or the full reward of meritorious deeds. I know not
whom Destiny will approach as the enjoyer here (of this form).

Goethe's lyric is but one of many works of the time on a classical
Sanskrit theme, and while similar to Tyutchev's poem in some ways, cannot be
said to be the direct source of it. Referring to Goethe's poem, C.V.
Devadhar was written that he "blends together the young year's blossoms and
the fruits of its decline", combining "heaven and earth in one". According
to Goethe, Devadhar continues, "Shakuntala contains the history of
development - the development of flower into fruit, of earth into heaven, of
matter into spirit". (B: 20/xxiv).
30. Second half of 1826. Written after sentence had been passed on the
Decembrists. The latter were a group of disaffected young officers who
attempted a coup in 1825, primarily in St. Petersburg, hoping to secure
various reforms. Nicholas I was not a listening tsar. The ringleaders were
hanged and others exiled for long periods.
31. NE May 1826 - NL 1830. TR Heine from Die Heimkehr/The Homecoming
Das Herz ist mir bedruckt, und sehnlich
Gedenke ich der alten Zeit;
Die Welt war damals noch so wohnlich,
Und ruhig lebten hin die Leut'.
..........
Doch jetzt ist alles wie verschoben,
Das ist ein Drangen! eine Not!
Gestorben ist der Herrgott oben,
Und unten ist der Teufel tot.
..........
Und alles schaut so gramlich trube,
So krausverwirrt und morsch und kalt,
Und ware nicht das bischen Liebe,
So gab' es nirgends einen Halt.
***
My heart is oppressed and longingly
I think about the old days;
then the world was still so pleasant to live in
and people lived their lives peacefully.
..........
Now, it's as if everything is dislocated.
There's such hurrying, such distress!
Up there the Lord God has died,
and down below the devil is dead.
..........
And everything looks so sullenly dreary,
so tangled, confused, rotten and cold,
and were it not for a little bit of love,
there would be nothing to hold on to.
32. NE April 1827, NL December 1830. TR Heine: Fragen/Questions, [71]
of the second cycle of Nordsee/The North Sea.
Am Meer, am wusten, nachtlichten Meer,
Steht ein Jungling-Mann,
Die Brust voll Wehmut, das Haupt voll Zweifel,
Und mit dustern Lippen fragt er die Wogen:
..........
"O lost mir das Ratsel des Lebens,
Das qualvoll uralte Ratsel,
Woruber schon manche Haupter gegrubelt,
Haupter in Hieroglypohenmutzen,
Haupter in Turban und schwarzem Barett,
Peruckenhaupter und tausend andre
Arme, schwitzende Menschenhaupter -
Sagt mir, was bedeutet der Mensch?
Woher ist er kommen? Wo geht er hin?
Wer wohnt dort oben auf goldenen Sternen?"
..........
Es murmeln die Wogen ihr ew'ges Gemurmel,
Es wehet der Wind, es fliehen die Wolken,
Es blinken die Sterne, gleichgultig und kalt,
Und ein Narr wartet auf Antwort.
***
By the sea, by the bleak night sea
there stands a young man,
his breast full of melancholy, of great doubts,
and with thirsty lips he asks the waves:
..........
"Oh, solve for me the riddle of life,
the painful, ancient riddle
over which so many heads have brooded,
heads in caps which hieroglyphs,
heads in turbans, heads in berets,
bewigged heads and a thousand other
poor, sweating human heads,
tell me, what is the meaning of man?
Where is he from? Where is he going?
Who lives up there beyond the stars?
The waves murmur their eternal murmuring,
the wind blows, the clouds flee,
the stars win, indifferent and cold,
and a fool awaits his answer.
A current of scepticism permeates the atmospheric North Sea cycle. In
Abenddammerung/Dusk [2], the principal theme is that of nature's power "to
liberate the poetic imagination from convention". (B:15ii/118)
33. NE April 1827, NL 1830. TR Heine Der Schiffbruchige/The Shipwrecked
Man, [3,pt.2] of North Sea.
Hoffnung und Liebe! Alles zertrummert!
Und ich selber, gleich einer Leiche,
Die grollend ausgeworfen das Meer,
Leig ich am Strande,
Am oden, kahlen Strande.
Vor mir woget die Wasserwuste,
Hinter mir liegt nur Kummer und Elend,
Und uber mich hin ziehen die Wolken,
Die formlos grauen Tochter der Luft,
Die aus dem Meer, in Nebeleimern,
Das Wasser schopfen,
Und es muhsam schleppen und schleppen,
Und es wieder verschutten ins Meer,
Ein trubes, langweil'ges Geschaft,
Und nutzlos, wie mein eignes Leben.
..........
Die Wogen murmeln, die Mowen schrillen,
Alte Erinnrungen wehen mich an,
Vergessene Traume, erloschene Bilder,
Qualvoll su?e, tauchen hervor!
Es lebt ein Weib im Norden,
Ein schones Weib, koniglich schon.
Die schlanke Zypressengestalt
Umschlie?t ein lustern wei?es Gewand;
Die dunkle Lockenfulle,
Wie eine selige Nacht,
Von dem flechtengekronten Haupt sich ergie?end,
Ringelt sich traumerisch su?
Um das su?e, blasse Antlitz;
Und aus dem su?en, blassen Antlitz,
Gro? und gewaltig, strahlt ein Auge,
Wie eine schwarze Sonne.
..........
Oh, du schwarze Sonne, wie oft
Entzuckend oft, trank ich aus dir
Die wilden Begeistrungsflammen,
Und stand und taumelte, feuerberauscht -
Dann schwebte ein taubenmildes Lacheln
Um die hochgeschurzten, stolzen Lippen,
Und die hochgeschurzten, stolzen Lippen
Hauchten Worte, su? wie Mondlicht,
Und zart wie der Duft der Rose -
Und meine Seele erhob sich
Und flog, wie ein Aar, hinauf in dem Himmel!
...........
Schweigt, ihr Wogen und Mowen!
Voruber is alles, Gluck und Hoffnung,
Hoffnung und Liebe! Ich liege am Boden,
Ein oder, schiffbruchiger Mann,
Und drucke mein gluhendes Antlitz
In den feuchtend Sand.
***
Hope and Love! Everything's smashed!
And I am alone, like a corpse,
thrown up by the rumbling sea,
lying on the beach,
on the god-forsaken, barren beach.
Before me the watery wastes surge,
behind me there is misery and grief
and above me flee the clouds,
the shapeless, gruesome daughters of the air,
which from the sea in water-buckets
scoop the sea,
and arduously drag and drag
and once again spill it into the sea,
a gloomy, boring business,
and as useless as my own life.
..........
The waves rumble, the gulls shriek,
past memories waft back to me,
forgotten dreams, lost images,
painfully sweet, dragged out.
..........
There lives in the north a woman,
a beautiful woman, regally beautiful,
her cypresslike form
covered all around by a sensual, white garment
her dark locks,
like a sacred night,
poured from her plait-crowned head,
sweet as a dream, framing
her sweet, pale face
and from her sweet, pale face,
and amazing, open look beamed
like a black sun.
..........
Oh, you black sun, how often,
excitingly often, have I drunk from you
the wild flame of inspiration
and stood, giddily, intoxicated
while a dovelike, gentle smile played
on your haughty, deeply loving lips,
and your haughty, deeply loving lips,
breathed words as sweet as moonlight,
and as tender as the scent of roses -
and my soul rose up
and flew like an eagle far up into the heavens.
..........
Be silent, you waves and gulls!
Everything is over, happiness and hope,
hope and love! I lie on the ground,
a wasted, shipwrecked man,
rubbing my glowing face
into the damp sand.
The sea was an endless source of inspiration for the Romantics. On a
sea journey to Nantes from Riga in 1769, Herder was shipwrecked. He wrote
the following about his impressions, which haunted him for some time after:
"Have you ever, my friend, on cold, dark nights, after a dangerous, grey,
awe-filled midnight ... hoped for the first red ray of morning, sensed the
living spirit of the early day, a breath of God! A spirit of Heaven sinks
down and moves across the waters! ... And behold! This rapture, this
nameless feeling of morning, how it seems to thrill all things! To lie
across all of nature!... Woe to that feelingless person who has not seen
these pictures and not sensed God! (B:16, VI; 136; 259).
34. NE 1827, NL 1829. TR Heine: [40] of The Homecoming.
Wie der Mond sich leuchtend dranget,
Durch den dunkeln Wolkenflor,
Also taucht aus dunkeln Zeiten
Mir ein lichtes Bild hervor.
.........
Sa?en all auf dem Verdecke,
Fuhren stolz hinab den Rhein,
Und die Sommergrunen Ufer
gluhn im Abendsonnenschein.
..........
Sinnend sa? ich zu den Fu?en
Einer Dame, schon und hold;
In ihr liebes, bleiches Antlitz
Spielt' das rote Sonnengold.
..........
Lauten klangen, Bubeb sangen,
Wunderbare Frohlichkeit!
Und der Himmel wurde blauer,
Und die Seele wurde weit
..........
Mahrchenhaft voruberzogen
Berg' und Burgen,Wald und Au';
Und das Alles sah ich glanzen
In dem Aug' der schonen Frau.
***
We were all sitting on the deck,
sailing proudly down the Rhine,
and the summer-green banks
glowed in the evening sun.
..........
Pensively I sat at the feet
of a beautiful, charming lady.
The red gold of the sun played
on her dear, pale face.
..........
Lutes were strumming, boys were singing -
wonderful joyfulness!
And the sky became bluer
and the soul opened out.
..........
Passing by as if in a fairytale
were hills and castles, forests and meadows,
and I saw it all shining
in the beautiful women's eyes.
35. 1827-29. TR Goethe: Geistesgruss/The Spirit's Greeting (1774), a
ballad from Vermischte Gedichte/Miscellaneous Poems from the Sturm und
Drang/Storm and Stress movement.
Hoch auf dem alten Turme steht
Des Helden edler Geist,
Der, wie das Schiff vorubergeht,
Es wohl zu fahren hei?t.
..........
"Sieh, diese Senne war so stark,
Dies Herz so fest und wild,
Die Knochen vol von Rittermark,
Der Becher angefullt;
..........
Mein halbes Leben sturmt ich fort,
Verdehnt' die Halft' in Ruh.
Und du, du Menschen-Schifflein dort,
Fahr immer, immer zu!"
***
High on the old tower stands
the ghost of a noble warrior
who, as a ship passes by,
wishes it well.
..........
"See, these sinews were so strong,
This heart so solid and wild,
these bones so full of knightly marrow,
the goblet often filled.
..........
I stormed through half my life,
(spent) the other half in peace.
And you, little ship of humans, down there,
go ever, ever on!"
The Storm and Stress movement took shape in 1770 and lasted about eight
years. It was characterised by a new way of looking at history and society,
new attitudes towards thinking, religion and nature. What was also closely
questioned by young writers was despotism, political and religious. Poetry
was of the first importance during these years.
36. 1827-9. TR Goethe: Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre/Wilhelm Meister's
Apprenticeship (bk.2, ch.13). The first and second songs of the harpist.
1.
Wer nie sein Brot mit Tranen a?,
Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte
Auf seinem Bette weinend sa?,
Der kennt euch nicht, ihr himmlischen Machte.
..........
Ihr fuhrt ins Leben uns hinein,
Ihr la?t den Armen schuldig werden,
Dann uberla?t ihr ihn der Pein:
Danna alle Schuld racht sich auf Erden.
***
He who has never eaten tears with his bread,
who has never through grief-filled nights
sat crying on his bed,
he does not know you, heavenly powers
..........
They drag us into life,
they leave the poor feeling guilty,
then they leave us only pain;
all evil deeds are avenged on earth.
2.
Wer sich der Einsamkeit ergiebt,
Ach! der ist bald allein,
Ein jeder lebt, ein jeder liebt,
Und la?t ihn seiner Pein.
Ja! la?t mich meiner Qual!
Und kann ich nur einmal
Recht einsam sein,
Dann bin ich nicht allein.
..........
Es schleicht ein Liebender lauschend sacht,
Ob seine Freundin allein?
So uberschleicht bei Tag and Nacht
Mich Einsamen die Pein,
Mich Einsamen die Qual.
Ach, werd' ich erst einmal
Einsam in Grabe sein,
Da la?t sie mich allein!
***
Whoever yields to loneliness,
ah, he will soon be on his own;
one lives, one loves,
and leaves him to his pain.
Yes! Leave me to my misery!
And can I just once
really be on my own,
then I'm really not alone.
..........
A lover creeps softly, eavesdropping:
wanting to know if his loved one is alone,
so by day and night there creeps over me
when I'm alone, pain,
when I'm alone, misery.
Ah, if I could just
be in my grave,
then I'd be truly alone!
Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship is in the form of the picaresque novel
and was published in instalments during the last decade of the eighteenth
century. Many great German novels of later years model their depiction of
the intellectual and spiritual development of the hero's life (the
Bildungsroman) on this important work.
37. 1827-30. TR Goethe: Hegire/Hegira (1819), with which his
West-Ostlicher Divan/West-East Divan opens.
Nord und West und Sud zersplittern,
Throne bersten, Reiche zittern,
Fluchte du, im reinen Osten
Patriarchenluft zu kosten,
Unter Lieben, Trinken, Singen,
Soll ich Chisers Quell verjungen.
..........
Dort, im Reinen und im Rechten,
Will ich menschlichen Geschlechten
In des Ursprungs Tiefe dringen,
Wo sie noch von Gott empfingen
Himmelslehr' in Erdesprachen,
Und sich nicht den Kopf zerbrachen.
..........
Wo sie Vater hoch verehrten,
Jeden fremden Dienst verwehrten;
Will mich freun der Jugendschranke:
Glaube weit, eng der Gedanke,
Wie das Wort so wichtig dort war,
Weil es ein gesprochen Wort war.
..........
Will mich unter Hirten mischen,
An Oasen mich erfrischen,
Wenn mit Caravanen wandle,
Schwal, Caffee und Mochus handle.
Jeden Pfad will ich betreten
Von der Wuste zu den Stadten.
..........
Bosen Felsweg auf und nieder
Trosten Hafis deine Lieder,
Wenn der Fuhrer mit Entzucken,
Von des Maulthiers hohem Rucken,
Singt, die Sterne zu erwecken,
Und die Rauber zu erschrecken.
..........
Will in Badern und in Schenken,
Heil'ger Hafis dein gedenken,
Wenn den Schleyer Liebchen luftet
Schuttlend Ambralocken duftet.
Ja des Dichters Lieberflustern
Mache selbst die Huris lustern.
..........
Wolltet ihr ihm dies beneiden,
Oder etwa gar verleiden;
Wisset nur, da? Dichterworte
Um des Paradieses Pforte
Immer leise klopfend schweben,
Sich erbittend ew'ges Leben.
***
North, South and East shattered,
thrones cracking, empires trembling
escape to the pure east
to taste the air of the patriarchs,
in love, drinking, singing
shall I return your youth at Chizr's spring.
..........
There, where it is pure and right,
I want to penetrate to the source
of the human race.
where from God they still received
heavenly teaching in the languages of earth,
their brains not racked by the labour.
..........
Where they deeply admire the fathers,
denying foreign beliefs any say,
I want to be happy within the limits of youth:
faith is spacious, thought is narrow,
the word was so important there
because it was a spoken word.
..........
I want to mix with the herdsmen,
refresh myself at oases,
stroll with caravans
trade in shawls, coffee and musk,
I'll tread every path
from the deserts to the towns.
..........
Up and down steep rocks
your songs, Hafiz, comfort me,
when the leader with delight
from the mules' high backs,
sings, the stars awake,
brigands are terrified.
..........
I want in baths and in inns,
sacred Hafiz, your thought,
when the veils of pretty women are lifted,
and ambergris wafts from their hair.
Yes, the loving whispers of the poet
make the huris desire.
..........
If you were to begrudge him this
or even try to spoil his whim,
know only that the poet's word
knocks at Paradise's door,
softly hovering,
beseeching eternal life for itself.
The Persian poet Hafiz (c.1320-1390) produced brilliant ghazels and
divans, the former a series of couplets linked symbolically rather than by
any strict logic of ideas. The divan is often characterised by a special
rhyme scheme running through the alphabet. "Hegira" means "flight",
originally the flight of Mohammed from Mecca in 622 A.D., from which is
dated the Mohammedan era.
Goethe was approaching seventy when he wrote these exuberant poems,
many in the Persian style.
Khizr: an Islamic deity associated with water.
38. NL spring 1828. Hebe, goddess of eternal youth, appears throughout
nineteenth-century art and literature. Tyutchev replaces her cup of nectar,
with which she is often seen feeding Zeus's eagle, with one overflowing with
thunder, as if "she had transferred to herself the functions of the eagle,
often represented with lightening grasped on its talons".
(A:33/ii,vol.1/338).
Tyutchev's poem is fresh and joyful, along the same lines as Vesennie
vody/Vernal Waters [82], one of his favourite techniques, that of an up-down
movement between nature and the observer, finding its first expression.
39. NL 1828 and reworked in the 1850s. In 1840 Napoleon's remains were
transferred to Paris from their original resting place, the island of St.
Helena, where he died on May 5th. 1821.
40. NL 1828. Possibly written in 1826 in Munich and addressed to
Eleonore during the first year of their marriage in Munich.
Nahe/Nearness (1809), by the Romantic poet and philologist Ludwig
Uhland (1787-1862), is a clear source of this poem (A:15vi/48):
Ich tret' in deinen Garten;
Wo, su?e, weilst du heut'?
Nur Schmetterlinge flattern
Durch diese Einsamkeit.
..........
Doch wie in bunter Fulle
Hier deine Beete stehn!
Und mit denn Blumenduften
Die Weste mich umwehn!
..........
Ich fuhle dich mich nahe,
Die Einsamkeit belebt;
Wie uber seinen Welten
Der unsichbare schwebt.
***
I step into your garden.
Where are you today, sweetheart?
Only butterflies flutter
through this solitude.
..........
How colourfully full
are your flowerbeds.
How the zephyrs waft
colourful aromas around me!
..........
I feel you near to me,
feel the solitude come to life.
It's like the Invisible One
hovers over his worlds.
Sylph: a being made of air, the creation of the eccentric Swiss
alchemist-physician Paracelsus (1493-1541) who exercised some influence on
Bohme. (See [247].)
41. NL 1828. The image of the setting sun swallowed by the ocean or
rolling from the earth is one of the commonplaces of Romantic poetry. In
Heine's Sonnenuntergang/Sunset, [3] of North Sea, we read:
Die gluhend rote Sonne steigt
Hinab ins weitaufschauernde,
Silbergraue Weltmeer.
***
The glowing, red sun sets
into the far-heaving,
silver-grey ocean.
Without detracting from Heine's lyric. Tyutchev's shorter, more intense
poem makes the reader actually sense the natural repleteness of the moment.
Tyutchev's work is a marvel of sensation and physical wellbeing.
42. NL first half of 1829 in connection with the Russo-Turkish war of
1828-9. In support of the Greek struggle for independence, Russia declared
war on the Ottoman Empire in April of this year. In June the Russian army
crossed the Danube, in October it took Varna and in June the following year
opened a route to the Balkan mountains after the victory at Kulevcha. The
Treaty of Adrianople (Sept. 14th. 1829) assured Russian domination over the
entire Black Sea coast, a situation making the western powers uneasy and
reversed by the Paris Peace Accord after Russia's defeat in the Crimean War.
The legendary shield of the title is described in the chronicles as
having been posted by Prince Oleg of Kiev at the gates of Constantinople
after his successful campaign against the Byzantine city in 907.
43. NL first half of 1829. One of the first overt "chaos"/"night"
poems, it nonetheless contains little more than a hint of that frisson of
excitement which characterises such lyrics as Bessonnitsa/Insomnia [47], and
Kak okean ob"emlet shar zemnoi/Just as the ocean curls around earth's shores
[64].
44. 1828-9. T.R. Zedlitz (1790-1862): Totenkranze/Garlands for the
Dead.
So wie die grausen Lieder der Damonen
Zum Wahnsinn trieben, durch die wilden Klange,
So fuhlen wir das tiefste Mark erbeben,
Vernimmt das Ohr die furchtbaren Gesange;
Und wie in den verdunnten Regionen
Des hochsten Luftraum's, denen, die d'rin schweben,
Oft Athem stockt und Leben,
Und Blut entquillet den gepre?ten Lungen:
So strebt die Seele, angstvoll, zu entrinnen
Dem Zauberliede, mit betaubten Sinnen;
Bis da? der Magus, der den Kries geschlungen,
Wenn's ihm genehm ist Eure Angst zu enden,
Hohnlachend hebt den Stab, den Bahn zu wenden!
..........
Wohl loft der Schmerz sich in gerechte Klagen,
Wenn uns're Seele weilt vor solchem Bilde!
Nicht ein sangreicher Schwann, der uber Auen
Hinschwebt, und grune, lachende Gesilde,
Seh'n wir durch heit're Lufte dich getragen;
Gleich dem einsamen Aar bist due zu schauen
In oder Wuste Grauen,
Der sich vom Fels, auf dem er horstet, schwinget,
Und hoch und hoher steigt, bis unser'n Blicken
Die weitgedehnten Flugel ihn entrucken,
Hin, wo das Auge, das ihm folgt, nicht dringet!
Doch nicht die Sonne strebt er zu erreichen,
Er spaht' mit scharfem Blick umher - nach Leichen!
..........
Ungluckliches Gemut, dess' truber Spiegel
So gra? entstrellt die Bilder wiederstrahlet,
Die Leben und Natur, mit holden Zeichen,
In hellen Farben lieblich hat gemalet! -
Wohl auf der Stirne glanzt das Meistersiegel,
Dem Macht gegeben in den Geisterreichen;
Doch freut es dich, im bleichen,
Unsichern Schein die Seele zu beirren! -
Nicht mehr dich selbst vermag ich zu erkennen!
Prometheus Bild scheint vor dem Bild zu brennen,
Doch seltsam wechselnd, seh' ich's sich verwirren!
Bist du Prometheus, der die Wunden fuhlet? -
Bist du der Geier, der sein Herz durchwuhlet? -
..........
Aus Newstead Abbey war Er ausgezogen,
Aus seiner Ahnen altem stillen, Hause,
Wo teure Pfander ihm zuruckgeblieben;
Der Mowe gleich, die unstat im Gebrause
Das Sturm's den Schaum abstreifet von den Wogen!
Wie Ahasverus ward er fortgetrieben
Vom Dache seiner Lieben!
Wie diesem, war ihm nicht vergonnt zu rasten! -
Vergebens irrt er durch die weite Erde,
Das Gluck im Kampf zu suchen und Gefahrde;
Der dunkle Bann bleibt auf der Seele lasten,
Mag dicht am Abgrund er den Fels erklimmen,
Die kalte Flut des Hellesponts durchschwimmen!
..........
Und bald am goldbespulten Tajostrande,
Bald an der felsumragten Uferspitz,
Wo das Atlantenmeer, als Landerscheide,
Europa trennend von der Mauren Si?e,
Dem Mittelmeer sich eint mit schmalen Bande;
Wo dann, vermischt, hinrauschen stolz, voll Freude,
Die Nachbarfluten beide;
Bald auf den Phrena'n, den sonnenhellen,
Zu deren Hohen aus dem Baskentale
Der Felsensteg, der unwegsame, schmale,
Hinauf sich schlingt, dort, wo die jungen Wellen
Ausstromet der Adour - sieht man ihn ziehen,
Und vor sich selbst, so scheint's, voll Unruh' fliehen! -
..........
Bald mit den Toten, die im Kugelregen,
Auf jenem blutgetrankten Feld in Flandern,
Fur goldne Meining, und fur Ehr' und Treue
Berhaucht die Seelen, sehen wir ihn wandern! -
Ein Weh'n der Geister sauselt mir entgegen!
O teure Erde, Platz der Todesweihe,
Mit frommer, heil'ger Scheue
Tritt dich der Fu?! Dich, mit dem edlen Staube
Gemischt, von jenen tausend, tausend Herzen,
Die hier verblutet in dem Brand der Schmerzen,
Dem Schwert der Schlachten, dem Gescho? zum Raube!
Von Gluten wurdiger Begeist'rung trunken,
Sind sie in freud'gem Glauben hingesunken!
..........
Bald auf der Gletscher Scheitel steht er sinnend,
Wo Wasserfalle tobend niedersausen,
Zum Abgrund, den der Blick nur kann erreichen,
Inde? das Ohr kaum mehr das ferne Brausen
Des Strom's vernimmt, dem engen Tahl entrinnend! -
So seh'n von Land zu Land wir ihn entweichen,
Bis wo das bleiche Zeichen
Des Halbmond's schimmert von den Minaretten;
Jetzt in des Bosphorus treulose Wellen
Sturzt er, durchschwimmt den Pa? der Dardanellen
Zu Asiens Kuste - sucht die alten Statten
Verschwund'ner Gro?' - und sieht aus edlen Trummern
Athen, Akrokorint, Mycena schimmern
..........
Bis er erreicht die Burg, die wallumturmte,
Fern an der Schwelle vom Helenenlande,
Aus jenes Inselmeer's Lagunen steigend.
Ach! wuster Schutt, zerstort von Mord und Brande,
ist nun die hohe, hundert Mal Versturmte,
Ihr edles Haupt gesenkt zur Erde neigend! -
Es schweben, ernst und schweigend,
In dustern Nachtgrau'n bleiche Geisterscharen
Gefall'ner Helden, Kummer in den Mienen,
Un die geweihten, heiligen Ruinen,
Den ew'gen Lorber in den blut'gen Haaren! -
Hier fand sein Ziel des edlen Sangers Leben;
Kein wurd'ger Grab konnt' ihm das Schicksal geben! -
..........
Und uberall, im gleichen wusten Tone,
Ergie?t die sinst're Brust sich wohl in Lieder;
Der Zauberstab haucht Leben in Gestalten,
Doch nur Damonen steigen furchtbar nieder
In trotz'ger Bildheit, die mit kaltem hohne
Ruchlos die Herzen qualen und zerspalten!
Die seligen Gewalten,
Die durch die Schmerzen reinen und belohnen,
Sind fremd dem Manne, dessen Zauberworte
Den Vorhang heben von dem grausen Orte,
Wo die Verdammni? und das Laster wohnen!
Und nirgends blinkt ein Strahl von Friedenslichte,
Und Holl' ist nur, kein Himmel in Gedichte! -
..........
Und jenen Wiederschein von Qual und Gluten,
Hat ihn die Brust des Glucklichen geboren?
War's ein beseligt Herz, in dessen Grunde
So lebentotende Gebilde gohren?
Wann gab, getrankt von milder Sehnsucht Fluten,
Es je von Lieb' und Vaterfreuden Kunde,
Von segenvollem Bunde
Begluckter Hauslichkeit, von Gott und Frieden?
Wann sang es Trost, wann sang es edle Schmerzen?
Zermalmt hat es - wann hob es and're Herzen? -
Beneid' es, wenn du kannst! - und doch beschieden
War jenem Mann der Kranz! Wohlan, bekenne,
Ob man in Wahrheit wohl ihn glucklich nenne? -
***
As the wild sounds of the cruel songs
of demons drove men crazy, so we feel
shaken to the marrow of our bones when
we hear the horrible chants. And as
those who hover in rarified regions of
the highest space often run out of
breath and die, with their blood
draining from compressed lungs, so the
soul strives, full of fear, to get away
in a daze from the magic song, until
the magician who cast the magic circle
laughing with derision, raises his wand.
..........
When we look at such a picture our
pain will find release in justified
complaints. We do not see you carried
through the clear air as a swan full of
song that hovers above the meadows and
green, laughing fields. You can be seen
in the horror of the bleak desert like
a lonely eagle soaring from the rock on
which he has his nest and rising higher
and higher until his wings spread out
wide, carry him out of our sight, away,
where he can no long be reached by
the eye that follows him. Yet he is not
trying to reach the sun. His keen eye
searches around - for corpses!
..........
Unhappy soul whose clouded mirror so
horribly distorts the pictures it
reflects that were painted by life and
nature, with love, in bright colours
and beautiful symbols. Although upon
your forehead may glitter the seal of
the master granted the power in the
kingdom of the spirits, yet it gives
you pleasure to confuse the soul in the
pale, uncertain gloom. I can no longer
recognise you yourself. The picture of
Prometheus seems to be glowing in my
eyes, yet I see it changing strangely
and becoming confused. Are you the
Prometheus who feels the wounds, or are
you the vulture burrowing in his heart?
..........
He went from Newstead Abbey, the old,
quiet house of his ancestors where he
left dear pledges, like the seagull
that, unsteady in the roaring storm,
skims the foam from the
crests of the waves. He was driven away
like Ahasuerus from the home of those
he loved. Like Ahasuerus, he was not to
rest! He is straying aimlessly all over
the globe, looking for good fortune and
danger in a battle. The dark spell
weighs upon his soul, even if he climbs
the rock closely to the abyss or swims
across the cold waters of the Hellespont.
..........
And one can see him rove and, so it
seems, run away from himself. How he is
on the banks of the Tagus, rinsed with
gold, now on the tip of the shore
surrounded by rocks, where the Atlantic
as a border between continents joins
the Mediterranean as a narrow ribbon
dividing Europe from the land of the
Moors, whence then the neighbouring
waters mingle and dash away proudly
and full of joy, now in the Pyrenees
lit up by the sun, the peaks of which
are reached from the valley of the
Basques by an impassable, narrow,
winding, rocky path, where the Adour springs from.
..........
And now we see him wandering with the
dead who fell on that battlefield in
Flanders for golden ideals and for
honour and loyalty. I feel the breath
of spirits moving towards me. Oh
precious soil, the place of doom! My
foot treads upon you with devotion and
awe; upon you that was mixed with the
noble dust of those thousands upon
thousands of hearts who bled to death
here in searing pain and, intoxicated
by noble enthusiasm, fell happy in
their beliefs, victims of the sword and the bullet.
..........
Now he is standing immersed in thought
upon the crest of the glaciers, where
turbulent waterfalls dash down into
the abyss, reached only by the eye,
while the ear can only hear the distant
roaring of the stream escaping from the
narrow valley. Thus we can see him
escaping from country to country until
he reaches the pale sign of the
crescent glittering on top of the
minarets. Now he throws himself into
the treacherous waters of the
Bosphorous, swims across the
Dardanelles over to the coast of Asia -
looks for the old places of vanished
glory and sees Athens, Acrocorinth and
Mycenae glimmering from noble ruins.
..........
Then he reaches the castle surrounded
by walls, far away on the doorstep of
the land of the Hellenes, rising from
a sea of islands. Oh, the noble city,
attacked a hundred times, is now
destroyed by murder and fire. It is
now reduced to rubble and it lowers its
noble head to the ground. Pale crowds
of spirits of falled heroes with grief
on their faces hover earnestly and
silently in the gloomy twilight around
the hallowed ruins, with the eternal
laurel in their hair, covered with
blood. Here the life of the noble poet
found its destiny. Fate could not give
him a more worthy grave.
..........
And everywhere the gloomy feelings pour
themselves out in wild poetry. The
magic wand endows the shapes with life,
and yet only the demons descend, full
of horror, defiant and wild. With their
cold derision they wickedly torment and
break hearts. The blessed powers that
lead to salvation through suffering are
alien to the man whose magic words
reveal the inside of the terrible place
where the curse and the sin live. And
nowhere is there a glimmer of the light
of peace, and the poetry is full of
hell and not of heaven.
..........
And was that reflection of torment and
passion born from the breast of a
happy man? Was it a blissful heart at
the bottom of which such deadly images
were seething? When did it, steeped in
the waters of mild longing, sing of
love and the joys of fatherhood? Of
the blissful union of happy family
life? Of God and peace? When did it
sing of comfort, when of noble pain?
It has destroyed other hearts, but
when did it give them an uplift? Envy
it if you can. And yet it was
the fate of this man to wear a poet's
garland. Well, admit it: can he
truthfully be called happy?
Joseph Zedlitz was an Austrian who wrote Die Nachtliche Heerschau/The
Nocturnal Review, a poem dealing with the Napoleonic legend (adapted by
Zhukovsky in 1836: nochnoi smotr). His Totenkranze is a cycle of 134 poems
in canzone form (the canzone being songs or airs of a madrigal type, as well
as, more generally, stanzas of poetry) reviewing some of the famous dead of
history. He published Poems in 1832 and translated Byron's Childe Harold
(Ritter Harolds Pilgerfahrt). Tyutchev translated Cantos 80-93 of Garlands
for the Dead.
Ahasuerus: an Old Testament king of Persia (historically Xerxes,
488-465 BC).
Newstead Abbey: the estate on which Byron was born. In 1816 Byron left
England for good.
45. NL first half of 1829. Tyutchev could be seen as the traveller in
the air balloon, most certainly taking advantage of situations as they
occurred. His tragedy, or perhaps that of both his wives and his mistress,
was precisely that he did tend to "float", not always with any clear sense
of direction.
46. Early October, 1829. TR King Ludwig I of Bavaria: Nicolaus, das ist
der Volksbesieger/Nicholas is the Defeater of Peoples.
Ludwig was unable to work with the new liberal powers gaining more
influence in Germany in the first half of the nineteenth century and was
eventually forced to abdicate in favour of his son. He was in his own mind a
liberal enough monarch and one of the first to establish an arts policy,
amounting in real terms to subsidies to arts ventures in Bavaria. Tyutchev
would have been acting in character by translating such verses in order to
bring to himself the attention of the Russian authorities as employers. The
world "Nicholas" is written in italics by both Tyutchev and Ludwig.
I have yet to read Ludwig's poem.
47. NL 1829. This is one of Tyutchev's most disturbing visions of
nocturnal and universal loneliness. His best poems give an impression of
having being effortlessly composed. There is nothing contrived, nothing
overtly "poetic". It is a profoundly aching, very personal vision to which
he returned in a poem of the same title [391] on his death bed in 1873.
Already, still in his twenties, the comforting warmth and security of the
existence he had known is showing cracks. In later years, he frequently
complains of sleeplessness for a different reason. Rheumatism and gout
plagued him.
48. NL 1829. Such a light, magically vernal poem indicates Tyutchev's
ability to treat the diurnal side of existence at the same time and just as
skilfully as its blacker side with no apparent inconsistency. From a
bird's-eye view in stanza 1, the poet returns us to the ground whence we
observe mountain peaks swathed in mist as if they were magic castles. The
images themselves are not unusual for the time, but the sense of motion, of
floating above the scene then looking up at a different part of it is very
Tyutchevian.
49. NL 1829. Oppressive heat and the feel of perspiration opposite
coolness and light make of this lyric a playful and sensual wonder. One is
reminded of Baudelaire's La Geante/The Giantess, if not thematically, then
in the languishing feeling of succumbing to heat. (B:3/97) Gregg's point
that in this period Nature is before it starts to mean may simply be looking
at the same nature from two different angles. In vecher/Evening [53],
Tyutchev effectively scraps the "meaning" aspect of Solitude [11] to produce
a simple, very much condensed version, a scene which says nothing, which
does not need man to try to interpret it. In [53], Nature most certainly is.
However, the poem par excellence which seems to present a Tyutchevian
philosophy of Nature. Ne to, chto mnite vy, priroda/Nature is not what you
think it is [121], actually states the opposite of Gregg's point: Nature
cannot be the object of empirical investigation and, therefore, cannot be
said to mean anything. In this and the many nature poems of later periods,
Nature remains a thing which is. While Tyutchev, like any poet, will exploit
a given scene in order to make a poetic point, fundamentally he does not use
Nature as an entity or a concept on which to build any philosophical, or
even personal, ordered system of "meaning".
50. NL 1829. These philosophical lines reverse the biblical creation
myth, the universe collapsing after waters have once more covered it and the
original divine breath/image has appeared. "In equating the Divine Will with
the dissolution of the ladder (Schelling's evolutionary steps towards
perfection - FJ) and a regression toward unconsciousness, the poet has (if
we insist on looking at things from Schelling's viewpoint) "perverted" the
philosopher's thought; which is a roundabout way of saying that he has
preserved his own". (A:14)
I have to agree that Schelling, together with so many thinkers and
writers, was a sounding board for Tyutchev. Once assimilated, he became more
or less irrelevant.
51. NL 1829. Tyutchev revels in the idea of adulterous sex, his final
vine image leaving little to the imagination. The poem is imbued with an
utterly amoral sense of delight in the forbidden. It is one of several such
images, although few of the others are quite so suggestive.
52. The first two drafts, entitled Probuzhdenie/The Awakening, can
probably be dated NL 1829. The final version is from the late forties to the
first half of 1851. As in Son na more/A Dream at Sea [92], the lyric-hero is
seen asleep or, at least, supine and in a state of half-sleep, while a
mixture of real and hallucinatory "events" takes place around him.
53. NL late 1820s. Tyutchev's short lyric is reminiscent of his
translation of Lamartine [11], taking the essence of a simple theme and
dealing with it in simple language. Having read the longer Lamartine
adaptation, the reader is struck by Tyutchev's decision to repeat the
experience and the inspiration of the French post while omitting anything no
longer necessary to him, as well as retaining what the French poet writes
and condensing and altering it to suit his own poetic needs. (See A:32/165.)
54. NL late 1820s. One is tempted to see here a youthful, light-hearted
precursor of Kak ni dyshit polden' znoinyi/Midday breathes its hottest
[173].
55. Late 1820s. The symbolism of the confrontational roles of the eagle
and the swan (the latter also part of the Bavarian emblem) "was much
favoured in European poetry, for in this symbolic contest, the eagle is
victor". (C:4ii/363-364) In Tyutchev's poem, the swan is victorious. In
verse by Lamartine, Hugo, Schlegel and Zedlitz, the eagle represents battle
and revolution, while the swan is a symbol of peace and contemplation.
56. December, 1829-early 1830. TR Heine: from Reisebilder/Travel Scenes
(chap. 31, pt.3).
"Ich bin gut russich" - sagte ich auf dem
Schlachtfelde von Marengo, und stieg fur einige
Minuten aus dem Wagen, um meine Morgenandacht zu halten.
Wie unter einem Triumphbogen von kolossalen
Wolkenmassen zog die Sonne herauf, siegreich, heiter,
sicher, einen schonen Tag verhei?end. Mir aber war
zumute wie dem armen Monde, der verbleichend noch am
Himmel stand. Er hatte seine einsame Laufbahn
durchwandelt, in oder Nachtzeit, wo das Gluck schlief
und nur Gespenster, Eulen und Sunder ihr Wesen
trieben; und jetzt, wo der junge Tag hervorstieg, mit
jubelnden Strahlen und flatterndem Morgenrot, jetzt
mu?te er von dannen - noch ein wehmuhtiger Blick
nach dem gro?en Weltlicht, und er verschwand wie
duftiger Neble.
"Es wird ein schoner Tag werden!" reif mein
Reisegefahrte aus dem Wagen mir zu. Ja, es wird ein
schoner Tag werden, wiederholte leise mein betendes
Herz, und zitterte vor Wehmut und Freude. Ja, es wird
ein schoner Tag werden, die Freiheitssonne wird die
Erde glucklicher warmen, als die Aristokratie
sammtlicher Sterne; emporbluhen wird ein neues
Geschlecht, das erzeugt worden in freier
Wahlumarmung, nicht in Zwangsbette und unter der
Kontrolle geistlicher Zollner; mit der freien Geburt
werden auch in den Menschen freie Gedanken und
Gefuhle zur Welt kommen, wovon wir geborenen Knechte
keine Ahnung haben - O! sie werden ebensowenig ahnen,
wie entsetzlich die Nacht war, in deren Dunkel wir
leben mu?ten, und wie grauenhaft wir zu kampfen
hatten, mit ha?lichen Gespenstern, dumpfen Eulen und
scheinheiligen Sundern! O wir armen Kampfer! die wir
unsre Lebenszeit in solchem Kampfer vergeuden mu?ten,
und mude und bleich sind, wenn der Siegestag
hervorstrahlt! Die Glut des Sonnenaufgangs wird unsre
Wangen nicht mehr roten und unsre Herzen nicht mehr
warmen konnen, wir sterben dahin wie der scheidende
Mond - allzu kurz gemessen ist des Menschen
Wanderbahn, an deren Ende das unerbittliche Grab.
Ich wei? wirklich nicht, ob ich es verdiene, da? man
mir einst mit einem Lorbeerkranze den Sarg verziere.
Die Poesie, wie sehr ich sie auch liebte, war immer
nur heiliges Spielzeug, oder geweihtes Mittel fur
himmlische Zwecke. Ich habe nie gro?en Wert gelegt
auf Dichterruhm, und ob man meiner Lieder preiset
oder tadelt, es kummert mich wenig. Aber ein Schwert
sollt ihr mir auf den Sarg legen; denn ich war ein
braver Soldat in Befreiungskriege der Menscheit.
***
"I am a good Russian", I said on the battlefield of
Marengo, and stepped out of my carriage for a few
minutes to say my morning prayers.
As through a triumphal arch of colossal cloud-
masses, the sun rose, victoriously, cheerfully, in
certainty, promising a fine day. But I felt sad, as
does the poor moon which, faded, still hangs in the
sky. It has travelled its lonely journey in the dreary
night time where happiness sleeps and only spectres,
owls and sinners revel; and now, where the young day
is about to rise, with jubilant rays and flapping
morning red, now it has to leave - sending a wistful
glance at the great world-light, and it has
disappeared like a gossamer cloud.
"It's going to be a nice day", my travelling
companion called to me from the carriage. Yes, it will
be a nice day, my praying heart repeated softly, and
trembled with melancholy and joy. Yes, it will be a
nice day, on which the suns of freedom will happily
warm the earth, more gladly than the aristocracy of
all the stars; A new race will rise, born in a free
embrace and not constrained to marriage, not watched
by clerical tax-collectors. Together with free birth,
freer thoughts and feelings will come into the world
- of which we, who were born in servitude, have no
conception. Ah, they will not understand how horrible
was the night in whose darkness we were compelled to
live, how bitterly we had to fight with frightful
ghosts, stupid owls and sanctimonious sinners! Alas,
we poor warriors who have had to squander our lives
in such combat, and are weary and spent, now that the
victory is at hand! The sunrise glow can no longer
flush our checks and warm our hearts. We perish like
the waning moon. All too brief is man's allotted
course, and his end is the implacable grave!
Truly, I do not know whether I deserve that a laurel
wreath be placed on my bier: Poetry, much as I loved
it, has always been to me only a sacred plaything, or,
at best, a consecrated means to a heavenly end. I
have never laid great store by poetic glory, and
whether my songs are praised or blamed matters
little to me. But lay a sword on my bier, for I have
been a good soldier in the wars of human liberation.
Tyutchev chooses blank verse for his relatively faithful translation,
although he does change the order of the sections, beginning with Heine's
third paragraph ("It's going to be a nice day"), continuing with his first,
though omitting "I am a good Russian" and simply beginning, "Thus I thought
....", and retaining the final third in its right place" ("Truly I do not
know....").
Heine wrote his Travel Sketches over the years 1824-1830. In late 1824,
he set off on a walking tour of the north German mountains and climbed in
the Harz. The sketches are a colourful depiction of bodily and spiritual
freedom after the stuffy academicism of Gottingen.
Erebus: the dark cavern between Earth and Hades.
57. Late 1829-early 1830. Addressee unknown. The Romantic image of the
poet in the first few lines is widespread and appears more than once in
Pushkin. Here, as in [58], it is likely to be autobiographical.
58. Late 1829-early 1850. Addressee unknown. Tyutchev uses the noun
dusha ambiguously. On one level he could be addressing a woman. On the
other, it could be an early indication of dusha used in the more spiritual
sense of "soul".
59. Probably late 1820s. TR Goethe, from Faust (pt.1). This section
immediately follows the Zueignung/Dedication and the Vorspiel auf dem
Theater/Prologue in the Theatre. The Lord, the heavenly hosts, then
Mephistopheles are present. The opening lines are spoken by the three
archangels as they step forward.
1. (Prolog im Himmel)
Raphael
Die Sonne tont, nach alter Weise,
In Bruderspharen Wettgesang,
Und ihre vorgeschriebne Reise
Vollendet sie mit Donnergang.
Ihr Anblick gibt den Engeln Starke,
Wenn keiner sie ergrunden mag.
Die unbegreiflich hohen Werke
Sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.
Gabriel
Und schnell und unbegreiflich schnelle
Dreht sich umher der Erde Pracht;
Es wechselt Paradieses-Helle
Mit tiefer, schauervoller Nacht;
Es schaumt das Meer im breiten Flussen
Am tiefen Grund der Felsen auf,
Und Fels und Meer wird fortgerissen
In ewig schnellem Spharenlauf.
Michael
Und Sturme brausen um die Wette
Vom Meer aufs Land, vom Land aufs Meer,
Und bilden wutend eine Kette
Der tiefsten Wirkung rings umher.
Da flammt ein blitzendes Verheeren
Dem Pfade vor des Donnerschlags.
Doch deine Boten, Herr, verehren
Das sanfte Wandeln deines Tags.
Zu Drei
Der Anblick gibt den Engein Starke
Da keiner dich ergrunden mag,
Und alle deine hohen Werke
Sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.
2. In his study, Faust has been perusing a book written by Nostradamus.
As he pronounces the symbol of the earth spirit, the spirit appears in a
reddish flame.
(Nacht)
Geist Wer ruft mir?
Faust (abgewendet) Schreckliches Gesicht!
Geist Du hast mich machtig angezogen,
An meiner Sphare lang' gesogen,
Und nun -
Faust Weh! ich ertrag' dich nicht!
Geist Du flehst eratmend, mich zu schauen,
Meine Stimme zu horen, mein Antlitz zu sehn;
Mich neigt dein machtig Seelenflehn,
Da bin ich! - Welch erbarmlich Grauen
Fa?t Ubermenschen dich! Wo ist der Seele Ruf?
Wo ist die Brust? die eine Welt in sich erschuf,
Und trug und hegte; die mit Freudebeben
Erschwoll, sich uns, den Geistern, gleich zu heben?
Wo bist du, Faust, des Stimme mir erklang,
Der sich an mich mit allen Kraften drang?
Bist du es, der, von meinem Hauch umwittert,
In allen Lebenstiefen zittert,
Ein furchtsam weggekrummter Wurm?
Faust Soll ich dir, Flammenbildung, weichen?
Ich bin's, bin Faust, bin deines gleichen!
Geist In Lebensfluten, im Tatensturm
Wall' ich auf und ab,
Webe hin und her!
Geburt und Grab,
Ein ewiges Meer,
Ein wechselnd Weben,
Ein gluhend Leben,
So schaff' ich am sausenden Webstuhl der Zeit,
Und wirke der Gottheit lebendiges Kleid.
Faust Der du die weite Welt umschweifst,
Geschaftiger Geist, wie nah fuhl' ich mich dir!
Geist Du gleichst dem Geist, den du begreifst,
Nicht mir! (verschwindet)
3. At the close of this scene, Faust hears heavenly choirs.
(Nacht)
Faust. Was sucht ihr, machtig und gelind,
Ihr Himmelstone mich am Staube?
Klingt dort umher, wo weiche Menschen sind.
Die Botschaft hor' ich wohl, allein mir fehlt der Glaube;
Das Wunder ist des Glaubens liebstes Kind.
Zu jenen Spharen wag' ich nicht zu streben,
Woher die holde Nachricht tont;
Und doch, an diesen Klang von Jugend auf gewohnt,
Ruft er auf jetzt zuruck mich in das Leben.
Sonst sturzte sich der Himmelsliebe Ku?
Auf mich herab, in ernster Sabatstille;
Da klang so ahnungsvoll des Glockentones Fulle,
Und ein Gebet war brunstiger Genu?;
Ein unbegreiflich holdes Sehnen
Trieb mich, durch Wald und Wiesen hinzugehn,
Und, unter tausend hei?en Tranen,
Fuhlt' ich mir eine Welt entstehn.
Dies Lied verkundete der Jugend muntre Spiele,
Der Fruhlingsfeier freies Gluck;
Erinnrung halt mich nun, mit kindlichem Gefuhle,
Vom letzten, ernsten Schritt zuruck.
O tonet fort, ihr su?en Himmelslieder!
Die Trane quillt, die Erde hat mich wieder!
4. Citizens are walking out of the city gates. Faust is with Wagner.
(Vor dem Tor)
(Faust)
Doch la? uns dieser Stunde schones Gut,
Durch solchen Trubsinn, nicht verkummern!
Betrachte, wie in Abendsonneglut
Die grunumgebnen Hutten schimmern.
Sie ruckt und weicht, der Tag ist uberlebt,
Dort eilt die hin und fordert neues Leben.
O! da? kein Flugel mich vom Boden hebt,
Ihr nach und immer nach zu streben!
Ich sah' im ewigen Abendstrahl
Die stille Welt zu meinen Fu?en,
Entzundet alle Hohn, beruhigt jedes Tal,
Den Silberbach in goldne Strome flie?en.
Nicht hemmte dann den gottergleichen Lauf
Der wilde Berg mit allen seinen Schluchten;
Schon tut das Meer sich mit erwarmten Buchten
Vor den erstaunten Augen auf.
Doch scheint die Gottin endlich wegzusinken;
Allein der neue Trieb erwacht,
Ich eile fort, ihr ew'ges Licht zu trinken,
Vor mir den Tag, und hinter nir Nacht,
Den Himmel uber mir und unter mir die Wellen.
Ein schoner Traum, indessen sie entweicht.
Ach! zu des Geistes Flugeln wird so leicht
Kein korperlicher Flugel sich gesellen.
Doch ist es jedem eingeboren,
Da? sein Gefuhl hinauf und vorwarts dringt,
Wenn uber uns, im blauen Raum verloren,
Ihr schmetternd Lied die Lerche singt;
Wenn uber schroffen Fichtenhohen
Der Adler ausgebreitet schwebt,
Und uber Flachen, uber Seen,
Der Kranich nach der Heimat strebt.
5. With Mephisto, Faust visits Margrethe's room unseen by her. Her song
was also published separately in Balladen/Ballads.
(Abend)
Es war ein Konig in Thule
Gar treu bis und das grab,
Dem sterbend seine Buhle
Einen goldnen Becher gab.
.......
Es ging ihm nachts daruber,
Er leert' ihn jeden Schmaus;
Die Augen gingen ihm uber,
So oft er trank daraus.
..........
Und als er kam zu sterben,
Zahlt' er seine Stadt' im Reich,
Gonnt' alles seinem Erben,
Den Becher nicht zugleich.
..........
Er sa? beim Konigsmahle,
Die Ritter um ihn her,
Auf hohem Vatersale,
Dort auf dem Schlo? am Meer.
..........
Dort stand der alte Zecher,
Trank letzte Lebensglut,
Und warf den heiligen Becher
Hinunter in die Flut.
..........
Er sah ihn sturzen, trinken
Und sinken tief ins Meer,
Die Augen taten ihm sinken,
Trank nie einen Tropfen mehr.
6. Faust has fled in order not to ruin Margrethe's life. He is alone as
he begins this monologue.
(Wald and Hohle)
Faust (allein).
Erhabner Geist, du gabst mir, gabst mir alles,
Warum ich bat. Du hast mir nicht umsonst
Dein Angesicht im Feuer zugewendet.
Gabst mir die herrliche Natur zum Konigreich,
Kraft, sie zu fuhlen, zu genie?en. Nicht
Kalt staunenden Besuch erlaubst du nur,
Vergonnest mir in ihre tiefe Brust,
Wie in den Busen eines Freunds, zu schauen.
Du fuhrst die Reihe der Lebendigen
Vor mir vorbei, und lehrst mich meine Bruder
Im stillen Busch, in Luft und Wasser kennen.
Und wenn der Sturm im Walde braust und knarrt,
Die Riesenfichte, sturzend, Nachbaraste
Und Nachbarstamme, quetschend, niederstreift,
Und ihrem Fall dumpf hohl der Hugel donnert,
Dann fuhrst du mich zur sichern Hohle, zeigst
Mich dann mir selbst, und meiner eignen Brust
Geheime tiefe Wunder offnen sich.
Und steigt vor meinem Blick der reine Mond
Besanftigend heruber, schweben mir
Von Felsenwanden, aus dem feuchten Busch,
Der Vorwelt silberne Gestalten auf,
Und lindern der Betrachtung strenge Lust.
***
1.
Raphael
The sun rings out in the ancient way,
competing in song with its brother's spheres,
thunderously completing
its predestined journey.
The sight of it gives strength to the angels,
though none can fathom it;
the inexplicably lofty works
are as magnificent as on the first day.
Gabriel
Swiftly, incomprehensibly swiftly
earth revolves in its magnificence.
Paradise which had embraced the sky
is replaced by deep, horror-filled night.
The sea's broad waters foam
against the cliff's deep base,
the sea and cliffs are carried off
by the eternally swift race of the spheres.
Michael
And storms roar in competition
from sea to land, from land to sea,
and in rage they chain
everything over which they had any influence.
Flaming, devastating lightning
seers the path of the thunder claps;
yet thy heralds still worship, o Lord,
the gentle progress of thy day.
All Three
The sight of it gives strength to the angels,
sine none can fathom you,
and all your lofty works
are as magnificent as on the first day.
2.
Spirit. Who calls me?
Faust. (turning away) Hideous apparition!
Spirit. You conjured me up so mightily,
having sucked at my sphere so long,
and now -
Faust. I cannot bear the sight of you!
Spirit. Breathless, you implore me to appear before
you,
to speak to you, to show my face.
I'm here! What pitiful terror,
drains you, superman! Where is your soul's cry?
Where is the breast which created a whole world
within it
and bore and cared for it, which in joyful trembling
rose to be the equal of us spirits?
Where are you, Faust, whose voice summoned me
with such mad power?
Are you the one who, wafted by my breath,
tremble at the edge of life's abyss
like a worm writhing in life's abyss
like a worm writhing in frightful torments?
Faust. Should I retreat before you, fiery vision?
I am that one, I'm Faust. I am like you.
Spirit. In life's floods, in storms of energy
I ebb and flow,
weaving away and back,
an eternal sea,
a changing pattern,
a glowing life,
thus I create at time's humming loom,
weaving the divinity's living garment.
Faust. Busy Spirit, present throughout the world,
how near I feel myself to thee!
Spirit. You resemble what you comprehend,
Not me! (disappears)
3.
Faust. Why do you seek me, powerful, gentle
sounds of heaven, in the dust?
Ring there, where men are milder.
I hear your message, all that
lacks in me is belief
Miracles are the fondest child of faith.
I dare not strive towards those spheres
where such sacred news rings out.
Used to hearing this call since my youth,
I'm now called back to life.
Once loving Heaven would kiss me
in the grave stillness of the Sabbath.
The bells, full of premonition, rang out
and a prayer was a sensual pleasure.
A sacred longing I could not comprehend
impelled me through wood and meadow
and beneath a thousand hot tears
I sensed a world come into being.
This song announced to lively youth
the free joy of the festival of spring.
That memory fills me with a child's sensation
and pulls me back from that final, grave step.
Ring out strong, you songs of heaven!
Tears pour, I belong to Earth once more.
4.
Faust
Yet let us not destroy the beauty
of this hour with such gloom.
Look closer, see in the heat of the evening sun
the huts, all-shimmering in green.
The sun retreats and fades, the day is over,
it hurries on to produce new life elsewhere.
Oh, if wings could lift me from the ground
to strive and ever follow it!
I would see in the eternal rays of evening
the silent world at my feet,
blazing summits, peaceful valleys,
the silver stream pouring along in golden currents.
My god-like flight would not be held up
by wild mountains with their gorges;
already the glistening bays of the ocean
spread out before my astonished eyes.
The goddess's final shining sinks away;
only my own urge is awake.
I hurry on to drink your eternal light,
before me day, behind me night,
Heaven above me, the sea below.
A beautiful dream in which it escapes.
Ah, no mortal wing can easily join
onto those incorporeal wings.
Yet it comes naturally to us all
to press onwards and everywhere,
when above us, lost in the blue expanse
ithe lark trills its song,
when above the spruce's sharp tops
the eagle soars wide-winged,
the cranes point homewards.
5.
There was a king in Thule,
true till the day he died.
His dying mistress
gave him a golden goblet.
..........
He kept it in safe keeping
to use when he wanted a drink.
He was close to tears
whenever he drank from it.
..........
And when he was on his deathbed,
he counted up the towns in his kingdom,
left everything to his heir
but kept the cup.
..........
He sat at the royal feast,
his knights all around him
in the high hall of his fathers,
in the castle by the sea.
..........
The old drinker stood there,
he drank life's last heat,
he threw the sacred goblet
down into the waves.
..........
He watched it fall
and sink deep into the sea.
His eyes lost their energy,
He never drank again.
6.
Faust. (alone)
Powerful spirit, you have given me
everything I asked for. Not in vain
you turned your face to me in fire.
You gave me splendid Nature as my kingdom,
and the strength to feel and enjoy her.
Nor did you allow me only a cold, wondering visit.
You granted me to see into her deepest breast
as in the bosom of a dear friend.
You paraded rows of living things
before me, teaching me to recognise
my brothers in the quiet bush, the air, the water.
And when the storm roared through the creaking
forest,
hurling down the giant spruce's neighbouring boughs,
bruising the trunks standing close together
until their fall thundered dully around the hills,
you led me to the safety of a cave,
when I was alone, showed me myself, my own soul
and let the pure moon rise before my eyes,
sailing soothingly, and there appeared to me
from cliff walls, from the damp bush
the silver forms of a prehistoric time
to ease the severe desire of contemplation.
Goethe began Faust as a young man and completed it in 1831, just one
year before he died.
60. Late 1820s. TR Alessandro Manzoni (1785-1873): Il cinque maggio.
Ode/The Fifth of May. An Ode from Odi e Frammento di Canzone/Odes and Song
Fragments.
La procellosa e trepida
Gioia d'un gran disegno,
L'ansia d'un cor che indocile
Serve, pensando al regno;
E il giunge, e tiene un premio
Ch'era follia sperar;
..........
Tutto ei provo: la gloria
Maggior dopo il periglio,
La fuga e la vittoria,
La reggia e il tristo esiglio:
Due volte nella polvere,
Due volte sull'altar.
..........
Ei si nomo: due secoli,
L'un contro l'altro armato,
Sommessi a lui si volsero,
Come aspettando il fato;
Ei fe' silenzio, ed arbitro
S'assise in mezzo a lor.
..........
E sparve, e i di nell'ozio
Chiuse in si breve sponda,
Segno d'immensa invidia
E di pieta profonda,
D'inestiguibil odio
E d'indomato amor.
..........
Come sul capo al naufrago
L'onda s'avvolve e pesa,
L'onda su cui del misero,
Alta pur dianzi e tesa,
Scorrea la vista a scernere
Prode remote invan;
..........
Tal su quell'alma il cumulo
Delle memorie scese!
Oh quante volte ai posteri
Narrar se stesso imprese,
E sull'eterne pagine
Cadde la stanca man!
..........
Oh quante volte, al tacito
Morir d'un giorno inerte,
Chianti i rai fulminei,
Le braccia al sen conserte,
Stette, e dei di che furono
L'assalse il sovvenir!
..........
E ripenso le mobili
Tende, e i percossi valli,
E il lampo de' manipoli,
E l'onda dei cavalli,
E il concitato imperio,
E il celere ubbidir.
..........
Ahi! forse a tanto strazio
Cadde lo spirto anelo,
E dispero; ma valida
Venne una man dal cielo
E in piu spirabil aere
Pietosa il trasporto;
..........
E l'avvio, pei floridi
Sentier della speranza,
Ai campi eterni, al premio
Che i desideri avanza,
Dov'e silenzio e tenebre
La gloria che passo.
..........
Bella Immortal! benefica
Fede ai trionfi avvezza!
Scrivi ancor questo, allegrati;
Che piu superba altezza
Al disonor de Golgota
Giammai non si chino.
..........
Tu dalle stanche ceneri
Sperdi ogni ria parola;
Il Dio che atterra e suscita,
Che affanna e che consola,
Sulla deserta coltrice
Accanto a lui poso.
***
The impetuous and fearful
joy of a great design,
the anxiety of a heart that unsubserviently
serves, aspiring to the crown,
and attains the design and receives a prize
that it was madness to hope for.
..........
Everything he experienced; the greatest
glory, after the peril.
Retreat and victory,
government and sad exile,
twice in the dust,
twice at the altar.
..........
He proclaimed himself; two centuries,
both at war with each other,
wished to submit to him,
as before the hand of Fate.
He bade them be silent,
and sat down amidst them as a judge.
..........
He disappeared, - and his days in idleness
closed on such a small shore,
a symbol of great envy
and of deep pity,
of inextinguishable hate
and indomitable love.
..........
As over the head of the shipwrecked man
a wave arches over and hangs,
the wave from which
a moment before the wretch's
sight, as he was borne high on it,
in vain sought the remote shore,
..........
it was upon that soul the heap
of accumulated memories fall!
Oh, how often to posterity
he tried to tell his tale,
and upon the eternal pages, tired,
this weary hand fell.
..........
How often at the silent fall
of a dreary day,
lowering the flashing rays of his eyes,
with his arms folded on his breast,
he stood, and the memories of days gone by
besieged him.
..........
And he recalled the mobile
tents, the resounding valley,
the flashes of the infantry,
the waves of horses,
the excited command,
and the quick obedience.
..........
Oh, perhaps after such toil
his breathless spirit fell
and despaired; but steadfast
came a hand from heaven
and full of pity
bore him to more breathable air.
..........
And bore him away along the flowery
paths of hope
to the eternal field, to the prize
that excels all desire,
when the glory that was
is but silence and darkness.
The ode was dedicated to Napoleon. As far as we know, Tyutchev
translated only stanzas 7-18.
On the appearance of this poem in 1821, Goethe immediately published a
German translation in his review Uber Kunst und Altertum/On Art and
Antiquity. Manzoni was a Christian for whom Providence had much to do with
history, whose great protagonists are guided by it. A theme of his poetry is
the ephemeralness of human activity. He was fascinated by Napoleon and
certain images in the above work are reminiscent of Tyutchev's poem Napoleon
[162]. The idea of a colossus such as Napoleon straddling two centuries,
"like a symbol of a superior Will, though self-appointed, to settle chaotic
turmoils" (B:25i/52) was the intellectual commonplace of the day and is not
unknown in Tyutchev. In a letter written in 1865 to E. De Amicis, Manzoni
wrote: "Religion and Fatherland are two great truths, in fact, in varying
degrees, two holy truths". (ibid.). Such words smack of Tyutchev the
political poet.
61. Late 1820s. TR Racine (1639-99): Theramene's monologue from Phedre
(V,6). Possibly late 1820s.
A peine nous sortions des portes de Trezene,
Il etait sur son char; ses gardes affliges
Imitaient son silence autour de lui ranges;
Il suivait tout pensif le chemin de Mycenes;
Sa main sur les chevaux laissait flotter les renes;
Ces superbes coursiers qu'on voyait autrefois,
Pleins d'une ardeur si noble, obeir a sa voix,
L'oeil morne maintenant, et la tete baissee,
Semblaient se conformer a sa triste pensee.
Un effroyable cri, sorti du fond des flots,
Des airs en ce moment a trouble le repos;
Et du sein de la terre une voix formidable
Repond en gemissant a ce cri redoutable.
Jusqu'au fond de nos coeurs notre sang s'est glace;
Des coursiers attentifs le crin s'est herisse.
Cependant sur le dos de la plaine liquide,
S'eleve a gros bouillons une montagne humide;
L'onde approche, se brise, et se vomit a nos yeux,
Parmi des flots d'ecume, un monstre furieux.
Son front large est arme de cornes menacantes;
Tout son corps est couvert d'ecailles jaunissantes;
Indomptable taureau, dragon impetueux,
Sa croupe se recourbe en replis tortueux;
Ses longs mugissements font trembler le rivage.
Le ciel avec horreur voit ce monstre sauvage;
La terre s'en emeut, l'air en est infecte;
Le flot qui l'apporta recule epouvante.
Tout fuit; et, sans s'armer d'un courage unutile,
Dans le temple voisin chacun cherche un asile.
Hippolyte lui seul, digne fils d'un heros,
Arrete ses coursiers, saisit ses javelots,
Pousse au monstre, et, d'un dard lance d'une main
sure,
Il lui fait dans le flanc une large blessure.
De rage et de douleur le monstre bondissant
Vient aux pieds des chevaux tomber en mugissant,
Se roule, et leur presente une gueule enflammee
Qui les couvre de feu, de sang et de fumee.
La frayeur les emporte; et, sourds a cette fois,
Ils ni connaissent plus ni le frein ni la voix;
En efforts impuissants leur maitre se consume;
Ils rougissent le mors d'une sanglante ecume.
On dit qu'on a vu meme, en ce desordre affreux,
Un dieu qui d'aiguillons pressait leur flanc poudreux.
A travers les rochers la peur les precipite;
L'essieu crie et se rompt: l'intrepide Hippolyte
Voit voler en eclats tout son char fracasse;
Dans les renes lui-meme, il tombe embarrasse.
Excusez ma douleur: cette image cruelle
Sera pour moi de pleurs une source eternelle;
J'ai vu, seigneur, j'ai vu votre malheureux fils
Traine par les chevaux que sa main a nourris.
Il veut les rappeler, et sa voix les effraie;
Ils courent: tout son corps n'est bientot qu'une plaie.
De nos cris douloureux la plaine retentit:
Ils s'arretent non loin de ses tombeaux antiques
Ou des rois, ses aieux, sont les froides reliques.
J'y cours en soupirant, et sa garde me suit:
De son genereux sang la trace nous conduit;
Les rochers en sont teints; les ronces degouttantes
Portent de ses cheveux les depouilles sanglantes.
J'arrive, je l'appelle; et, me tendant la main,
Il ouvre un oeil mourant qu'il referme soudain:
"Le ciel, dit-il, m'arrache une innocente vie.
Prends soin apres ma mort de la triste Aricie.
Cher ami, si mon pere, un jour desabuse,
Pour apaiser mon sang et mon ombre plaintive,
Dis-lui qu'avec douceur il traite sa captive;
Qu'il lui rende..." A ce mot, ce heros expire
N'a laisse dans mes bras qu'un corps defigure:
Triste objet ou des dieux triomphe la colere,
Et que meconnaitrait l'oeil meme de son pere.
***
We'd barely left the gates of Trezene.
He was on his chariot, his unhappy guards
all around him, as silent as he.
Pensively he set out along on the Mycenae road,
his hand giving the horses free rein.
I watched his noble hunters, always so proud
and eager to obey his command,
now with heads lowered and mournful eye
appearing to match their gait to his own reverie.
All of a sudden a horrible roar
from the depths of the sea shocked the air
and a loud voice from the earth's breast
groaning replied to this fearsome voice.
The blood froze in our veins,
the hair of the horses' manes stood up;
and then there rose, from the face of the sea,
a boiling mountain of foam.
The wave crashed onward, breaking up, spewing out
before our eyes
a monster in the foamy breakers,
its huge head armed with menacing horns,
its body covered in pale yellow scales,
uncontrollable bull, raging dragon,
its tail coiling and thrashing.
Its prolonged roars shook the shore.
The horrified sky watched this savage beast;
the earth shifted, the thing infected the air,
the wave that carried it recoiled in terror.
Everyone ran, since resistance was pointless,
and hid in the ruined shrine beside the beach.
Hippolytus alone, worthy son of a hero,
stopped his horses, seized his javelins,
lanced one at the beast and his first shot
opened a large wound in the monster's side.
In pain and rage, the leaping monster
fell howling at the horses' feet,
rolled over, showed them its fiery mouth
and enveloped them in flame, blood and smoke.
They fled in panic, deafened,
heeding neither reins nor voice,
while their master vainly struggled to stop them
and they reddened their bits with bloody froth.
Some say they saw in all the dreadful chaos
a god goading their dusty backs.
Their terror drove them across rocks.
The axle screamed and broke. The bold Hyppolytus
saw his chariot explode in bright slivers.
The unfortunate prince fell tangled in the reins.
Forgive my grief. This cruel picture
will be a constant source of tears.
I saw your son, Lord, your unfortunate son
dragged by the horses he had fed and trained.
He tried to stop them but his voice scared them even
more.
On they ran. His body is soon one mass of scars.
The plain echoed to our cries of sorrow.
The horses stopped beside the ancient shrines
where your kingly ancestors are the cold relics.
Sighing, I ran to him, the soldiers following,
led by the trail of his copious blood,
the rocks stained with it, thorn-bushes dripping
and bearing the bloody scraps of his scalp.
I get to him, calling his name. Giving me his hand
he looked up once, closed his eyes and said.
"The heavens have taken my innocent life.
Take care of poor Aricia when I'm dead.
Dear friend, if my father ever realises his mistake,
tell him to redeem my blood, appease my plaintive
ghost
by treating his captive with gentleness
and by restoring ...." With these words the dead hero
left only a disfigured corpse in my arms,
a sad victim of the gods' angry triumph
whom not even his father would recognise.
Phedre is characterised by a sense of fatality which oppresses its
players, who are surrounded by horror and cruelty as well as motivated by
their own guilty feelings and instincts. (B:34/91) In Phedre the gods play
with man, as they do in a later poem by Tyutchev, Dva golosa/Two Voices
[179]. In addressing himself to this work, Tyutchev might well have been
facing the cosmic fear which haunts so many of his lyrics, making a
Pascalian choice by translating the death scene. It is interesting to note
that Tyutchev, who may, of course, have translated more than the one extract
of Racine's Phedre, chose from the French play a scene about the sea and the
chaos which that particular element produced in his mind. It is clear
throughout his oeuvre that the constant, turbulent unpredictability
associated with the sea was an extremely potent poetic force.
The notion of Fate is very Tyutchevian and recurs throughout the poems
and letters.
62. Late 1820s-NE first third 1832. TR Goethe: Nachtgendanken/Night
Thoughts (from Miscellaneous Poems, the early Weimar period, 1781).
Euch bedaur' ich, ungluckselge Sterne,
Die ihr schon seid und so herrlich scheinet,
Dem bedrangten Schiffer gerne leuchtet,
Unbelohnt von Gottern und von Menschen:
Denn ihr liebt nicht, kanntet nie die Liebe!
Unaufhaltsam fuhren ew'ge Stunden
Eure Reihen durch den weiten Himmel.
Welche Reise habt ihr schon vollendet
Seit ich weilend in den Arm der Liebsten
Euer und der Mitternacht vergessen!
***
I pity you, unfortunate stars,
so beautiful, shining so majestically,
willingly lighting the way of distressed mariners,
unrewarded by men and gods:
because you do not love, you have never known love!
..........
Never stopping, eternally the stars travel
their ways across the wide heavens.
What journeys you have already completed
since in the arms of my beloved
I have forgotten you and midnight.
63. Late 1820s-early 1830s. TR Shakespeare (1564-1616): A Midsummer
Night's Dream. Theseus's words and Puck's song from Act V, Scenes I and II
respectively. Both translations are faithful to the sense, rhyme and metre
of the originals.
1.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to
heaven,
And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
2.
Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth its sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
64. No later than early 1830. Quoting this work in an article about
Tyutchev, the poet and editor Nekrasov (1821-78) wrote: "The final verses
are amazing: reading them, you sense an involuntary shudder". (B:29,
vol.9/212)
65. 1830. TR Victor Hugo (1802-85): Hernani, written from August to
September, 1829, and set in the Spain of 1519. Don Carlos's monologue before
the tomb of the Holy Roman emperor, Charles the Great (IV,2). At
Aix-la-Chapelle, Don Carlos (Charles V) awaits news of the election of the
new Emperor.

Don Carlos, seul.
Charlemagne, pardon! ces voutes solitaires
Ne devraient repeter que paroles austeres.
Tu t'indignes sans doute a ce bordonnement
Que nos ambitions font sur ton monument.
- Charlemagne est ici! Comment, sepulcre sombre,
Peux-tu sans eclater contenir si grand ombre?
Es-tu bien la, geant d'un monde createur,
Et t'y peux-tu coucher de toute ta hauteur?
- Ah! c'est un beau spectacle a ravir la pensee
Que l'Europe ainsi faite et comme il l'a laisse!
Un edifice, avec deux hommes au sommet,
Deux chefs elus auxquels tout roi ne se soumet.
Presque tous les etats, duches, fiefs militaires,
Royaumes, marquisats, tous sont hereditaires;
Mais le peuple a parfois son pape ou son cesar,
Tout marche, et le hasard corrige le hasard.
De la vient l'equilibre, et toujours l'ordre eclate.
Electeurs de drap d'or, cardinaux d'ecarlate,
Double senat sacre dont la terre s'emeut,
Ne sont la qu'en parade, et Dieu veut ce qu'il veut.
Qu'une idee, au besoin des temps, un jour eclose,
Elle grandit, va, court, se mele a toute chose,
Se fait homme, saisit les coeurs, creuse un sillon;
Maint roi la foule aux pieds ou lui met un baillon;
Mais qu'elle entre un matin a la Diete, au Conclave,
Et tous les rois soudain verront l'idee esclave,
Sur leurs tetes de rois que ses pieds courberont,
Surgir, le globe en main ou la tiare au front.
Le pape et l'empereur sont tout. Rien n'est sur terre
Que pour eux et par eux. Un supreme mystere
Vit en eux, et le ciel, dont ils ont tous les droits,
Leur fait un grand festin des peuples et des rois,
Et les tient sous sa nue, ou son tonnerre gronde,
Seuls, assis a la table ou Dieu leur sert le monde.
Tete a tete ils sont la, reglant et retranchant,
Arrangeant l'univers comme un faucheur son champ.
Tout se passe entre eux deux. Les rois sont a la
porte,
Respirant la vapeur des mets que l'on apporte,
Regardant a la vitre, attentifs, ennuyes,
Et se haussant, pour voir, sur la pointe des pieds.
Le monde au-dessous d'eux s'echelonne et se groupe.
Ils font et defont. L'un delie et l'autre coupe.
L'un est la verite, l'autre est la force. Ils ont
Leur raison en eux-meme, et sont parce qu'ils sont.
Quand ils sortent, tous deux egaux, du sanctuaire,
L'un dans sa pourpre, et l'autre avec son blanc
suaire,
L'univers ebloui contemple avec terreur
Ces deux moities de Dieu, le pape et l'empereur.
- L'empereur! l'empereur! etre empereur! - O rage,
Ne pas l'etre!-et sentir son coeur plein de courage! -
Qu'il fut heureux celui qui dort dans ce tombeau!
Qu'il fut grand! De ce temps c'etait encor plus beau.
Le pape et l'empereur! Ce n'etait plus deux hommes.
Pierre et Cesar! en eux accouplant les deux Romes,
Fecondant l'une et l'autre en un mystique hymen,
Redonnant une forme, un ame au genre humain,
Faisant refondre en bloc peuples et pele-mele
Royaumes, pour en faire une Europe nouvelle,
Et tous deux remettant au moule de leur main
Le bronze qui restait du vieux monde romain!
Oh! quel destin! - Pourtant cette tombe est la sienne!
Tout est-il donc si peu que ce soit la qu'one vienne?
Quoi donc! avoir ete prince, empereur et roi!
Avoir ete l'epee, avoir ete la loi!
Geant, pour piedestal avoir eu l'Allemagne!
Quoi! pour titre Cesar et pour nom Charlemagne!
Avoir ete plus grand qu'Annibal, qu'Attila,
Aussi grand que le monde! ... - et que tout tienne la!
Ah! briguez donc l'Empire, et voyez la poussiere
Que fait un empereur! Couvrez la terre entiere
De bruit et de tumulte; elevez, batissez
Votre Empire, et jamais ne dites: C'est assez!
Taillez a larges pans un edifice immense!
Savez-vous ce qu'un jour il en reste? o demence!
Cette pierre! Et du titre et du nom triomphants?
Quelques lettres, a faire epeler des enfants!
Si haut que soit le but ou votre orgueil aspire,
Voila le dernier terme!... - Oh! l'Empire! l'Empire!
Que m'importe! j'y touche, et le trouve a mon gre.
Quelque chose me dit: Tu l'auras! - Je l'aurai. -
Si je l'avais!... - O ciel! etre ce qui commence!
Seul, debout, au plus haut de la spirale immense'
D'une foule d'Etats l'un sur l'autre etages
Etre la clef de voute, et voir sous soi ranges
Les rois, et sur leur tete essuyer ses sandales;
Voir au-dessous des rois les maisons feodales,
Margraves, cardinaux, doges, ducs a fleurons;
Puis eveques, abbes, chefs de clans, hauts barons;
Puis clercs et soldats; puis, loin du faite ou nous
sommes,
Dans l'ombre, tout au fond de l'abime, - les hommes.
- Les hommes! c'est a dire une foule, une mer,
Un grand bruit, pleurs et cris, parfois un rire amer,
Plainte qui, reveillant le terre qui s'effare,
A travers tant d'echos nous arrive fanfare!
Les hommes! - Des cites, des tours, un vaste essaim, -
De hauts clochers d'eglise a sonner le tocsin! -
(Revant)
Base de nations portant sur leurs epaules
La pyramide enorme appuye aux deux poles,
Flots vivants, qui toujours l'etreignant de leurs plis,
La balancent, branlante a leur vaste roulis,
Font tout changer de place et, sur ses hautes zones,
Comme des escabeaux font chanceler les trones,
Si bien que tous les rois, cessant leurs vains debats,
Levent les yeux aux ciel... Rois! regardez en bas!
- Ah! le peuple! - ocean! - onde sans cesse emue,
Ou l'on ne jette rien sans que tout ne remue!
Vague qui broie un trone et qui berce un tombeau!
Miroir ou rarement un roi se voit en beau!
Ah! si l'on regardait parfois dans ce flot sombre,
On y verrait au fond des Empires sans nombre,
Grands vaisseaux naufrages, que flux et reflux
Roule, et qui le genaient, et qu'il ne connait plus!
- Gouverner tout cela! - Monter, si l'on vous nomme,
A ce faite! Y monter, sachant qu'on n'est qu'un homme!
Avoir l'abime la!...................
***
Forgive me, Charlemagne! These lonely vaults
should echo only austere words.
You must be annoyed at this buzzing
that our ambitions make around your monument.
- Charlemagne is here! How, sombre tomb,
can you contain such a huge shade without exploding?
Are you really there, giant of a creative world,
and can you repose there from your great height?
- Ah! It's a fine sight, enough to delight one's thought,
Europe made thus and the way he has left it!
And edifice with two men at the summit,
two elected leaders to whom every king born submits.
Almost all states, duchies, military fiefs
kingdoms, marquisates, all are inherited;
but sometimes the people has its pope and its caesar,
everything goes on and chance corrects chance.
Thence - balance, and order always bursts from it.
Electors in gold cloth, cardinals in scarlet,
the dual, sacred senate by which the earth
trembles,
are there only for show, and God does as he wishes.
Should an idea, if the time requires it, be hatched,
then it grows, walks, runs, mingles with everything,
becomes human, seizes hearts, digs a furrow;
many a king tramples it beneath his feet or gags it;
but let it one morning walk into the diet, into the
Conclave,
and all kings will suddenly see the enslaved idea,
on their kingly heads which its feet press down,
expand, sceptre in hand or tiara on their brow.
The pope and emperor are everything. Nothing exists
on earth
but for them and by them. A supreme mystery
lives in them, and heaven, whence they take all their
rights,
spreads a great feast for them of peoples and of
kings,
and holds them under its skies where the thunder
rumbles,
alone, seated at the table, they are there,
calculating and deducting,
arranging their universe like a mower his field.
Everything goes on between them. The kings are at
the door,
breathing in the aromas of the foodstuffs brought
there,
looking through the window, attentive, bored,
straining up to see from tiptoe.
The world beneath them is layered and in order of
merit.
They make and unmake. One unties, the other cuts.
One is truth, the other is power. They are right
in themselves, they are because they are.
When, both equal, they leave the altar,
one in his purple, the other in the white of the
shroud,
the blinded universe observes with terror
these two halves of God, the pope and the emperor.
- The emperor! The emperor! To be emperor! Oh, the
madness
not to be him! - and to feel one's heart full of courage! -
How happy was he who sleeps in this tomb!
How great he was! Even more beautiful in his time.
Pope and emperor! They were no longer two men.
Peter and Caesar! Linking both Romes within them.
impregnating one another in a mysterious marriage,
giving once more shape and a soul to humankind,
remelting whole races of peoples and any old way
kingdoms, in order to make of it all a new Europe,
and both redoing in the mould of their hands
the bronze which remained of the old Roman world!
Oh, what a destiny! All the same this tomb is his!
Is it all then so small that this is where he ends
his days?
What? To have been prince, emperor and king!
To have been the swordsman, to have been the law!
Giant, to have had Germany as your pedestal!
What! With the title of Caesar and the name of Charlemagne!
To have been greater than Hannibal, than Attila,
as great as the world!... and that it's all held in there!
Ah, covet the empires and see the dust
that an emperor becomes! Cover the entire earth
with noise and commotion; raise up, build
your empire and never say, "That's enough!"
Cut wide slabs for your huge building!
Do you know what will remain of it one day? Oh, madness!
This stone! And triumphant in title and names?
A few letters children can spell!
No matter how high your pride has aspired,
here's where it ends! ... Oh, empire! Empire!
What is it to me? I touch it and I find it to my taste.
Something tells me, "You will have it!" - I shall have it.
It only I had it! ... Oh, heaven! To be that which is beginning!
Alone, upright, at the very top of the immense spiral!
To be the key of the vaults of a mass of states,
ranged one on another, and to see beneath me
kings, and to dry my sandals on their heads;
to see beneath me the kings of feudal houses,
margraves, cardinas, doges, dukes with flowerets;
then bishops, priests, leaders of clans, mighty barons;
then clerks and soldiers; then, far from our summit,
in the shade, at the bottom of the abyss - men.
- Men! In other words, a crowd, a sea,
a great noise, crying, shouting, sometimes bitter laugher,
a complaint which, awaking the earth which is alarmed,
arrives to us through so many echoes in a noisy fanfare!
Men! - Cities, towers, a vast swarm, -
sounding the alarm from the high bells of the churches!
(Musing)
Bearing the base of nations on their shoulders, the
enormous pyramid resting at both poles,
living waves, always gripping it with their folds,
weighing it, shaking it with their vast rolling movement,
making everything change place, and at the highest points,
making thrones totter like step-ladders,
so much so that every king, stopping their pointless debating,
raises his eyes to heaven ... Kings! Look down!
- Ah, the people! Ocean! Endlessly turbulent swell!
Where no matter what you throw, something moves in response!
A wave which crushes a throne and rocks a tomb!
A mirror where a king is rarely reflected at his best!
Ah! if at times you gaze into this dark sea,
you will see on its bed empires without number,
great, wrecked vessels, rolled around by its ebb and flow,
getting in its way, and which it no longer knows!
- To rule all that! Climb, if you are called,
to this summit! To climb up there, knowing that you
are but a man!
To have the abyss there! ...................

Hernani opened on February 25th., 1830. The theme of fatality runs
through the play. In Tyutchev it is rarely far away, from the jocular lines
of an early verse [6] to the haunting poem on the death of his brother
[365]. One commentator says of Hernani: "... the way to light is blocked by
some fatality, crouched and lying wait." (B:19/ii/81). Tyutchev certainly
berates Destiny more than once and, indeed, must often have considered his
life to be one of pitfalls. Writing to Ernestine, about to travel during
December (1853), he works himself up into a state of near panic that she
will not take care of herself: "And if you were to fall ill on the journey?
And what if that were to be the trap which Fate had chosen for me as
punishment for my dissipations?" In a letter to the widow Elena Bogdanova
(1822-1900), with whom he enjoyed a probably Platonic affair in the final
half dozen years of his life, he writes: "There are things in life which
seem not to be the making of man ... fate itself, a very obvious fate ...
With one blow a single word can kill the Past and the Present and you need
some time to recover from such a shock". A number of images from Hernani
recur in later poems, one of the most frequent being that of a sense of
floating, or in some way being above the world of man. In a letter to
Ernestine (Oct. 13th., 1842), we read: "The young princess made her entry
the day before yesterday. I watched from Bouvreuil's window. It was a
magnificent sight, Ludwig Street paved from one end to the other with
people's heads, pressed so close together that they seemed motionless, and
then, when the princess's carriage approached, they were set in motion, and
there was something so strong and so stormy in this oscillating movement
stamped upon the crowd, that I could not observe it without feeling giddy. I
have never seen anything like it". Son na more/A Dream at Sea [92] remains
the most famous example of this.
66. 1830. The repetitive, galloping rhythm, suggesting the awesome
power of the stormy waters, is employed in such hypnotic sea-lyrics as
[87,92,281].
67. 1830. TR Goethe: Der Sanger/The Singer, from Balladen und
Romanzen/Ballads and Romances (1800). An earlier edition appeared in Wilhelm
Meister's Apprenticeship.
"Was hor' ich drau?en vor dem Tor,
Was auf der Brucke schallen?
La? den Gesang vor unserm Ohr
Im Saale widerhallen!"
Der Konig sprach's, der Page lief;
Der Knabe kam, der Konig rief:
"La?t mir herein den Alten!"
..........
"Gegru?et seid mir, edle Herrn,
Gegru?t ihr, schone Damen!
Welch reicher Himmel! Stern bei Stern!
Wer kennet ihre Namen?
Im saal voll Pracht und Herrlichkeit
Schlie?t, Augen, euch; hier ist nicht Zeit,
Sich staunend zu ergotzen."
..........
Der Sanger druckt' die Augen ein
Und schlung in vollen Tonen;
Die Ritter schauten mutig drein
Und in den Scho? die Schonen.
Der Konig, dem es wohlgefiel,
Lie?, ihn zu ehren fur sein Spiel,
Eine goldne Kette holen.
..........
"Die goldne Kette gib mir nicht,
Die Kette gib den Rittern,
Vor deren kuhnem Angesicht
Der Feinde Lanzen splittern!
Gib sie dem Kanzier, den du hast,
Und la? ihn noch die goldne Last
Zu andern Lasten tragen!"
..........
Ich singe, wie der Vogel singt,
Der in den Zweigen wohnet;
Das Lied, das aus der Kehle dringt,
Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.
Doch darf ich bitten, bitt' ich eins:
La? mir den besten Becher Weins
In purem Golde reichen!"
..........
Er setzt' ihn an, er trank ihn aus:
"O, Trank voll su?er Labe!
O, wohl dem hochbegluckten Haus,
Wo das ist kleine Gabe!
Ergeht's Euch wohl, so denkt an mich,
Und danket Gott so warm, als ich
Fur diesen Trunk euch danke."
***
"What do I hear outside the gates,
what sounds on the bridge?
Let the song before our ears
resound around the hall."
The king speaks, the page leaped off;
the page came, the king called:
"Bring the old one to me!"
..........
"Greetings to you, noble gentlemen,
Greetings, pretty ladies!
What a rich sky! Stars upon stars!
Who knows their names?
In this hall full of splendour and magnificence,
close, eyes, this is not the time
to stand in amazed delight."
..........
The singer lowers his eyes
and loudly struck loud notes;
the knights looked more courageous,
the ladies lowered their heads.
The king, pleased by the song,
commanded, to honour him for his playing,
that they bring a golden chain.
..........
"Don't give me a golden chain,
give the chain to your knights
for their bravery,
for splitting lances with the enemy!
Give it to your clerks,
add it to their other burdens.
..........
I sing as the bird sings
living in the trees;
the song which leaves my throat
is reward enough for me.
Well, if I must ask, so be it:
Tell them to pass me your best wine
in a pure, gold goblet!"
..........
He raises it, he drank it down:
"Oh, what sweet refreshment!
Oh let this house be highly blessed
where this counts as a meagre gift!
Stay healthy and remember me,
and thank God as warmly
as I thank you for this drink."
68. Late May, 1830. The poem reflects Tyutchev's impressions of part of
a return journey home. He left Munich on May 16th. Writing to Ernestine in
1847, he says, "...it's a great consolation, after three long years of
plains and bogs ... to see lovely, big, real mountains which don't become
clouds on the horizon when you look more closely at them." Nonetheless, the
Russian poems are brilliant examples of negative nature description.
69. 1830. The natural elements in many of Tyutchev's short nature
lyrics can be actors, each having a small, clearly defined role in a poem.
In this lyric, the storm, the oak, the smoke "running" (bezhal), as it does
through Hus's pyre [356]), then the "fuller", "more resonant" singing of the
birds and finally the rainbow restfully leaning its arc in the heights of
the trees constitute a marvellous, simple picture of peace, a precisely
chosen title.
70. 1830. Addressees unknown. Possibly inspired by renewing old
Petersburg acquaintanceships during the summer of 1830, it could equally be
addressed to his wife's sister, Klothilde. Klothilde was living with
Tyutchev and Eleonore at about the time the poem was written and by then, as
Gregg rightly points out, "Nelly, four years her husband's senior and mother
of three (and perhaps four), was crowding thirty, whereas, Clothilde, a full
ten years younger than her sister, was a lovely girl in her late teens. As
for Tyutchev, his conjugal ardour had already cooled enough to allow
extramarital attachments." (A:14)
71. 1830. Addressee unknown. Tyutchev may well have in mind a youthful
"crush". I cannot accept Gregg's "erotic attachment to the prospect of
female suffering" (A:14/64) While Tyutchev was in some ways a very selfish
man, Gregg's psychoanalytical statement is too sweeping.
72. NL 1830. A possible inspiration is the July revolution in France in
1830, with its tragic Polish repercussions. Poland suffered three partitions
(1772, 1793 and 1795), effectively ceasing to exist as a nation-state until
1918 as Russia, Austria and Prussia split her up among themselves. Following
the French example, the Poles governed by Russia rebelled in 1830 and Russia
reacted with brutality.
Tyutchev was interested in Cicero (106-43 BC). The Roman orator,
philosopher and statesman took cultural and intellectual values to the rest
of Europe. In Tyutchev's book collection was an edition of the Roman's
letters in a German translation. Lines 3-4 are a paraphrase from Cicero's
Brutus, sive dialogus de claris oratoribus/Brutus, or a Dialogue about
Famous Orators, XCVI/330): "I'm sad that, stepping for the first time onto
life's road, somewhat late, I was plunged into this republican night."
73. 1830. This depiction of the Russian countryside, while replete with
warm, almost comforting images, is nonetheless about death. Lane has
indicated Tyutchev's progression from the religion of Horace (hedonism) to
an acceptance that suffering can be a fine thing. (A:18viii).
74. 1830. The image of autumnal leaves is repeated in a later poem, the
emphasis reversed. Here, as autumn closes, leaves flee it in an image of a
light-hearted and youthful desire to flee death. In [194] summer storms
repeat the happiness of earlier lyrics yet, even though summer reigns,
Tyutchev cannot resist the temptation to refer to the first dead leaf.
75. 1830. Written on the journey from Petersburg to Munich.
Livonia: the medieval term for the territory of present-day Latvia and
Estonia.
....The bloody time: the period when the German Order of the Knights of
the Sword governed (1202-1562).
76. October, 1830, returning to Munich. The last two lines are a
variation of lines 7-8, st. 1, from Goethe's Willkomm und Abschied/A Welcome
and a Farewell, from Miscellaneous Poems (1763-4).
Es schlug mein Herz, geschwind zu Pferde!
Es war getan fast eh gedacht.
Der Abend wiegte schon die Erde,
Und an den Bergen hing die Nacht;
Schon stand im Nebelkleid die Eiche,
Ein aufgeturmter Riese, da,
Wo Finsternis aus dem Gestrauche
Mit hundert schwarzen Augen sah.
***
My heart beat, the horse sped me on,
it was done faster than thought.
Already evening weighed down upon the earth
and night hung in the mountains;
the oak already stood dressed in cloud,
a towering giant standing there,
where darkness looked from the bushes
looked out with a hundred black eyes.
Describing such a ride, involving several dark, eerie elements of a
nocturnal landscape, Goethe wrote, "what fortune it is to have a light, free
heart!" (Letter of June 27th. 1770). (B:13v, vol.1/14) Tyutchev's attitude
to the dark side of nature, especially when associated with Russia, was
quite the opposite.
77. 1830. The beneficent gods of this deceptively simple poem and of
Tsitseron/Cicero [72] offer man a share in nature and history. They do not
always act so, as in Dva golosa/Two Voices [179].
78. 1830. N. Berkovsky considers the poem to be aimed at Schelling and
his followers, for whom dowsers were "sacred people, entrusted by nature
herself". (A:3/37-39)
79. 1830. The imagery reflects that of the lyric on the Decembrists
[30], its slightly
singsong rhythm setting it apart as a political poem under the guise of
a nonetheless accurate description of dawn breaking over the Alps.
80. 1830. Influenced by the description of the environs of Rome in Mme.
de Stael's novel, Corinne, ou l'Italie/Corinna, or Italy (B:38,
pt.V,ch.3/124). She writes, "In a manner of speaking, this bad air lays
siege to Rome; each year it advances by a few steps and people are forced to
abandon the most charming places to its empire; undoubtedly the absence of
trees in the countryside surrounding the town is one of the causes of the
pollution of the air, and it may be due to that that the ancient Romans had
dedicated the woods to goddesses, so that the people should be made to
respect them. The bad air is a scourge of Rome's inhabitants, threatening
the town with complete depopulation... The maleficent influence is not
observable through any external sign; you breath an air which appears very
pleasant; the land laughs in its fertility; during evenings, a sweet
freshness offers you repose from the burning day, and all of this is death!"
Mme. de Stael was the influential Swiss writer credited with coining
the term "Romanticism".
81. NL 1830. Creusa, the wife of Aeneas, was not destined to leave
Troy. Falling ever farther behind her husband, she was taken back by
Aphrodite, Aeneas's mother. When Aeneas returned to find her, he was met by
her ghost.
82. NL 1830. This lyric, so imbued with rapture at spring's approach,
was described by Nekrasov as "one of the best pictures" ever to come from
Tyutchev's pen. (B:29/208) It certainly shows Tyutchev able to take an
incredibly joyful scene and depict it in extremely simple terms. Elzon
(A:10/198) considers that Turgenev's (1818-83) epigraph to his story Veshnie
vody/Vernal Waters (B:40ii, vol.11/7) is influenced by lines from Tyutchev's
poem. The epigraph is as follows:
Vesyolye vody, Cheerful waters,
Schastlivye dni- happy days -
Kak veshnie vody like vernal waters
Promchalis' oni. they have flashed by.
83. Probably no later than 1830. One of Tyutchev's best-known poems
(the Latin title his own) and Tolstoy's favourite. While tending to adhere
to traditional metrical patterns, Tyutchev occasionally broke with
tradition, in this case displeasing Turgenev (the editor).
The first stanza is as follows (the acute accent indicating the
stressed syllable):

Molchi, skryvaysya i tai - ? - ? - ? - ?
i chuvstva i mechty svoi - - ? - ? - ? - ?
puskay v dushevnoy glubine - ? - ? - ? - ?
vstayut i zakhodyat one - ? - - ? - - ?
bezmolvno kak zvyozdy v nochi, - - ? - - ? - - ?
lyubuysya imi i molchi. - ? - ? - ? - ?

Disliking the change from iambs in lines 4 and 5, Turgenev amended as
follows:
I vskhodyat i zaydut one, - ? - ? - ? - ?
kak zvyozdy yasnye v nochi. - ? - ? - ? - ?
Tyutchev's rhythm is wonderfully unexpected. While he began his writing
career as a poet, Turgenev did not possess a natural talent in this field,
although he was ready nonetheless to take a similar liberty with Kak
ptichka, ranneyu zaryoyu/The whole world starts as sunlight streams [110],
replacing Tyutchev's striking
O noch', noch', gde tvoi pokrovy - ? ? ? - ? - ? -
with the bland iambic pentameters of
Noch', noch', o gde tvoi pokrovy? - ? - ? - ? - ? -

84. NL 1830. This fine precursor of his later work shares images common
to two such different lyrics as Dym/Smoke [320] and Gus na kostre/Hus at the
Stake [356] as well as the contemporary Sizhu zadumchiv i odin/I sit deep in
thought and alone [115]. At the age of 27, the awareness of the ephemerality
of life and the speeding up of time is appearing in his work more
frequently.
85. NE 1830-NL early 1833. Addressee unknown. The poem's beginning is
similar to lines from Priznanie/A Declaration by A. Khomyakov (1804-60):
Usta s privetnoyu ulybkoi
Rumyanets barkhatnykh lanit
***
Lips with a smile of greeting,
the red of velvet lashes.
Khomyakov was the best known Slavophil, a poet, philosopher of history
and theologian.
86. Possibly September, 1831. On August 26th., 1831, Russian troops
took Warsaw. In connection with this, an anti-Russian campaign had been
conducted in the Bavarian press. The Polish seim (the diet) had declared its
Revolution on December 20th., 1830.
In the Aeneid, having angered the goddess Artemides, Agamemnon was told
to sacrifice his daughter, Iphigenia. His readiness to proceed with this
sacrifice earned him fair winds for Troy and placated the goddess, who
spared the daughter and took her away to be a priestess in the land of the
Taurians (present-day Crimea).
The janissaries were elite Turkish soldiers, originally renegade slaves
and Christian children taken in tribute.
87. Date unknown. Tyutchev undertook a sea voyage in the second half of
1833 when he was despatched from Munich to Greece on diplomatic business.
This very effective poem, one of several which are never anthologised with
more famous works yet which show his talents as a master of metre, rhyme and
humour (see [346, 350]), may reflect his impressions of an enforced stop on
the Dalmatian coast. Son na more/A Dream at Sea [92] deals with a similar
subject, sharing the storm setting and unexpected metrical changes, the
latter in [87] first noted by Lane (A:18viii). Tyutchev was conventional
when it came to a poem's layout and generally narrow in his choice of
themes, so these similarities are too much of a coincidence. Could he have
made this up, or did he have an old story in his mind during the storm?
Perhaps he heard or half-heard a tale. He was, after all, forever dozing off
or daydreaming and waking to half-hear something. Lane feels instinctively
that it is a translation or a poem on a theme of another poet and I tend to
agree.
A:18x/275 is a discussion of this mission to Greece which, while it
produced one of the most famous poems, [92], did his career no good at all.
Indeed, Tyutchev the diplomat "acquired and retained the reputation of being
a failure - a judgement with which he heartily agreed".
The Bavarian Prince Otto was the first king of the newly independent
Greece (reigned 1833-62). Persistently inept, he was finally ejected after
an insurrection in 1862.
88. NL early 1832. TR Uhland: Fruhlingsruhe/Peace in Springtime, [3] of
the Lieder/Songs (1812)
O legt mich nicht ins dunkle Grab,
Nicht unter die grune Erd' hinab!
Soll ich begraben sein,
Leig ich ins tiefe Gras hinein.
..........
In Gras und Blumen lieg ich gern,
Wenn eine Flote tont von fern,
Und wenn hoch obenhin
Die hellin Fruhlingswolken ziehn.
***
Oh do not lay me in a dark coffin,
nor under the green earth!
When I must be buried,
lie me in the dense grass.
..........
I'd rather lie among the grass and flowers,
a flute playing from far away,
above me floating
the light clouds of spring.
Uhland's work shares some affinities with folk poetry.
89. 1832. Undoubtedly written on the death of Goethe (Mar. 22nd. 1832).
90. Early May, 1836. This octet formed part of the later poem, Napoleon
[162]. In its early form, it is imbued with impressions gleaned from Heine's
characterisation of the emperor in the second article of Franzosische
Zustande/French Affairs in which Heine wrote: "Lafayette ... is not a genius
as Napoleon was, in whose head the eagles of inspiration had nested, while
in his heart the snakes of calculation writhed". (B:15iii, vol.3/95).
Considering Napoleon a monstrous child of the French revolution,
Chateaubriand (1768-1848) went further and played on the non-Frenchness of
the emperor: "Each nation has its vices. Those of the French are not
treason, blackheartedness, ingratitude. The murder of the Duke of Enghien...
the war in Spain... reveal in Buonaparte a nature foreign to that of
France". (B:8/70)
The French author, secretary of the French embassy in Rome under
Napoleon resigned on the execution of the Duke of Enghien. This "father of
Romanticism" in French literature served the cause of the Bourbons in De
Buonaparte, des Bourbons/About Bonaparte and the Bourbons (B:8) just one
year before Napoleon's final defeat.
Pushkin failed to have the poem published in Sovremennik/The
Contemporary. Banning it, the censor concluded that "the author's thought
was unclear and might well lead to a rather vague understanding". In 1849,
Tyutchev included another part of the poem, On sam na rubezhe Rossii/And
there you stood, and Russia stood before you [162], in the synopsis of
Chapter 7 (Rossiya i Napoleon/Russia and Napoleon) of a treatise he would
have entitled Rossiya i Zapad/Russia and the West, had he completed it.
Akskov believes this section of the poem to have been written in 1840. The
finished version can be dated NL March, 1850. Napoleon's influence as a
symbol of change, of a titan bestriding two ages, cannot be underestimated
in the works of more than one major author of the time. Tyutchev's final
version owes more than a little to Manzoni [60].
Chateaubriand wrote of Napoleon: "Child of our revolution, he is
strikingly similar to its mother ... Born largely in order to destroy,
Buonaparte carries evil in his breast as a mother bears her fruit with joy
and a kind of pride". (ibid./88-89)
In the notes to Russia and the West, Tyutchev wrote: "All the rhetoric
concerning Napoleon has pushed into the background what actually happened,
the meaning of which has not been comprehended by poetry. It is a centaur,
one half of whose body is Revolution". (A:1/220) The last words are
interesting in that Tyutchev names poetic perception and not historical
study as the means of comprehending the significance of Napoleon. In his
Dnevnik pisatelya/Diary of a Writer (B:11iii,vol.24/312), Dostoevsky echoed
Tyutchev's belief that politics is too important to be left to politicians:
"Faithfulness to poetic truth can communicate incomparably more about our
history than faithfulness to history alone".
What fate has in store for her, let it come to pass: a quotation from
Napoleon's command to his army at the crossing of the river Neman, June
22nd. 1812: "Russia is obsessed by fate: so, let it come to pass".
another riddle: Tyutchev has in mind words uttered by Napoleon on St.
Helena: "In fifty years, Europe will be either in the grip of revolution, or
in the hands of the cossacks".
at the East: by "East", Tyutchev means Russia.
The Contemporary was for some time the favoured outlet of the radical
intelligentsia, eventually losing many of its subscribers as more left-wing
people, such as Chernyshevsky (1828-89) and Dobrolyubov (1836-61), became
involved. After 1862 it became increasingly intolerant of anyone not
representing extreme radical views. After Karakozov's attempt on the tsar's
life in 1862, it was suspended.
91. Mid-January, 1833. This mildly ironic piece may have been inspired
by the statement of a thinker for whom Tyutchev had scant respect. The
italicised words support this. The notion of man eternally wondering how a
stone falls down a mountain side would have amused Tyutchev, as the idea of
the young man questioning the waves entertained Heine [32]. Before long
Tyutchev was to state that spring "obeys her own laws" and is utterly
unaware of man's thoughts or actions: Spring does not know us/us, our grief,
our malice... Vesna/Spring [132]).
92. 1833. In this incredible lyric, the poet is lifted above reality
and allowed a vision, divine or otherwise, but whatever the hallucinatory
vision represents, reality fights back. Tyutchev was not a good
sea-traveller and might well have had recourse to drugs to ease the
discomfort he must have experienced during the storm, although as late as
July 1847, on arriving in Berlin, he wrote to Ernestine: "... I was ... prey
for the first time in my life to the distress of sea-sickness".
The metre untypical, in Tyutchev, as well as some of the imagery, are
too similar to lines from Schiller's William Tell to be coincidence and may
suggest a source of this nonetheless truly striking poem. The German lines
follows.
Es donnern die Hohen, es zittert der Steg,
Nicht grauet dem Schutzen auf schwindlichtem Weg,
Er schreitet verwegen
Auf Feldern von Eis,
Da pranget kein Fruhling,
Da grunet kein Reis;
Und unter den Fu?en ein neblichtes Meer,
Erkennt er die Stadte der Menschen nicht mehr,
Durch de Ri? nur der Wolken
Erblickt er die Welt,
Tief unter den Wassern
Das grunende Feld.
..........
The heights are thundering,
the bridge is trembling.
Nothing terrifies the hunter
on this giddy path.
He paces unafraid
over mountains of ice.
Spring never blossoms there.
No twig is ever green;
and beneath his feet a foggy sea;
and he does not recognise
the cities of men.
Only through tears in the cloud
does he glimpse the world.
Deep through the waters -
the greening field.
"The closeness of man and nature in every aspect of this play must be
apparent to every reader. It is manifest throughout in two modes; equally in
the way men are seen to belong to a natural environment, and in the human
character of external nature itself." (B:36i/196)
Whatever the inspiration behind Tyutchev's work, it is a wonder of
rhythm and image.
93. NE 1833-NL April 1836. TR Beranger (1780-1857): Le Vieux Vagabond.
Air: "Guide mes pas, O Providence!" Des "Deux Journees"/The Old Beggar.
Tune: "Guide my steps, oh Providence!" From "Two Days".
Dans ce fosse cessons de vivre.
Je finis vieux, infirme et las.
Les passants vont dire: il est ivre.
Tant mieux! Ils ne me plaindront pas.
J'en vois qui detournent la tete;
D'autres me jettent quelques sous.
Courez vite; allez a la fete.
Vieux vagabond, je puis mourir sans vous.
..........
Oui, je meurs ici de vieillesse
Parce qu'on ne meurt pas de faim.
J'esperais voir de ma detresse
L'hopital adoucir la fin.
Mais tout est plein dans chaque hospice,
Tant le peuple est infortune.
La rue, helas! fut ma nourrice.
Vieux vagabond, mourons ou je suis ne.
..........
Aux artisans, dans mon jeune age,
J'ai dit: Qu'on m'enseigne un metier.
Va, nous n'avons pas trop d'ouvrage,
Repondaient-ils, va mendier.
Riches, qui me disiez; Travaille,
J'eus bien des os de vos repas;
J'ai bien dormi sur votre paille.
Vieux vagabond, je ne vous maudis pas.
..........
J'aurais pu voler, moi, pauvre homme;
mais non: mieux vaut tendre la main.
Au plus, j'ai derobe la pomme
Qui murit au bord du chemin.
Vingt fois pourtant on me verrouille
Dans les cachots, de par le roi.
De mon seul bien on me depouille.
Vieux vagabond, le soleil est a moi.
..........
Le pauvre a-t-il une patrie?
Que me font vos vins et vos bles,
Votre gloire et votre industrie,
Et vos orateurs assembles?
Dans vos murs ouverts a ses armes,
Lorsque l'etranger s'engraissait,
Comme un sot j'ai verse des larmes,
Vieux vagabond, sa main me nourissait.
..........
Comme un insecte fait pour nuire,
Hommes, que ne m'ecrasiez-vous?
Ah! Plutot vous deviez m'instruire
A travailler au bien de tous.
Mis a l'abri du vent contraire,
Le ver fut devenu fourmi;
Je vous aurais cheris en frere.
Vieux vagabond, je meurs votre ennemi.
***
Let's give up living, in this ditch.
I'll end up old, sick and weary.
Passers-by will say, "He's drunk".
Tough! They won't pity me.
I see some turn their heads away;
others throw small change.
Run quickly; go on, have a good time.
Old beggar, I can live without you.
..........
Yes, I'm dying here of old age
because no-one dies of hunger.
I'd like to see my distress
finally softened in a hospital.
But every hospital is full,
so unhappy are the people.
The street, alas, fed me.
Old beggar, let's die where I was born.
..........
When I was young, I asked
craftsmen to teach me a skill.
"Be off! There's little enough work for us",
was their reply. "Get off and beg".
I've had some good sleep on your straw.
Old beggar, I don't curse you.
..........
I could have stolen, poor man that I am;
but no, it's better to beg.
At the most I freed the tree
of the ripening apple by the roadside.
Twenty times I've been locked up
in the king's prisons,
deprived of the one thing that's mine.
Old tramp, the sun is mine.
..........
Has the poor man a native land?
What are your vineyards and cornfields to me,
your fame, your industry,
your assemblies of orators?
When the foreigner gorged himself
within our walls he'd taken by force,
like an idiot I cried.
Old tramp, it was his hand which fed me.
..........
Like an insect created to harm us,
men, why did you not crush me?
Ah, it would have been better had you educated me,
showed me how to work for the good of others.
Sheltered from the inimical wind,
the worm could have become an ant;
I'd have loved you like brothers.
Old tramp, I die your enemy.
A fervent admirer of Napoleon, Beranger's influence was significant in
1830 as the revolution of that year got under way. On his death, Napoleon
III did not allow people to attend his funeral. His songs made him
throughout his life an extremely popular, liberal man of the people, in
direct contrast to the authoritarian emperor. An extract from his poem, Le
cinq mai/The Fifth of May (1821), highlights the very elements encountered
in writers from Manzoni to Tyutchev:
Grand de genie et grand de caractere,
Pourquoi de sceptre arma-t-il son orgueil?
Bien au-dessus des trones de la terre
Il apparait brillant sur cet eceuil
Sa gloire est le comme le phare immense
D'un nouveau monde et d'un monde trop vieux.
Pauvre soldat, je reverrai la France:
La main d'un fils me fermera les yeux.
***
Great of genius, great of personality,
why did he arm his pride with the sceptre?
Far above the thrones of earth
he appeared brilliant on this reef, his glory is there
like a vast lighthouse,
glory of a new world and of a world which is too old.
Poor soldier, I shall see France once again:
a son's hands will close my eyes.
Ecueil (1.4) can also be a stumbling block and in this sense is
reminiscent of Tyutchev's podvodnyi kamen' very/the hidden reef of faith
from Napoleon [90].
Iros: a Homeric character forever running errands for the younger men.
94. April 21st. 1834. Triggered by the suggestion of a sound, for there
is none, really, the strings having been "brushed" by the moon's rays, a
door into the past appears. Such a technique, began in Problesk/The Gleam
[27] and employed as late as a poem to E. Annenkov [246] is one of
Tyutchev's favourites.
Skald: a Scandinavian bard.
95. September, 1834. In this elegaic poem, the Tyutchev who would
perhaps like to believe describes the trappings of belief sceptically. Like
the scene it describes, the poem is simple, almost bleak.
96. NE 1834, NL April, 1836. TR Heine from New Poems. In der Fremde/In
Foreign Lands.
In welche soll ich mich verlieben,
Da beide liebenswurdig sind?
Ein schones Weib ist noch die Mutter,
Die Tochter ist ein schones Kind.
..........
Die wei?en, unerfahrnen Glieder,
Sie so ruhrend anzusehn!
Doch reizend sind geniale Augen,
Die unsre Zartlichkeit verstehn.
..........
Es gleicht mein Herz dem grauen Freunde,
Der zwischen zwei Gebundel Heu
Nachsinnlich grubelt, welch von beiden
Das allerbeste Futter sei.
***
Which one should I fall in love with?
They're both very fanciable.
The mother is still a pretty woman
and the daughter is a lovely girl.
..........
These white inexperienced limbs
which look so touching!
Charming, brilliant eyes
comprehend affection!
..........
My heart is like our grey friend
which, standing between two bundles of hay,
ponders deeply about which of the two
will make the best meal.
The French philosopher and scientist, Jean Buridan (1300-58), decided
that, quantities and distances being equal, a dog placed between two bowls
of meat would choose which to eat at random. In later years, the dog became
"Buridan's ass". It is unlikely that Tyutchev would have copied the dog. The
younger, fresher Klothilde would most assuredly have exerted a stronger pull
on him than his wife.
97. NE 1834, NL April 1836. A variation on a theme from Heine from New
Poems: In der Fremde): In Foreign Lands).
Es treibt dich fort von Ort zu Ort,
Du wei?t nicht mal warum;
Im Winde klingt ein sanftes Wort,
Schaust dich verwundert um.
..........
Die Liebe, die dahinten blieb,
Sie ruft dich sanft zuruck:
O komm zuruck, ich hab dich lieb,
Du bist mein einz'ges Gluck!
..........
Doch weiter, weiter, sonder Rast,
Du darfst nicht stille stehn.
Was du so sehr geliebet hast
Sollst du nicht wiedersehn.
***
From place to place you're rushed away,
not knowing the reason why;
a gentle word rings out in the wind
and astonished you look around.
..........
That love which you left over there
tenderly calls you back:
"Oh come back, I love you,
you are my only happiness!"
..........
So on and on without resting,
you must not stand still.
What you love so much
you will never see again.
98. NE 1834, NL April, 1836. Addressed to Baroness Amalia von Krudner,
nee Countess von Lerchenfeld (1808-88). Meeting her in 1822, Tyutchev
retained a lifelong amitie amoureuse/loving friendship for this Bavarian
girl descended from the aristocratic Lerchenfeld-Kofferings. Amalia's first
husband, A. Krudner, was First Secretary in the Russian Mission in Munich
whence in the spring of 1836 he was transferred to St. Petersburg. During
the years 1836-44 Amalia is said to have had an affair of some sort with
Nicholas I. Tyutchev writes in a letter to Gagarin (July 22nd. 1836):
"Goodness, why did she have to become a constellation ... she was so lovely
on this earth". (See [257])
99. Mid-1830s. Such memories as expressed in this poem encompass his
early love for Eleonore, the heady days of the first visit to the West, that
sense of the world being perfect before, as Heine put it in [31], everything
seemed to fall apart. From this point on Tyutchev is more than ever aware of
growing up, in a sense, and his memories are there to haunt him in at times
self-pitying, at times quietly regretful lines.
Elysium: the abode of blissful souls in the after life.
100. 1830s. Written about the same time as he translated the two
extracts from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Tyutchev may well have been spurred
by some of the lyrical lines of The Merchant of Venice (V,i) to produce the
lushly lyrical poem:
Lorenzo
.............
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
101. 1830s. Tyutchev sees Spring in the guise of the Earth-Mother,
Spring as represented in [132], detached even from the transient joy which
man finds in religion's consolations, love, May's bliss, golden dreams, all
terms used superficially, bearing none of the sense of the profound, almost
pagan sense of well-being the lyric hero finds in this moment.
102. 1830s. The sensuality of the moment is weakened in the second half
of the poem by a transparent nature - woman comparison. Up till that point,
Tyutchev has produced a characteristically condensed picture of a
lightning-teased sky, nature's scents and sounds intensified in the silence
before a storm.
103. 1830s. The debt owed to one of Horace's odes ([3], bk. 2) has been
noted more than once.
quo pinus ingens algaque populus
umbram hospitalem consociare amant
ramis? quid obliquo laborat
lympha fugax trepidare rivo?
***
Wherefore do the tall pine and the white poplar
like to mingle their branches to give a hospitable shade?
Why does the water flowing by
seek to bicker against the curved bank?
104. 1830s. Tyutchev frequently depicts the moment just before dawn,
the moon still supreme during those minutes before sunrise. In this
rhythmic, hypnotic masterpiece, he holds night in place, as if in a
freeze-frame, allowing the lark's song to reverberate like the voice of a
lost soul, threatening madness to him who hears it at this time.
105. 1830s. As in [104] bird song represents Nature, here indifferent
to the negatively described man-made scene below. Formal religion is
depicted in terms of a body being lowered into one abyss (a hole in the
ground) while the religion of nature, if religion it can be called, is seen
in terms of the endless "abyss" (bezdna) of the sky.
106. 1830s. Tyutchev demonstrates his superb ability to employ
repetition and assonance in this lyric in which one of this favourite
devices comes into play, that of a woman's and the sky's changing moods in
terms of each other.
107. 1830s. The ageing Tolstoy could not read this without tears,
considering that it was one of the few true works of art which is of such
quality that there is no yardstick with which to measure it. This wondrously
muted, musical poem does, indeed, deserve such high praise.
108. 1830s. A similar, less inspired poem by A. Illichevsky
(1798-1837), Oryol i
chelovek/The Eagle and the Man, 1827) suggests a common source.
109. 1830s. The fast stream hurrying off to a house-warming conjures up
noise below the observer while the latter climbs ever upward to seek the
solitude of the peaks. In a later poem [234], the poet sits "above" roots
and, even though he is at ground level, the same up-down movement is sensed.
There is a similar sense of being alone, looking down on the world as water
pours towards it in sweltering heat.
110. 1830s. Young as he was, Tyutchev was already becoming obsessed
with ageing and being left behind. His personal tragedy was that as he aged,
his demon would not let him enjoy the emotional and intellectual peace which
old age is said to bring. In a letter to Ernestine (Aug. 14th. 1846), he
wrote: "Alas, is it really worth the trouble ageing if, with increasingly
debilitating forces, you remain a prey to the same agitations".
Writing to Nikolay Sushkov (1796-1871) with best wishes for the future
with his new wife, Tyutchev's sister, Darya, the poet could not, it seems,
resist the temptation to broach this subject: "For myself especially this
thought would be a torment, as tormenting as a reproach". (July 3rd. 1836)
He is referring to the fact that, the two brothers having left their
parents, the latter would now have to see out their last years without any
of their children. Such comments abound in Tyutchev's letters.
111. 1830s. A light-hearted comparison of an increasingly busy Danube
with the river from times gone by, when mythical creatures reigned, is
interestingly done from the vantage point of an observer far above it,
although the narrator's position is not described as such. As in Utro v
gorakh/Morning in the Mountains [48], the poet is almost airborne while the
river snakes away below him, an interesting counterpoint to Po ravnine vod
lazurnoi/Across a blue plain of water [157] in which he is on the deck of
the ship being observed from above.
112. 1830s. The poem could be seen as a microcosm of Heine's Travel
Scenes, the German describing his short escape from the unimaginative
academic life of Gottingen to wander through the Harz mountains in a lengthy
piece of prose, Tyutchev encapsulating the entire travel motif in two
stanzas. As in Tyutchev, in stanza 3 of the introductory poem to the
Harzreise/Harz Journey, Heine depicts the mountains as allowing the human
spirit to breathe more easily:
Auf die Berge will ich steigen,
Wo die frommen Hutten stehen,
Wo die Brust sich frei erschlie?et,
Und die freien Lufte wehen.
***
I want to climb the mountains
where the huts of the pious stand,
where one's breast opens up
and the free air wafts.
113. 1830s. Such poems have given rise to a kind of Tyutchevian chaos
theory. As poetry they are often far less effective than those containing
the condensed images in which the poet presents the reader with a scene and
makes no overt comment.
114. 1830s. This winter lyric is an effective description of an
ice-bound stream, the parallel between it and human experience in stanza two
skilfully retaining natural images, culminating in a faint hint of life
existing still beneath the ice of Nature and life. It is paralleled in the
last couplet he ever wrote [393]), evidence that the same few poetic
preoccupations remained with him throughout his life. Writing to Bogdanova
early in 1867, he says: "The cold is an abyss where our poor individuality
is swallowed and obliterated". He finishes this short letter by wondering
what it would be like to "swell out" (se dilater) in the sun, "perhaps in
Havana".
115. 1830s. The addressee is not known, although she could be one of
Tyutchev's conquests. The eternality and indifference of Nature are called
in defence of his misdemeanour since, no matter how he behaves, Nature will
go her own way in any case. One is reminded of Dmitry Karamazov's interest
in learning that if there were no God anything would be allowed.
116. NL April, 1836. A hint of the later "Russian" nature poems is
imparted by the simple image of the myortvyi stebl'/dead stalk among two
eight-line stanzas more or less entirely devoted to vague, "European" nature
images.
117. 1830s. There is a fairytale feel to this poem which could be
Russian or western, although the "washing in snow" (umylasya v snegu) is
definitely Russian.
118. NL April, 1836. This interesting poem mixes time-space imagery in
the second stanza, the poet-observer asking which "age" is white upon the
summits, noting that dawn sows red roses on them.
119. NL April, 1836. One of Tyutchev's less effective nature poems, the
formal two-stanza form contributing to a lack of spontaneity. In Nochnoye
nebo tak ugryumo/Sad night creeps [298] the same structure produces a wonder
of uncontrived magic.
120. NL April, 1836. The idea of hiding in the light of day, in natural
terms in the sky, is not unusual in Tyutchev. Here we have a version of two
poems [57, 58] with the basic idea reversed yet the basic concept remaining
the same.
121. NL April, 1836. Perhaps Tyutchev's pantheistic ideas were
considered not in keeping with the Orthodox view of nature as an entity in
which everything is subservient to the will of God, resulting in the
censored sections.
122. NL April, 1836. Tyutchev was a master of the short poem and had a
great command of the epigrammatic form. This not only cleverly brief, but
profound, lacking only that flippancy we saw in the earlier [16].
123. NL April, 1836. Nature is here called upon to reinforce an openly
sexual poem. Masculine physical desire is described, framed by a quick flash
of lightning around the skies. The downward-movement and sultry images of
stanza 2 make of this a marvel of brief sexual exultation.
124. Early 1836. Tyutchev's poem has something in common with a V.
Benediktov (1807-73) verse, Prekrasna deva molodaya/The young girl is
beautiful. In comparison with Benediktov's less subtle offering (considered
"vulgar" and "cliche-ridden" by Terras, C:1/233), Tyutchev's is cleverly
visual and erotic.
125. May-July, 1837. On the death of Pushkin and influenced by the
gossip which the poet's misfortunes aroused in polite society.
126. Dec. 1st. 1837. Inspired by a meeting in Genoa with Ernestine von
Dornberg, who became his second wife on July 17th. 1839. She had been his
mistress since early 1833.
127. December 1837. Probably linked with meeting Ernestine in Genoa.
128. December, 1837. On returning from Genoa to Turin where Tyutchev
was serving in the Russian diplomatic mission. the poem is an early example
of the north-south contrast. Here the Russian winter is an "omnipotent
sorceror" and lives "beyond this blizzard-kingdom". As a rule Tyutchev is
less kind and there is generally no hint of a pleasant fairytale in "this
interminable tunnel of a Russian winter". (LET.ERN. Aug. 16th. 1852)
129. Late 1837. Probably connected with his departure from Genoa and
Ernestine, whom he thought he would never see again. However, in October
1837 Tyutchev arrived in Turin to take up his post as First Secretary. He
served as Charge d'Affaires from August 1838 to July 1839 before leaving
without permission in order to marry Ernestine (A:18v).
130. April 4th. 1838. Addressed to the minor German poet, Baron Apollon
von Maltitz (1795-1870), married to Eleonore's sister, Klothilde. Maltitz
replaced Tyutchev as First Secretary in the Munich mission in 1837. Maltitz
was Tyutchev's first translator. The poem is the first evidence that the
French verse, while not as inspired as his greatest lines in Russian, can be
readable, occasionally containing some of that profundity we associate with
the Russian poems.
131. Early 1838. The political subtext may be too strong to resist. The
contrast between eastern and western Europe certainly emerges more strongly
from now on.
132. NL 1838. Tyutchev's wife had died, partly as a result of a
disaster at sea, in the summer of this year. With her daughters and nanny
she had been on her way to meet him in Munich. While he is reported to have
been grief-stricken, there appears to be no clearly discernible change in
the "feel" of his poetry from here on, although it might be considered that
a certain lightheartedness disappears. Considering Tyutchev's obsession with
ageing, however, this would be understandable. He continues to write in his
uniquely pantheistic mode and did not alter his social behaviour in any way.
A year later he had married the woman he had already made pregnant, and lost
his job.
The novelist Turgenev published an essay in 1883 entitled Un Incendie
en Mer/A Fire at Sea, in which he mentions his acquaintance, Eleonore
Tyutcheva. Having described in graphic detail the fire on board, baring,
after many years, his own panic, he wrote: "Among those ladies who escaped
the wreck, there was one, a Mrs. T..., extremely pretty and extremely nice,
but burdened by her four little girls and their maids". (There was only one
maid - FJ).
Turgenev describes her on the beach, barefoot, with her shoulders
barely covered (B:40, vol.14/201;509) Schapiro claims that while on board
Turgenev formed a romantic attachment to Nelly and goes on to point out that
the novelist's correspondence with his mother "suggests that he was in love
with her, or fancied himself to be so". (B:40i/18)
Nicholas I sent money to all the survivors of the tragedy. Eleonore
died only four months after receiving her money from the tsar.
133. NL early 1839. It is as if between the impulsion to produce
spontaneous and brilliant nature poems Tyutchev felt the need to
deliberately contrive a poem based quite clearly on some woolly Schellingian
premise. It is unfortunate that in doing so, a school of thought making him
celebrated for a "cycle" of "Holy Night" poems should have sprung up.
134. NL early 1839. Whatever the motivation and whoever the addressee,
there can be no doubting the reality of the physical feeling.
135. October, 1840. Addressed to Grand Princess Maria (1819-76),
daughter of Nicholas I. Tyutchev met her during the autumn of 1840 at
Tegernsee, near Munich.
136. September 6th. 1841. Prague. Dedicated to the Czech patriot,
scholar and teacher, Vaclav Hanka (1791-1861), whom Tyutchev met in Prague
in 1841. Hanka believed in closer links between Czechoslovakia (then
Bohemia) and Russia and went a long way to acquainting his compatriots with
Russian literature. In 1819 he published the so-called Kraledvorsky
manuscript, presenting it as a collection of the epic and lyrical songs of
the Czech people. It turned out that he had written them himself, having
studied legends and chronicles. Nonetheless, the book played its part in the
development of Czech national consciousness.
In 1867, Tyutchev wrote a postscript to the poem [323].
137. July 7th. 1842. Dedicated to the German writer and pamphleteer
Karl-August Varnhagen von Ense (1775-1858). Von Ense served in the Russian
army during the Napoleonic wars. He contributed through his translations to
a greater awareness of Russian literature in Germany. Tyutchev visited him
in Berlin en route to Munich. He had known the German since the late 1820s.
Von Ense was probably the most knowledgeable German of the time when it came
to Russian culture.
138. September, 1842. The Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), was
the first professor of Slavic literature at the College de France, where he
gave a series of lectures on the history and literature of the Slav peoples.
On receiving copies of extracts of the lectures from Turgenev, Tyutchev
wrote and sent this poem to him. Mickiewicz meant as much to Poles as
Pushkin did to Russians. Exiled to Russia in 1824 for Polish patriotic
agitation, he reached poetic maturity there, later becoming a Catholic
mystic and spending much of his life in Paris. It is ironic that Tyutchev
should have sent his poem to a man who believed that among all nations
Poland had a messianic role to play, and who wished to lead a Polish legion
against Russia during the Crimean war.
139. October, 1842. In letters to Ernestine, Tyutchev returns
constantly to the theme of separation. Images of absence and space abound,
whether as references to his separation from those close to him, something
he always found hard to cope with, or as images of the geographical vastness
and emptiness of his native land. In 1843 he wrote to her of "the tremendous
plain, the Scythian plain, which so often shocked you on my relief map,
where it forms an enormous sheet, no nicer there than it is in reality".
In July 1847 he had technology to thank for protecting him in some
measure from the emptiness of Russia's plains: "Ah, let's not curse the
railway, especially now that the network is joining up and closing in on all
sides. What is particularly beneficent for me is that it reassures my
imagination against my most terrible enemy - space - this odious space
which, on ordinary roads, drowns and annihilates you, body and soul".
Absence is geographical emptiness and distance between him and loved
ones. He begins and ends one virulent letter of 1851 thus: "To be sure, I
protest against your absence. I neither want to nor can tolerate it ... With
your company there disappears all... continuity in my life ..."
Is there anything in the world more ridiculous, more irritating and
less satisfying than writing? It's of use only to people who get used to
absence and resign themselves to this abyss. Ah, I just can't put up with
any of that!"
140. Late September, 1844, when Tyutchev resettled in St. Petersburg.
There is undoubtedly a culture shock here. Still, the first two stanzas show
the poet of Russia malgre lui beginning to produce some of his most
brilliant work. The remainder of the poem is as insipid as his feeble
hearkening back to the west in the superb Na vozvratnom puti/The Return
Journey [241].
141. 1844. A variation on the concluding lines of Schiller's
Kolumbus/Columbus (probably 1795) from Poems (1804).
Steure mutiger Segler! Es mag der Witz dich verhohnen,
Und der Schiffer am Steu'r senken die lassige Hand.
Immer, immer nach West! Dort mu? die Kuste sich zeigen,
Liegt sie doch deutlich und liegt schimmernd vor deinem Verstand.
Traue dem leitenden Gott und folge dem schweigenden Weltmeer,
War' sie noch nicht, sie stieg jetzt aus den Fluten empor.
Mit dem Genius steht die Natur in ewigem Bunde,
Was der eine verspricht, leistet die andre gewi?.
***
Steer on, courageous sailor! Wit may mock you
and the sailor's weary hand may sink onto the helm.
Onwards, ever westwards! There must the shoreline appear,
clearly visible, gleaming before your reasoning mind.
Trust in God who leads you and in the silent ocean.
Hidden till now, see a new world emerge from the waves.
Genius and nature are in eternal union,
The promises of one will be honoured by the other.
142. October, 1847. To Ernestine. The first four lines are her words.
In a fairly paltry French poem, the opposite of the dead leaf/myortvogo
lista [186] appears, dead flowers, in a possible burst of wish-fulfilment,
coming back to life.
143. 1848, the Year of Revolutions. Tyutchev was not the only Russian
writer to see Russia as a monolithic entity, unshakeable despite the West's
constant, subversive attempts to breach its defences. Zhukovsky's Russkomu
velikanu/To the Russian Giant was published shortly before. Tyutchev's poem
is a wonder of image and movement. Zhukovsky's is more openly allegorical.
144. November, 1848. In Russian or French this would be a superb poem.
Tyutchev yet again shows that he can describe with rare genius what he
really does not like in the least, that is his own native land in winter. He
uses the same French verb (assieger/to besiege) in a letter to Ernestine
(Oct. 15th. 1852), describing Ovstug, where she was staying with her thee
daughters, as a "horrible hole to which rain and snow lay siege".
145. Early January, 1849. Dedicated to Eleonore, whose death in 1838
had devastated him. In a letter to Zhukovksy, he wrote: "There are horrible
periods in human existence... To survive everything by which we lived -
lived for a whole twelve years... What is more normal than such a fate - and
what is more horrible? To survive and, all the same, to live!".
146. 1848. Concerning the revolutions of that year.
147. 1848-9. The invisible interlocutor pointing to life's shade, and
the poet-observer positioned between the shades of earth, here equated with
death, make of this characteristically short lyric, with its underlying
imagery of distance, a masterpiece of personal profundity.
148. 1848-9. Dobrolyubov quoted this poem in his article Kogda pridyot
nastoyashchii den'?/When will the real day come? (B:10, vol.6/137),
describing it as the "hopelessly sad, soul-tearing premonition of a poet so
constantly and mercilessly justifying itself over the best, the elite
natures of Russia".
The social-critical nature of the poem may have caused a change of
title to Moei zemlyachke/To My Countrywoman in the first edition.
Dobrolyubov had no time for anything poetic for its own sake. He was a
critic in the worst sense, once commenting that Tyuchev "is far from being a
first-rank poet, but I like his descriptions of nature very much, that is of
certain moments of its life". (ibid., vol.9/17)
149. 1848 or 1849. Similar in content to his unfinished Russia and the
West, on which he was working at this time.
Peter's town: Rome.
ll.9-10: A hint at the biblical prophecy about the kingdom which "will
never fall". (The Book of Daniel, II, 44)
150. 1848-9 (final draft, 1850). In the face of night (about which
there is nothing "holy", Tyutchev's Svyataya/holy being a Romantic cliche),
"thought" itself has been "abolished", a straightforward repetition of his
earlier feelings about the universe as expressed in A. N. M. [13].
151. June 6th. 1849. En route from Moscow to his birthplace, Ovstug.
This superb "Russian" nature poem employs the best-known techniques of the
"western" nature lyrics. The "crumpled", "frowning" earth, like that of a
new-born baby's face, under the threat of storm is a striking scene, as is
that containing the colour-intensifier, the greening field becoming greener
still as the thunder storm gathers. It is, in this reader's opinion,
impossible to find anything in a single "western" nature poem better,
lighter, more joyful in any way than the picture portrayed in this lyric.
152. June 13, 1849. Written during his second stay in Ovstug after
returning to Russia. In a letter to his wife (Aug. 31st. 1846), on his first
visit to his birthplace, he writes: "... during those first moments after
arriving, the enchanted world of childhood came vividly back to me, as if it
had been revealed, this world which had disintegrated and vanished long
ago... In a word, for several moments I experienced what thousands before me
had experienced in those very circumstances, what many who follow me will
experience and what, in the final analysis, is of value only for whoever has
lived through it all and then only as long as he is under its spell".
In another letter to Ernestine in 1846, sent shortly before visiting
Ovstug, he writes: "My life began later, and everything which preceded that
life is as foreign to me as the day before I was born. The reference to the
later life is the period after he left his birthplace for the West (1822).
153. July 23rd. 1849. Ovstug. The incredibly warm, comforting feel of
this superb lyric is shared by others depicting nocturnal scenes. (See, for
example, [167, 176]). I cannot accept Gregg's translation. He interprets
kak/how, like as an exclamation:
On a quiet night in the late summer,
how the stars in the sky glow red;
how beneath their dusky light,
the sleeping cornfields ripen...
Drowsily silent,
how in the nocturnal stillness
their gilded waves shine,
whitened by the moon.
It seems to me that the kak simply moves the action on, as is often the
case in folk poetry, the idea being that on a quiet night, something is
happening, with no emphasis, no full stop, not even a full sentence.
154. October 22nd. 1849. Such a sense of depression cannot be
alleviated, despite the poet's attempts, by a sense of spring being wafted
over his soul, for the ubiquitous dead leaf, like the pied piper, mockingly
runs before him all the way.
155. Autumn 1849. Aksakov recalls the circumstances of this
composition. Noting that it was only after Tyutchev's daughters were grown
up and Ernestine had learned some Russian, he quotes an example of their
need to write down what Tyutchev sometimes dictated: "...once, one rainy,
autumn evening, being driven home by cab, almost soaked to the skin, he said
to his daughter who had come to meet him, 'I've made up a few verses'. While
they helped him out of his clothes, he dictated the following charming
poem". (A:1/84-5)
156. 1849. Addressed to F. Vigel (1786-1856), the author of the well
known Zapiski/Notes written as if by Pyotr Chaadaev (1794 [?]-1856). The
latter was the strange, neurotic writer of the Lettres philosophiques
addressees a une dame/Philosophical Letters Addressed to a Lady which,
criticised Russia from a Roman Catholic point of view. In Chaadaev's bitter
denunciation of Russia, he accused the country, among other things, of being
somewhere between the west and the east, sharing neither the ideas nor the
education of either. His work brought upon him society's vitriolic
condemnation. He was not the only writer of his age to condemn things
Russian, but unlike Gogol, who got away with it because he was seen as a
comic writer, his attacks were all too openly serious.
In 1847 Chaadaev had lithographed portraits of himself commissioned in
Paris and sent to various people. Receiving a dozen to distribute, Tyutchev
wrote these verses on one and sent it to Vigel, a stranger to both of them.
Vigel wrote a puzzled, grateful letter to Chaadaev who wrote to the writer
and music critic V. Odoevsky (Jan. 15th. 1850): "Some stupid prankster has
thought to send him my lithographed portrait on his name-day, accompanying
it with Russian verses which he attributes to me... It's a matter of urgency
to make sure there are absolutely no consequences".
The prankster was never uncovered, so Tyutchev and Chaadaev did not
fall out. In a letter of the same year to his sister, Tyutchev quipped: "By
the way, tell Chaadaev to get some more copies of his lithograph ordered.
All the print shops are besieged by crowds, and I can only guess that their
having to wait so long might be the cause of some agitation in this mass,
and we could do with avoiding that".
157. 1849. There are times when it appears that Tyutchev forgets he is
an original poet and reproduces, if not verbatim, then subtly
plagiaristically someone else's poem. Here, of course, it is his version of
Heine, [34].
158. November, 1849. On the first manuscript there is in brackets the
dedication "to Fuad-Efendi", the latter a Turkish administrator in the
Danube region, poet and pamphleteer, Mehmed Fuad-Pasha (1815-1869). While
there are no hard facts relating to the reason Tyutchev wrote this, the
political events of the time make his motivation fairly clear. This
enlightened, liberal doctor of medicine, grammarian, interpreter, diplomat,
commander and minister was dispatched as a special envoy to the Tsar in
October 1849 as a result of Russia's insistence on the extradition of
Hungarian and Polish nationalists and Turkey's refusal to acquiesce. War was
imminent. Fuad-Pasha was instrumental in reaching a peaceful settlement.
Tyutchev may well have met him, for the Turk had talks with various Russian
officials during his visit to the capital. Both men were fluent
French-speakers, the Turk a supporter of the Europeanisation of his country
and a civilising influence in many ways in his circle, one of his ambitions
being the emancipation of women. Had it not been for their mutual paranoia,
Russia's on account of what she saw as an aggressive western Europe siding
with the infidel against Orthodox Christianity, Turkey's resulting from her
equally paranoid perception of Europe as a military and political power
expanding at her own expense, the two educated, intelligent diplomats could
well have been friends. While as liberal as one in his position could be,
Fuad Pasha was a foreign minister who, when sent to the Lebanon to deal with
internecine fighting between Maronites and Druzes, employed savage methods
to restore order. (See [326] and C:28.)
159. 1849. Addressee unknown. The "southern glance" could refer to one
of many women he will have known on his trips to Southern Europe, in
addition to being used in symbolic contrast to the "ugly dream" of the
"fateful north" of the final stanza.
Cimmerian night: the joyless night of Homer's Odyssey. The Cimmerii
were a tribe fabled to have lived in perpetual darkness.
A different land....: Italy.
160. 1848 or 1849. Korolyova was the first to establish that this poem
was influenced by Lamartine's Les confidences/Confidences. (B:22)
Larmartine's description of his home was echoed by Tyutchev. The Frenchman
wrote: "As for the garden itself, almost all that's left is the name. It
could count only as a garden in those primitive days when Homer described
the modest holding of Laertes and the seven fields belonging to the old man.
Eight squares of vegetables lined by fruit trees at right angles to each
other and separated by rows of fodder grass and yellow sand; at the end of
these rows, to the north, eight tortuous-trunked old arbours on a bench of
wood".
Writing to Ernestine (Aug. 31st. 1846), Tyutchev produced an
unidealised, though fundamentally fond description of his own home. His
obsession with his own ageing comes through: "The room I'm writing to you
from is my father's study, the very room he died in. To one side there is
his bedroom, where he no longer went. Behind me is the settee, making up the
corner where he laid down never to rise again. All around the room are old,
well-known portraits from my childhood and which, indeed, have aged less
than I. Opposite me is that old relic of a house which we once lived in and
of which there remains the body of the dwelling which my father had
maintained religiously so that one day, on returning to the country, there
would be some trace, some scrap of our former existence for me to find...
Indeed, that first moment I arrived, I had a very vivid memory as if it were
a revelation of that enchanted world of childhood, destroyed and annihilated
for such a long time now. The former garden, 4 large limes, very well known
in those parts, a fairly puny alley about a hundred paces long which to me
seemed immeasurable, all this magnificent universe of my childhood, so full
of life, so varied - all of that is enclosed within an area of several
square feet".
Lamartine was born in Savoy.
161. Possibly 1849. In such an insignificant poem written in French,
the Tyutchevian idea of something significant being poured into the air
comes across.
162. Final version NL early 1850. See note [90].
163. Late 1840s-early 1850s. Lane was the first to deal in detail with
the Pascalian character of some of Tyutchev's French poems, (A:18vii/321),
mentioning in particular [130, 139, 163, 176]. He begins his treatment of
these poems with [130], pointing out that "the first seven lines of the
following piece communicate anxiety and terror of the abyss of time".
164. NL early 1850. this rather stilted poem is reminiscent of parts of
Uraniya [7].
165. NL early 1850. The coldness of the moonlight, the desertedness of
the scene, the absolute sense of man's being alone and in an unwelcoming
environment all come across forcefully in this "western" poem.
166. NL early 1850.
The first two stanzas refer to the annual symbolic betrothal of the
doges of Venice with the Adriatic sea, a tradition lasting up till the late
eighteenth century.
Three centuries, perhaps four: the republic of Venice blossomed between
the 12th. and 15th. centuries.
The shadow of the lion's wing: a reference to the emblem of St. Mark,
the protector of Venice.
The links of heavy chains: From 1814 up to 1866 Venice was under
Austrian rule.
167. NL early 1850. This is untypical of Tyutchev. Nonetheless, it
shares with Vous, dont on voit briller, dans les nuits azurees/Unsullied
gods of light [176] a sense of warmth, even security. Night, in so many of
Tyutchev's spontaneous poems, is a comforting thing. Only in the more
formal, so-called "Holy Night" lyrics is night perceived to be a fearsome
entity.
168. March 1st. 1850. The tsar considered this poem, unpublished until
the Crimean War had broken out, "untimely" and censored it himself.
the fourth age: a reference to the 400th. anniversary of the fall of
the Byzantine empire (1453-1853).
The ancient vaults of Sofia: Aia-Sofia is now a mosque in Istanbul.
169. March 1st.-6th. 1850. The words in italics are taken from an
imperial manifesto of March 14th. 1848, on the revolutionary events in
Austria and Prussia.
170. May, 1850. Addressed to the Austrophil chancellor, Karl Nesselrode
(1780-1862). Nesselrode was of the old Holy Alliance school.
171. July, 1850. This comfortingly warm poem, dealing with the same
theme as his translation of Beranger's cynical work [93], shows, perhaps, a
Tyutchev pining for security, despite being in Russia with his family, and
equally expressing a conservative attitude to the beggar, asking god to help
him through life while accepting from the outsider's point of view that his
unenviable lot is a holy one.
172. July, 1850. The up-down movement of the river and apparent
sky-movement is typical of Tyutchev's poetic refusal to separate phenomena.
173. July, 1850. This is the first poem about his mistress, Elena
Deniseva. Elena inspired some of the sharpest, most touching love poetry in
nineteenth-century Russian literature.
174. July, 1850. His epigrammatic style comes across yet again. As in
[16] and [122], there are times when Tyutchev seems to sit back and simply
let God get on with it, provided he, the poet, is not pestered.
175. August, 1850. In this incredible poem, as in [118], nature is an
entity in which space and time merge.
176. August 23rd. 1850. A nocturnal walk with Ernestine is the subject.
This excellent work is yet another example of the warmth of a Russian
night-poem. (See [177].)
177. September 15th. 1850. Concerning death, as did the earlier [80],
hidden among luxuriant, colourful images.
178. 1850. St. Petersburg. A polite compliment to his sister-in-law,
the poetess, Evdokiya Rostopchina (nee Sushkova, 1811-1858), some of whose
popular love lyrics were set to music. She also wrote about the emptiness of
upper-class life. Tyutchev is said to have had a low opinion of her work.
179. 1850. One of the favourites of the poet Alexander Blok
(1880-1921), with what he referred to as its "Hellenic, pre-Christian sense
of Fate", this enigmatic poem seems relatively mediocre, far from possessing
any of the pre-Christian, Hellenic freshness Blok and his peers were often
looking out for in the poetry of previous years. It is untypical and
difficult to date. It could well have been written considerably earlier than
the fifties, though there is no hard evidence. Any reference to the Greeks
immediately suggests political undertones. The theme of Fate and the
indifference of the gods to man is Tyutchevian, but the general layout of
the poem most certainly is not. It could well be a translation or
adaptation. Indeed, Kozyrev (A:20,vol.1/88) considers Goethe's
Symbolum/Symbol to be the undisputed source although, despite his claim, he
was not the first to notice the link. (ibid., vol. 2, 47/129) The relevant
lines from Goethe (taken from stanza 3) are as follows:
....................Stille
Ruhn oben die Sterne
Und unten die Graber.
***
....................Peacefully
the stars rest above
and the graves below.
There are other references in Goethe's poem to the basic theme of
toiling man and carefree gods.
No self-respecting Soviet commentator could have resisted the
temptation to deal with this poem. Tvardovskaya (ibid., vol. 1/163) writes
as follows about the first stanza: "The lines... seem to have been written
about those and for those who, at a time when there was no widespread,
national movement, began single-handed their struggle with autocracy".
Atheistic existentialism is brought into the picture by Kozyrev. I
cannot agree with his finding that there are two creative periods in
Tyutchev's work, a point he makes more than once forcefully, any more than I
accept his philosophical links with Sartre and Heidegger in his discussion
of Two Voices: "The crucial moment between Tyutchev's two creative periods
and, from a certain point of view, perhaps, the height of his poetry, is
represented by 'Two Voices'. Here you have the break with the 'beneficent'
gods of nature, there - a majestic attempt to confirm man's dignity in
himself, as in the highest being in the Universe, but in a solitary being
thrown into the Universe, where Fate conquers, where everything is
subservient to death. The spirit of this poem is akin, in all likelihood,
not only - and not so much - to the tragic feel of the ancients, as much as
to the ethical concepts of the atheistic existentialism of Sartre or
Heidegger". (ibid., vol. 1/92)
An echo of like minds (pereklichka golosov/an exchange of voices) is
postulated by A. Neusykhin (ibid. vol.2/542-547) in an unfinished report in
which a link is seen between this poem and Holderlin's Hyperions
Schicksalslied/Hyperion's Song of Fate. The idea that the gods live in
eternal serenity and bliss, far from human toil and sorrow is, of course,
ancient and in his study of the Classics, the young Tyutchev will have
encountered it in Homer. I do, however, feel that Neusykhin was
over-cautious in stating that Holderlin's poem exerted no direct influence
on Tyutchev. The song is from the novel Hyperion, which deals with the
on-going Russo-Turkish conflict and was one of the few works by Holderlin
relatively well known in his lifetime. The German text follows:
Ihr wandelt droben im Licht

Auf weichem Boden, seelige Genien!
Glanzende Gotterlufte
Ruhren euch leicht,
Wie die Finger der Kunstlerin
Heilige Saiten.
..........
Schiksaallos, wie der schlafende
Saugling, atmen die Himmlischen;
Keusch bewahrt
In bescheidener Knospe,
Bluhet ewig
Ihnen der Geist,
Und die seeligen Augen
Bliken in stiller
Ewiger Klarheit.
..........
Doch uns ist gegeben,
Auf keiner Statte zu ruhn,
Es schwinden, es fallen
Die leidenden Menschen
Blindlings von einer
Stunde zur andern,
Wie Wasser von Klippe
Zu Klippe geworfen,
Jahr lang ins Ungewisse hinab.
***
You wander above in the light
on soft ground, blessed spirits!
Gleaming, divine breezes
touch you gently
like the artist's fingers
on sacred strings.
..........
Without Fate, like the sleeping
infant, the heavenly ones breathe.
Chastly preserved
in the modest bud
bloom eternally
their minds,
and their blessed eyes
gaze in calm,
eternal clarity.
..........
But to us it is given
nowhere to rest.
Dizzy and falling
is suffering mankind
blindly from one
hour to the next,
like water from one ledge
to another ledge drops,
year after year into uncertainty.

Friedrich Holderlin (1770-1843) merged Christian and Classical themes
in German verse which attempted to naturalise Classical Greek poetry. He saw
the gods of Greece as real, living forces in natural manifestations. The
novel Hyperion is the story of a disillusioned Greek freedom-fighter. In his
poem Die Heimat/Home, Holderlin wrote: "For they who lend us the heavenly
fire, the Gods, give us sacred sorrow too. Let it be so. A son of earth I
seem; born to love and to suffer".
Fundamentally, Tyutchev's poem is probably another example of his
eclecticism. All great literature owes much to what has gone before and the
truly great writer is capable of using, borrowing as opposed to stealing, in
T.S. Elliot's words, other people's work to his own original ends. As with
his choice of Schiller's Das Siegesfest/The Victory Celebration [181], a
connection with the Eastern Question can never be ruled out.
180. 1850. The two major political problems facing Tyutchev tended to
be the relationship between the Slavonic world friendly to Russia and
Poland, and the age-old question of the position of Constantinople, occupied
by the Turks.
181. Probably 1850-early 1851. TR Schiller: Das Siegesfest/The Victory
Celebration (1803) from Poems.
Priams Feste war gesunken,

Troja lag in Schutt und Staub,
Und die Griechen, siegestrunken,
Reich beladen mit dem Raub,
Sa?en auf den hohen Schiffen
Langs des Hellespontos Strand,
Auf der frohen Fahrt begriffen
Nach dem schonen Griechenland.
Stimmet an die frohen Lieder,
Denn dem vaterlichen Herd
Sind die Schiffe zugekehrt,
Und zur Heimat geht es wieder.
..........
Und in lagen Reihen, klagend,
Sa? der Trojerinnen Schar,
Schmerzvoll an die Bruste schlagend,
Bleich mit aufgelostem Haar.
In das wilde Fest der Freuden
Mischten sie den Wehgesang,
Weinend um das eigne Leiden
In des Reiches Untergang.
Lebe wohl geliebter Boden!
Von der su?en Heimat fern
Folgen wir dem fremden Herrn,
Ach wie glucklich sind die Toten!
..........
Und den hohen Gottern zundet
Kalchas jetzt das Opfer an.
Pallas, die die Stadte grundet
Und zertrummert, ruft er an,
Und Neptun, der um die Lander
Seinen Wogengurtel schlingt,
Und den Zeus, den Schreckensender,
Der die Aegis grausend schwingt.
Ausgestritten, ausgerungen
Ist der lange schwere Streit,
Ausgefullt der Kreis der Zeit,
Und die gro?e Stadt bezwungen.
..........
Attreus Sohn, der Furst der Scharen,
Ubersah der Volker Zahl,
Die mit ihm gezogen waren
Einst in des Scamanders Tal.
Und des Kummers finstre Wolke
Zog sich um des Konigs Blick,
Von dem hergefuhrten Volke
Bracht' er wen'ge nur zuruck.
Drum erhebe frohe Lieder
Wer die Heimat wieder sieht,
Wem noch frisch das Leben bluht,
Denn nicht alle kehren wieder!
..........
Alle nicht, die wieder kehren,
Mogen sich des Heimzugs freun,
An den hauslichen Altaren
Kann der Mord bereitet sein.
Mancher fiel durch Freundes Tucke,
Den die blut'ge Schlacht verfehlt,
Sprachs Uly? mit Warnungs Blicke,
Von Athenens Geist beseelt.
Glucklich wem der Gattin Treue
Rein und keusch das Haus bewahrt,
Denn das Weib ist falscher Art,
Und die Arge liebt das Neue!
..........
Und des frisch erkampften Weibes
Freut sich der Atrid und strickt
Um den Reiz des schonen Leibes
Seine Arme hoch begluckt.
Boses Werk mu? untergehen,
Rache folgt der Freveltat,
Denn gerecht in Himmels Hohen
Waltet des Chroniden Rat!
Boses mu? mit Bosem enden,
An dem frevelnden Geschlecht
Rachet Zeus das Gastesrecht,
Wagend mit gerechten Handen.
..........
Wohl dem Glucklichen mags ziemen,
Ruft Oileus tapfrer Sohn,
Die Regierenden zu ruhmen
Auf dem hohen Himmelsthron!
Ohne Wahl verteilt die Gaben,
Ohne Billigkeit das Gluck,
Denn Patroklus liegt begraben,
Und Thersites kommt zuruck!
Weil das Gluck aus seiner Tonnen
Die Geschicke blind verstreut,
Freue sich und jauchze heut,
Wer das Lebenslos gewonnen!
..........
Ja der Krieg verschilingt die Besten!
Ewig werde dein gedacht,
Bruder, bei der Griechen Festen
Der ein Turm war in der Schlacht.
Da der Griechen Schiffe brannten,
War in deinem Arm das Heil,
Doch dem Schlauen, Vielgewandten
Ward der schone Preis zu Teil!
Friede deinen heilgen Resten!
Nicht der Feind hat dich entrafft,
Ajax fiel durch Ajax Kraft,
Ach der Zorn verderbt die Besten!
..........
Dem Erzeuger jetzt, dem gro?en;
Gie?t Neoptolem des Weins:
Unter allen ird'schen Losen
Hoher Vater, preis'ich deins.
von des Lebens Gutern allen
Ist der Ruhm das hochste doch,
Wenn der Leib in Staub zerfallen,
Lebt der gro?e Name noch.
Tapfrer, deines Ruhmes Schimmer
Wird unsterblich sein im Lied;
Denn das ird'sche Leben flieht,
Und die Toten dauern immer.
..........
Weil des Liedes Stimmen schweigen
Von dem uberwundnen Mann,
So will ich fur Hektorn zeugen,
Hub der Sohn des Tydeus an; -
Der fur seine Hausaltare
Kampfend ein Beschirmer fiel -
Kront den Sieger gro?e Ehre,
Ehret ihn das schonre Ziel!
Der fur sein Hausaltare
Kampfend sank, ein Schirm und Hort,
Auch in Feindes Munde fort
Lebt ihm seines Namens Ehre.
..........
Nestor jetzt, der alte Zecher,
Der drei Menschenalter sah,
Reicht den laubumkranzten Becher
Der betranten Hekuba;
Trink ihn aus den Trank der Labe,
Und vergi? den gro?en Schmerz,
Wundervoll ist Bacchus Gabe,
Balsam furs zerri?ne Herz!
Trink ihn aus den Trank der Labe
Und vergi? den gro?en Schmerz,
Balsam furs zerri?ne Herz,
Wundervoll ist Bacchus Gabe.
..........
Denn auch Niobe, dem schweren
Zorn der Himmlischen ein Ziel,
Kostete die Frucht der Ahren,
Und bezwang das Schmerzgefuhl.
Denn so lang die Lebensquelle
Schaumet an der Lippen Rand,
Tief versenkt und festgebannt!
Denn so lang die Lebensquelle
An der Lippen Rande schaumt,
Ist der Jammer weggetraumt,
Fortgespult in Lethes Welle.
..........
Und von ihrem Gott ergriffen
Hub sich jetzt die Seherin,
Blickte von den hohen Schiffen
Nach dem Rauch der Heimat hin.
Rauch ist alles ird'sche Wesen,
Wie des Dampfes Saule weht,
Schwinden alle Erder gro?en,
Nur die Gotter bleiben stat.
Um das Ro? des Reiters schweben,
Um das Schiff die Sorgen her,
Morgen konnen wirs nicht mehr,
Darum la?t uns heute leben!
***
The fortress of Priam fell,
Troy was lying in ruins and dust
and the Greeks, drunk with victory,
richly loaded with their spoils,
sat on their high boats,
travelling happily along
the coast of Hellespont
to beautiful Greece.
"Let us sing joyful songs
for the ships are making
for their fatherland,
returning to their homeland".
..........
And in long rows, lamenting,
sat a crowd of Trojan women,
beating their breasts with grief,
pale, with their hair undone.
They mingled their plaintive wailing
with the wild celebration full of joy,
bemoaning their own suffering
caused by the fall of the empire.
"Goodbye, our cherished land!
We are following the foreign master
far away from our sweet homeland,
oh, how lucky are those who are dead!"
..........
And now Calchas is lighting a sacrifice
to the gods above.
He addresses Pallas, who founds
and destroys cities,
and Neptune, who casts his girdle
of waves around lands,
and Zeus, who induces fear
and wields the aegis.
"The long, hard war is now
fought out and over.
The circle of time has been completed
and the great city has been conquered".
..........
The son of Atreus, warlord of the troops,
looked at the numbers of people
who once upon a time went with him
to the valley of Scamander,
and the dark cloud of sorrow
gathered upon his brow.
He was bringing back only a few
of those who had followed him here.
"Therefore let those who are going to see
their native land again and whose lives
are still in bloom, sing
a happy song, for not all are going back".
..........
"Not all of those who are on their way home
may rejoice about their homecoming,
because even his own home
could be stalked by murder.
Many survivors of bloody battles fell
through friends' treachery", Ulysses said
with a warning look, inspired by Athena.
"Happy are those whose homes are pure and
chaste, protected by their wives' loyalty,
for a woman's nature is treacherous
and the bad ones like novelty".
..........
And the son of Atreus rejoices
about the woman he has only just won in the war
and, full of happiness, he puts his arms
around her beautiful body's charms.
"Evil doings must perish
and any outrage is followed by revenge,
because the council of Zeus
rules with justice in the high heavens".
"Evil begets evil and those who offend
against the law of hospitality
are punished
by the just hand of Zeus."
..........
"It may be fitting for those who are fortunate",
Oileus's courageous son exclaims,
"to praise the rulers on the heavenly throne.
However, their gifts are shared unequally,
and good fortune is not for Patroclus,
in his grave while Thersites is returning!
Because luck tips destinies
blindly from its barrel.
Let those who won their lives
in the lottery be glad and shout for joy.
..........
Yes, war devours the best.
You, brother, who were a tower
in the battle, will be forever remembered
by the Greeks on festive occasions.
It was your arm that offered salvation
when the ships of the Greeks were burning,
and yet the beautiful prize went to him
who was cunning and smart.
May your sacred ashes rest in peace!
You were not snatched away by the enemy.
Ajax fell through his own strength
Oh, anger destroys the best of men!"
..........
Now Neoptolem pours out wine
for his great father:
"Of all human destinies,
exalted father, I consider yours
to be best. After all, glory is
the greatest thing one can possess
and the great name lives on
after the body has turned to ash.
"Brave man, the brilliance of your glory
will be immortal in song,
because earthly life flees
and the dead last forever."
..........
"Since the vanquished are not mentioned
in the song, I shall testify on Hector's behalf",
the son of Tydeus began,
"he who fell protecting his country and home
while the victor has gained greatest honour,
he is honoured,
because he fell for a worthier cause.
The honour of the names of the fallen
protecting their home will live forever
in the memory of their enemies,
who will pay tribute to them."
..........
Now Nestor, the old reveller,
who saw three generations, passes
the garlanded cup
to the tearful Hecuba:
"Drink this refreshing drink
and forget the great pain.
The gift of Bacchus is wonderful,
a balm for the torn heart.
Drink up this refreshing drink
and forget the great pain.
The gift of Bacchus is wonderful,
a balm for a torn heart!
..........
For Niobe, who was the object
of the gods' heavy anger,
also tasted the fruit of the vine
and overcame the feeling of pain.
For as long as the source of life
is bubbling at the lips, the pain
is submerged deeply in Lethe's waters
and held there.
For as long as the spring of life
is bubbling at the lips, woes
are dreamt away, washed away
in Lethe's water."
..........
And now the prophetess rose,
inspired by her god,
and looked from the tall ships
towards the smoke of her native land:
"All that is earthly is smoke;
all that is great on earth,
vanishes like a column of smoke
and only the gods are permanent.
The horse of the rider, the ship
are surrounded by cares, therefore
let us live today, because
tomorrow we'll not be able to."

182. NL Spring, 1851. From the point of view of man's thought being a
transient insignificance, as expressed in Vesna/Spring [132], this is one of
several very un-Pascalian poems.
183. NL first months of 1851. Tyutchev ironically compares a woman's
beauty with the brief northern summer, clearly borrowed from Pushkin's lines
from Evgeny Onegin (chap. 4, canto XL):
No nashe severnoe leto,

Karikatura yuzhnykh zim,
Mel'knyot it net ....
***
But our northern summer,
a caricature of southern winters,
flashes and is gone already.

The poem begins in deadly earnest, the poet exclaiming that as we age,
we love "more murderously", more surely "ruining" what is dear to us, yet
already in the second stanza, then rapidly as the poem progresses, a
lighter, no less regretful tone appears, reminiscent of some of the earlier
poems with their "cheeks'...roses", "magical voice" and "youthfully lively
laughter".
184. April 12th. 1851. Addressed to Ernestine. Less inspired than the
previous poem, in these lines Tyutchev allows himself to float as it were on
the memory of childhood as recounted by his wife. (See A:20, vol.2/99-103.)
185. 1851. Addressed to Ernestine. Written during the second year of
his love for Elena (she had been pregnant since September 1850), the poem
stayed in a herbarium album, undiscovered by his wife until May 1875. On
first reading this poem, Aksakov wrote to Tyutchev's daughter, Ekaterina, in
1875: "These verses are remarkable not so much as poetry, as for the fact
that they throw some light on the most treasured, intimate ferment his heart
sensed for his wife... But what is especially striking and what grips the
heart so is the circumstance... that she had not the faintest idea that
these Russian verses existed... In 1851... she did not know enough Russian
to be able to understand Russian verse nor to decipher the Russian writing
of F.(yodor) I. (vanovich)... What must have been her surprise, her joy and
her grief on reading this greeting from beyond the grave, such a greeting,
such an act of gratitude for her work as a wife, her acts of love!" (See
A:33ii/149-150)
186. May, 1851. Trees dream, even hallucinate about spring in an image
which recurs throughout the poetry.
187. 1851. Addressed to Elena shortly after the birth of their eldest
daughter, Elena (May 20th. 1851-May 2nd. 1865).
Your unnamed cherub: could refer either to the fact that the poem was
written before the child's christening (the opinion of E. Kazanovich) or
that the baby was illegitimate (G. Chulkov), a fact that the poem was writen
before the child's christening (the opinion of E. Kazanovich) or that the
baby was illegitimate (G. Chulkov), a fact weighing heavily on the mother.
188. June 30th. 1851.
Let me in....! A paraphrase of Mark IX, 24.
189. July 14th. 1851. The image of ebb and flow is common in Tyutchev,
whether it be the literal forward-retreating movement of the sea ([143]) or
the figurative incursion-exiting movement of different levels of reality
constructed around a sea-image [92].
190. July 14th. 1851. En route from Moscow to St. Petersburg. This poem
is cleverly constructed to allow a superb image of a Jly, star-filled sky to
merge with a sense of threat, hinting back at a poem about a woman's eyes as
she is kissed ([123]).
191. August 6th. 1851. In this cynical comparison of love with a brief
dream, Tyutchev employs his epigrammatic style to great effect. There is, of
course, more to any poem employing any form or interpretation of the nodal
son/sleep, dream, as the opening of a letter to his wife (1852)
demonstrates: "... I had expected a letter from you today to give myself
just a tiny bit of a sense of reality. For it often happens that I perceive
my real life as a dream".
192. NL October 27th. 1851. TR Goethe: Mignon from Wilhelm Meister's
Apprenticeship (bk.3). First edition 1795, published separately in Ballads
and Romances (1800).
Mignon

Kennst du das Land? wo die Zitronen bluhn,
Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen gluhn,
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht,
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! Dahin
Mocht' ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter ziehn.
..........
Kennst du das Haus? Auf Saulen ruht sein Dach,
Es glanzt der Saal, es schimmert das Gemach,
Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an:
Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! Dahin
Mocht' ich mit dir, o mein Beschutzer, ziehn.
..........
Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg?
Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg,
In Hohlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut,
Es sturzt der Fels und uber ihn die Flut.
Kennst du ihn wohl?
Dahin! Dahin
Geht unser Weg! O Vater, la? uns ziehn!
***
Do you know that land were the lemons bloom,
Gold-orange glows in dark leaves,
a gentle wind wafts from a blue sky,
The myrtle stands quietly, the laurel stands high!
Perhaps you know it?
There, there
would I go with you, my darling.
..........
Do you know that house? Its roof rests on
columns,
its hall gleams, its chamber shimmers
and mosaics look down upon me:
poor child, what have they done to you?
Perhaps you know it?
There, there
would I go with you, my protector.
..........
Do you know the mountain and its high footbridge?
The mule seeks its way in the clouds;
in caves a brood of serpents lives,
rocks fall and over them pour waters!
Perhaps you know it?
There, there
lies our path! Oh father, let us go!

Tyutchev alters Goethe's stanza order for some reason, interchanging 2
and 3.
193. November 1st. 1851. The third stanza was quoted by Turgenev in his
story entitled Faust/Faust (1856) as well as by Chernyshevsky in his Povesti
v Povesti/Tales within in a Tale, which he wrote in the Peter and Paul
Fortress in 1863.
194. 1851. There are many echoes of the earlier Vesenyaya groza/A
Spring Storm [38], the chief difference being the yellow (i.e. dying) leaf
image.
195. 1851. TR Schiller: Wilhelm Tell/William Tell (1805). The song of
the fisherman's son (I,1). The play begins with these lines.

Fischerknabe singt im Kahn. Melodie des Kuhreihens.
Es lachelt der See, er ladet zum Bade,
Der Knabe schlief ein am grunen Gestade,
Da hort er ein Klingen,
Wie floten so su?,
Wie Stimmen der Engel,
Im Paradise.
..........
Und wie er erwachtet in seliger Lust,
Da spulen die Wasser ihm um die Brust,
Und es ruft aus den Tiefen:
Lieb Knabe, bist mein!
Ich locke den Schlafer,
Ich zieh ihn herein.
***
The fisher boy sings in a boat. Cowherd's melody.
The sea laughs, summoning to swim in her,
the young man has fallen asleep on the green bank.
There he hears the ringing
floating so sweetly,
like the voices of angels
in paradise.
..........
And as he awakes in blessed pleasure,
the water splashes onto his chest,
and from the deeps comes a call:
Dear youth, be mine!
I lure the sleeper,
I draw him here.

William Tell contains scenes of the natural beauty of Switzerland,
rebellion and two lake storms which help the fugitives to escape. There is a
strongly expressed "bond between man and nature, nature both within him and
around him". (B:36i/196) 196. 1851. Addressed to one of his daughters who
had accidentally crushed a canary. Tyutchev cannot resist a certain black
humour at the arbitrariness of Fate.
197. 1851 early 1852. His love for Elena is once again seen as a duel.
198. 1851-early 1852. Written from Elena's point of view. An
interesting treatment of this and the following poem deals with Tyutchev's
adoption of Elena's persona, a "gender shift". Pratt sees the lyric as "a
struggle between entropy - the terrifying tendency towards emotional
inertness caused by the impending loss of the beloved - and energy, the
cohering force supplied by the person's single-minded devotion to the love
relationship". (C:21/228)
Discussing [199], she continues: "As opposed to the sense of
fragmentation created by the alternately halting and rushing speech of his
female counterpart. Tyutchev's male persona exudes a sense of coherence and
control as he uses each line to express a complete thought smoothly and
rationally. His is the rhetoric of logic; hers the rhetoric of passion".
(ibid./231)
Irrespective of one's reaction to psychoanalytical interpretations of
Tyutchev's work, Pratt's treatment of the dramatic qualities of this and the
following poem is excellent.
199. 1851-early 1852. See [198].
200. 1851-early 1852. While my imagery is different, though, I feel,
not alien to that employed by Tyutchev, I believe it conveys adequately the
sense of anger and frustration experienced by him at society's shunning of
his mistress.
201. NL early 1852. Chulkov considers the use of the past tense
throughout to suggest that the poem might not be addressed to Elena. There
is indeed a hint of light-heartedness, almost flippancy, which characterises
none of Tyuchev's poems to his mistress. This poem is far more likely to be
addressed to an old flame or possibly his wife or former wife.
202. NL early 1852. Various interpretations could easily flow from this
poem where Death is equated with Sleep and Suicide with Love, though in the
case of the latter pair, while Tyutchev himself would experience the love,
the idea of suicide would most likely be transferred to Elena, most of the
suffering having been hers.
203. April, 1852. The image of something precious being buried on the
bed of the sea is not unusual in the poems, from his translations of Hernani
[65] and Sakontala [29], through Venetsiya/Venice [166] to Net dnya, chtoby
dusha ne nyla/Not a day relieves the soul of pain [299].
204. End of June, 1852. En route from Oryol to Moscow.
Only those .... a paraphrase of Matthew, V, 8.
205. July 28th. 1852. Stone Island (Kamennyi Ostrov). Tyutchev lived
there from early June to the end of September. All his letters of this
period are franked "Stone Island". It was renamed "Workers Island" after the
Revolution and is one of the island areas of St. Petersburg. In Tyutchev's
day, the wealthy had country homes there.
206. December 31st. 1852. Ovstug. One of many superb "Russian" nature
poems, the favourite sleep-dream formula appears in the central stanza,
Tyutchev's preoccupation with the limbo world between external reality and
his own inner reality never being far from the surface.
It is interesting that in proportion as her husband disliked the
Russian countryside, or often had people believe he disliked it, in July of
this year Ernestine could write the following: "I love the Russian
countryside; these vast plains swelling like wide seas, this limitless
expanse which the glance cannot take in, all this is full of grandeur and
endless sadness. My husband drowns in melancholy when he's here. I, however,
feel at peace and trouble-free right out here. I always have something to
think about or, rather, something to remember (...) I'd willingly spend
winter in the country, but my husband has announced categorically that he
will never agree to this, and I still don't know what we'll decide".
207. NE first half 1852-NL early 1854. Connected with his love for
Elena. In such a nostalgic and tender love poem, an image of the last glow
appearing in the western sky cannot fail to be interpreted as a symbol of
his equally strong love for western Europe. Lane describes the reason for
this journey abroad. (A:18, vol.2/464-470) Acting almost as a secret agent,
Tyutchev is described thus by the French ambassador to St. Petersburg: "The
Russian Cabinet senses the need to combat the English, French and German
press, which have crushed her with unanimous reprobation. As a result ... it
has sent to Paris one Mr. Tyutchev... so that he may meddle in the French
press! He's some poor diplomat, though attached to the Russian Chancellery,
and a pedantic and Romantic literary type ... Keep an eye on Mr. Tyutchev,
no matter how harmless his empty dreams may be!"
In a later communication, it was decided that Tyutchev was not
particularly hostile to France and was "as un-Russian as he could possibly
be".
208. Sept. 5th.-7th. 1853. Crossing at Kovno (present-day Kaunas).
Written en route from the west to Petersburg. On the evening of September
2nd. Tyutchev left Warsaw. The "fatigue and horrible boredom" experienced by
him during forty eight house in a stage-coach forced him to spend two and a
half days in Kaunas. Sending the poem to his wife, Tyutchev wrote: "These
verses I told you about are entirely imbued with the Neman. In order to
understand them, you would have to re-read Segur's page from his history of
1812 where he talks about the crossing of the river by Napoleon's army, or
at least remember the pictures depicting this event so often seen in
coaching inns".
southern demon: a reference to Napoleon's Corsican origins.
Philippe Paul Segur (1780-1873) was one of Napoleon's generals and a
writer on military matters. His Histoire de Napoleon et de la Grande Armee
pendant l'annee 1812/History of Napoleon and the Great Army during the Year
of 1812 (vols. 1-2) is referred to in Tyutchev's letter.
209. Autumn 1852-Spring 1854. Tyutchev hopes for a speedy, victorious
outcome to the Crimean War. Russia declared war on Turkey on November 1st.
1853, Turkey reciprocating on October 4th. Nicholas I took war to the
British-French-Turkish alliance on April 23rd. 1854. The war manifesto of
Nicholas I reads like one of Tyutchev's political poems: "Is Orthodox Russia
to fear such threats? Ready to confound the audacity of the enemy, shall she
deviate from the sacred aim assigned to her by almighty Providence? No!
Russia has not forgotten God! It is not for worldly interests that she has
taken up arms; she fights for the Christian faith, and for the defence of
her co-religionists oppressed by implacable enemies". (C:5/539)
210. Early 1854. On February 13th. 1854 Darya Tyutcheva wrote to her
friend, O. Smirnova: "If I had any poetic talent, I'd have written you
something in the spirit of this charming verse my father sent to Alex(andra)
Dolg(orukaya)".
Darya then quoted this. Alexandra Dolgorukaya was eighteen, and, like
Darya, was a maid of honour to the heir to the throne, Maria Alexandrovna.
Tyutchev frequently met Alexandra at his daughter's house. In his diary,
Tyutchev described Alexandra as being "irresistibly fascinating", mentioning
her "intelligence and grace" and, above all, the surprising "enigmatic"
quality of her nature. Years later, Anna wrote: "At first glance, this tall,
thin girl, with her awkward gait and somewhat rounded shoulders, whose face
was leaden-pale, with colourless, glassy eyes which looked at you from heavy
lids, produced an impression of repellent ugliness. But as soon as she
became animated by conversation, dancing or a game, the most complete
transformation was affected throughout her being. Her slender build
straightened up, her movements became more rounded and acquired the
magnificent, almost feline grace of the young tiger, her face glowing with
tender rosiness, her glances and smile taking on a thousand tender charms,
crafty and insinulating. Her entire being was imbued with elusive, truly
mysterious charm".
Alexandra was, in addition, extremely intelligent, sharply witty with a
fine sense of irony. Anna Tyutcheva, however, concludes by adding that
beneath this trenchant charm there was sometimes something "predatory". She
describes her friend as going out of her way to attract the tsar (C:19/83)
and clearly a liaison of some sort did take place. Having met the novelist
Turgenev, Alexandra served as the prototype for the heroin of Dym/Smoke,
Irina Ratmirova.
211. About August 11th. 1854. On August 5th. he wrote to his wife:
"What days! What nights! What a wondrous summer! You feel it, breathe it,
are penetrated by it and can scarcely believe it yourself. What strikes me
as being particularly wonderful is the way these lovely days are just going
on and on, inspiring a kind of confidence, what's called success in a game.
Has the good lord really abolished bad weather just for our sakes?"
212. September 11th. 1854. An epigrammatic profundity, the simple act
of saying good bye becomes an "abyss" (bezdna).
213. December, 1854. The poem fell foul of censor for its "vague
thought" and "a certain sharpness of tone". Addressed to G. Popova, one of
Tyutchev's acquaintances.
214. 1855-59. Late 1850s. The Jeu de secretaire/Secretary's Game was
fashionable in the St. Petersburg salons. This quatrain was written in a
book of questions and answers used in the game and might be a quotation from
something else. It seems to be a reply to the question put to Tyutchev: A
quoi bon un crayon?/What's a pencil for?
215. March 1st. 1855. The Austrian archduke was in St. Petersburg on
February 27th. 1855. Austria had refused to declare its neutrality during
the Crimean War.
216. July 10th. 1855. Addressed to Elena. There are echoes of many
poems here: billow after billow flow on as do thoughts and waves in Volna i
duma/The Wave and the Thought [189]; in Teni sizye smesilis'/Blue-grey
mingling [107], sounds, shapes, colours and aromas merge synaesthetically to
produce a dreamlike existence in which the poet can pour himself, as happens
when smoke from the fire engulfs him and his mistress; more ominously, in
Gus na kostre/Hus at the Stake [356], flame crackles and spreads like an
animal through the kindling.
217. Probably July, 1855. Tyutchev forgets himself and whatever
problems life has created for him, or that he has created for himself, the
exhortation to time to wait containing a hint of pathos made all the more
powerful by the reference to that which is vile and false, for the less
pleasant aspects of life in St. Petersburg high society were Elena's daily
social lot and, while after this moment Tyutchev must return to them, he was
never shunned for his part in the illicit romance. Unlike Elena he could
escape the vile and false at any time.
218. August 13th. 1855. Roslavl in the Smolensk province. One of
Tyutchev's most oft-quoted poems, it lends itself to easy interpretation by
commentators of various persuasions. From being a spontaneous reaction to
the sight of the down-trodden serfs, observed by Tyutchev more than once on
his own estate, to a reflection on the courage of the ordinary privates of
the serf-army defending Sevastopol, it was notably quoted by Dostoevsky in
The Brothers Karamazov, the section called The Legend of the Grand
Inquisitor. (B:11iii, vol.14/226).
Ivan Karamazov's strange prose poem concerns the re-appearance of
Christ during the Inquisition, a Christ who had finally heeded man's prayers
and in his immeasurable compassion once more come down to offer succour to
suffering humankind. The inquisitor informs Christ that he is to be burned
the next day, although after a lengthy justification of his decision,
relents and finally releases him, warning him that he must never return. The
contradiction inherent in the existence of a Church which is Christian but
which, like any ruling political party, needs to stay in power to survive,
is one of many aspects of the problem of faith and religion brilliantly
exploited by Dostoevsky. Tyutchev's meaning may be more ambiguous.
219. August 13th. 1855. Roslavl. Inspired by the poet's gloomy
presentiments during the siege of Sevastopol. The fall of the town
overwhelmed and stunned Tyutchev. In her diary Anna wrote: "My father had
just returned from the country, not suspecting anything of the fall of
Sevastopol. Knowing his passionate patriotic feelings, I was very much
afraid of the first explosion of his anger, and it was a great relief to see
him not irritated; only, from his eyes, quietly, great tears rolled; he was
deeply moved, when I told him that only the second day after receiving the
dreadful news of this blow which had befallen us, the tsar and the tsarina
had wanted to go out to the people to raise their spirits". (C:19/49-50)
The Crimean defeat had more than the straightforward effect of wounded
national pride on Tyutchev. "The deafening collapse of the imaginary granite
structure made the poet glance around him, look at Russia not only from the
window of the high-society salon". (A:20, vol.1,fn.9/166) While it did not,
as Soviet commentators have sometimes tried to demonstrate, make him in any
way anti-monarchist, it reinforced that contempt he had always felt for
inefficiency among those whose role was to rule.
220. October 16th. 1855. The poetess Rostopchina, about whose return to
Petersburg the poem is written, published her ballad Nasil'nyi brak/The
Forced Marriage, a portrayal of Russo-Polish relations. It incurred the
displeasure of Nicholas, who forbade her to appear in St. Petersburg. She
returned to the city only after the tsar's death. Tyutchev was constantly
involved in the works of other poets. Two days after writing this verse, he
was appointed to a committee whose brief was an examination of those of
Zhukovsky's works unpublished during his lifetime.
221. December 31st. 1855. St. Petersburg. Concerning the war and the
then fashionable spiritualism, ironically referred to as
Stoloverchenie/table-turning, Anna wrote (ibid./147-8): "July 10. Yum the
table-turner has arrived. Seance in the great hall in the company of twelve
of the emperor's entourage.... We were all sitting around a large table,
hands on the table; the magician sat between the empress and Grand Duke
Konstantin. Suddenly from various corners of the room there came knocks,
produced by spirits and corresponding to the letters of the alphabet".
The spirits decided they did not like Anna and asked for her to be
banished to the neighbouring room, from which she heard all the goings on,
including the table being raised into the air.
222. 1855. Tyutchev being the literary magpie he was, line 1 is taken
straight from Hamlet (1,v).
223. 1855. TR Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564).
Caro m'e 'l sonno, e piu l'esser di sasso,
mentre che'l danno e la vergogna dura;
non veder, non sentir m'e gran ventura;
Pero non mi destar, deh, parla basso. (B:27i)
***
Sleep is dear to me and being of stone is dearer,
as long as injury and shame endure;
not to see or hear is a great boon to me;
therefore, do not wake me - pray, speak softly.
Michelangelo's destiny, that of a brilliant artist dependent on
powerful masters, might well have struck sympathetic chords in Tyutchev. In
writing this quatrain, the Italian probably had in mind the loss of freedom
of Florence, in the designing of whose defences he played a part. In a
letter of 1870, Tyutchev, incensed at the stupidity of Russia's rulers,
quoted lines 2-3 of Michelangelo's poem.
The quatrain is a reply to some verses by Strozzi, inspired by the
famous sculpture of Night on the sarcophagus of Julian de Medici in
Florence. Enraptured by Michelangelo's work of genius, Strozzi wrote that if
Night could be awoken she would begin to speak:

La Note che tu vedi in si dolci atti
dormir, fu da un Angelo scolpita
in questo sasso e, perche dorme, ha vita:
destala, se nol credi, e parleratti.
***
The Night that you see sleeping in such a
graceful attitude, was sculpted by an Angel
in this stone, and since she sleeps, she must have life;

wake her, if you don't believe it, and she'll speak to you.
(B:27ii/419)
Filippo Strozzi (1489-1538) was a merchant banker and speculator who
basked in the glow of the favours abounding at the court of the De Medicis.
224. 1855. This French version of [223] is more faithful to the
original.
225. 1855. An epigrammatic epitaph for Nicholas I, who died on February
18th. of this year, undoubtedly inspired by the fall of Sevastopol. Tyutchev
wrote to Ernestine: "in order to create such a desperate position, you'd
need the monstrous stupidity of this ill-starred man". (Sept. 17th. 1855)
226. January 4th. 1856. St. Petersburg. Sent to Abram Norov
(1795-1869), an education minister from 1854 up till 1858. Norov was wounded
during the Napoleonic wars at the battle of Borodino.
227. April 8th. 1856. Addressed to Ernestine on her birthday. "Survive"
could well have been Tyutchev's catchword.
228. November, 1856. Written from the standpoint of Darya, who had been
persuaded to take part in an amateur production of Alfred de Musset's
(1810-1857) comedie-proverbe/proverb-comedy, Il faut qu'une porte soit
ouverte ou fermee/A door should be open or closed. De Musset was extremely
good at what he called le spectacle du fauteuil/armchair theatre. These
popular comedies were written to be read. They tended to involve a couple of
people, no external events, sentimental dialogue and the kind of theme which
would go down well at soirees, "a scene with people of wit, in a real-life
situation, and presented as faithfully as to suggest nature itself".
(B:28/1127)
This particular comedie-proverbe was first published in La Revue des
Deux Mondes/The Journal of Two Worlds, November 1st. 1845.
229. February 04th 1857. St. Petersburg. Nikolay Shcherbina (1821-69)
was a talented poet who grew up in Taganrog on the Black Sea in a Greek
community of a Greek mother. Nature and classical themes are predominant in
his imagist work. There are a few parallels between his poetic
preoccupations and Tyutchev's. He wrote contrasting verses about western
blueness and eastern European bleakness, some fairly mediocre philosophical
and some poor civic poetry. He was an ultra-conservative minister without
portfolio to the Associate Minister of Education and Tyutchev's great
friend, the poet P. Vyazemsky. In the 1860s, a period of demands for
socially relevant literature, he unashamedly proclaimed the lofty mission of
the poet. He died of a throat tumour.
E. Petrova (A:20, vol.1/33) considers this to be a "very
characteristic, very 'Tyutchevian' poem". She goes on to say that "the
poetic world of Shcherbina, this talented poet who tried to feel, to think
like the harmonious person of Hellas, is seen by Tyutchev as an attempt to
escape the over-burdensome impressions of existence, the 'Scythian
blizzard', to see refuge in a country where 'golden freedom' reigns in a
land of reverie. But it's a "sickly" "dream".
Petrova rightly, I believe, takes Freiburg to task. Tyutchev is not
rebuking Shcherbina's "honeyed antiquity" (ibid.), rather showing awareness
of a need to escape in fantasy.
230. NL April 2nd. 1857. TR Schiller: Das Gluck und die
Weisheit/Fortune and Wisdom (Poems, 1805).
Entzweit mit einem Favoriten

Flog einst Fortun' der Weisheit zu:
"Ich will dir meine Schatze bieten,
Sei meine Freundin du!
..........
Mit meinen reichsten schonsten Gaben
Beschenkt' ich ihn so mutterlich,
Und sieh, er will noch immer haben,
Und nennt noch geizig mich.
..........
Komm, Schwester, la? uns Freundschaft schlie?en,
Du marterst dich an deinem Pflug.
In deinen Scho? will ich sie gie?en,
hier ist fur dich und mich genug".
..........
Sophia lachelt diesen Worten,
Und wischt den Schwei? vom Angesicht;
Dort eilt dein Freund - sich zu ermorden,
"Versohnet euch, ich brauch' dich nicht".
***
Fortune with a favourite
once flew to Wisdom.
"I'll offer you my riches,
just you be my friend.
..........
I've poured my wealth liberally over this spendthrift,
into his lap like a mother!
And look! He's just as greedy
and keeps on calling me stingy.
..........
Come, Sister, let's be friends.
You puff and pant so hard at your plough.
I'll reward you richly.
Follow me. You have enough".
..........
Wisdom laughs at these words
and wipes the sweat from her brow.
"Your friend's coming on over - make up, you two,
for I've no need of you."

231. April 11th. 1857. Written on the fly-leaf of Volume 10 of
Zhukovsky's works and presented to Darya.
232. August, 15th. 1857. Ovstug. Written on the Feast of the
Assumption. Tyutchev also had in mind the impending reform of serfdom. He
expressed a reservation about Alexander II's reform programme in a letter of
September 28th. 1857, to A. Bludova, considering the system of serfdom ready
to be taken over by another system in reality even more despotic, for it
will be invested with the outward form of Law".
233. August 22nd. 1857. En route from Ovstug to Moscow. One of the most
anthologised poems, beloved of Tolstoy, this wonderful scene suggests
restfulness after a day of hard labour.
234. End of August, 1857. On leaving Ovstug for Moscow. This is a less
frivolous, equally happy and sensation-replete version of the earlier
Polden'/Midday [54].
235. February 23rd. 1858. On Maria's eighteenth birthday.

236. March, 1858. Dedicated to Elizaveta Annenkova (1840-1886).
237. NL April, 1858. Dedicated to the memory of Eleonore. Despite his
philandering, Tyutchev was capable on more than one occasion of writing
poems to Eleonore and Ernestine which demonstrate his genuine affection. It
should not, of course, be forgotten that in so many, if not all of his love
poems, he thinks primarily about himself. He does not say anything about the
positive effect of his love on a woman, rather of the way the relationship
made him feel.
238. NL April, 1858. Possibly in memory of Eleonore. Gregg's
mistranslation is unfortunate. The souls in question look down on the corpse
they have abandoned, not "from a height at a body they themselves have
hurled down". (A:14/171) Discussing the Russian eschatological sermon,
Fedotov points out that "The last striking image, familiar in Russian poetry
from the religious folksongs to Tyutchev, originates in Plato". He is
referring to the following: "..... with a terrible pain the soul will issue
from the body, as someone who has taken off his vestment and stands looking
at it". (C:31) The poem contains echoes of Heine's Wiedersehen/Meeting Again
[13] of the Lazarus poems, which Tyutchev will have read as Heine died in
1856 and these poems were published in 1851:
Die Gei?blattlaube - Ein Sommerabend -

Wir sa?en wieder wie eh'mals am Fenster -
Der Mond ging auf, belebend und labend -
Wir aber waren wie zwei Gespenster.
..........
Zwolf Jahre schwanden, seitdem wir beisammen
Zum letzten Male hier gesessen;
Die zartlichen Gluten, die gro?en Flamme,
Sie waren erloschen unterdessen.
..........
Einsilbig sa? ich. Die Plaudertasche,
Das Weib hingegen schurte bestandig
Herum in der alten Liebesasche.
Jedoch kein Funkchen ward wider lebendig.
..........
Und sie erzahlte: wie sie die bosen
Gedanken bekampft, eine lange Geschichte,
Wie wackelig schon ihre Tugend gewesen -
Ich machte dazu ein dummes Gesichte.
..........
Als ich nach Hause ritt, da liefen
Die Baume vorbei in der Mondenhelle,
Wie Geister. Wehmutige Stimmen riefen -
Doch ich und die Toten, wir ritten schnelle.
***
The honeysuckle - a summer evening -
We sat at the window as before.
The moon, enlivening and leavening,
Rose, but two ghosts was all we were.
..........
Since we last sat together here,
Twelve years subsided into Time:
Affectionate embers, the whole great flare,
Extinguished in the interim.
..........
I sat, laconic. She, loquacious,
The woman, poked and poked about
Persistently in the old love's ashes.
But not a spark was still alight.
..........
She told a long tale - how she's won
Her fight against bad thoughts - some fight!
How very shaky her virtue had been -
At which I kept my face quite straight.
..........
As I rode home, the moonlight trees
Seemed in the brilliance to run past
Like spirits - a sense of mournful cries -

But we, the dead and I, ride fast.
239. August 15th. 1858. A variation on a theme from Lenau's Blick in
den Strom/A Glance into the River (Lyrische Nachlese/Lyrical Late Harvest,
1844).

Sahst du ein Gluck vorubergehn,
Das nie sich wiederfindet,
Ists gut in einen Strom zu sehn,
Wo alles wogt und schwindet.
..........
O! starre nur hinein, hinein,
Du wirst es leichter missen,
Was dir, und solls dein Liebstes sein,
Vom Herzen ward gerissen.
..........
Blick unverwandt hinab zum Flu?,
Bis deine Tranen fallen,
Und sieh durch ihren warmen Gu?
Die Flut hinunterwallen.
..........
Hintraumend wird Vergessenheit
Des Herzens Wunde schlie?en;
Die Seele sieht mit ihrem Leid
Sich selbst voruberflie?en.
***
If fortune passes you by
it will never return.
It's good, then, to glance into the river
where everything moves on and fades away.
..........
Oh, just stare into it,
you'll then do without it more easily,
what was torn from your heart,
even if it was the thing dearest to you.
..........
Stare hard into the stream
till your tears become
a warm downpour
pouring into a flood.
..........
Oblivion, dreaming, will close up
the heart's wound;
with your grief, the soul sees
itself fly by.

240. October 22nd. 1858. Tsarskoe Selo. "Tsarskoe" has three vowels:
tsar-sko-ye (first syllable stressed). Sye-lo is end-stressed.
241. October, 1859. En route from Konigsberg to St. Petersburg. This
superbly descriptive, lyric work is so typical of the brilliant
Russian-nature poems of this period which go hand in hand with his constant
dislike of the bleaker aspects of eastern Europe, that "sad thing" which is
"a country where there are only clouds to simulate mountains". (LET.ERN.
Sept. 14th. 1853) One commentator considers it to be a political poem and
writes of Tyutchev's "total inability to create in his political verse a
living image of his 'chere patrie' - except in the most superficial sense,
i.e. the externals of Russian imperial power". (A:9/64) To consider a nature
poem to be political because it was written in Russia as Conant appears to
do, is strange enough. To miss the wondrous qualities of this poem is
unforgivable.
Tyutchev began a short letter to Darya with the poem, concluding: "Here
are a few poor verses, my dear daughter, which helped me pass the time on
this dreadfully boring journey... To be fair, however, I ought to tell you
that right now there's a lovely sun shining, not on rose bushes and orange
blossom, true, but on fresh, newly blossoming icicles".
242. December 20th. 1859. On December 20th 1859, Tyutchev received a
packet containing some spectacles and bearing the words, "To His Excellency
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev from Grand Prince the Admiral-General for the
coming ball". Puzzled, Tyutchev finally assumed that this was by way of a
reproach for not having paid his compliments to Grand Prince Konstantin
Nikolaevich at the Annenkovs' ball two days previously. Irritated, he sent
the verses to the prince, his daughter Maria hoping nothing would come of
this. Tyutchev discovered that at a forthcoming fancy-dress ball in the
Mikhailovsky Palace, he and the prince were to appear in identical costumes,
a domino (a long cloak of silk with a hood). Being short-sighted and not
wanting to be immediately recognised by his spectacles, the prince had sent
a whole variety of guests spectacles to wear at the ball. The poem was
interpreted positively by the prince, clearly considering that stanza 1 did
not refer to him, but that lines 18-19 were obviously directed at him.
243. Late 1850s. Addressed to the wife of Alexander II, the Empress
Maria Alexandrovna (1824-80). Aksakov wrote, "It is hard to imagine any
courtier smacking less of the court than Tyutchev". (A:1/261) As a
chamberlain, it fell within Tyutchev's duties to attend court and other
social gatherings. As a result of his dreadful writing, something to which
he referred frequently, he was once mistaken by "some stupid Englishmen" who
saw his entry in a hotel register as the tsar himself, on the strength of
"Emperor of Russia" being written after the word "chamberlain" and his name,
the latter indecipherable. (LET. DAR. 1862) This and the following quatrain,
composed on the occasion of "living pictures" at the Winter and Mikhailovsky
palaces, are characterised by the refined courtesy and courtly gallantry of
the French madrigal. "Living pictures" (Zhivye kartiny) were minor amateur
theatricals. (See [255].)
244. Late 1850s. See previous note. Addressed to Grand Duchess Elena
Pavlovna (1806-73), wife of Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich, the uncle of
Alexander II. Elena Pavlovna, nee Princess Frederika-Charlotta-Maria von
Wurttemberg, was one of the founders of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross
community of the Sisters of Mercy and the Russian Musical Society. She was
patron of a variety of educational and medical institutions, used great
initiative to put into practice the Reforms on her own estate and extended
her patronage to many liberal thinkers and writers.
In a letter to his wife (July 25th. 1851), Tyutchev describes spending
"a good hour tete-a-tete with her on her balcony on Stone Island". He refers
to her as a woman of grace and "imperishable charm" with an open, flexible
nature and inner joy and serenity. He dined with her more than once on this
"poetic balcony" and the two clearly had a good, friendly relationship.
245. December, 1859. A note on the manuscript reads: "December. 8
a.m.". The image of the moon, unaware of the early sun, and the spider-like,
timid groping over the horizon of the sun's first rays impart a hint of
apprehension to this lyric before the joy of sunrise.
246. 1859. Dedicated to Elizaveta Annenkova.
247. 1860-64. TR Jakob Bohme (1575-1624).
Wem Zeit ist wie Ewigkeit
Und Ewigkeit wie Zeit,
Der ist befreit
Von allem Streit.
***
He for whom Time is like Eternity
and Eternity like Time
is free
of all conflict.
Tyutchev finishes a letter to D. Bludov (written between 1860 and 1864)
with this poem. Bludov had asked Tyutchev, as a master of the short poem, to
translate this verse of the great, self-taught German philosopher. Tyutchev
held Bohme in high esteem, considering him "one of the greatest minds ever
to cross our world ... standing at an intersection point between the two
opposed doctrines of Christianity and Pantheism. You could call him the
Christian Pantheist, if these two words did not shriek at being put
together. To reproduce his ideas in Russian, in true Russian, you'd have to
acquire that language, so idiomatic and so profoundly expressive, of certain
members of our sects".
Bohme's view of God's ways is often considered idiosyncratic and his
writings can be considered confused, even chaotic. There is a striving in
his work to reconcile the dualities of Good and Evil to produce harmony. He
believed that they were equally important in God's universe. His work is
also pantheistic. Interest in the philosopher, which flagged after his
death, was revived during the Romantic movement. This poem served as Bohme's
motto and the theosophist would write it in friends' albums. (B:5/10)
Bludov (1785-1864) was an important state and literary figure,
President of the Academy of Sciences, Chairman of the State Council and the
Committee of Ministers. He and the Tyutchevs were very close.
248. Possibly 1850s, possibly early sixties. Pigaryov does not consider
that it was written during this period, although Tyutchev had serious
misgivings about these reforms (A:33ii, vol.2/370). The latter were complex
in structure and, far from revolutionary, the result of a long thought-out
process. Indeed, Nicholas I had set up secret committees to look into the
whole matter of serfdom well before it was finally abolished. The Crimean
disaster played a significant part, highlighting Russia's economic and
technological backwardness, related to her military ineptitude.
249. 1860s. There is some small doubt as to the authorship of this
poem, but there are enough indicators to suggest that it was written by
Tyutchev, possibly to Gorchakov's niece, N. Akinfeva. The manuscript bears
the initials "O.T." Pigaryov points out that in the pre-revolutionary
orthography, the Russian "F" was "(" and, this being very similar to "O", a
copying error could well be possible. He further considers that the poem's
"rhythmic-stylistic characteristics allow one to attribute it to Tyutchev".
(ibid./434)
250. March, 1860. St. Petersburg. Sent to Darya in Geneva.
251. October 20th.-29rd. 1860. On the death of the widow of Nicholas I,
the Empress Alexandra. Tyutchev recalls meeting her in Vevey on Lake Leman
in September of the previous year.
252. Possibly October 1860 in Geneva. Pigaryov casts doubt on 1861,
postulated earlier, as Tyutchev was in St. Petersburg then. It is, of
course, perfectly possible that having visited Switzerland the previous
year, Tyutchev was reliving a favourite experience in imagination, that of
being among his beloved mountains and lakes.
253. Feb. 23rd. 1861. Addressed to Maria, whose dog, Hecuba, seems to
have enjoyed a special wash and brush-up.
254. About February 25th. (re-worked early March 1861). Prince P.
Vyazemsky (1792-1878) and Tyuchev were old friends. P. Pletnyov, having
re-read Vyazemsky's work with Tyutchev one day, wrote to Vyazemsky that he
and Tyutchev agreed that in proportion as the burden of his days became
heavier, so his verse became younger and more playful. While Tyutchev did
not always see eye to eye with Vyazemsky, he placed great value on their
friendship. Whether or not, as Mirsky suggests, Vyazemsky "grew into an
irritating reactionary who heartily detested anyone born after 1810",
(C:2/82) Vyazemsky was his own man and unafraid to speak out. His verse was
somewhat along the lines of Batyushkov's, sometimes convoluted. In later
life, he produced some very mature poetry.
255. Early March, 1861. Tyuchev's son, Ivan, confirms that this was
written as if by Maria, in connection with Vyazemsky's fiftieth jubilee. In
December 1853 Maria played the role of a major in an amateur production of
the sort known as "living pictures". A propos of this, Vyazemsky wrote a
verse for her: Lyubezneishii maior, teper' ty chinom mal /My very dearest
major, right now you're of lowly rank. Later on Maria's engagement to N.
Birilev (February 05. 1865), Vyazemsky recalled the event in Ya znal maiorom
vas kogda-to/I knew you as a major then. Vyazemsky's poem follows:
Lyubezneishii maior, teper' ty chinom mal,
No poterpi, i budet povyshen'e;
V glazakh tvoikh chitayu uveren'e
Chto budesh' ty, v stroyu krasavits, general,
A v ozhidanii pobed svoikh i balov
Uchis', trudis', - i um, i serdtse prosveshchai,
Chtob posle ne popast', maior moi, nevznachai,
V razryad bezgramotnykh, khot' vidnykh generalov.
***
Dearest major, you're now of lowly rank
but, if you're patient, promotion will come along.
I see in your eyes that confidence
that, among all the beautiful women, you will be a general.
In anticipation of your successes and of balls,
study and work hard, enlightening your heart and mind,
to ensure, dear major, that you do not end up unexpectedly
among the ranks of illiterate, though conspicuous generals.
256. March 25th. 1861. In connection with the abolition of serfdom.
257. March 27th. 1861. Addressee unknown. This work is a gentle
masterpiece. The final stanza could be no more than a belated Romantic
cliche were it not for the remarkable music of the entire poem (as Kozyrev
points out in A:20, vol.1/122). Tyutchev alternates on "a" rhyme with other
rhymes in the first two stanzas, the final stanza's five lines all ending in
a stressed "a". There is throughout the poem an almost imperceptible merging
of the woman with the sky making of the two entities one being, the rhyme
reinforcing this. Kozyrev rightly sees a truly superb effect, Tyutchev's
"linguistic freshness" playing an equally important role. He indicates
Tyutchev's uses of dorassvetnyi in place of the more usual predrassvetnyi,
both meaning "occurring before dawn". (ibid.) The nuance is not possible to
translate into English.
Tyutchev knew many women, the exact degree of intimacy not always known
to us. Kozyrev claims that the poem is written in memory of "some pretty
girl who died young". (ibid.) Pigaryov considers the addressee to be
unknown. (A:33ii, vol.1/416) However, in a letter to Gagarin (July 22nd.
1836) Tyutchev refers to Amalia Krudner as having become a "constellation"
when she used to be "so beautiful on earth", a reference to her affair with
Nicholas I, imagery suggestive of this poem. It is impossible to be sure
about the identity of the woman in question, but I feel Amalia is a strong
contender.
258. March, 1861. Addressed to the German journalist, Wilhelm Wolfson,
invited by the Academy of Sciences to attend Vyazemsky's jubilee
celebrations. Wolfson was a Jew from Odessa who went some way to acquainting
the western European reader with Russian literature.
259. 1861. The first two lines relate to the celebration of the
fiftieth anniversary of Vyazemsky's literary career. The celebrations took
place on March 2nd. 1861.
260. July 25th. 1861. Addressee unknown. The poem is replete with
dream-forgetfulness imagery and the addressee would certainly seem to be a
woman who has appeared in more than one lyric up till now.
261. 1861. Addressed to his eldest daughter, Anna, whose work as
lady-in-waiting and tutor in the royal household is described, stripped of
any idealisation, in her diary and notes, Pri dvore dvukh imperatorov/At the
Court of Two Emperors (C:19). Anna was an honest, devout woman of strong
mind and her own opinions. In her diary entry for May 19th. 1855 she writes:
"The courtier's profession is not at all as easy as people think, and to do
it properly one needs a talent not possessed by everyone. You need to know
how to find the point of departure of support, so that you actually want to
play with dignity the role of friend and lackey, so that you can easily and
gaily go from the living room to the servants' area, always ready to listen
to the most intimate confidences of the lord and carry his coat and boots
for him. Pascal's words, applied to man in general, are applicable to the
courtier". She then quotes Pascal's pensee [163]:
S'il se vante, je l'abaisse
S'il s'abaisse, je le vante
Et je contredis toujours
Jusqu'a ce qu'il comprenne
Qu'il est un monstre incomprehensible.
***
If he boasts, I put him down,
if he puts himself down, I build him up,
and I always contradict
until he understands
that he is an incomprehensible monster.
262. December 6th. 1861. A telegram sent to his brother, Nikolay, and
brother-in-law, Nikolay Sushkov (1796-1871), on their name day.
263. 1861. Aimed at Grigory Fillipson (1809-1883), the administrator of
the St. Petersburg education authority and written on account of his
measures against students during the unrest of 1861. Filippson had been a
cossack chieftain.
A pun on the literal translation of the German name, Fillipson, into
Russian Syn Filippa/Son of Phillip. Alexander the Great was the son of
Phillip of Macedonia.
264. April 14th. 1862. This and the following poem were sent to Fet on
the latter's request that Tyutchev send him a portrait. Afanasy Fet
(1820-92) had a great deal of respect for Tyutchev and the two were good
friends. Of this champion of the rights of pure poetry whose melodic nature
lyrics and imagist style and classical themes gave way, in his later years,
to more philosophical and metaphysical verse, Mirsky writes: "The highest
summits of Fet's later poetry are reached in his love poems, certainly the
most extraordinary and concentratedly passionate love poems ever written by
a man of seventy (not excepting Goethe)". (C:2/236)
265. April 14th. 1862. See previous note. The poem would be better
understood if directed at Tyutchev himself. Fet's talent notwithstanding,
this should be seen as a polite, certainly sincere compliment, but one which
perhaps over-states Fet's abilities as poet of nature.
266. May, 1862. Tyutchev re-works verses by his daughter, Anna. The
Holy Mountains are a monastery on the northern Donets in the Izyumsky uezd
(an administrative region) of the Kharkov province. Anna was rather unhappy
with her father's meddling in her own poetic attempts. Writing to her
sister, Ekaterina, she says, "I'm sending you some new verses which I wrote
about the Holy Mountains and which dad has re-worked in his own style. It
goes without saying that his are incomparably better than mine; however, he
has not put across my thoughts exactly as I understood them". Her poem
follows.
Tikho, myagko, noch' Ukrainy,
Polna prelesti i tainy,
Nad dubravoyu lezhit.
Tyomno nebo tak gluboko,
Zvyozdy svetyat tak vysoko,
I vo t'me Donets blestit.
..........
Za obitel'skoi stenoi
Psalmopen'e, zvon svyatoi
Do zautreni molchat
Pod ogradoyu tolpoi,
Osvyashchyonnye lunoi,
Bogomol'tsy mirno spyat.
..........
I s krestom tam na chele
Belym prizrakom vo t'me
Nad Dontsom utyos stoit.
I, kak dukh minuvshikh dnei,
On molitvoyu svoyei
Bogomol'tsev storozhit.
..........
Vo skale toi svyashchenoi
Iskoni chernets smirennyi
Podvig very sovershal,
I v dukhovnom sozertsan'e
Skol'ko slyoz i vozdykhanii
Pered Bogom izlival.
..........
Ottogo, kak dukh blazhennyi,
Velichavyi i smirennyi
Nad Dontsom ytyos stoit,
I v tishi poroi nochnoi
On molitvoi vekovoi
Spyashchii mir zhivotvorit.
***
Quietly, softly the Ukranian night,
full of charm and mystery,
lies upon the leafy grove.
The dark night is so deep,
the stars shine so high,
and the Donets glistens in the mist.
..........
Behind the walls of their dwelling
psalm-singing and sacred ringing
are silent until prime.
Crowding together behind their enclosure,
illuminated by the moon,
the holy monks sleep peacefully.
..........
And there with the cross on its brow
like a poor spectre in the mist
above the Donets the cliff stands.
And, like a spirit of bygone days,
with its prayer
it stands guard over the monks.
..........
In this sacred mountain
since time immemorial a humble monk
carried out his task,
and in spiritual contemplation
so many tears and lamentations
did he pour out before God.
..........
This is why, like a sacred spirit,
majestic and humble
the cliff stands above the Donets
and in the still of the night
with its eternal prayer
revives the sleeping world.
267. February, 1863. The epigram is aimed at Tolstoy's story,
Kazaki/The Cossacks. The writer, Evgeniya Tur, while acknowledging the
story's artistic mertis, nonetheless saw in it a poeticisation of
"drunkenness, brigandage, thieving, blood lust". Tyutchev's epigram appears
to echo her feelings.
Tur was a writer of prose and literary criticism, a journalist and was
best known as a writer of children's stories. Her work is very much along
Christian moralistic lines. Among her many tutors was Raich.
268. August, 1863. Moscow. The verse is a reaction to the combined
diplomatic move on the part of England, France and Austria in connection
with the Polish uprising.
Stanza 3 contains a hint at the part played by the Catholic clergy in
the uprising.
269. November 12th. 1863. Dedicated to the St. Petersburg
Governor-General, Prince A. Suvorov (1804-1882), grandson of the famous
commander. Suvorov was a relatively liberal administrator. While this earned
him the sympathies of the St. Petersburg population, it gained him the
animosity of the more conservative elements in society. The poem was written
on account of Suvorov's refusal to sign the welcoming address to the
Governor-General of the north-western region, M. Muravyov, renowned for his
savage reprisals against Polish and Lithuanian insurgents. His Draconian
tactics earned him the sobriquet Veshatel'/Hangman. Tyutchev and other
Pan-Slavists supported Muravyov's measures.
270. Possibly 1863 and probably written to N. Akinfeva. The poem hints
at A. Gorchakov's feelings for N. Akinfeva.
271. Possibly some time after 1863. Nikolay Krol' (1823-71) was a minor
poet and dramatist and, with Polonsky, one of the few people who were linked
with democratic cricles with whom Tyutchev had any dealings.
272. February, 19th.-21st. 1864. On the death of Count Dmitry Bludov,
February 19th. the third anniversary of the publication of the manifesto on
the reform of serfdom.
273. April 12th. 1864. Sent to Darya on her birthday.
274. October, 1864. Geneva. As so often, Tyutchev encompasses many of
his poetic themes in one very short poem. Here, within the natural
framework, there is the sea-movement of Na Neve/On the Neva [172], the lush,
leaf-rustling, sunny feel of so many, and the anguish of the memory of
Elena's death.
.... one grave less: a reference to Elena.
275. Late 1864. Nice. Dedicated to the memory of Elena's final hours.

276. November 3rd. 1864. Nice. Dedicated to the Empress, Maria
Alexandrovna.
277. November 21st. 1864. Tyutchev lived in Nice from October 18th. of
this year to March 4th. 1865. Leaving the town in the spring of 1865,
Tyutchev wrote to Anna: "Italy has played a strange role in my life... Twice
it has appeared before me like some fateful vision, after the two greatest
sorrows I have ever been fated to experience... There are countries where
they wear the mourning of bright flowers. Obviously, this is my lot ...."
The two sorrows were the deaths of Eleonore and Elena. His
characteristic impatience with anything which prevented him from being among
people is described in a letter Anna wrote to her sister, Ekaterina (Dec.
4th. 1864): "Just imagine what poor dad is like when the weather's like
this. When it's raining in Nice, no-one goes out, social life comes to a
halt, the cabs vanish, the streets become impassable. Poor dad is thoroughly
down-hearted".
278. November, 1864. Nice. Inspired by his meeting with the Empress.
279. November, 1864. Written in connection with the promulgation of the
encyclical of Pius IX, condemning, among other "aberrations of the age",
freedom of conscience.
Stanza 1 contains a reference to the destruction of the temple of
Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 A.D.
280. 1864. Addressed to Prince Alexander Gorchakov (1798-1883), a
conspicuous figure in government, from 1856 occupying the post of Minister
of Foreign Affairs. He replaced the Austrophil, Count K. Nesselrode
(1780-1862). While Tyutchev considered it his duty to support the
nationalist motives behind Gorchakov's policies, to which numerous letters
and verses bear witness, nonetheless he caustically mocked the man's
ambition and self-love, calling him "the narcissus of his own inkwell".
Gorchakov was inordinately proud of his prose style. His vanity even came to
the attention of Bismarck, who once remarked that Gorchakov was "incapable
of stepping over a puddle without examining his own reflection in it".
(C:7/43)
There is an allusion here to Gorchakov's diplomatic activity during the
Polish uprising and to the rebuff thrown him by the foreign powers.
Aksakov points to the veiled suggestion that "new constraints are
threatening the Russian press". (A:1/281)
281. January, 1865. The poem was distorted when Darya copied it and it
appeared in print in such a manner that Tyutchev was extremely annoyed,
claiming they had published without informing him and presented the poem "in
its ugliest form". He further complained to the editorial board in February:
"God knows, I place very little value on my verses, even less now than ever
before, but I see no reason to take responsibility for poetry which does not
belong to me".
282. January 12th. 1865. Dedicated to Darya. The text ends with the
following words: "My dear daughter, keep this in memory of yesterday's
stroll and our conversation, but don't show it to anyone. Let it be
meaningful only to us two.... I embrace and bless you with all my heart.
F.T."
We do not know what they talked about, although the first stanza does
appear to have something in common with the following lines from a letter he
wrote to Darya in September, 1864: " .... if there were anything which could
lift my spirits, could create at least an outward appearance of life, then
it is to preserve myself for you, to dedicate myself to you, my poor, sweet
child, you, so loving and so alone, outwardly so apparently lacking in sense
and so deeply sincere, to you I have, perhaps, bequeathed this frightful
capacity which has no name, which destroys all equilibrium in life, this
thirst for love which in you, my poor child, has remained unassuaged".
283. January, 1865. Written on account of the address to Alexander II
by the Moscow nobility concerning the convocation of the Zemskaya duma (a
representative district council in Russia in the last half of the century up
till the Revolution). Tyutchev's frequent reactionary outbursts must have
irritated many less capable of expressing their feelings than he. However,
on this occasion, he appears to have got almost as good as he gave, as the
following anonymous reply to his epigram demonstrates:
Vy oshibaetesya grubo,

I v vashei Nitstse dorogoi
Slozhili, vidno, vmeste s shuboi
Vy pamyat' o zemle rodnoi.
V rayu terpenie umestno,
Politike tam mesta net;
Tam vsyo umno, soglasno, chestno,
Tam net zimy, tam vechnyi svet.
No kak zhe byt' v strane unyloi,
Gde nyne pravit Konstantin
I gdye slilis' v odno svetilo,
Valuev, Reitern, Golovnin?
Net, nam parlamenta ne nuzhno,
No pochemu zh nas proklinat'
Za to, chto my derznuli druzhno
I gromko karaul krichat'?
***
You made a coarse mistake,
and in your dear Nice
you've buried, together with your fur coat,
the very memory of your native land.
Patience is appropriate in paradise,
there's no place for politics there.
Everything's clever, harmonious, honourable.
There's no winter there, just eternal light.
But how about in a sad land
where right now Constantine rules
and where, into one luminary, there have merged
Valuev, Reitern and Golovnin?
No, we don't need a parliament,
but why curse us
for daring in a friendly manner
to loudly sound the alarm?

The references are to Grand Duke Konstantin, from 1865 Chairman of the
State Council; Pyotr Valuev (1816-1890), home affairs minister; finance
minister, Mikhail Reytern (1826-1886) and education minister, Alexander
Golovnin (1821-1886).
In the exclusive English club, high-ranking civil servants and those
with whom it was important to be seen would gather to play cards and
billiards, converse and take part in readings. Tyutchev's brother, Nikolay
was in the club when he died suddenly on December 8th. 1870. He suffered
from a heart condition.
284. Late March, 1865. Petersburg. Dedicated to the memory of Elena.
Lines from Tyutchev's letter of October 1864 to her brother-in-law, A.
Georgievsky (1830-1911), are his epistolary variant of this poem: "I just
can't get on with life.... I can't get on... The wound is festering and
won't heal. Call it faint-heartedness, call it impotence, I don't care. Only
in her company and for her was I an individual, only in her love, in her
limitless love for me was I aware of myself... Now I'm some sort of
unthinking living thing, some living, tormented nothing...".
285. Early April, 1865. Written on the occasion of the 100th.
anniversary of the death of Lomonosov, marked on April 4th. of that year.
Sending the first draft of his poem to A. Maykov, Tyutchev wrote: "Here, my
friend ... are a few poor rhymes for our festival. I can manage nothing
better thanks to my present disposition". While Maykov took part in the
proceedings, Tyutchev's verses were not read out for some reason.
On his death bed, Lomonosov feared that all his 'useful intentions'
would die with him. (See Note on Lomonosov in [7]).
Jacob is obviously referred to at the end of the poem, understanding at
dawn that his night-long struggle had been with God. (Genesis, XXXII,
24-32).
286. April 8th. 1865. St. Petersburg. The eldest son of Alexander II,
Nikolay (1843-1865), died on April 12th.
287. April 12th. 1865. On the death of Grand Duke Nikolay.
288. April 30th. 1865. The epigram is directed at Count Sergei
Stroganov, entrusted with the care of the heir to the throne, and refers to
rumours that the count's ukhod/care might have been the ukhod/ruin of the
young man. The verb ukhodit' can mean "to wear out" and colloquially "to do
in". In a diary entry (April 17th. 1865), A. Nikitenko tells us that
Tyutchev was convinced that the heir had been "worn out by the ridiculous
education he had received, especially by the kind that Stroganov had imposed
on him in recent years. His physical condition was completely ignored; they
exhausted him dreadfully by forcing him to study and perform beyond his
capacity and by ignoring the salutary warnings of certain level-headed
doctors.... The Emperor was kept in complete ignorance of his condition. So
not until several days before the heir's death did the Emperor learn
accidentally from a state messenger about the imminent tragedy". (C:24/297)
289. May 11th. 1865. When Aksakov wrote that he did not like the
barbarism protest in the final stanza, Tyutchev deleted the entire stanza.
Tyutchev, as is well known, tended to lose sight all together of his best
lyrics once he had written them. Since the immediate inspiration was of the
first importance in the composition of so many of his poems, I have chosen
to reinstate the final stanza. The epigraph comes from the Epistolarum
liber/Book of Letters (B:1/282) of the Roman poet Ausonius (4th. Century
BC):
est et harundineis modulatio musica ripis
cumque suis loquitur tremulum coma pinea uentis.
***
There is musical harmony in the reeds along river banks
and the hair (i.e. leaves) of pine trees speaks tremulously to its
winds.
The epigraph shows a clear parallel with the poem on Goethe's death
[89].
... the thinking reed: le roseau pensant of Pascal's famous aphorism,
"Man is no more than the weakest reed in nature - but he is a thinking
reed". (Pensees [231])
290. May 30th. 1865. Yakov Polonsky (1819-98) was a poet and friend of
Tyutchev, with whom he served on the censorship committee. He shared with
many poets the distinction of having his lyrics rubbished by Belinsky for
lack of civic feeling.
291. June 5th. 1865. Dedicated to N. Akinfeva and written at her
request to compose something for her album.
292. June 28th. 1865. A greetings telegram sent to Vyazemsky on his
name-day. Appended are the words, "Here are some fairly bad verses to please
the recipient".
293. June 29th. 1865. Tyutchev writes on the verses, "These are better,
but they're too long for a telegram". Addressed to Vyazemsky.
294. July 15th. 1865. While the first stanza recalls Elena, we are not
sure as to the poem's addressee. Alexander Georgievsky (1829-1911), Elena's
brother-in-law, is a possibility.
295. July 25th. or 29th. 1865. Once again, allegorical interpretations
are hard to resist, though the poem is superb on a literal level.
296. August 3rd. 1865, the eve of the anniversary of Elena's death.
297. August 5th. 1865. This and Molchit somnitel'no Vostok/The east is
doubtful, silent [295] share structure with the following poem [298], though
each, like Fontan/ The Fountain [119], is too clearly aiming at a
philosophical or political statement.
298. August 18th. 1865. The previous day Tyutchev had left Ovstug for
Dyad'kovo, returning the following day. The poem was written en route.
299. November 23rd. 1865. The old separation theme returns in a
striking image. Tyutchev's anguish about the past is rarely absent
throughout his life.
300. December 21st. 1865. This clearly concerns Nadezhda Akinfeva
(1839-91), nee Annenkova, the great-niece of Prince A. Gorchakov, and was
inspired by gossip caused by her divorce and proposed marriage to her uncle.
301. March 1st. 1866. Dedicated to Countess A. Bludova, daughter of
Count D. Bludov.
302. Written after the abortive attempt by Dmitry Karakozov on the life
of Alexander II (April 4th. 1866). The terrorist was a young, neurotic
member of a tiny group calling itself Hell. Karakozov shot at and missed the
tsar, was interviewed by him in person and hanged.
303. April 12th. 1866. St. Petersburg. The previous poem may have
elicited some official reaction and these lines could be a response to that.
304. April, 1866. Addressed to A. Suvorov. The relatively liberal
Suvorov was held partly responsible for the attempt on the Tsar's life and
was removed from office. The sharp tone of Tyutchev's poem reflects the
dislike felt for the prince among the more conservative St. Petersburg
circles.
305. May 11th. 1866. In connection with the intention of the Ministry
of Internal Affairs to suspend the journal Moskovskie vedomosti/Moscow News
for three months. Tyutchev was close to the editorial board at the time.
306. June 3rd. 1866. When Samuil Greig (1827-87), who had once served
in the horse guards, was moved from the Admiralty to become deputy finance
minister, Tyutchev pointed that that if they had given Reitern, the finance
minister, command of a regiment of horse guards, Russia would be shaken to
its foundations by the howls of protest, despite the fact that administering
the finances of the Russian Empire was somewhat more difficult than
commanding a regiment.
307. July 1866. Tsarskoe Selo. Time and the physical presence of swan
voices are joined as reflections in water.
308. September 2nd. 1866. Count Mikhail Muravyov died on August 31st.
309. September 1st.-3rd. 1866. Vyazemsky's satirical poems,
Vospominaniya iz Bualo/Recollections from Boileau and Khlestakov/Khlestakov,
were directed at the editor of the Russkii vestnik/The Russian Herald and
The Moscow News. The openly nationalistic editor, M. Katkov believed in
lecturing the authorities, a trait Vyazemsky hated. Tyutchev's poem appears
to be a defence of Kakov. It is also an oblique attack on Vyazemsky's
dislike of anything new. Tyutchev once compared Vyazemsky's attitude to the
younger generation to that of the "prejudiced, hostile explorer first
stepping foot on foreign soil of which he has no knowledge. (LET. ERN., Jan.
3rd. 1869). In order to maintain an old friendship intact, Tyutchev asked
for the poem not to be published.
310. September 17th. 1866. Petersburg. On the occasion of the arrival
in St. Petersburg of the Danish Princess Dagmar (1847-1928), bride of the
heir to the throne, the future Alexander III. Dagmar, later Maria
Fyodorovna, had, in fact, been the fiancee of Alexander's elder brother,
Nikolay Alexandrovich. (See [286].)
311. November 28th. 1866. The poem encapsulates the idea of many
Slavists (indeed, of many Russians through the ages up till the present)
that Russia was a land with a way of life all its own, significantly
different to European states.
314. Late December, 1866. TR of a French poem which I have yet to
locate.
315. July 1867. Connected with the Cretan rebellion of 1866. Marya
mentions Lady Georgina Eliza Buchanan, wife of the British Ambassador, Sir
Andrew Buchanan (1807-82, Ambassador Extraordinary to Russia), making a quip
about un bal pour les cretins/a ball for cretins, instead of for
chretiens/Christians. Such British aristocratic arrogance cannot have failed
to anger Tyutchev. On the other hand, Lady Buchanan's father, 11th. baron of
Blantyre, had been killed by a stray bullet during an insurrection in
Brussels in September 1830, so her attitude towards revolutionary movements
would have been somewhat coloured. She was the third daughter of Robert
Walter Stuart and the second wife of the ambassador. Andrew Buchanan had
been a paid attache in St. Petersburg in the late 1830s and Tyutchev might
have met him. Buchanan's first diplomatic duties took him to Constantinople.
(See [326].)
Ironically, some years earlier, Tyutchev himself had played with the
French word cretins, as Anna mentions in a letter to Vyazemsky (1854): "Dad
is now like an animal throwing itself around its cage. He is extremely
disheartened at the way events have turned and finds that people are pretty
stupid and the world is absurd. He says that this is a war of scoundrels
against cretins (c'est la guerre des gredins contre les cretins - FJ)".
316. Summer, 1867. In 1897, a book was published entitled Bratskaya
pomoshch' postradavshim v Turtsii/armyanam Armenii/Fraternal Aid to the
Armenians Suffering in Turkey. Tyutchev's poem appeared on p.128 (A:20,
vol.1/179-181).
317. 1866-67. Directed at Prince Pyotr Shuvalov (1827-1889). Chief of
police and head of the Third Section (the political police), Shuvalov was
nicknamed "Alexander IV" and "Arakcheev II". Arakcheev was a petty noble who
rose to high rank under Paul I (reigned 1796-1801), finding favour with the
tsar by relentless drilling of his troops and various ruthless measures
taken against dissidents.
318. March 1st. Addressed to Countess A. Bludova.
319. April, 1867. On Tyutchev's first reading of Turgenev's novel,
Dym/Smoke. The novel was considered "lamentable" by many and considered to
be the beginning of the decline of the novelist's artistic career. Tyutchev
was extremely displeased with it, especially its "moral feel" and the
absence of any "national feeling": "Smoke is still being read, and people
have not yet formed an opinion on it. Yesterday, I visited F.I. Tyutchev, he
had just read it and was very displeased. While admitting the skill with
which the main character was depicted, he deplored bitterly the ethical mood
pervading the novella and the total lack of patriotic sentiment".
(A:2/420-430)
320. May, 1867. The main image of the poem compares the "mighty and
beautiful", "magic, kindred" forest of the 1850s, i.e. Turgenev's earlier
novels, with his later work, whose title suggests that the educated and
intellectuals of Russia are so much smoke. Tyutchev genuinely respected
Turgenev's earlier work and felt let down by his later novel.
321. Early May, 1867. Read at a banquet at the Slavonic Congress.
Kosovo ("Blackbirds") Field: this topical location marks the place of
the battle at which the Turks, led by Murad II, defeated the Serbs in 1389.
The Serbian Prince Lazar was killed. At that time the Turks were advancing
rapidly through the Balkans. The battle is one of those in any country's
history which takes on symbolic importance to its people, here the Serbs.
White Mountain: a hilly area near Prague. The defeat of the Czechs by
the German Emperor Ferdinand II on November 8th. 1620 led to the loss of
Czech political independence. After that point Bavarian Catholic elements
took over from the former Protestant German and Czech nobility and employed
terror to attempt to oust Protestantism.
322. May 11th. 1867. The epigraph is the words of the Austrian Minister
of Foreign Affairs, Count Friedrich von Beust, who conducted an anti-Slav
policy ("The Slavs must be pressed against the wall"). At the Slav Congress
of this year, the poem was read twice to rapturous applause.
323. 1867. In this postscript to the earlier poem, K Ganke/To Hanka
[136], Tyutchev refers to the first so-called All-Slav festival, having in
mind the Slavonic Congress which took place in 1867. It followed on from an
Ethnographic Exhibition in Moscow, there being a Slavonic section. In May
1867, eighty one representatives of various Slav nations arrived at the
exhibition and celebrations followed in St. Petersburg from May 8th. to May
15th. and in Moscow for a further twelve days. Petrovich (C:26) points out
that this "congress" (s''ezd) was more a get-together than a real congress.
Despite the aspirations of the guests, such conferences and celebrations had
no hard political significance.
324. May, 1867. St. Petersburg. Tyutchev was ever irritated by what he
saw as a haughty lack of nationalist feeling on the part of the powers that
be and a polite society which followed fashionable fawning after Europe.
325. June 13th. 1867. On the fiftieth anniversary of A. Gorchakov's
entry into public life.
326. Mid-July, 1867. On the occasion of Queen Victoria's acceptance of
the Sultan as her guest. Sent to Lady Buchanan. (See [315].) In a letter to
Aksakov (Aug. 23rd. 1867), Tyutchev continues sniping at Turkey: "Fuad
Pasha's embassy to Levadeia (a major town in eastern Greece - FJ) Livadia
was confined to an exchange of banalities, and the order they awarded him -
going against Prince Gorchakov's view - was no more than routine ritual,
significant only in the sense that such absurdity demonstrates how little
today's mood is understood, or how little value is placed on it".
Having unsuccessfully tried to persuade the Turks to return Crete to
Greece, although union was, indeed, vetoed by Britain, Alexander II saw fit,
nonetheless, to award Mehmet Fuad Pasha the Order of Alexander Nevsky.
Tyutchev was characteristically incensed by the entire affair, not least by
what he perceived as the constant stupidity of Russian diplomacy.
327. October 14th. 1867. During a session of the Chief Council of the
Management of Press Affairs, Count P. Kapnist (1830-98) noticed that
Tyutchev "was extremely vacant-looking and was scribbling or drawing
something on a sheet of paper on the table in front of him". (A:33/ii,
vol.1/430) After the meeting he left, looking very thoughtful, leaving the
paper. Kapnist retrieved the paper "with which to remember a favourite
poet".
328. October 27th. 1867. On the struggle between Garibaldi's patriots
and the papal forces, the result being the unification of Italy in 1870.
... and whoever.... a reference to the assistance the French gave the
Pope.
Lines 9-12 are addressed to Pius IX (1792-1878).
329. December 5th. 1867. In connection with Russia's refusal to agree
to the guaranteed integrity of the Turkish Empire. Tyutchev's hope that the
Slav peoples would rise against the Turks came to nothing. The Journal de
St. Petersbourg was the organ of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
330. June, 1868.
... with you: a reference to Elena.
331. July 16th. 1868. During that summer there were forest fires in the
St. Petersburg vicinity. Writing to Ekaterina, Tyutchev describes with some
humour the situation in which "... I'm choking not only from the suffocating
heat of the town (Staraya Russa - FJ), but as well from the smoke of the
fire which, for several miles all around, envelops all of Petersburg, thanks
to the burning peat which is being allowed to burn quite quietly.... They
tell us it will make excellent soil. Well, let's suffer for the sake of the
future".
332. August 2nd.1868. On a farmstead at Gostilovka, near Ovstug.
333. Late August, 1868. Pogodin was an undergraduate friend of Tyutchev
and the two remained close throughout their lives.
334. September 21st. 1868. Egor Kovalevsky was a student of the Middle
East.
335. Mid-April, 1868. Tyutchev expressed a similar view in a letter to
his brother, Nikolay (April 13th. 1868), claiming that all the officials of
the Ministry of Internal Affairs were "more or less a set of rogues and
looking at them is enough to make you feel sick, though our trouble is that
this nausea never actually comes to throwing up".
336. 1868-early 1869. A variation on a theme from Heine's The
Homecoming [87].
Der Tod, das is die kuhle Nacht,
Das Leben ist der schwule Tag.
Es dunkelt schon, mich schlafert,
Der Tag hat mich mud' gemacht.
..........
Uber mein Bett erhebt sich ein Baum,
Drin singt die junge Nachtigall;
Sie singt von lauter Liebe,
Ich hor' es sogar im Traum.
***
Death is the cool night,
Life is the hot day.
It's dark already. I'm tired.
Day has exhausted me.
..........
A tree rises up above my bed
and the young nightingale sings in it,
singing about honourable love,
I hear it as if in a dream.
337. Mid-January, 1869. Aimed at Vladimir Skaryatin, the
ultra-reactionary, anti-Slavophile editor of the aristocratic, short-lived
newspaper Vest'/The News. Line 8 is a reference to the closure of Aksakov's
Moskva/Moscow in 1868, after which the Slavophils had no separate voice in
the press.
szlachta: the Polish petty nobility.
338. February 5th. 1869. To A. Gorchakov.
339. 1869. First printed in the pamphlet entitled Prazdnovanie
tysyacheletnei pamyati pervosvyatitelya slavyan sv. Kirilla 14 fevralya 1869
g. v S.-Peterburge i Moskve/A Celebration of the One Thousandth Anniversary
of the High Prelate of the Slavs, the Great Saint Cyril, April 14th. 1869,
in St. Petersburg and Moscow. St. Cyril was one of the teachers and
converters of the Slavs, the conversion of whom, in the south, took real
form in the 9th. century. He and St. Methodius are credited with giving the
Slavs their Cyrillic alphabet.
340. February 27th. 1869. If further evidence were needed of Tyutchev's
ability to say a lot in a very small space, this poem provides it. One of
his favourite ideas, that of blagodat'/grace (also "abundance"), seen as
something which "comes naturally" to us (dayotsya), is joined with
sochuvstvie/sympathy, but there is no evidence as to what or to whom the
"sympathy" might refer.
341. March, 1869. This is a longer, more considered poem than the
shorter ones in which Tyutchev take Elena's side against society's gossips.
342. May 11th. 1869. (See Note 339.)
Lines 4-5 are from Matthew (V,14).
343. May, 1869. The reference is to the gardens laid out by Peter I
around the Ekaterinintal palace, built by him near Tallin.
344. July 11th. 1869. Otrada, Serpukhov uezd, Moscow province.
Addressed to the wife of a well known public figure, Count V. Orlov-Davydov.
Tyutchev visited the family at their estate, Otrada, famous for its fine
collection of rare books (C:15/247) and was there on his hostess's name day.
Aksakov describes Orlova-Davydova as a "curious phenomenon and remarkable
character" (A:20, vol.1/181) who spent most of her time in the country, had
a hospital built on their estate, opened schools for peasant women and did a
very great deal to alleviate the situation of the Otrada peasants.
In their own way, many aristocrats and members of the petty nobility
acted philanthropically, vaguely aware of the condition of the vast masses
of peasants in their country. Tyutchev, of course, could not resist the
temptation to look cynically at their efforts, while enjoying the results.
In the winter of 1867-8 famine struck parts of northern and central Russia.
He wrote to Anna (February 1868); "Right now we're up to our ears in
festivals, balls and concerts ... thanks to the famine... This method of
showing how to be charitable towards people is the equivalent of an amusing
task dreamed up for the teaching of children, and the result is the same.
It's unbelievable to what point people can be so lacking in seriousness.
And in the midst of all this hubbub of dancing charity and this display
of making subscriptions, what will never be established, even as a warning
for the future, is the part played by the administration's lack of foresight
and negligence in the disaster striking the country".
With such words Tyutchev shows yet again his genuine anger at
administrative ineptitude, his contempt for the society of which he was a
member, and his equally strong desire to be a conspicuous part of that
society.
345. August, 1869. Written after a meeting in Kiev with Andrey
Muravyov. (See [13].) In a letter of August 16th. 1869, Muravyov thanks
Tyutchev for his verses, quoting some lines from Schiller:
Die Konige und die Poeten
Wohnen auf Menschen-Hohen.
***
Kings and poets
live on humanity's heights.
The temple is the Andreevsky cathedral in Kiev, built in the eighteenth
century according to a Rastrelli design.
346. August 16th. 1869. Written on one his last visits to the village
of Ovstug. The dog is Romp, the family pet, who, true to his breed, swam
backwards and forwards chasing fowl during a walk.
347. August, 1869. Ovstug. The absence of a riddle is, perhaps, the
absence of any kind of faith.
348. August, 1869. On the five-hundredth anniversary of the birth of
the reforming Czech preacher and martyr, Jan Hus (1369-1415), a patriot and
religious leader who led his people in a revolt against Papal and German
domination. Some considered Hus to have been put to death by anti-Slavic,
anti-Greek elements. The verses accompanied a golden cup sent to Prague.
Lines 13-16 refer to Hus's execution. See [356].
349. October 14th. 1869.
350. First half of October, 1869. On the celebrations in Egypt
following the opening of the Suez Canal. The shrewd Khedive Ismail succeeded
in staging a major public relations exercise by touring Europe and inviting
as many countries as possible to attend the opening. From General Ignatiev
of Russia (ambassador to The Porte) to Henrik Ibsen of Norway,
representatives flocked to Egypt. The festival described by Tyutchev took
place over several weeks, including trips up the Nile to Assuan for selected
celebrities. While Tyutchev attacks the "pasha" for spilling Christian
blood, the Khedive, technically a vassal of The Porte, was exploiting the
waning influence of Turkey in Egypt and, aiming at eventual Egyptian
independence, was somewhat more in charge of events than Tyutchev gives him
credit for.
The poem is remarkable for the final two stanzas, a favourite formula
Tol'ko tam, gde.../Only there, where ...., contrasting two locations, one of
riotous happiness, the other of horror and fear. In [111] Tyutchev employs
the same structure to refer to mountains disappearing into the distance in a
light-hearted poem with a fairytale feel to it. The same structure used here
imparts an eerie, nocturnal atmosphere of dread.
351. December 17th. 1869. Addressed to the renowned Jewish Slavist
philologist, ethnographer and compiler of legends from the Onega region,
Alexander Hilferding (1831-1871). Chosen as a junior member of the second
section of the Academy of Sciences, a meeting of the conference failed to
elect him a full member. It was said that the German members of the academy
considered him a renegade, having renounced his German roots to become a
Russian. His family had moved from Germany in the early eighteenth century.
Hilferding and Tyutchev were good friends.
352. December 22nd. 1869. Dedicated to the musician and singer Yulia
Abaza, nee Stubbe. She was friendly with Gounod and Liszt and participated
in the foundation of the Russian Musical Society.
353. The 1860s. Nothing is known about the theme nor the addressee.
354. Possibly November 27th. 1869. Although Ernestine has written
"Hilferding" on the manuscript, Pigaryov has his doubts in view of the high
esteem in which Tyutchev held this scholar.
355. February, 1870. TR Goethe: Clarchen's song from Egmont (III,2).
Freudvoll
Und leidvoll,
Gedankenvoll sein,
Langen
Und bangen
In schwebender Pein,
Himmelhoch jauchzend,
Zum Tode betrubt;
Glucklich allein
Ist die Seele, die Liebt.
***
To be full of joy
and full of sorrow
and of thought,
to get by
and to fear
in hovering agony,
rejoicing to the skies,
depressed to death;
happily alone
is the soul which loves.
Egmont was written over about seven years during the 1780s and is a
drama of revolutionary nationalism set in the Netherlands in 1566-8 on the
eve of the country's rebellion against Phillip II of Spain. Egmont is a
charismatic count.
356. March, 1870. Composed to be read at an evening with "living
pictures" in aid of the Slavonic Charitable Committee.
The perfidious kaisar was the German Emperor, Sigismund. When Hus was
summoned to the church council in Constanz, Sigismund gave him a
safe-conduct pass but, under pressure from the council, declared it null and
void.
According to legend, one old lady threw a handful of brushwood onto the
pyre, calling forth the words, Sancta simplicitas!/Holy simplicity! from
Hus.
357. Early July, 1870. Written as he was travelling to take the baths
at Karlsbad via Vilnius, just south east of Kaunas on the Neman. In a letter
written from the spa, he complained bitterly to Elena Bogdanova that the
waters were only making him feel worse. Bogdanova (1823-1900) was a widow
(nee Baroness Uslar, Frolova by her first marriage) with whom Tyutchev
engaged in a affair of some sort during the last six years of his life, much
to the annoyance of his patient family and long-suffering wife.
The Polish uprising of 1863 is referred to here.
358. July 26th. 1870. According to Polonsky, the reversed initials
("K.B.") stand for "Baroness Krudner", whom Tyutchev met in Karlsbad with
her second husband, Count N. Adlerberg. More recently, however, Lane and
Nikolaev have established that the addressee is more probably Tyutchev's
sister-in-law, Klothilde. (A:24)
359. A telegram sent to Ernestine on September 14th. 1870, en route
from Ovstug to Moscow.
360. Late September, 1870. This poem deals with the Franco-Prussian
War. While Tyutchev believed that Germany had right on her side, he could
not help but experience "a pang of anguish" (Letter to Bogdanova, August) at
the "final collapse of this great and beautiful France, whose name has been
so glorious in the history of the world".
Unity....: Bismarck's words.
361. October 27th. 1870. Written into the album of Platon Vakar
(1820-99), a member of the Foreign Censorship Committee.
362. NL early November, 1870. Dedicated to Alexandra Pletnyova (nee
Shchetinina, 1826-1901). Her husband, the minor poet and critic, P. Pletnyov
(1792-1865), had been a friend of Pushkin and was an editor of the latter's
magazine, The Contemporary. Nekrasov and Panaev (1812-62), both men of
Belinsky's party, bought the magazine in 1864. Princess Shchetinina,
Pletnyov's second wife, was "a woman of rare spiritual qualities. She is
somewhat like Tyutchev's poetry, in which there is depth and original
charm". (C:20, vol.1/77)
363. November, 1870. Provoked by the promulgation of State Chancellor
Prince N. Gorchakov's declaration that the 13th. been abrogated. Following
Russia's defeat in the Crimean War, Article XIII of the Peace Treaty of
Paris (March 30th. 1856), stated: "The Black Sea being neutralised according
to the terms of Article XI, the maintenance or establishment upon its Coast
of Military-Maritime Arsenals becomes unnecessary and purposeless; in
consequence, His Majesty the Emperor of All the Russia's, and His Imperial
Majesty the Sultan, engage not to establish or to maintain upon that Coast
any Military-Maritime Arsenal..." (C:5, vol./606)
The content of the final stanza can be clarified by a letter Tyutchev
wrote to Aksakov on the 22nd., in which he contrasts the "hard, worthy
stance of the cabinet" to the "pitiful and even loathsome behaviour of the
Petersburg salons", ingratiating themselves into the favour of the
foreigners.
364. November-early December, 1870. Inspired by Maria's desire to work
as a Sister of Mercy in the Georgievsky commune.
365. December 11th. 1870. Dedicated to the memory of Tyutchev's
brother, Nikolay (1801-1870), who had died three days earlier. According to
Aksakov, Nikolay was the "one friend of Fyodor Ivanovich, a man who had many
'friends' outside his family, but who would not share his heart's thoughts
and secrets with any one of them in particular, who would not choose any one
of them for that exclusively close relationship of sincere friendship.
Nikolay Ivanovich Tyutchev loved his brother not only with fraternal, but
with paternal tenderness, and with no-one else was Fyodor Ivanovich so
intimate, so closely linked by his own personal fate from his very
childhood". (A:1/307)
Tyutchev and his brother fell out more than once but always remained
the friends Aksakov said they were. Sending this verse to Ekaterina on
December 31st. Tyutchev wrote of "this terrible year" (in July his son
Dmitry died) and in particular of "one image... odious and horrible: It is
seeing him fallen, on the premises of this club I know so well, him, so
frail and fearful, who had always been afraid of this fall, lying on the
ground, injured, fatally stricken and asking people to get him up".
As a P.S. to the letter, Tyutchev mentions that the poem was written in
a state of "half-sleep" on the way back from Moscow after the funeral.
366. Late December, 1870. The only extant text is engraved on a silver
serviette ring in the shape of a dog's collar, probably Romp's.
367. 1870. Written into Vakar's album.
368. End of January-early February, 1871. Darya wrote to her sister, on
sending the verses: "Here's a quatrain which dad composed the other day.
He'd gone to sleep and, waking up, heard me saying something to mum".
369. Early March, 1871. The lines in italics are from Pushkin's poem, K
moryu/To the Sea, written on leaving Odessa in 1825:
Proshchai, svobodnaya stikhiya!
V poslednii raz peredo mnoi
Ty katish' volny golubye
I bleshchesh' gordoyu krasoy.
***
Farewell, free element!
Before me, one last time,
you roll your blue waves
and glitter in proud beauty.
Lines 39-40: the grave of Nicholas I.
370. Early July, 1871. On the anniversary of the proclamation of papal
infallibility (1st. Vatican Council, 1869-70; Pius IX).
371. Second half of August, 1871. Tyutchev records his reflections
during a visit to Vshchizh, a former princedom where barrows may still be
seen. Bloody legends are associated with the area's history.
372. December 29th. 1871. Dedicated to M. Pogodin.
373. NL March 3rd. 1872. Written on the death of the authoress and
translator, M. Politkovskaya.
374. April 16th. 1872 (Easter Sunday). Sent to Tyutchev's youngest
daughter, Maria, who was dying of tuberculosis in Bad Reichenhall, Bavaria.
375. April 21st. 1872. Sent to Anna on her birthday, which coincided
with the poet's name day, hence the final verse of this telegram.
376. November 23rd 1872. Written in the album of Maria Peterson,
married to Count Montgelas and the grand-daughter of Tyutchev's first wife.
377. NL 1872. A social compliment to Ekaterina Zybina (1845-1923) one
of whose minor poems was at the time a popular romance, L'yot livmya dozhd',
nesutsya tuchi/The rain is pouring down, clouds are scurrying.
378. NL 1872. The couplet is the start of an arrangement of the
Orthodox canticle, sung at matins on the first three days of the seventh
week of Lent.
379. Possibly December, 1872. At this time, Tyutchev was "nailed to his
bed by illness". An improvisation addressed to Bogdanova.
380. December 30th. 1872. On the death of Napoleon III. Dictated to his
wife, though having suffered his first stroke on December 4th. it cost him
great effort. The poem copied by Ernestine was so incomplete that A. Maikov
edited it at the request of the editor of the Grazhdanin/Citizen. According
to Aksakov, "There is no doubt that Fyodor Ivanovich would have corrected it
quite differently". As it is, we are not sure how much of the poem we are
left with is actually Tyutchev's.
One of Napoleon III's priorities had been to release France from what
he saw as the restrictions imposed upon her by the Congress of Vienna. Tsar
Nicholas was incensed when the French ruler took on the title Emperor.
Napoleon was authoritarian and anti-parliamentarian, though certainly shrewd
enough to realise that his universal plebiscite would keep the largely
rural, anti-republican vote in his camp.
381. January, 1873. Dedicated to Evgeniya Shenshina (1833-1873), nee
Arseneva.
382. Late January, 1873. Tyutchev based this verse on an article
published on January 23rd. in the Journal de St. Petersbourg. It dealt with
the Russian campaign to take the central Asiatic town of Khiva. From the
khanate of Khiva, sorties to capture Russian workers on the eastern coast of
the Caspian sea and use them as slaves had long irritated Russia.
Characteristically agitated by Russian foreign policy, Tyutchev followed the
news in the papers from the beginning. The entire matter of the Great Game,
the cat-and-mouse play between Russia and Britain in that part of Asia,
could not fail to spur him to the series of abrasive swipes at Britain
encountered in the poem. Russia established a base on the eastern shores of
the Caspian in 1869 and from there proceeded to subjugate much of
Transcaucasia, ultimately pushing across to the Pacific. The insane Paul I
had nursed grandiose plans to join up an army with the French and head via
Khiva and other khanates for India, thereby undermining the British position
on the sub-continent. The project remained a wild dream.
383. January 30th. 1873. The governor of Moscow, Pyotr Durnovo, and the
head of the Moscow council, Ivan Lyamin, inspired this amusing piece. It
seems that Durnovo was so incensed that Lyamin had visited him in tails
rather than in full dress uniform, that throughout the visit he treated his
guest as subservient. Tyutchev wrote to Anna: "I'd like you to let me have
further details of this incident. I can't imagine what good it does a
government to be represented by badly brought up people".
From the middle of the XIII to the early XIV centuries, the baskaks
collected the Golden Horde's taxes.
384. January 30th. 1873. There is a play on words here. Tyutchev says,
"Of course, they would not have sent Durnovo", which sounds the same as
saying, "... they wouldn't have sent a fool" (both words pronounced
durnovo).
385. 1873. Addressed to Ernestine. On his death bed, Tyutchev is
characteristically economical with his language. God has, he complains,
taken away his "health", which prevents him from enjoying the "air" (that
which for him is "a condition of life", he tells Bogdanova in 1870), his
"will power", which he never had a great deal of to begin with, so perhaps
there is a macabre joke here, and his "sleep" and ability to "dream". Of
course, the most important thing remains, "love", embodied by his wife,
allowing him to cling on to the faith he played with all his life.
386. February, 1873. Tyutchev offers a final combination of observation
and, in the title, wish-fulfilment.
387. March 1st. 1873. The Empress Maria left for Sorrento on this day.
388. March 19th. 1873. On Darya's name-day. Gregg (A:14/205) points out
that this poem, one of several he refers to as senilia, demonstrates a
return to the childhood style of Lyubeznomu papen'ke/Dear Dad! [1].
389. April 17th. 1873. On the 55th. anniversary of the birth of
Alexander II. Tyutchev recalls how he and his father were visiting Zhukovsky
in Moscow at the time.
390. April, 1873. Alexander II intended visiting the Tyutchevs, never
having been to their house before, and, on hearing of it, Tyutchev
characteristically noted that it would be extremely indelicate if, the very
day after such a visit, he did not make a point of dying. It is not certain
whether or not the visit actually took place.
391. April, 1873. Despite an inevitable looseness of structure as a
result of Tyutchev's illness, this poem retains much power.
392. May 5th. 1873. Dedicated to the memory of A. Hilferding.
393. 1873. The last verses known to have been written by Tyutchev and
sent to Alexander Nikitenko, professor of Russian literature at the
University of St. Petersburg and a member of the censorship committee.
Written after the text are the words: "When shall I see you, my friend, I'm
frightfully depressed and sad".

341

* SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY *

TYUTCHEV'S LETTERS

No complete edition of Tyutchev's letters has yet appeared, although
before his death Pigaryov was working on such a project. To date, in the
region of 1,330 letters written have been located. When referring to them I
give only dates and addressees.

ABBREVIATIONS

AN SSSR Akademiya nauk SSSR
KL Khudozhestvennaya literature
L Leningrad
M Moscow
ML Moscow-Leningrad
RAN Rossiiskaya akademiya nauk
RL Russkaya literatura
PS Polnoe sobranie
SS Sobranie sochinenii
SSt. Sobranie stikhotvorenii
SP Sovetskii pisatel'
TR Translated by
UP University Press

In the case of anthologies and collections, the first name after the
title is that of the editor-in-chief or principal contributor. Titles not
given in English are of works which, to the best of my knowledge, have not
been translated into English.

A. WORKS BY AND WHOLLY OR SUBSTANTIALLY ABOUT TYUTCHEV

Most works about Tyutchev are in the form of the thesis, article or
essay. Far from being exhaustive, Section A contains materials I have either
quoted from or consulted for this book.

1. Aksakov, I.
Biografiya Fyodora Ivanovicha Tyutcheva. M, 1886.
2. Barabtarlo, G.
Tjutcev's Poem "Zdes', nekogda, moguchii I prekrasnyi": Textology and
Exegesis of the Bogatyrev Manuscript. SEEJ, No.3, 1986. (pp.420-430)
3. Berkovsky, L.
Stikhotvoreniya. BP, ML, 1962.
4. Bilokur, D.
A Concordance to the Russian Poetry of Fedor I. Tiutchev. Providence,
1975.
5. Bryusov, V.
F.I. Tyutchev: Letopis' ego zhizni. Russkii arkhiv 3 (1903, 1906).
6. Bukhshtab, B.
Russkie poety: Tyutchev, Fet, Kozma Prutkov, Dobrolyubov. KL, L, 1970
(pp.9-75)
7. Chulkov, G.
Letopis' zhizni i tvorchestva F. I. Tyutcheva. ML, 1933.
8. Coates, W.
Tiutchev and Germany: the Relationship of his Poetry to German
Literature and Culture. Ph.D. Harvard, 1950.
9. Conant, R.
The Political Poetry and Ideology of F.I. Tiutchev. Ardis Essay Series,
No. 6. Adis. Ann. Arbor, 1983.
10. Elzon, M.
i. "My molodoi vesny gontsy". RL, 3, 1997. (p.198)
ii F. I. Tyutchev v komitete tsensury inostrannoi: novye materialy. RL,
1, 1997. (pp.239-243)
11. Eikhenbaum, B.
i. O poezii. SP, L, 1969.
ii. Russkaya poeziya XIX v. "Academia", L, 1929. (With Yu. Tynyanov).
12. F. Wigzell
Fet on Tiutchev in Russian Writers on Russian Writers, Berg, 1994.
13. Ginzburg, L.
O lirike. SP, ML, 1964.
14. Gregg, R.
Fedor Tiutchev: The Evolution of a Poet. Columbia University Press,
1965.
15. Grekhnyov, V.
Vremya v kompozitsii stikhotvorenii Tyutcheva. AN SSSR, Seriya
literatury i yazyka, t.32, vyp.6, M, 1973. (p.487)
16. Kozlik, I.
17. Kozhinov, V.
Tyutchev. M, "Molodaya gvardiya". 1988.
18. Lane, R.
i. An index and synopsis of diplomatic documents relating to Tyutchev's
period in Turin (October 1837 - October 1839). New Zealand Slavonic Journal,
1989- 90.
ii. Bibliography of works by and about F.I. Tyutchev to 1985. Astra
Press, 1987.
iii. Diplomatic Documents Concerning F.I. Tyutchev in Turin, 1838-1839.
Oxford Slavonic Papers. New Series. Vol. XX, 1987. (pp.94-100).
iv. F.L. Tyutchev's Diplomatic Career in Munich (1822-37). Irish
Slavonic Studies, 15, 1994. (pp.17-43).
v. F.I. Tyutchev's Service Absenteeism and Second Marriage in the Light
of Unpublished Documents (1839). Irish Slavonic Studies, No. 8, 1987. (pp.6-
13).
vi. Hunting Tyutchev's Literary Sources in Poetry, Prose and Public
Opinion. In Memory of Nikolay Andreyev. Ed. W. Harrison. Avebury Publishing
Company, 1984. (pp.43-68).
vii. Pascalian and Christian Existential Elements in Tyutchev's Letters
and Poems. Forum for Modern Language Studies, Vol. XVIII, No.4, October
1982.
viii. The Life and Work of F.I. Tyutchev. Ph.D. Cambridge, 1970.
ix. Tyutchev in the 1820s-1840s. An Unpublished Correspondence of
1874-5. Irish Slavonic Studies, No.3, 1982. (pp.2-13).
x. Tjutcev's Mission to Greece (1833) According to Diplomatic
Documents. Russian Literature XXIII. North-Holland, 1988. (pp.265-280).
xi. Zagranichnaya poezdka Tyutcheva v 1853 g. LN, vol.97: Fyodor
Ivanovich Tyutchev, bk.2, "Nauka", 1988. (pp.464-470)
19. Liberman, A.
On the Heights of Creation: The Lyrics of Fedor Tyutchev. JAI Inc.
Russian & European Studies, vol. 2, 1991.
20. Literaturnoe nasledstvo. T.97: Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev, "Nauka",
1988.
21. Maimin, E.
Russkaya filosofskaya poeziya: poety-lyubomudry, A.S. Pushkin, F.I.
Tyutchev. AN SSSR, "Nauka", 1976. (pp.143-184)
22. Matlaw, R.
The Polyphony of Tyutchev's "Son na more". Slavic Review, 1957, 36 (pp.
198-204)
23. Murtagh, F.
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev: Translations and Adaptations, Durham, 1983.
Self-publication.
24. Nikolaev, A.
Zagadka "K.B.". "Neva", No.5. 1985. This article was actually
co-written by R. Lane.
25. Ozerov, L.
Poeziya Tyutcheva. M, 1975.
26. Pigaryov, K.
Zhizn' i tvorchestva F. I. Tyutcheva. AN SSSR, M, 1962, republished in
1978 as F. I Tyutchev i ego vremya..
27. Pratt, S.
Russian Metaphysical Romanticism: The Poetry of Tiutchev and
Boratynskii. Studies of the Russian Institute, Columbia University, Stanford
University Press, 1984.
28. Sagner, O.
The Semantics of Chaos in Tjutcev. Slavistische Beitrage, 171, Munich,
1983.
29. Savodnik, V.
Chuvstvo prirody v poezii Pushkina, Lermontova i Tyutcheva. M, 1911.
30. Slavica Hierosolymitana. Slavic Studies of the Hebrew University.
The Magnes Press, Jerusalem, 1979. (pp.36-69)
31. Stremooukhoff, D.
La Poesie et l'ideologie de Tiouttchev. Dissertation. Paris, 1937.
32. Surina, N.
Tyutchev i Lamartin. "Poetika" 1-5. Heraus. von Dmitrij Tschizevskij.
B. 104. Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Munchen, 1970.
33. Tyutchev, F.
i. La Papaute et la Question Romaine; La Russie et la Revolution;
Lettre a M. le Docteur Gustave Kolb, Redacteur de la 'Gazette Universelle';
Lettre sur la Censure en Russie in F.I. Tyutchev, 1913 in F. I. Tyutchev:
PSS, P. Bykov, SPb, 1913. (pp.333-369)
ii. Lirika. Izd. K. V. Pigaryov. "Nauka", M, 1965.
iii. Tyutcheviana. Chulkov, G. M, 1922.

B. WORKS BY AND ABOUT OTHER WRITERS

1. Ausonius
Decimi Magni Ausonii Burdigalensis Opuscula. Ed. Sextus Prete. BSB BG.
Teubner Verlagsgesellschaft, 1978.
2. Batyushkov
PSSt. N. Fridman, ML, 1964.
3. Baudelaire
Oeuvres Completes. Bibliotheque de la Pleiade. Texte etabli et annote
par Y.- G. le Dantec. Librairie Gallimard, 1954.
4. Beranger
One Hundred Songs of Pierre-Jean de Beranger with Translations by
William Young. Chapman & Hall. London, 1847.
5. Bohme
Jacob Bohme (1575-1624): Studies in his Life and Teaching. H.
Martensen. Translated by T. Rhys Evans. Notes and Appendices by S. Hobhouse.
Rockliff, London, 1949.
6. Byron
Lord Byron. The Complete Poetical Works. Ed. J.J. McGann. Oxford, 1980.
7. Chaadaev, 1989.
8. Chateaubriand
Grands ecrits politiques. T.I. Presentation et notes par Jean-Paul
Clement. Imprimerie nationale Editions, 1993.
9. Derzhavin
Stikhotvoreniya. SP, L, 1957.
10. Dobrolyubov
SS. v 9 tomakh. M, 1952.
11. Dostoevsky
i. Dostoevskii o Tyutcheve (k atributsii odnoi stat'i v "Grazhdanine".
RL, 1975, No. 1. (pp.172-6)
ii. Dostoevskii - chelovek, pisatel' i mify: Dostoevskii i ego "Dnevnik
pisatelya". D. Grishin, Melbourne University, 1971.
iii. F.M. Dostoevsky. PSS v 30 tomakh. Brat'ya Karamazovy (t.14),
"Nauka", L, 1976.
12. , 1963.
13. Goethe
i. Essays on Goethe. Ed. W. Rose. Cassell & Co. Ltd. 1949.
ii. Goethe: A Critical Introduction. R. Gray. Cambridge University
Press, 1967.
iii. Goethe: The Poet and the Age. Vol. 1 The Poetry of Desire
(1749-1790). N. Boyle. Clarendon Press. Oxford, 1991.
iv. Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Samtliche Werke. Briefe, Tagebucher and
Gesprache. Vierzig Bande. Deutscher Klassiker Verlag. Heraus von Hendrik
Birus et al. Frankfurt am Main, 1987.
v. Notes to Goethe's Poems. J. Boyd. Blackwell, Oxford. (2 vols.:
1749-86; 1786-1832).
14. Gray
The Complete Poems of Thomas Gray. Ed. H.W. Starr & J.R. Hendrickson.
Oxford, 1966.
15. Heine
i. Briefe in 6 Bande. F. Hirth. Florian Kupperberg Verlag. Mainz, 1950.
B.1. (p.353)
ii. Heinrich Heine: Poetry and Politics. N. Reeves. OUP, 1974.
iii. Samtliche Werke. 5 Banden. Winkler Verlag Munchen, 1969-72.
16. Herder
i. Johann Gottfried Herder. Samtliche Werke. Heraus. von B. Suphan.
Georg Ulms Verlagsbuchhandlung. Hildesheim, 1968.
ii. Johann Gottfried Herder. Werke in zehn Banden. Deutscher Klassiker
Verlag. Frankfurt am Main, 1990. B.3 Volkslieder, Ubertragungen, Dichtungen.
iii. Vico and Herder: Two Studies in the History of Ideas. I. Berlin.
The Hogarth Press, London, 1976.
17. Holderlin, F.
i. Samtliche Werke und Briefe. Deutscher Klassiker Verlag. Frankfurt am
Main, 1992.
ii. Holderlin. D. Constantine. Clarendon Press. Oxford, 1988.
18. Horace
The Odes of Horace. Translated by James Michie. Penguin Books, 1964.
19. Hugo
i. Theatre complet de Victor Hugo. I. Bibliotheque de la Pleiade.
Purnal, Thierry, Meleze. Editions Gallimard, 1963. (pp.1262-1265)
ii. The Perilous Quest: Image, Myth and Prophecy in the Narratives of
Victor Hugo. R.B. Grant. Duke University Press, 1968.
20. Kalidasa
Dramas of Kalidasa. Ed. C.R. Devadhar. Motilal Banarsidass. Delhi,
1966.
21. , 1966.
22. Lamartine
i. Alphonse de Lamartine: A Political Biography. W. Fortescue. Croom
Helm. London & Canberra, 1983.
ii. Oeuvres de Lamartine. Les Confidences. Libraire Hachette. Paris,
1924. Livre IV, 5. (pp67-72).
iii. Oeuvres poetiques completes de Lamartine. Bibliotheque de la
Pleiade. Marius-Francois Guyard, 1963.
23. Lenau
Werke und Briefe. Heraus. von Antal Madl. Deuticke Klett-Cotta. Wien,
1995.
24. Lomonosov
i. Izbrannye proizvedeniya. A. Morozov, SP, 1965.
ii. , 1961.
iii. Russia's Lomonosov. Boris N. Menshutkin. Princeton, New Jersey,
1952.
25. Manzoni
i. Manzoni, Alessandro. Gian Piero Barricelli. Twayne Publishers.
Boston. 1976.
ii. Tutte le opere di Alessandro Manzoni. Alberto Chiari. Arnolod
Mondadori Editore, 1957.
26. , 1958.
27. Michelangelo Buonarroti
i. Rime. G. Testori & E. Barelli. Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli.
Milano, 1975.
ii. The Poetry of Michelangelo: An Annotated Translation. J. Saslow.
Yale University Press, 1991.
28. de Musset.
Theatre complet. Edition etablie par Simon Jeune. Editions Gallimard,
1990.
29. Nekrasov
SS v 8 tomakh: Russkie vtorostepennye poety, (t.7), KL, M,1967.
30. Norse
Old Norse Poems: the Most Important Non-Skaldic Verse not Included in
the Poetic Edda. L. Hollander. New York, Columbia UP, 1936. (chap.1: The Old
Lay of Biarki, pp.3-11)
31. Pascal
Pensees precedees des principaux opuscules. G. Lewis. La Bonne
Compagnie. Paris, 1947.
32. Pushkin
SS v 10 tomakh. KL, M, 1975.
33. Raich
Rassuzhdenie o didakticheskoi poezii. "Vestnik Evropy", 1822, Nos.7-8.
(pp.190-208, 242-283).
34. Racine
i. Classical Voices: Studies of Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Mme.
Lafayette. P. Nurse. George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd., 1971.
ii. Oeuvres completes. I. Theatre-poesies. Presentation et commentaires
par Raymond Picard. Editions Gallimard, 1950. (pp. 799-800).
35. Schelling
i. Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature as Introduction to the Study of
this Science. Trans. E. Harris & P. Heath. Intro. R. Stern. CUP, 1988.
ii. Schellings Einflu? in der russischen Literature der 20er und 30er
des XIX Jahrhunderts. W. Setschkareff. Leipzig, 1939.
iii. Schelling's Idealism and Philosophy of Nature. J.S. Esposito.
Associated University Presses, 1977.
36. Schiller
i. Schiller's Drama: Talent and Integrity. I. Graham. Methuen & Co.
Ltd., London, 1974. (chap.4: Health: Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an
die Gottheit.
ii. Werke und Briefe. Deutscher Klassiker Verlag. Frankfurt-am-Main,
1992.
37. Shakespeare
The Complete Works. Ed. C.J. Sisson. Odhams Press Ltd., London, 1954.
38. de Stael
i. Corinne, ou l'Italie. Londres, chez Dulau et Comp., Libraires, 1834.
ii. The Birth of European Romanticism: Truth and Propaganda in Stael's
'De l'Allemagne', 1810-1813. J.C. Isbell. Cambridge University Press, 1994.
39. Tolstoy
Tolstoy's Diaries. Edited and translated by R. Christian. Vol. 1. The
Athlone Press, London, 1985.
40. Turgenev
i. Turgenev: His Life and Times. L. Schapiro. Oxford UP, 1978.
ii. PSS i pisem v 20 tomakh., 1960-68. Un Incendie en mer: vol.14,
p.186
41. Uhland
Werke. (Samtliche Gedichte: B.1). Winkler Verlag Munchen, 1980.
42. Vergil
The Pastoral Poems. Translated by E.V. Rieu. Penguin Classics, 1972.
(pp.14-15).
43. Vico
The New Science of Giambattista Vico. Translated by T. Bergin & M.
Fisch. Cornell University Press, 1968.

C. THE LITERARY, PHILOSOPHICAL, RELIGIOUS AND HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

1. A Handbook of Russian Literature. Ed. V. Terras. Yale University
Press, 1985.
2. A History of Russian Literature from its Beginnings to 1900. D.S.
Mirsky. Ed. F.J. Whitfield. Vintage Books. New York, 1958.
3. Anglo-Russian Rivalry in Central Asia 1810-1895. Gerlad Morgan,
Frank Cass & Co. Ltd., 1981.
4. Arkhaisty I novatory. Slavische Propylaen. Yu. Tynyanov. Heraus. von
D. Tschizewskij. B. 31. Wilhelm Fink Verlag Munchen, 1967.
i. Vopros o Tyutcheve. (pp.367-385).
ii. Pushkin i Tyutchev. (pp.330-366).
iii. Tyutchev i Geine. (pp.386-398).
5. A Source Book of Russian History. From Early Times to 1917. Ed. G.
Vernadsky. New Haven & London. Yale University Press, 1972.
6. Barricades and Borders. Europe 1800-1914. R. Gildea. OUP, 1987.
7. Bismarck: The White Revolutionary. Vol. 2. 1871-1898. L. Gall. Allen
& Unwin. London, 1986.
8. Du romantisme au symbolisme: l'age des decouvertes et des
innovations. 1790-1914. H. Lemaitre. Pierre Bordas et fils, 1982.
9. Essays in Literature and Society. E. Muir. The Hogarth Press,
London, 1965.
10. F. I. Tyutchev: Kto prav? Romany, povesti, rasskazy. G. V. Chagin,
"Sovremennik", M, 1985.
11. German Literature of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. E.
Stahl & W. Yuill. The Cresset Press. London, 1970.
12. History of Nineteenth Century Russian Literature. D. Chizhevsky.
Translated by R. Porter. Vanderbilt UP, 1974. (pp.150-157).
13.
14. Latin Literature: A History. Gian Biagio Conte. Translated by J.
Solodow. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994.
15. Mir russkoi usad'by. RAN, "Nauka", M, 1995. (p.61-78).
16. Pobedonostsev: His Life and Thought. R. Byrnes. Indiana UP, 1968.
17. Poet as Nature. Oxford German Studies, No.15, 1984 16.
18.
19. Pri dvore dvukh imperatorov. Dnevnik 1855-1882. A. F. Tyutcheva.
Izd. M. i S Sabashnikovykh, 1929.
20. Rossiiskii arkhiv": Istoriya Otchestva v svidetel'stvakh I
dokumentakh XVIII-XX vv. Studiya "Trite", "Rossiiskii arkhiv", M, 1991.
21. Russian Literature and Psychoanalysis. Ed. D. Rancour-Laferriere.
John Benjamin's Publishing Company. Amsterdam/Philadelphia. 1989. (pp.225-
244).
22. The Crimean War: A Diplomatic History. D. Wetzel. East European
Monographs. Boulder. Distributed by CUP. New York, 1985.
23. The Decline and Fall of the Romantic Ideal. F. Lucas. Cambridge,
1936.
24. The Diary of a Russian Censor. Alexander Nikitenko. Abridged,
edited and translated by Helen Saltz Jacobsen. University of Massachusetts
Press, 1975.
25. The Dictionary of National Biography. Ed. L. Stephen & S. Lee. OUP,
1917- 1964.
26. The Emergence of Russian Pan-Slavism 1856-1870. MN.B. Petrovich.
CUP. New York, 1958.
27. The Mind of the European Romantics: An Essay in Cultural History.
H. Schenk. Constable, London, 1966.
28. The Ottoman Empire and its Successors. 1801-1927. W. Miller. Frank
Cass & Co. Ltd., 1966.
29. The Russian Idea. N., Berdyaev. The Centenary Press, 1947. (chap.
3).
30. The Russian Landed Gentry and the Peasant Emancipation of 1861. T.
Emons. CUP, 1968.
31. The Russian Religious Mind. G. Fedotov. Harvard UP, 1946. (vol. 1).

D. WORKS ON THE QUESTION OF TRANSLATION

1. A Defence of Poetry in Shelley's Poetry and Prose. D. Reiman & S.
Powers, W. W. Norton & Co., New York/London, 1977. (pp.)
2. Eugene Onegin. A Novel in Verse. Translated from the Russian, with a
Commentary, by V. Nabokov. 4 vols. Bollingen Series LXXII. Pantheon Books.
New York & London, 1964.
3. Five Russian Poems: Exercises in a Theory of Poetry. D. Laferriere.
(Subjectivity and Symbolism in Tyutcev's "Son na more", pp78-88). Transworld
Publishers, Englewood. New Jersey, 1977.
4. Four Poems Translated from the Russian into Scots. E. Morgan.
Scottish Slavonic Review, 16, Spring 1991. (p.89).
5. Friedrich Holderlin: Poems and Fragments. TR Michael Hamburger.
Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1966.
6. La traduction plurielle. (Le texte reflechi: quelques reflexions sur
la traduction de la poesie, D. Jacquin, pp.). Ed. Michel Ballard. Presses
universitaires de Lille, 1990.
7. Language and Silence. G. Steiner. Faber & Faber, London, 1967.
8. Linguistics and Literary Style. Ed. D. Freeman. Holt, Rinehart and
Winston, Inc., New York, 1970.
9. Nabokov Translated: A Comparison of Nabokov's Russian and English
Prose. J. Grayson. OUP, 1977.
10. No Passion Spent, G. Steiner. Faber and Faber, London, 1996.
11. O poetakh I poezii. V. Veidle. YMCA-Press. Paris, 1973.
12. O teorii prozy. V. Shklovsky. "Krug", M-L, 1925.
13. On Translation. Various contributors. Harvard Studies in
Comparative Literature. Harvard University Press, 1959.
14. Poems of Paul Celan. TR Michael Hamburger. Anvil Press Poetry,
London, 1988.
15. Problems of Translation: Onegin in English. Partisan Review, No.
22. New York, 1955. (pp.496-512).
16. . Brown UP, 1971.
17. Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics & the Study of
Literature. J. Culler. Routledge & Kegan Paul. London, 1975.
18. The Complete Poems of Cavafy. TR R. Dalven. The Hogarth Press Ltd.,
London, 1961.
19. The Craft of Translation. J. Biguenet & R. Schultz. Chicago UP,
1989.
20. The footnote as a Literary Getre: Nabokov's Commentaries to
Lermontov Pushkin". SEES, No. 2, 1986, N. Warner (pp.167-182)
21. The French Connection: Nabokov and Alfred de Musset. Ideas and
Practices of Translation. J. Grayson. S.E.E.R., vol. 73, 1995.
22. The North Sea by Heinrich Heine. TR H. Mumford Jones. The Open
Court Publishing Company, La Salle, Illinois, 1916.
23. The Poetical Works of Federico Garcia Lorca. C. Maurer. Vol. 2 of
Collected Poems. Farrar Strauss giroux, New York, 1991.
24. The Poetics of Translation: History, Theory, Practice, W.
Barnstone. Yale University Press, 1993.
25. The Translations of Ezra Pound. H. Kenner. Faber & Faber, London,
1953.
26. The Translator's Invisibility: A History of Translation. L. Venuti.
London & New York, 1995.
27. Theories of Translation: An Anthology of Essays from Dryden to
Derrida. Ed. R. Schulte and J. Biguenet. The University of Chicago Press,
1992.
28. Translating Poetry: The Double Labyrinth. Ed. D. Weissbort.
University of Iowa Press, 1989.
29. Translation and the Nature of Philosophy: A New Theory of Words. A.
Benjamin. Routledge, New York & London, 1989.
30. Translation/History/Culture. A Sourcebook. Ed. A. Lefevere. London
& New York, 1992.
31. Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings. Vol. 1, 1913-26. M. Bullock &
M. Jennings. The Bellknap of Harvard University, 1996. (The task of the
Translator, pp.253-263).
32. Where Did the Narrator Go? Towards a Grammar of Translation. R.
May, SEEJ, No.1, 1994. (pp.33-46).