Works of Alexander Pushkin (111 page)

From Kamenka, Poushkin was recalled to accompany his chief to Kishiniev, in Bessarabia, where a picturesque and motley population, Greek, Moldavian, Turkish, and Italian, offered material which was not lost upon his artistic perception.

Here he reverted to the disorderly life which had so nearly proved his ruin in Saint Petersburg. Poushkin’s intrigues and duels became the talk of the town. In the autumn of 1822, having been engaged overnight in an unusually fierce quarrel at the card tables, he was ordered by his long- suffering chief to repair to the neighbouring town of Ismail until the scandal had blown over. On the road Poushkin fell in with a band of gipsies and joined them for a time in their wandering life. The outcome of this episode was his poem
The Gipsies
, with its misanthropical hero, Aleko — the type of social exile Poushkin would naturally create at the height of his Byronic infatuation. From Kishiniev he was transferred to Odessa, where he found himself under Veron- tsiev, a far more exacting chief, who treated him merely as an official and made no allowances for the aberrations of genius. At Odessa Poushkin fell under the influence of an Englishman who seems to have been a disciple of Shelley. Having imbibed the principles of “the only intellectual atheist I ever met,” he wrote to a friend announcing the result of these “lessons in pure atheism.” The letter was intercepted, and Poushkin, now convicted of irreligion, besides being suspected of disloyalty, fell once more under the displeasure of the Government. His official career, which must have been as perplexing to his superiors as Shelley’s brief university life to his college authorities, was prematurely cut short. He was ordered to set out immediately for his father’s property at Mikhailovsky, in the Government of Pskov, where he arrived in August, 1824. His position was virtually that of a prisoner on the paternal estate. Rumours of his lawless excesses, and, worse still, of his atheism, had preceded him, and his father, afraid of the moral contamination for his other children, forbade all intercourse between them and the returned prodigal. That Poushkin suffered very keenly under the parental suspicion is evident from a letter written to Joukovsky shortly after his arrival at Mikhailovsky. “Dear friend, I take refuge with you. Judge of my situation. When first I came here I was well received; but soon everything changed. My father, alarmed at my banishment, keeps on repeating that he expects to share the same fate. At first his irascibility and anger gave me no opportunity of explaining myself. I decided to say nothing. Then he began to reproach my brother, saying I was teaching him my atheism; but still I kept silence. Finally, wishing to extricate myself from such a sad position, I asked leave to speak out frankly — nothing more. My father lost his temper, sent for my brother, and told him not to associate
avec ce monstre de fils dénaturé.
Joukovsky, think of my situation and advise me! My head reels when I realise all this. I went again to my father; I found him in his bedroom, and poured out all that had been weighing on my heart for the last three months; I ended by saying that I spoke to him for the last time. Taking advantage of there being no witness of our interview, my father rushed from the room and declared to the whole household that I wished to kill him.... What is the object of this criminal accusation? To send me dishonoured to the mines of Siberia?... Save me from prison, or the Monastery of Solovets! Save me once more! Make haste, for my father’s accusation is known to every one in the house. No one believes it, but they all gossip. The neighbours know it. Soon it will reach the Government: you know what will happen. For me there is no court of justice. I am
hors les lois.”

Joukovsky proved once again the “good angel” of the younger poet. The painful tension of the situation gradually relaxed, and Poushkin’s father returned to the capital, leaving his son in the position of a prisoner on parole.

The winter of 1824-5 was spent in solitude at Mikhailovsky. We may accept the fourth chapter of
Eugene Oniegin
as a fairly accurate picture of his life at this time. The enforced quiet, the long hours of reflection, followed by days of steady work, were not without a beneficial effect upon Poushkin’s moral and intellectual development. He now entered upon a new and more mature phase of life. The lessons in pure atheism were counteracted by assiduous study of the Scriptures, the results of which we see in some of the works of this period, especially in that fine paraphrase of the sixth chapter of Isaiah, known to every educated Russian as “The Prophet.” Byron’s influence began to wane perceptibly, and that of Shakespeare to become paramount. Finally, the one thing most needful to his independent development began to show itself in his work — the element of nationality. In this remote country place, where his old nurse, Arina Rodionova, was often his sole companion, Poushkin’s mind reverted to those treasures of folk-lore which she had instilled into him in childhood. This was undoubtedly the most important transition period in Poushkin’s career. He now cast aside all that was vague and exotic in his work and began to concern himself with the actualities of contemporary life.

Eugene Oniegin,
a novel in verse, begun under Byronic influences in South Russia, was continued at Mikhailovsky in a new spirit of unconscious realism.

Two versts from his father’s property lay the estate of Trigovsky, the home of a charming family named Ossipov. In this quiet and gracious domestic circle Poushkin was a welcome guest. The two elder daughters of Madame Ossipov, by her first husband, Anna and Eupraskya Wulf, offered as piquant a contrast as the sisters Olga and Tatiana in
Eugene Oniegin
, and it is generally conjectured that Poushkin sketched the two heroines of his poem from these actual types of Russian womanhood.

Poushkin’s art undoubtedly gained by his intercourse with this typically virtuous and cultured family. But it was impossible that his active mind and restless ambition should continue to be content within such a narrow social circle. At times he found the monotony of Mikhailovsky unbearable; and then he would indulge in wild schemes for making his escape abroad. In the autumn of 1825 he laid his plans, with the connivance of young Wulf, a student at the University of Dorpat. But in December, just as their scheme was ripe for action, one of the servants at Trigovsky returned from Saint Petersburg with the startling news of the “Decembrist” revolt. The roads, he said, were blocked by soldiers, and he had had some difficulty in making his way through the military cordon.

Poushkin was violently agitated by this intelligence. His exile at Mikhailovsky had sobered what was, after all, only a transient enthusiasm for the cause of rebellion. His midsummer madness of liberalism had certainly begun to wane. On the other hand, these men had been his associates, and he felt impelled by a generous feeling of comradeship to take part in the plot which he had had no hand in preparing. Early the next morning he started, determined to reach Petersburg at all risks. It is said that native superstition saved him from a tragic fate. Before he reached the first post-house he received warnings too dire to be disregarded by Russian credulity: first he met a priest; and in the fields a hare crossed his path three times. The former disciple of “pure atheism” retraced his steps, and well it was for Russian literature that he did so. It was enough that one poet of promise was actually offered on the gallows, a victim to his ill-devised and untimely attempt to give Russia a constitution. Poushkin, with his previous record, could hardly have hoped for a more merciful doom than that of Ryleiev. A few days later came tidings of the complete failure of the plot and the arrest of the leaders. Looking back upon his narrow escape, Poushkin seems to have undergone a sudden revulsion of feeling. He hastened to burn all his compromising letters and the autobiography on which he was engaged.

Exceedingly weary of his sixteen months’ banishment, and moved by that opportunist spirit which is one of Poushkin’s least explicable characteristics, he was quick to see that his one chance of escape lay in a reconciliation with the new Government of Nicholas I. Early in 1826, therefore, Poushkin approached his influential friends in the capital in the hopes of being received once more into favour. In judging of his apparent inconsistency at this crisis of his life, we must make allowance for the fact that when he was associated with the Radical party, before his exile to South Russia, he was only twenty years of age, a time at which few men have formed settled convictions; and while there seems little doubt that Poushkin believed most sincerely in his own liberalism, it appears equally clear to us, who overlook his entire career, that the associations of birth and position were stronger than his youthful enthusiasms, and that he never was, by temperament or conviction, a true democrat. He had certainly travelled far from his immature views of 1820 when, six years later, he attempted this compromise with the Government. His firm belief in his vatic mission, and in the sacred personality of the Poet, gave keenness to his longing for a wider sphere of influence. We must agree with Pypin that at least “his was not that narrow opportunism without sense of honour,” but rather an intense desire for activity which enabled him to bend himself to circumstances rather than stand aside in misanthropic idleness.

Early in September, 1826, Poushkin’s old nurse arrived one morning at Trigovsky, where the poet was spending the night, with the startling intelligence that an imperial courier was awaiting him at Mikhailovsky. A post carriage was standing at his door, and Poushkin, without any explanation, was carried off, full gallop, to Moscow. He was driven direct to the Kremlin, and, still bespattered with the mud of his long, swift journey, was hurried into the presence of Nicholas I. Poushkin gives the following account of his interview: —

“The Emperor, having conversed with me for some time, finally asked, ‘Poushkin, should you have taken part in the revolt of December 14th had you been in Petersburg?’

“‘Indubitably,
Gossoudar;
all my friends were in the plot, and I must have taken my share in it. My absence alone saved me — for which I thank God.’

“‘You have committed follies enough,’ replied the Emperor. ‘Now I trust you are reasonable, and that we shall never quarrel again. You must send me all you write. I myself will be your censor.’”

Poushkin was deeply touched by this reception, and eager to take service under so generous a master, whose clemency would give him an opportunity of working untrammelled to some lofty end. An Emperor’s censorship — so he believed — would be merely nominal. His quick imagination conjured up a rose-coloured vision which shut out the inevitable disenchantment beyond, and blinded him to those methods of an iron-handed policy which were to try his loyalty to the utmost. The news of Poushkin’s pardon was received with intense enthusiasm in the literary circles of Moscow. Wherever he went the poet met with an ovation, and, in his first joy at finding himself once more in a congenial world, it is not surprising that he failed immediately to realise the irksome conditions upon which he had regained his freedom.

As time went on he learnt that suspicion once incurred was like a stain hopelessly, tragically indelible. “All the perfumes of Arabia” would never sweeten Poushkin’s reputation in the nostrils of the Government. Count Benkendorf, watchful and suspicious, was then Minister of Police. He never lost sight of the poet’s early indiscretions. Nicholas might be Poushkin’s censor in name, the Count took care to be so in fact. Now began that long series of petty annoyances, restrictions, and reprimands which put the poet’s life on a level with that of a ticket-of-leave man, and led to the disenchantment and acquiescent languor which, as Dobrolioubov observes, is the final stage in the career of almost every Russian poet.

Beneath the storms of cruel fate,

Faded my wreath of blossoms lies;

In sadness and in solitude

I linger, waiting for the end.

But before he reached the last stage Poushkin enjoyed some brief periods of comparative peace and untrammelled activity. They were soon interrupted. In 1827 he sent up a number of poems for the imperial approval. These were “The Upas Tree,”

“Stanzas,” three more chapters of
Eugene Oniegin
, “Faust,”

“To Friends,” and the “Songs of Stenka Razin.” The majority of these works were passed; but of the last two Count Benkendorf wrote that “they were quite unsuitable for publication, not only as regards subject-matter, but because they were poor poetry; added to which the Church had excommunicated Stenka Razin equally with Pougachev.” Under the stress of similar annoyances Poushkin became nervous and hypochondriacal; his life restless and disorganised. Sometimes he would throw himself into all the dissipations which surrounded him and seek distraction in cards and wine. Equally suddenly he would leave the town with a malediction on all its ways and bury himself in the country. Such reactions were beneficial to his literary production. Between 1827 and 1831 appeared the final chapters of
Eugene Oniegin, The Avaricious Knight, Don Juan, Poltava, Mozart and
Salieri
, and several minor poems and prose works.

In 1828 Poushkin became acquainted with the Goncharev family, and was introduced to their daughter at a ball. The girl was only fifteen, but Poushkin was captivated by her youthful beauty, and three years later, in February, 1831, their wedding took place in Moscow. The marriage was not altogether happy. For a few months the Poushkins led a gay and fashionable life in Moscow, and then set up their household at Tsarsky Selo. Here Poushkin renewed his intimacy with Joukovsky and, as though in friendly rivalry with him, wrote a series of national poems, some of which are considered his best works. These were:
The Lay of Tsar Saltan, The Lay of Priest Ostolop, The Dead Tsarevna,
and
The Golden Cock.
Such poems were the outcome of free inspiration and an impulse in favour of national themes; but about this time Poushkin’s work began to show that tendency towards “official nationalism” which did nothing to avert the suspicion of the authorities, while it partially alienated the public sympathy.