About Russian writers

(Letter to Anna Petrovna Sontag). At the last post, I did not have time to express to you, dear madam, all the thoughts and feelings that your letter aroused in me: allow me to finish now. For me, this is a matter of pride: I am afraid in your eyes to become one of those who, seeing the beautiful, understand it halfway or value it in the wind - I am afraid all the more because for me, after the dignity of acting well, there is no higher thing than to be able to understand the good. In the actions of the Odessa ladies I see not only a good deed, but - which in my opinion is even better - a truly enlightened deed. It is remarkable not only from a moral point of view, but also from a social point of view, as a new comforting proof that in general our education has moved forward. Here is not one suggestion of the heart, not one random act, but a good social thought shared by many; not just compassion for the misfortune that disturbs us with its presence, but enlightened and heartfelt participation in a common cause - not a false sign of that holy enlightenment, which is the only true one, and which until now has been quite rare among us. That women in general have a tender heart is a thing that has long been known and so ordinary that it is rarely even considered a virtue, like everything inevitable, for which one thanks fate, not man. That in Russia especially there are women who were created with an exalted soul, capable of doing beautiful, lofty, even heroic deeds, this is also a proven thing, and in this regard we already have the right to be proud of many nations, finding in ourselves examples of not one, not two actions that make our souls feel both warm and holy. But our sympathy with social life is still new, and that is why our women, despite all their private virtues, generally do less good than in more enlightened states, and only because there a common feeling forces them to act together, while with us each can act only for herself. To be convinced of this, one need only pay attention to all the good produced by women's charitable societies in Prussia, Bavaria, the Rhine, France, and especially in England and the United States. It seems to me that it is no less a good sign that the Odessa ladies chose to publish an Almanac as one of their means. Ten years ago, it’s unlikely that anyone would have thought of this remedy. However, that I was not too far carried away by the movement of the first thought, that your Odessa actions are in fact not an accident, not an exception, but a sign of the greater maturity of our social education - this, if necessary, I could prove a thousand different examples, which all confirm one thing: that enlightenment is advancing quickly in our country, and that its successes are even more noticeable in women than in men. Take as an example our living rooms, our literature, our first education, which is always and everywhere the work of women - what a difference from what happened before! Is the time far distant when public opinion separated educated women into a special class, distinguishing them with the name of scientists? - Nowadays, a woman who is only educated does not leave the circle of ordinary people. – How long has women’s courtesy consisted of the art of playing with words, twirling concepts, stringing out patterned phrases, and those often memorized? How long had their conversation revolved between close personalities and an endless kaleidoscope of commonplaces about virtue and vice, about love and friendship, about sensitivity and coldness, about the superiority of men or women, or about whether the blind are happier than the deaf, or the deaf are the blind? Now such pleasantries are rare. In general, the reputation of courtesy is no longer based on phrases; educated women no longer twirl their concepts around; no longer seek only personal relationships under the guise of words; - and there is a reason for this: they began to think, and most of them have a way of thinking that is no longer a living room, not an invoice, but their own, real one. Often in a head that has not yet received the right to letters, original, modern thoughts are already stored, obtained not from memory, but by serious reflection, or by reading books that would previously have been inaccessible to the most learned. Sometimes, at the sound of a bow, our ladies would go into their legs with all their souls, everything in them would come to life, everything would come into motion; they acted on the floor with all their hearts, all their strength, all their bodies, all their souls - and all this spun before you, all this jumped without memory. And now! – in the most brilliant collections there is something incomplete; On the faces of the most cheerful ones you will notice frequent moments of thoughtfulness. Where does this change come from? Many see this as just a new cause of boredom; In this boredom I see the need for something better - the need for life to be livelier, smarter, more efficient, warmer, in a word: more enlightened. And that inner, inexpressible suffering that comes from this vividly felt need, that disease of the thinking soul, the disease of education, which was born in our time and has not yet found a name for itself, which at the same time serves as both the cause and a sign of enlightenment - how often do you meet it even in such women whom, it seems, both nature and fate were deliberately created into the world just for the sole purpose of recognizing earthly happiness in all its splendor. It’s hard to see, but at the same time it’s gratifying; it is suffering, illness - but illness leads to growth, purgatory of the mind, transition into the world, probably the best. However, our ladies have inherited more than one unaccountable feeling from modern enlightenment. Often, under the graceful veil of a cheerful joke, under a light, brilliant word, hides not a passing thought, not a blind feeling, but a whole, real opinion - an opinion, a thing almost unheard of in former times! True, even now this thing is quite rare; but it all occurs, and perhaps more often than many people think. At least educated women want to have an opinion, they feel that if they are not adorned with a heartfelt conviction of certain truths, they lose half of their charm. Personal experience is not proof; but, as far as I could notice, in this respect the fair sex was not ahead of the other, which ascribes to itself the right to reason par excellence. What a difference ten years makes! The same thing that can be said about society can be said about our literature. The spread of enlightenment is noticeable in it in general; but in relation to women it is incomparably more noticeable. For about ten years now, our literature has only been growing in breadth—and thank God for that! - Meanwhile, our writers are getting taller. And how long ago, with this word writer, the most unpleasant concepts were connected: fingers in ink, pedantry in the mind and typography in the heart. But now, since some of the finest ornaments of our society have entered the ranks of men of letters; ever since a few truly poetic minutes from the lives of some women with talent were reflected so gracefully, so captivatingly in their mirror poems - since then the title of a writer has become no longer an oddity, but an adornment of a woman; it, in public opinion, lifts it into another sphere, different from the ordinary one, so that our imagination creates around it another sky, another air, brighter and warmer than your Odessa. However, I am talking here only about the new generation and partly about the middle one; In the old generation, which is accustomed to seeing a woman as a half-toy, the prejudice against women writers is still in full force. He crushed, perhaps, more than one talent that promised new beauty to our literature and, perhaps, new glory - who knows? As a result of this prejudice, most of our lady poets write little, and either do not publish everything, or publish without a name. There are not many exceptions. So, without a doubt, you have heard about one of the most brilliant decorations of our society, about a poet whose name, despite her decisive talent, is still unknown in our literature. Not many happy people have access to her happy poems; for others they remain a mystery. Her talent is hidden to the world, which is condemned to see in her one thing that is everyday, one thing that does not go beyond the circle of ordinary life, and perhaps only by the extraordinary sparkle of her eyes, by the captivating poetry of her conversation, or by the grace of her movements, can he recognize the poet in her, guess in her that talisman that so gracefully excites dreams. But if the prejudice against female writers has not yet been completely destroyed, then another prejudice against the Russian language, it seems, is already decisively beginning to disappear. It is still impossible not to speak French: this is how our society is still formed; Our language has not yet been formed this way. But, at least, whoever now begins to write, of course, begins to write in Russian, and, probably, that example of Russian talent taken away from Russia by French literature, which arouses in us the more regret, the more we could expect from it for our literature, is no longer possible. There is no need to say that here I mean the writer who conveys to French literature the poetic side of the life of our ancient Slavs. And in fact, tell me: who has fate given more means to contribute to the success of the fine arts in Russia? – Born with a poetic soul, open to everything beautiful, gifted with the rarest talents, brought up in the midst of the luxury of the most refined enlightenment, from childhood surrounded by all the splendor of the arts, all the glory of artistic creations, she herself seemed one of the happiest graceful works of fate. What others dream about from afar, what others decipher by hearing, appeared before her vividly and close. All the rarities of European education, all the wonders of enlightened lands, and great arts, and great artists, and famous writers, and faces belonging to history, and faces belonging to the moment - all this quickly and brightly flashed before her eyes, all this was supposed to leave precious traces on her young imagination - she could share all this with her compatriots, becoming an excellent mediator between them and what the enlightened world has the most wonderful.... But this did not come true... Italy, it seems, has become her second fatherland, and, however, who knows? Perhaps the necessity of Italy is the common inevitable fate of all who have had a fate similar to it? Who from the first impressions recognized the best world on earth, the world of beauty; whose soul, from its first awakening into life, was, so to speak, nurtured in the flowers of the arts and education, in the warm Italian atmosphere of the graceful; maybe for that there is no longer life without Italy, and the blue Italian sky, and the Italian air, full of sun and music, and the Italian language, imbued with all the charm of bliss and grace, and the Italian land, dotted with great memories, covered, enchanted by the creatures of brilliant creativity - perhaps all this is no longer becoming a whim of the mind, but a heartfelt necessity, the only non-suffocating air for the soul, spoiled by the luxury of art and education.... Recently, the Russian Academy - and this does honor to the Russian Academy - published poems by a Russian writer, whose works will take one of the first places among the works of our lady poets, and who until now has remained completely unknown. Fate, it seems, separated her from people by some terrible abyss, so that, living among them, in the middle of the capital, neither she knew them, nor they knew her. They left her, I don’t know why - she left them for her Greece - for Greece, which, it seems, alone filled all her dreams and feelings: at least every verse out of the several tens of thousands written by her speaks about her alone. It’s strange: seventeen years old, in Russia, a poor girl, poor with all her learning! – Know eight languages; combine the talent of painting, music, and dancing with the talent of poetry; study the most diverse sciences; study continuously; work throughout childhood, work throughout early youth, work starting the day, work while resting; write three large volumes of poetry in Russian, perhaps as many in other languages; in my free time, translate tragedies, Russian tragedies - and all in order to die at seventeen, in poverty, in extremes, in the unknown! It is a pity to see how she, when she was still fourteen years old, translated the best songs of Anacreon into five languages, attached to them a detailed grammatical analysis of the Greek original and presented it to the late Empress Elisaveta Alekseevna, asking for her attention In the days of childhood enterprises. The late Empress sent her a clasp with diamonds. It is unknown how long this benefit lasted for her: her family was left in extremis, she died of consumption. Two years after her death, Her Highness Grand Duchess Elena Pavlovna awarded one of her teachers a diamond ring for her translations. The public, for its part, may not read her works: indeed, they contain even more work than talent, and too much scholarship; – remember the Black Doctor in Stello? In the same year, another collection of poems was published by another writer, also young, but already known for a long time from many works scattered in magazines and almanacs. In light, bright, gracefully moving verses, the brightest, starry moments from the spring, pure, heartfelt life of a poetic girl are reflected here. A dream of love, - A dream, - Poems to a sorcerer, - Disappointment, - Childhood memories, - A village, - An asterisk, - A moment of hopelessness, - The death of a girl-friend, - Poems to a beloved poet, - To her, - To him, - Longing for a better world - in a word: all the strings of a young, poetic heart responded here in one ideal harmony. It seems that everything here is true, everything is from the heart, not a single feeling is made up - and in this regard, this musical confession of a girl poet is especially remarkable. Her language is pure, harmonious, and sometimes courageously strong, often unusually graceful. Despite the beauty of each play, however, there is something sad in their overall impression. Everything that is too ideal, even with a bright appearance, gives rise to sadness in the soul with some kind of magnetic sympathy; - such is the lonely, pure song, heard through the discordant noise that drowns it out; Such is the life of a girl with a fiery, dreamy soul, for whom out of the world of events there are other internal ones. Another writer, known in our literature under the same name, seems to have forgotten her lyre for several years now. This is all the more a pity because nature also gave her a gift that was not false. For a minute she only flashed on the horizon of our poetry, and already one of our first-class poets said to her: You know how sweet-voiced choirs are Consonant words merge, And why are they powerful and beautiful? To carry someone else's thought far away, And, righteously ruling over her, To humble and elevate her.... Since I have already begun to talk about our female writers, I would also like to talk to you about that writer who is especially remarkable in literature for her witty correspondence with the wittiest of our poets, and who, perhaps, is no less remarkable outside of literature for the easy courtesy of her conversation; - about another writer, for whom the mysterious message to Pushkin must have so painfully and at the same time so pleasantly excited the poet’s self-loving curiosity; about the brilliant translator of one of our famous, religiously sad poets, who is famous for the beauty of precisely what the poet she translates is famous for lacking; - about a curious, extraordinary correspondence that began in one of our literary sheets between one writer and an unknown, unnamed writer, promising talent, if one can judge talent from a few poems; - about the writer of the Dream, whose poems are remarkable for some kind of youthful artlessness, nobility of feelings, and also because they inspired another writer with several sweet and graceful poems; – I would like to talk to you about all this in detail, if I were not afraid to continue the letters ad infinitum. Talent is almost beauty. Wherever it appears to us, in a man or a woman, in an educated or in an ignoramus, and whatever it is, even the most useless, talent always contains something magnetic. I always want to take a bow wherever I encounter talent. But a woman with talent has something especially attractive about her. Whether she is a painter, or a musician, or a poet, it doesn’t matter; if only nature gave her a genuine talent, if the pursuit of art opened her soul to the graceful, tuned her imagination poetically and nurtured another, better life in her heart, then some kind of inexpressible charm spreads around her whole being. The male poet belongs to the world of grace by imagination alone; the female poet belongs to him with her whole being. That’s why, often, looking at her, it seems as if her head is surrounded by something shiny, like a radiance; look closer: this radiance is a dream, an airy diadym of words and sounds excited by it and reflected on it. This is why I talk about our women writers with such pleasure, and why I cannot explain to myself why they are still so little appreciated in our literature. It is painful to see how cleverly our reserved critics treat them, who are either completely silent about them, or speak in such a way that it would be better to remain silent. Some lady once managed to write: Two worms, - and now there were people who were surprised: how a lady, such a gentle, weak creature, could write two worms. “Another lady began to translate some famous poems the way mice are translated, and our magazines were filled with praise, admiration, and applause for her, while true poetic talent, such as, for example, Ms. Lisitsyna, remains almost unrecognized. One, it seems, Telegraph spoke about her, and that for a long time; meanwhile, in her poems there is so much soul, so much poetry, so much precious, heartfelt truth, which is unlikely to be found in most of our magazine poets combined. What high moments of delight she must have experienced, what painful, bright, unbearable moments of inspiration she must have endured in order to tear such deep, such piercing sounds from her heart! I confess to you: most of the so much vaunted French lady poets do not produce on me even half the effect that the poems of Mrs. Lisitsyna, which, of course, have the right to an honorable place in more than one ladies’ literature. – The other day, translations from Russian came here, freshly printed in Germany, under the title: Northern Lights, das Nordlicht, translations made by a girl you know, gifted with the most diverse and most extraordinary talents. As far as I can judge, these translations surpass all known so far from Russian into any languages, not excluding either Bowring, so exalted, or von der Borg, so little appreciated. However, I don’t know what I could say about the talent of the young translator better and more than what Yazykov told her, some of whose poems she translated are also in this collection: You, by the power of your magical thoughts They gave me wonderful solemnity, You played on golden strings Simple sounds of my strings. And again for me, and shone brighter Lucky star of days gone by I feel: my lot is enviable! I also have the blessing of God, And the path of life is righteous, I do not bow to the empty splendor of the world, I don’t listen to his blind rumors: I'm taller than them... Long live you Thus spoke Yazykov; and I confess to you, I look at these translations with prejudice: I am annoyed to see that a Russian girl speaks German verse so well; It’s even more annoying to know that she is also good, and maybe even better, in French verse, and only in her native language does not want to test her strength! – At the end of the book there are several original plays, filled with poetry and remarkable especially for what is least common in our girls: originality and the power of imagination. Reading them, you understand why the poet said to the writer: And two wreaths, one more beautiful than the other, A young one hung on his head: The green laurel of alien poetry, And the diamonds of your Muse!... Menzel has already announced in the literary sheets the release of the Northern Lights, and I am eagerly awaiting its analysis: it is curious to see what the wittiest of German critics will say about our literature, which has now appeared to him in its present form for the first time. Re-reading my letter, I find that it is too long, and despite that, too incomplete. But it's not my fault. Speaking about our women writers, my first thought was about the one whose work is good; who in her writings seeks not brilliance, but benefit, acting for a beautiful, sublime goal, in a way that others do not know how to act for the selfish pleasures of pride. But this writer.... speaking to you, I did not dare to mention her. December 10, 1833 Moscow. You might be interested in: