Review of Russian Literature for 1831

Our literature is like a child who is just beginning to speak clearly. Despite the fact that in no other land does current literature have such significance as in Russia; and while in other countries literature is one of the secondary expressions of education, in our country it is the most important, if not the only one. The speed and importance of state changes; active participation that private people are obliged to take in them; the widespread struggle between political and affiliated religious parties; their opposing benefits and discordant demands; the successes and prevalence of industry, which connected its revolutions with the whole composition of national life; everyone, even the very first elements of private life, in almost all European countries, concentrates the activity of minds on state affairs, which therefore can alone serve as a complete representative of public education, an indicator of the prevailing direction and a mirror of the current moment. The sciences themselves, with such an arrangement of minds, cannot occupy the first place in them. Moreover, having matured through centuries of development, they are already naturally inclined towards real life, appearing before society, now as a force, now as an instrument of political activity. Only relative significance remains for the literature. But that part of it that is not suppressed by the influence of politics - pure literature, valuable in itself, is barely noticeable in the midst of the general desire for more significant matters: it blooms pale and painfully, like an autumn flower, fragrant for hunters, but not arousing in the mind either hope for fruit or confidence in the fruitfulness of the tree. In Russia it is the opposite. Our literature is in the first spring: each flower prophesies a new fruit and reveals a new development. While in other states public affairs, absorbing all minds, serve as the main measure of their enlightenment, in our country the vigilant care of a perspicacious Government relieves private people of the need to engage in politics, and thus literature remains the only indicator of our mental development. That is why in Russia it is necessary to follow the progress of literature not only for writers, but also for every citizen who wants to have some idea about the moral state of his fatherland. Will we notice an improvement in taste in literary works? we have the right to conclude that there is an educated public, therefore, thinking and in its opinions not lagging behind the times. Will we see the happy success of an ignorant, mediocre work? we will rejoice at it, assuming that the most uneducated part of Russian readers begins to become public and, therefore, awakens from their mental inactivity. Will we hear complaints that books without dignity are selling not only successfully, but even more successfully than books with dignity? we will rejoice twice, seeing that in the future there are prepared for us even more enlightened people than we have now. So, if the very mediocrity in our literature can provide us with curious information about our initial education - how much data about our enlightenment in general, how much new evidence about the relationship of our literature to society and to foreign influences; How many omens about the nature of our future successes are revealed to the attentive observer in the study of our first-class writers, whose every word serves as a model for the entire system of ordinary writers, and every work responds with the participation of the most selected circle of readers. Thus, considering the remarkable literary events of the past year, we will try to determine the real degree of our literary development and together discover the relationship of our education in general to the success of our literature in particular. First of all, let's consider the three most important phenomena of our poetry, and in the order in which they were published: Pushkin's Boris Godunov, Baratynsky's Concubine and the collection of Ballads and Stories of Zhukovsky. Then we will say a few words about other works of our literature, remarkable either for their internal merit or for their external relationships. As for those works of literature that, without showing development, testify only to the spread of literature in semi-educated circles or those barely beginning to be educated, then there is hardly any need to dwell on them much. It is enough for us to know for our consolation that now, just as before, we are not poor in either bad works or mediocre writers who educate inexperienced readers, and are also necessary for future enlightenment, just as fertilizing the earth is necessary for the future harvest. Every nation that has its own tragedy also has its own concept of tragic perfection. We don't have either yet. Is it true,. that when the French school dominated us, we thought of having a model in Ozerov; but since then the taste of our public has changed so much that Ozerov’s tragedies are not only not considered exemplary, but it is unlikely that one out of ten readers will give him half the justice that he deserves; for it is even more difficult to appreciate beauty that is beginning to fade than to do justice to perfect antiquity or to admire new mediocrity; and I am sure that most of our romantic impostors are ready to exchange all the best creations of Racine for any Morlac song. What do we demand now and what should we demand from the Russian tragedy? Do we need the Spanish tragedy? or German? or English? or French? or purely Greek? or a composite of all these genera? and what kind of composition should this composition be? How many elements should it include? And isn’t there an element unique to us? These are questions to which the critic and the public can only answer in the negative; a direct answer to them belongs to one poet; for in no literature have rules of taste preceded patterns. Not other people's lessons, but our own life, our own experiences should teach us to think and judge. As long as we are content with general truths, not applied to the specifics of our enlightenment, not extracted from the fundamental needs of our life, we still do not have our own opinion, or we have an erroneous one; We don’t value the good and decent because we are looking for the impossible-perfect, or we value the insufficient too much because we look at it from the distance of a general thought, and in general we measure ourselves by someone else’s yardstick and repeat other people’s rules, not understanding their local and temporary relationships. This is especially clear in the history of modern literature; for we see that in every nation the birth of its own literature was preceded by the worship of someone else’s, already developed. But if the first poets were imitators everywhere, then it is natural that their first judges always adhered to someone else’s code and repeated someone else’s rules by heart, without asking either the characteristics of their people, or their taste, or their needs, or their participation. It is no less natural that for such judges the best works always seemed to be mediocre works; that the best part of the public was never on their side, and that the manifestation of true genius did not so much strike their imagination as surprise their minds, confusing all the calculations of their former theories. Only when new generations, brought up on domestic examples, receive originality of taste and firmness of opinion independent of foreign influences, only then can criticism establish itself on the laws of the faithful, strict, generally accepted, beneficial for followers and terrible for violators. But until then, the verdict on literary works depends almost exclusively on the particular taste of particular judges, and only coincides by chance with the opinion of the educated majority. This is one of the reasons why we still do not have criticism. Yes, I do not know a single literary judgment that could be taken as an example of a true view of our literature. Not to mention critics inspired by bias, not to mention the unaccountable praise or censure of friends and foes, let us take those judgments about our literature that are made with the greatest clarity and with the least bias: and everywhere we will find the dependence of opinion on the influence of foreign literature. He judges us according to the laws adopted in French literature, he takes German literature as his model, the other English, and praises everything that is similar to his ideal, and condemns everything that is not similar to it. In a word, there is not a single critical work that does not reveal the author’s predilection for one or another foreign literature, a predilection that is mostly unconscious; for the same critic who judges our writers according to foreign laws usually himself demands nationality from them and reproaches them for imitation. The best confirmation of what we have said can be the analyzes of Boris Godunov that have been published so far. Another critic, remembering La Harpe, especially praises those scenes that are more reminiscent of the French tragedy, and condemns those for which he sees no example in the French classics. Another, in honor of Schlegel, demands that Pushkin resemble Shakespeare, and reproaches him for everything in which our poet differs from the English tragedian, and admires only what he finds in common between both. Each, apparently, brings his own system, his own view of things, and no one, in fact, has his own view; for everyone borrowed it from foreign writers, sometimes directly, but more often by hearsay. And this habit of looking at Russian literature through the foreign glasses of foreign systems has so blinded our critics that in Pushkin’s tragedy they not only failed to notice what its main beauties and shortcomings were; but they didn’t even understand what its content was. There is no unity in it, say some of the critics, no poetic harmony, because the main person: Boris, is obscured by a secondary person, Otrepyev. No, say others, the main person is not Boris, but the Pretender; the only pity is that it is not quite developed, and that not all interest is focused on it; for where there is no unity of interest, there is no harmony. You are mistaken, says the third, interest should not be focused on either Boris or the Pretender. Pushkin's tragedy is a historical tragedy, therefore, not passion, not character, not a person should be its main subject, but the whole time, the century. Pushkin did just that: he presented in his tragedy the true outline of the century, preserved all its colors, all the features of its color. The only pity is that this picture is sketched superficially and not completely; for in it much that is characteristic is forgotten, and much that is superfluous is developed, for example, the character of Marina, etc. If Pushkin had understood Boris's time more deeply, he would have presented it more fully and sensitively, that is, in other words: by imitating Shakespeare more, Pushkin would have more satisfied Schlegel's requirements. But let us forget for a moment our critics and Shakespeare and Schlegel and all the theories of tragedy; Let's look at Boris Godunov with eyes not prejudiced by the system, and without worrying about what should be the focus of the tragedy - let's ask ourselves: what is the main subject of Pushkin's creation? It is obvious that Boris, and the Pretender, and Russia, and Poland, and the people, and the courtiers, and the monastic cell, and the state council - all the faces and all the scenes of the tragedy are developed in only one respect: in relation to the consequences of the regicide. The shadow of the murdered Demetrius reigns in the tragedy from beginning to end, controls the course of all events, serves as a connection to all persons and scenes, places all individual groups in one perspective, and gives the various colors one general tone, one bloody shade. To prove this would mean to rewrite the entire tragedy. But if the murder of Demetrius with its state consequences constitutes the main thread and the main knot in the creation of Pushkin, if critics, despite this, were looking for the focus of the tragedy in Boris, or in the Pretender, or in the life of the people, etc., then it is obvious that in their conscience they could not be satisfied with the poet and should have found in him discord, and incompleteness, and pettiness, and immaturity; for with such an attitude of judges towards the artist, the more harmony in the latter’s creation, the more discordant it seems to the former, like a correctly calculated perspective for someone who has chosen a false focus. But if, instead of the actual consequences of the regicide, Pushkin had developed for us more of his psychological influence on Boris, like Shakespeare in Macbeth; if instead of the Russian monk, who in a dark cell pronounces the verdict of fate and posterity over Godunov, the poet presented us with Shakespeare's witches, or Mulner's gypsy sorceress, or a prophetic dream Pendant l'horreur d'une profonde nuit, then, of course, he would be more likely to be understood and received with great enthusiasm. But in order to appreciate Godunov, as Pushkin created him, it was necessary to abandon many scientific and school prejudices, which are not inferior to any others either in stubbornness or one-sidedness. Most tragedies, especially the newest ones, have as their subject something that is happening, or about to happen. Pushkin's tragedy develops the consequences of a deed already committed, and Boris's crime appears not as an action, but as a force, as a thought, which is revealed little by little, now in the whisper of a courtier, now in the quiet memories of a hermit, now in the lonely dreams of Gregory, now in the strength and successes of the Pretender, now in the grumbling of the courtier, now in the unrest of the people, then, finally, in the loud overthrow of the unjustly reigning at home. This gradual growth of root thought in events that are heterogeneous, but interconnected by one source, gives it a strongly tragic character, and thus allows it to take the place of a dominant person, or passion, or action. Such a tragic embodiment of thought is more characteristic of the ancients than the modern ones. However, we could find it in the newest tragedies, for example, in the Bride of Messina, in Faust, in Manfred; but we are afraid of comparisons: when it comes to creating something new, an example can more easily lead astray than to lead to the true view. We agree, however, that this kind of tragedy, where the main spring is not passion, but thought, in its essence cannot be understood by the majority of our public; for our majority is not a crowd, not a people enjoying unaccountably, but gentlemen. readers who consider themselves educated: they, enjoying themselves, want to judge together, and are afraid of the beautiful and incomprehensible, as an evil tempter that makes them feel against their conscience. If Pushkin, instead of Godunov, had written Aeschylus’s Prometheus, where the embodiment of thought also develops, and where there is an even less tangible connection between the scenes, then probably his tragedy would have had even less success, and not only would it have been denied the right to be called a tragedy, but it would hardly have been recognized as having any merit in it, for it was written clearly against all the rules of modern drama. I'm not even talking about us poor critics; our situation would then be even more pitiful: in vain would we try to paint the beauties of the great master with a student's brush - we would be answered with one thing: Prometheus is not a tragedy, this is an unparalleled poem, which neither the Germans, nor the English, nor the French, nor even the Spaniards have - how do you want us to judge it? whose opinion can we refer to? for we know that we ourselves This is the state of our literary education. I say this not as a reproach to the public, but as a fact, and more as a reproach to the poet who did not understand his readers. Of course, in Godunov Pushkin is superior to his audience; but it would be even higher if it were more generally understandable. Timeliness is as much a virtue as beauty, and Aeschylus's Prometheus in our time would be an anachronism, and therefore a mistake. We will return to Pushkin’s tragedy when we talk about Russian literature in general. Baratynsky’s poem had the same fate in our literature as Pushkin’s tragedy: it was also not appreciated, it was also not understood, the author was also unfairly accused of unprecedented shortcomings, he was also praised out of condescension for his previous merits and with such a tone of patronage that Goethe, out of delicacy, could not accept when speaking about barely known writers. And under these protective reviews, under these teachers’ censures and advice, most of the critics did not even deign to sign their names. This kind of literary arbitrariness cannot but be called at least strange. But it will seem even stranger when we remember that the same critics who acted in this way with Baratynsky filled most of their articles about his poem with discussions about moral and literary propriety. We will remember this circumstance when talking about the nature of our literature in general: now let us turn to the poem itself 1. In my opinion, The Concubine differs from Baratynsky’s other poems in its greater maturity in artistic execution. Let's explain. Reading Eda, we are imbued with one feeling, deep, sad, poetically young, but also young and uncertain. The imagination plays according to the heart; bright sounds remain in the soul; but in the whole creation something is missing, and there is something unsaid, something unfinished, as in the first impulse of feeling, not yet explained by memories. Eda's exterior decoration has flaws of the same kind: the poet is often carried away by one feeling, one description, beautiful separately, but not always necessary in relation to the whole creation. In a word, in the poem not all means tend towards the same goal, although the main feeling is developed in it strongly and captivatingly. In the Ballroom Evening, on the contrary, the harmony and harmony of the parts leave nothing to be desired artistically. Everything is proportioned, everything is in place; each picture has the proper volume; Each description shows its boundaries. But, despite this dimensionality of the parts, the dominant feeling flows from them in a clearly and sonorously clear manner; and if in Ed there is a lack of plastic definition and symmetry, then in the Ball Evening we would like to see more lyrical unity and excitement. Both are combined in The Concubine, where the main thought corresponds to one feeling, expressed clearly and strongly, developed in events corresponding to it and harmoniously proportioned. But this artistic maturity, which distinguishes Baratynsky’s last poem from his previous ones, does not yet constitute the main advantage of elegant works. Artistic perfection, like education, is a secondary and relative quality; sometimes it, like a mask on a skeleton, only covers up the inner lifelessness; sometimes, like the face of a noble soul, it serves as its mirror and expression; but in any case, its dignity is not original and depends on the inner, animating poetry. Therefore, in order to evaluate Baratynsky’s poem as it should, we will try to determine the general character of his poetry and see how it was expressed in his last work. Baratynsky's muse can be compared to a beauty, gifted with a deep and poetic soul, a modest beauty, well-mannered and so decent in her actions, speeches, outfits and movements that at first glance she seems ordinary; a crowd can pass by her without noticing her dignity; for everything in it is simple, everything is proportionate, and nothing strikes the eye as a bright difference; but a person with spiritual insight will be amazed in her precisely by those qualities that the crowd does not notice. This is why it often happens to us to meet educated people who do not understand all the beauty of Baratynsky’s poetry and who would probably find him more to their hearts if his poems had less simplicity and thoughtfulness, more noise, more operatic exclamations and ballet movements, just as in half the last century the English public could not sympathize with Zaira, seeing that when Orozman reproaches she only cried; and the actress who played her role, wanting to produce more effect, had to scream and roll on the floor 2. But this thoughtfulness and measuredness, this noble simplicity and artistic completeness, which distinguish Baratynsky’s works, do not constitute an accidental decoration of his poems; they come from the very essence of his poetry, which, like Batyushkov’s poetry, breathes solely with love for proportionality and harmony. The whole truth of life appears to us in Baratynsky’s paintings from a poetic and harmonious perspective; the very disagreements in it are not a disorder, but a musical dissonance that resolves into harmony. In order to give space to the heart, he does not need to invent for himself an unprecedented world, sorceresses, ghosts and animal magnetism; in reality he discovered the possibility of poetry; for with a deep view of life he understood necessity and order where others see discord and prose. Hence his assertion that everything true, fully represented, cannot be immoral; That is why the most ordinary events, the smallest details of life, are poetic when we look at them through the harmonic strings of his lyre. A ball, a masquerade, an unaccepted letter, a feast of friends, a solitary walk, a reading of album poems, a poetic name, in a word, all the accidents and all the ordinary things of life, take on under his pen the character of poetic significance - for they are closely associated with the most decisive experiences of the soul, with the most sublime moments of existence, and with the deepest, freshest dreams, thoughts and memories of love and friendship, of life and death, of good and evil, about God and eternity, about happiness and suffering, about their purpose, traces and poetry. These sublime, heartfelt contemplations, fused into one picture with the daily incidents of life, take from them a clear form, living definition and graceful sensitivity, while the most ordinary events of life receive from such a fusion the depth and musicality of a poetic creation. Thus, often without taking the imagination far away, but leaving it in the middle of ordinary life, the poet knows how to warm it with such heartfelt poetry, such ideal sadness that without looking up from the smooth, waxed parquet floor, we are transported into a musical and dreamily spacious atmosphere. This direction of Baratynsky's poetry is expressed more clearly than in other poems in his Concubine. I will not repeat here its contents, which have long been known to each of my readers. I will only note that in this poem there is not a single scene that would not lead to a poetic feeling, and there is not a single feeling that would not merge inextricably with the picture from real life - and these pictures speak much more clearly than all possible interpretations. Instead of describing in words that heavy feeling of vague sadness that oppressed Yeletsky’s soul in the midst of his chaotic, depraved life; instead of telling how this dirty life could not fill his noble heart and should have aroused in him the need for pure and sublime love; how this new love, refreshing his soul, should have contradicted his ordinary life; instead of all these psychological explanations, the poet paints us living scenes that speak to the imagination and are taken from a true description of reality: a picture of a night feast; his ugly traces in Yeletsky’s room; a window open to the golden-domed Kremlin, in the morning, when the sun rises; a walk near Novinsky and a meeting with Vera, a masquerade, a conversation with Sarah, etc., etc. Sometimes one verse contains the whole story of inner life. So, in order to express Yeletsky’s love, the poet describes Vera’s appearance and only adds: With its calm beauty, With such a noble expression This precious silence, - She was similar to the vision . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . He meets Vera in the theater: I didn’t take my eyes off that box, In which Vera Volkhovskaya The gaze fixed on her. – Having tasted an incomplete date, But having loved your suffering, Same welcome to the new day I searched in my madness. How a few words represent the entire character of Vera, and the beginning of her love, and her future fate: She judged her to feel With a life-threatening completeness. Entered the city whirlwind. Vanity was strange to her; Choose one idol for yourself, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . But fate deceived the heart of poor Vera: her fiancé died, all her dreams of happiness were destroyed forever - and the poet paints the whole terrible upheaval in her soul with one picture, palpably clear, deeply thoughtful and at the same time amazingly simple and ordinary: That same winter with my old uncle Having left the city, she returned Her face has not changed; But he looks after himself more strictly. Close acquaintance is not included She's with no one. Always takes away A little short conversation. Cold measure. Vera's gaze, The old buffoon won't notice him. They will not involve you in immodest laughter; In idle thought they were not seen, With the novel by Vera Volkhovskaya; The most perfect girl It is famous in everyone's mouth. What gives her this modesty? True dreams of the past, What does not apply to him - How right are the accepted opinions? For a general outline, in a moment of oblivion Became just a child's prank, One thing or another is to blame Passions of timeless silence: Or the color of life, or the color of the soul. This description of Vera serves as one of the best examples of how the most ordinary phenomena in real life take on a deeply poetic character under the pen of Baratynsky. I'm not even talking about the depiction of Sarah, perhaps the best creature in the whole poem. However, despite all the merits of the Concubine, one cannot help but admit that in this kind of poem, as in the paintings of Mieris, there is something uselessly constraining, something conditionally unnecessary, something petty that does not allow the artist to develop his completely poetic thought. The very volume of the poem contradicts the possibility of a free outpouring of the soul; and for external harmony, for harmony of transitions, for proportionality of parts, the poet often must sacrifice other, more essential qualities. Thus, the very love of beautiful harmony and proportionality harms poetry when the poet acts in a circle that is too limited. Paganini, playing concertos on one string, has at least the proud consolation that the audience is surprised at the art with which he overcomes the difficulties he has set for himself. But how many are able to appreciate the difficulties that Baratynsky must fight? – Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that our public will not understand all the depth and all the poetry of the original view of life that distinguishes Baratynsky’s Muse, until he presents it in a work more consistent with the dominant direction of his imagination. Baratynsky, more than any of our poets, could create for us a poetic comedy consisting not of cold caricatures, not of sad witticisms and puns, but of a true and at the same time poetic representation of real life, as it is reflected in the clear mirror of the poetic soul, as it appears to subtle and insightful observation, before the court of a discriminating, gentle and happily educated taste. Most of the Concubine's critics refuted themselves and each other; but the most complete analysis of the poem, the most plausible accusations, the most clear refutation of the preface added to it, are found in the analysis of the Concubine, published in the 10th issue of the Telescope. At the end of this European book, readers will find the answer to this analysis, and it can also serve as an answer to other criticisms of Baratynsky’s poem. Le sultan, says Voltaire, n'est point ému de la voir dans cette posture ridicule et de désespoir, et le moment après il est tout étonné que Zaïre pleure. Il lui dit cet hemistichë Zaïre, vous pleurez! Il auroit du lui dire auparavant: Zaïre, vous vous roulez par terre! You might be interested in: