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


                Idedicatethisbookto Dr. R. Lane of the University of Durham forsharing with me his great expertise and for his encouragement, tomywife,Viv,and stepsons, Richard and Matthew, for being so patient, to a warm andgood person, Julian Marko, who died on February 28th. 1994, for hisgenuinefriendship, and to my father, Hugh, for many reasons.Imperturbable form is the outward signof nature's utter consonance.Only our spectral libertyimparts 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 seaand why must the thinking reed complain?(The sea is harmony. F. Tyutchev).....thegreatfiguresinimaginative literature areperpetuallycontemporary... they never become History. Ancient ormodern, theylive intheperpetual present of mankind, crowding it with an accumulation oflifeand a living variety of human experience.(Essays in Literature and Society. E. Muir)THE AUTHORA freelance teacher in the north east of England, having taughtmyselfRussianI graduated from the University of Durham in 1972 with firstclasshonours, following this withdoctoralresearchin thework ofTyutchev,supervised by R. Lane. The research was never completed and I returned to itsome four years ago, one result being this book.Early editions ofselections of the poems appearedunderthe surname"Murtagh", the nameI was born with and which I have discarded for personalreasons.THE ILLUSTRATORShaheen Razvi is afreelance artist living in Scotland.Shehas doneportraits, illustrated an Urdu text book anda multi-cultural collection ofnurseryrhymes. Shehas also contributed aseries ofoil paintings on ananti-racist theme to a major exhibition.

                FOREWORD BY R. LANE TO THE 1983 EDITION

                ThepoetFyodor Tyutchev isknown and appreciated by too fewpeopleoutside of Russia, and yet hisposition as second to Pushkin (arguably onlywiththe exception of Lermontov)hasbeen acknowledgedby generations ofRussian/Soviet writers and critics. The readingpublic had always cherishedhislyrics, although they didnot alwayshave sufficient access tothem.Tyutchev can teachmuchofvalueabout both how to savour thebeauty offleeting moments and how to face life's adversities with spirit.It is precisely thesequalities whichhave, Ibelieve,beencaughtadmirablyinFrankMurtagh'stranslations. Theytransmit faithfully thefeelings and the tone of the originals, sometimes with remarkable success. Ibelieve that he has tackledsensibly the dilemma of the equation facing alltranslators ofpoetry - to what extent to reproduce the originals. It seemsinevitable that someof therhymesand the other formal features mustbesacrificed tothe need to reproduce the "feel"of Tyutchev's often amazinglyrics.Frank Murtaghhastrodthis tightrope withgreatsurenessandTyutchev's distinctivestyleremains largely unsacrificed. Because hehasknownandloved theMasterforso long, histranslationshavebecomeconsonant with the originalpoems. In this way they fill a real lacuna. Forthis collection is thefirstaccurate translation inbulkbyaBritishauthor. Its only forerunner wasCharles Tomlinson'sslimvolumeof 1960.Thiscontained poems of great distinction by an eminent poet, but there wasmore ofTomlinson in themthanTyutchev. What is more, FrankMurtagh hastranslated more poems than any other author, several for the first time intoEnglish, including some of the much neglected political pieces.Thisbook has been interestingly illustrated by Shaheen Razvi. Certainoftheillustrationsdo notpresent the poems in theway in whichsomepeoplemight have visualisedthem, but theyare nevertheless a bold breakwiththepretty-prettypresentationofanthologicalpieceshithertodominant.Allin all, I believe that Frank Murtagh's bookisessential readingforstudentsandother readersof Russian poetryandistobe warmlyrecommended.R. LaneUniversity of Durham, EnglandFebruary, 1983


                Since R. Lane wrote his Foreword in 1983, only one edition of "quality"translations of Tyutchevhas appeared till now, Anatoly Liberman's versionsof181ofthepoemspublishedin1991.Incallingthem"quality"translations, I make a deliberate value judgement, forhis is not theonlyedition of selected poems to have appeared.There aretoo many gaps in published Tyutchevscholarship for any oneresearcherto deal with. The present bookisintended tobe the first ofseveral ofvariouslengths andformats which Iwish toproduceas timeallows and whose overallaimis to fill someof these gaps.I shall alsocontinue to work at the translations of the poems. I am all too aware of thedefectsof several ofmy versions,althoughIhopethey areatleastaccurately rendered, even if they do little justice to Tyutchev. Very littlehas been published in English abouthis personal letters. There has been noseriousattempt to translate them in bulk, possiblybecause the task wouldbe monumental. Asatisfactory Russian version of all thepoems has yettoappear.Russianeditorsstilltendtofavoursplittingup thepoemsaccording to relative quality, a very subjective business, to say the least.AstudyofTyutchev inthe lettersand memoirsofotherswould proveilluminating. Hisfamily, inparticulartwoofhis daughters, AnnaandEkaterina, deserve attention in their own right.Studiescarriedout byRussian scholarsduring thelate nineteenthcentury and the Soviet period, culminatingin Pigaryov's Lirika edition andhis 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 hiscontributions published in Literaturnoe nasledstvo(1988-89), now, it seemsto me, need drawing togetherwith the manyother smallercontributions ofthepast twentyor thirty yearsinto a single, new book in English on thewriter, a thorough,critical re-appraisal of his work. Such atask will befor a new Tyutchev scholar of energy.Frank JudeDurham, EnglandJanuary, 2000


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


                Thetitle/first line of a known translation and the author'sname aregiven aftertheEnglishtitle/firstline. Some titlesare inFrench orLatin. Where thefirstline is given inFrench,the poem waswritten inFrench. Italics are used for the first line of each untitled poem. Where thetitle is a propername identical in thelanguages in question, it is givenonce only (e.g. Sakontala).Title/first linePage1.Lyubeznomu papen'ke53Dear Dad!2.Na novyi 1816 god53New Year 18163.Dvum druz'yam54To Two Friends4.Puskai ot zavisti serdtsa zoilov noyut55Let envy gnaw Zoilus's heart5. Poslanie Goratsiya k Metsenatu, v kotorom priglashaet ego k55sel'skomu obeduA Letter from Horace to Mecenatus Inviting him to Dinner in theCountryTyrrhena progenies, tibi (Horace)6.Vsesilen ya i vmeste rab57Omnipotent am I while weak7.Uraniya57Urania8.Nevernye preodolev puchiny61Inconstant, watery gulfs finally behind him9.K ode Pushkina na Vol'nost'61On Pushkin's Ode to Freedom10.Kharon i Kachenovsky62Charon and Kachenovsky11.Odinochestvo62SolitudeL'Isolement (Lamartine)12.Vesna (Posvyashchaetsya druz'yam)63Spring (Dedicated to my Friends)13.A.N.M.6414.Gektor i Andromakha64Hector and AndromacheHektor und Andromacha (Schiller)15.Na kamen' zhizni rokovoi65Along the fateful shore of life16."Ne dai nam dukhu prazdnoslov'ya!"65"Do not endow us with the spirit of idle gossip!"17.Protivnikam vina66(Yako i vino veselit serdtse cheloveka)To Wine's Detractors(For wine, indeed, brings joy to man's heart)18.Poslanie k A.V. Sheremetevu67An Epistle to A.V. Sheremetev19.Pesn' Radosti67Song of JoyAn die Freude (Schiller)20.Slyozy70Tears21.S chuzhoi storony70From a Foreign LandEin Fichtenbaum steht einsam22.Drug, otkroisya predo mnoyu71Be open with me, my loveLibeste, sollst mir heute sagen (Heine)23.Druz'yam pri posylke Pesni Radosti - iz Shillera71To My Friends (On Sending themSchiller's "Song of Joy")24.K N.72To N.25.K Nise72To Nisa.26.Pesn' skandinavskikh voinov72The Song of the Norse WarriorsMorgengesang im Kriege (Herder)27.Problesk73The Gleam28.V al'bom druz'yam74In an Album for my FriendsLines written in an Album at Malta (Byron)29.Sakontala (Kalidasa/Goethe)7430.14-oe dekabrya 182575December 14th. 182531.Zakralas' v serdtse grust', - i smutno75Sadness stole into my heart and I vaguelyDas Herz ist mir bedruckt, und sehnlich (Heine)32.Voprosy75Questions33.Korablekrushenie76The Shipwrecked ManDer Schiffbruchige (Heine)34.Kak poroyu svetlyi mesyats77As the bright moon sometimesWie der Mond sich leuchtend dranget (Heine)35.Privetstvie dukha77The Spirit's GreetingGeistesgruss (Goethe)36.iKto s khlebom slyoz svoikh ne el78He who has not eaten tears with his breadWer nie sein Brot mit Tranen a?iiKto khochet miru chuzhdym byt'He who would be a stranger in the worldWer sich der Einsamkeit ergiebt (Goethe)37.Zapad, Nord i Yug v krushen'e78HegiraHegire (Goethe)38.Vesennyaya groza80A Spring Storm39.Mogila Napoleona80Napoleon's Tomb40.Cache-Cache80Hide and Seek41.Letnii vecher81A Summer Evening42.Olegov shchit81Oleg's Shield43.Videnie82A Vision44.Bairon82ByronTotenkranze (Zedlitz)45.Sredstvo i tsel'86The Means and the End46.Imperatoru Nikolayu I86To the Emperor Nicholas INicolaus das ist der Volksbesieger (Ludwig I of Bavaria)47.Bessonnitsa87Insomnia48.Utro v gorakh88Morning in the Mountains49.Snezhnye gory88Snowy Mountains50.Poslednii kataklizm88The Final Cataclysm51.K N.N.88To N.N.52.Eshchyo shumel vesyolyi den'89The happy day was loud53.Vecher89Evening54.Polden'90Midday55.Lebed'90The Swan56."Prekrasnyi budet den", - skazal tovarischch90"It's going to be a nice day", my friend saidReisebilder (Heine)57.Ty zrel ego v krugu bol'shogo sveta92You saw him in polite company58.V tolpe lyudei, v neskromnom shume dnya92Among society's gossips59.iZvuchit, kak drevle, pred toboyu92As in days gone by, before you is heardDie Sonne tont nach alter WeiseiiKto zval menya? - O strashnyi vid! -"Who called me? - "Oh, horrible sight!"Wer ruft mir? - Schreckliches Gesicht!iiiChego vy ot menya khotite?What do you want of meWas sucht ihr, machtig und gelindivZachem gubit' v unynii pustomWhy destroy in empty depressionDoch la? uns dieser Stunde schones GutvZavetnyi kubokThe Cherished CupEs war ein Konig in ThuleviDerzhavnyi dukh!Ty dal mne, dal mne vsyoAlmighty spirit, you have given me everything, everythingErhabner Geist, du gabst mir, gabst mir alles (Goethe)60.Vysokogo predchuvstviya96Lofty presentiment'sIl cinque maggio (Manzoni)61.Edva my vyshli iz tresenskikh vrat97We had just left the gates of TrezeneA peine nous sortions des portes de Trezene (Racine)62.Nochnye mysli99Night ThoughtsNachtgedanken (Goethe)63.ilyubovniki, bezumtsy i poety99Lovers, madmen and poetsiiZarevel golodnyi levThe hungry lion has begun to roar (Shakespeare)64.Kak okean ob''emlet shar zemnoi100Just as the ocean curls around earth's shores65.Velikii Karl, prosti! - Velikii, nezabvennyi!100Forgive me, Great Charles!Great, unforgotten!Hernani (Hugo)HeHH66.Kon' morskoi102The Sea Horse67.Pevets102The SingerDer Sanger (Goethe)68.Zdes', gde tak vyalo svod nebesnyi103Here the sky stares inert69.Uspokoenie (Groza proshla - eshchyo kuryas', lezhal)104Peace (The storm has passed)70.Dvum syostram104To Two Sisters71.Sei den', ya pomnyu104I recall that day72.Tsitseron104Cicero73.Osennii vecher105An Autumn Evening74.List'ya105Leaves75.Cherez livonskie ya proezzhal polya106Crossing Livonian fields76.Pesok sypuchii po koleni106Sand gives softly.Hooves sink.77.Strannik106The Wanderer78.Bezumie107Madness79.Al'py107The Alps80.Mal'aria108Infected Air81.Za nashim vekom my idyom108We walk behind our age82.Vesennie vody108Vernal Waters83.Silentium!108Stay Silent!84.Kak nad goryacheyu zoloi109As a piece of paper85.K*** (Usta s ulybkoyu privetnoi)109To... (Lips with a smile of greeting)86.Kak doch' rodnuyu na zaklan'e110Just as Agamenon brought his daughter87.Vsyo beshenei burya, vsyo zlee i zlei110The storm howls more evilly, screaming its spite88.Vesennee uspokoenie111Peace in SpringtimeFruhlingsruhe (Uhland)89.Na dreve chelovechestva vysokom111You were the best leaf90.Dva demona emu sluzhili111Two demons served him91.Probleme112A Problem92.Son na more112A Dream at Sea93.Prishlosya konchit' zhizn' v ovrage113I'm ending my days in a ditch94.Arfa skal'da114The Skald's Harp95.Ya lyuteran lyublyu bogosluzhen'e114I like the service of the Lutherans96.V kotoruyu iz dvukh lyubit'sya114With which of the two has fate decreedIn welche soll ich mich verlieben (Heine)97.Iz kraya v krai, iz grada v grad115From land to land, from town to townEs treibt dich fort von Ort zu Ort (Heine)98.Ya pomnyu vremya zolotoe115I remember a golden time99.Dusha moya - elisium tenei116My soul, you're an Elysium of shades100.Kak sladko dremlet sad temnozelyonyi116How sweetly sleep lies on the green garden101.Net,moego k tebe pristrast'ya117No, Mother-Earth, my tenderness for you102.V dushnom vozdukha molchan'e117Silent air enwrapping103.Chto ty klonish' nad vodami118Willow, why do you lower104.Vecher mglistyi i nenastnyi118Foul night, misty night105.I grob opushchen uzh v mogilu118Into the grave the coffin's lowered106.Vostok belel.Lad'ya katilas'118The east whitened.107.Teni sizye smesilis'119Blue-grey mingling108.S polyany korshun podnyalsya119The kite lifts from the field109.Kakoe dikoe ushchel'e120What a wild ravine!110.Kak ptichka, ranneyu zaryoi120The whole world starts as sunlight streams111.Tam, gde gory, ubegaya120Far into the shining distance112.Nad vinogradnymi kholmami121Across vine-covered hillsides113.O chyom ty voesh', vetr nochnoi?122Why do you howl, night wind?114.Potok sgustilsya i tuskneet122The stream has frozen and dulled115.Sizhu zadumchiv i odin122I sit deep in thought and alone116.Eshchyo zemli pechalen vid123Earth's face is still a melancholy thing117.Zima nedarom zlitsya123Winter's spite is vain118.Yarkii sneg siyal v doline124Brilliant snow shone in the valley119.Fontan124The Fountain120.Dusha khotela b byt' zvezdoi124My soul would like to be a star121.Ne to, chto mnite vy priroda125Nature is not what you think it is122.I chuvstva net v tvoikh ochakh125There's not a spark of feeling in your eyes123.Lyublyu glaza tvoi, moi drug125I love your eyes, dear124.Vchera, v mechtakh obvorozhyonnykh126Last night in enchanted dreams125.29-oe yanvarya 1837126January 29th. 1837126.1-oe dekabrya 1837127December 1st. 1837127.Ital'yanskaya villa127The Italian Villa128.Davno l', davno l', o Yug blazhennyi128Is it so long, blessed, blissful South129.S kakoyu negoyu, s kakoi toskoi vlyublyonnoi128What gentle, tender joy, what enamoured pangs130.Nous avons pu, tous deux, fatigues du voyage129Tired by travel, we made131.Smotri, kak zapad razgorelsya129Watch the West flaming up132.Vesna (Kak ni gnetyot ruka sud'biny)129Spring (No matter how oppressive the hand of fate)133.Den' i noch'130Day and Night134.Ne ver', ne ver' poetu, deva130Don't believe the poet, girl!135.Zhivym sochuvstviem priveta131With a lively, sympathetic greeting136.K Ganke132To Hanka137.Znamya i Slovo133The Banner and the Word138. Ot russkogo, po prochtenii otryvkov lektsii g-na133139. MitskevichaFrom a Russian, Having Read Extracts from Mr.Mickiewicz's Lectures139.Que l'homme est peu reel, qu'aisement il s'efface!134Unreal man's so simple to efface140.Glyadel ya, stoya nad Nevoi134I stood by the Neva, my gaze141.Kolumb134Columbus142.Un Reve135A Reverie143.More i Utyos136The Sea and the Cliff144.Un ciel lourd que la nuit bien avant l'heure assiege136A heavy sky which night has prematurely assailed145.Eshchyo tomlyus' toskoi zhelanii137Longing, desires still ravage146.Ne znaesh', chto lestnei dlya mudrosti lyudskoi137By which can human wisdom more surely be enhanced147.Kak dymnyi stolp svetleet v vyshine137A cloud bank, bright and high148.Russkoi zhenshchine137To Russian Woman149.Russkaya Geografiya137A Russian Geography150.Svyataya noch' na nebosklon vzoshla138Holy night has climbed across the sky151.Neokhotno i nesmelo138Timidly, unwillingly152.Itak, opyat' uvidelsya ya s vami138So once again we meet153.Tikhoi noch'yu, pozdnim letom139Quiet evening, late in summer154.Kogda v krugu ubiistvennykh zabot139When clinging, murderous cares155.Slyozy lyudskie, o slyozy lyudskie139Tears of people, tears of people156.Pochtenneishemu imeninniku Filippu Filippovichu Vigelyu140To the Most Honourable Filipp Filippovich Vigel157.Po ravnine vod lazurnoi140Across an azure plain of water158.Rassvet140Daybreak159.Vnov' tvoi ya vizhu ochi141Once again I see your eyes160.Kak on lyubil rodnye eli141How he loved the native firs161.Lamartine (La lyre d'Apollon, cet oracle des dieux)142Lamartine (Apollo's lyre, oracle of the gods)162.Napoleon142163.Comme en aimant le coeur devient pusillanime143The heart in love cowers164.Poeziya143Poetry165.Rim noch'yu143Rome at night166.Venetsiya143Venice167.Konchen pir, umolkli khory144Feating finished, choirs quiet168.Prorochestvo144A Prophecy169.Uzh tretii god besnuyutsya yazyki145For the third year now, the tribes have run amok170.Net, karlik moi! trus besprimernyi145Your cowardice can't be measured, you dwarf!171.Poshli, Gospod', svoyu otradu146Lord, send your comfort172.Na Neve146On the Neva173.Kak ni dyshit polden' znoinyi147Midday breathes its hottest174.Ne rassuzhdai, ne khlopochi!147Forget all cares, don't reason deep175.Pod dykhan'em nepogody147Swelling, darkening waters176.Vous dont on voit briller, dans les nuits azurees148Unsullied gods of light177.Obveyan veshcheyu dremotoi148Prophetic sleep enfolds178.Grafine E.P. Rostopchinoi (V otvet na eyo pis'mo)148To Countess E.P. Rostopchina (In Reply to her Letter)179.Dva golosa149Two Voices180.Togda lish' v polnom torzhestve149The desired structure181.Pominki150The Wake182.Smotri, kak na rechnom prostore153Across the river's broad expanse you see183.O, kak ubiistvenno my lyubim!154How we murder while we love!184.Des premiers ans de votre vie155How I love to find again the source185.Ne znayu ya, kosnyotsya l' blagodat'155I don't know whether grace will touch186.Pervyi list155The First Leaf187.Ne raz ty slyshala priznan'e156You've often heard the admission188.Nash vek156Our Age189.Volna i duma156The Wave and the Thought190.Ne ostyvshaya ot znoyu156Heat has not congealed191.V razluke est' vysokoe znachen'e157Separation has this lofty meaning192.Ty znaesh' krai, gde mirt i lavr rastyot157Do you know the land where the myrtle and laurel bloomKennst du das land, wo die Zitronen bluhn (Goethe)157193.Den' vechereet, noch' blizka157Day turns to evening. Night approaches.194.Kak vesel grokhot letnikh bur'158Summer thunder's a happy ogre195.S ozera veet prokhlada i nega158Coolness and comfort waft up from the lakeEs lachelt der See, er ladet zum Bade196.Nedarom miloserdym Bogom158Not in vain has the gracious God197.Predopredelenie159Predestination198.Ne govori: menya on, kak i prezhde, lyubit159Don't say he loves me as he used to199.O, ne trevozh' menya ukoroi spravedlivoi160200.Chemu molilas' ty s lyubov'yu160What you guarded in your heart201.Ya ochi znal - o eti ochi!161I knew a pair of eyes.Oh, what a sight!202.Bliznetsy161The Twins203.Ty, volna moya morskaya161Ocean-waves204.Pamyati V.A. Zhukovskogo162To the Memory of V.A. Zhukovsky205.Siyaet solntse, vody bleshchut163The sun is shining, waters glisten206.Charodeikoyu zimoyu163The forest is entranced207.Poslednyaya lyubov'163Last LoveHonhHd208.Neman164The Nieman209.Spiriticheskoe predskazanie165A Spiritualistic Prediction210.A.S. Dolgorukoi165To A.S. Dolgorukaya211.Leto 1854165Summer 1854212.Uvy, chto nashego neznan'ya165What is more impotent and sad213.Teper' tebe ne do stikhov165You're not in the mood for verses214.De son crayon inimitable166To merit one word, one comma, one full stop215. Po sluchayu priezda avstriiskogo ertsgertsoga na166Pokhorony imperatora NikolayaOn the Occasion of the Arrival of the Austrian Archdukeat the Funeral of the Emperor Nicholas.216.Plamya rdeet, plamya pyshet166Redness.Flaring.217.Tak, v zhizni est' mgnoven'ya167In life there are moments you cannot convey218.Eti bednye selen'ya167These poor villages, this sorry nature!219.Vot ot morya i do morya167From sea to sea the wire goes220.Grafine Rostopchinoi (O, v eti dni - dni rokovye)168To Countess Rostopchina (Oh, in these days, thesefateful days)221.1856 (Stoim my slepo pred sud'boyu)1681856 (Blindly we face fate)222.O veshchaya dusha moya!168Oh, my prophetic soul!223.Molchi, proshu, ne smei menya budit'169Be quiet, please!Don't dare wake me!224.Oui, le sommeil m'est doux! plus doux de n'etre pas!169Yes, sleep is sweet, but it's sweeter not to have been!225.Ne Bogu ty sluzhil i ne Rossii169To serve God and Russia was never your intention226.Tomu, kto s veroi i lyubov'yu169For him who served his native land227.Vsyo, chto sberech' mne udalos'169What I've managed to keep alive228.Il faut qu'une porte170A door should be open or closed229.N.F. Shcherbine170To N.F. Shcherbina230.S vremenshchikom Fortuna v spore170Fortune had an argument with a favouriteDas Gluck und die Weisheit (Schiller)231.Prekrasnyi den' ego na Zapade ischez170His fine day has disappeared in the West232.Nad etoi tyomnoyu tolpoi170Above this ignorant crowd233.Est' v oseni pervonachal'noi171There is a fleeting, wondrous moment234.Smotri, kak roshcha zeleneet171Look at the coppice!235.Kogda os'mnadtsat' let tvoi172When your eighteen years236. E.N. Annenkovoi (D'une fille du nord, chetive et172languissante)To E.N. Annenkova (Are you trying to borrow thefeatures)237.V chasy, kogda byvaet172At times when there is238.Ona sidela na polu173She was sitting on the floor239.Uspoloenie (Kogda, chto zvali my svoim)173Peace (When what we called our own)240.Osennei pozdneyu poroyu174Late in autumn241.Na vozvratnom puti174On the Journey Home242.Est mnogo melkikh, bezymyannykh175There are many tiny, unnamed243.Pour sa Majeste l'Imperatrice176For her Imperial Majesty244.Pour Madame la Grande Duchesse Helene176For Grand Duchess Helen245.Dekabr'skoe utro176A December Morning246.E.N. Annenkovoi (I v nashei zhizni povsdnevnoi)176To E.N. Annenkova (Into daily life)247.Iz Yakoba Byome177From Jacob Bohme248.Kuda somnitelen mne tvoi177"Sceptical" sums up the way I feel249.Prokhodya svoi put' po svodu177Tracing its path across the sky250.De ces frimas, de ces deserts177From these empty lands, from this wintry weather251.Memento!177Remember!252.Khot' ya i svil gnezdo v doline178I have built my nest in a valley253.La vieille Hecube, helas, trop longtemps eprouvee178Old Hecuba, alas, so long so sorely tried254.Na yubilei knyazya Petra Andreevicha Vyazemskogo179On the Occasion of Prince Pyotr Andreevich Vyazemsky'sJubilee255.Kogda-to ya byla maiorom180Once I was a major, many years ago256.Aleksandru II180To Alexander II257.Ya znal eyo eshchyo togda180I knew her even then258.Nedarom russkie ty s detstva pomnil zvuki181Not for nothing have your remembered the sounds259. Knyazyu P.A. Vyazemskomu (Teper' ne to, chto za181polgoda)To Prince P.A. Vyazemsky (It's not the same now as itwas six months back)260.Igrai, pokuda nad toboi181Play while above you261.Pri posylke Novogo Zaveta182On Sending the New Testament262.Oboim Nikolayam182To Both Nicholases263.On prezhde mirnyi byl kazak182He used to be a gentle cossack264.A.A. Fetu182To A.A. Fet265.Inym dostalsya ot prirody183Nature has endowed some with a sense266.Svyatye gory183The Sacred Mountains267.Zateyu etogo rasskaza184For itself this story speaks268.Uzhasnyi son otyagotel nad nami184We've been burdened by a horrible dream269.Ego svetlosti A.A. Suvorovu184To his Grace Prince A.A. Suvorov270.Kak letnei inogda poroyu185Just as now and then during summer271.N.I. Krolyu186To N.I. Krol'272.19-oe fevralya 1864 (i tikhimi poslednimi shagami)186February 19th. 1864 (With his last quiet steps)273.Ne vsyo dushe boleznennoe snitsya187Not always does the soul have sickly dreams274.Utikhla biza.... Legche dyshit187the breeze has dropped and lighter is the breath275.Ves' den' ona lezhala v zabyt'I187All day she lay oblivious276.Kak nerazgadannaya taina187Like an unresolved mystery277.O, etot Yug, o, eta Nitstsa!188Oh, this south, oh, this Nice!278.Kto b ni byl ty, no vstretyas' s nei188No matter who you are, just meeting her279.Encyclica188An Encyclical280.Knyazyu Gorchakovu (vam vypalo prizvan'e rokovoe)188To Prince Gorchakov (Yours has been a fateful calling)281.Kak khorosho ty, o more nochnoe189Ocean-billows, night-surging282.Kogda na to net Bozh'ego soglas'ya189When god has deferred assent283.Otvet na adres189In Reply to an Address284.Est' i v moyom stradal'cheskom zastoe190In the martyrdom of my stagnation285.On, umiraya, somnevalsya190Dying, he doubted286.Syn tsarskii umiraet v Nitstse191In Nice the tsar's son is dying287.12-oe aprelya 1865191April 12th. 1865288.Kak verno zdravyi smysl naroda192How truly has the common sense of folk289.Pevuchest' est' v morskikh volnakh192The sea is harmony290.Drugu moemu Ya. P. Polonskomu193To my Friend, Ya. P. Polonsky291.Veleli vy - khot', mozhet byt', i v shutku193You commanded, though, perhaps, in jest292.Knyazyu Vyazemskomu (Est' telegraf za neimen'em nog)193To Prince Vyazemsky (There's the telegraph if you've gono legs)293.Bednyi Lazar', Ir ubogoi193Poor Lazarus, wretched Iros294.Segodnya, drug, pyatnadtsat' let minulo193It's fifteen years today, my friend295.Molchit somnitel'no Vostok194The East is doubtful, silent296.Nakanune godovshchiny 4-ogo avgusta 1864 g.194On the Eve of the Anniversary of August 4th. 1864297.Kak neozhidanno i yarko194Unexpectedly and brightly298.Nochnoe nebo tak ugryumo195Sad night creeps299.Net dnya, chtoby dusha ne nyla195Not a day relievs the soul of pain300.Kak ni besilosya zlorech'e195Let foul slander rage301.Grafine A.D. Bludovoi196To Countess A.D. Bludova302.Tak! On spasyon! Inache byt' ne mozhet196So he's saved! Could it turn out otherwise?303.Kogda sochuvstvenno na nashe slovo196When what we have said is echoed far and wide304.Knyazyu Suvorovu (Dva raznorodnye stremlen'ya)196To Prince Suvorov (Two disparate tendencies)305.I v Bozh'em mire to zh byvaet197In God's world it can happen306.Kogda rasstroennyi kredit197When our disordered exchequer307.Tikho v ozere struitsya197Lake's still currents308.Na grobovoi ego pokrov197On his funeral pall309.Kogda dryakhleyushchie sily197When our decrepit energies turn traitor310.Nebo blednogoluboe198The pale-blue sky311.Umom Rossiyu ne ponyat'199Russia is a thing of which312.Na yubilei N.M. Karamzin199On the Jubilee of N.M. Karamzin313.Ty l'dolgo budesh' za tumanom200Russian star, will you always seek314.V Rime200In Rome315.Khotya b ona soshla s litsa zemnogo201Although it has slipped from the face of the earth316.Ne v pervyi raz volnuetsya Vostok201It's not the first time the East has been in turmoil.317.Nad Rossiei rasprostyortoi201318.Kak etogo posmertnogo al'boma201How I love the cherished pages319.I dym otechestva i sladok i priyaten202The smoke of the fatherland is sweet to smell!320.Dym202Smoke321.Slavyanam (Privet vam zadushevnyi, brat'ya)203To the Slavs (A heartfelt greeting to you, brethren)322.Slavyanam (Oni krichat, oni grozyatsya)204To the Slavs (They shout, they threaten)323.Pripiska205Postscript to the Poem Entitled To Hanka324.Naprasnyi trud - net, ikh ne vrazumish'206It's a waste of time.You'll not make them see sense325.Na yubilei knyazya A.N. Gorchakova206On the Jubilee of Prince A.N. Gorchakov326.Lorsqu'un noble prince en ces jours de demence206In these days of madness, if a noble prince sinks327.Kak ni tyazhyol poslednii chas206However burdensome the end328.Svershaetsya zasluzhennaya kara207A righteous punishment is being meted out329. Po prochtenii depesh imperatorskogo kabineta,207napechatannykh v "Journal de St. Petersbourg"On Reading the Imperial Despatches, Printed in theJournal de St. Petersbourg330.Opyat, stoyu ya nad Nevoi207Once more by the Neva I stand331.Pozhary208Fires332.V nebe tayut oblaka208Clouds melt in the sky333.Mikhailu Petrovichu Pogodinu209To Mikhail Petrovich Pogodin334.Pamyati E.P. Kovalevskogo209In Memory of E.P. Kovalevsky335.Pechati russkoi dobrokhoty209The well-wishers of the Russian Press336.Motiv Geine210A Heine MotifDer Tod, das ist die kuhle Nacht (Heine)337.Vy ne rodilus' polyakom210You weren't born a Pole338."Net, ne mogu ya videt vas...."210339.Velikii den' Kirillovoi konchiny211With which heartfelt, simple greeting340.Nam ne dano predugadat'211It's not given us to foretell341.Dve sily est' - dve rokovye sily211There are two powers, two fateful powers342. 11-oe maya 1869 (Nas vsekh, sobravshikhsya na obshchii212prazdnik snova)May 11th. 1869 (The word of the Gospel has now taughus all)343.Kak nasazhdeniya Petrova212Just as the trees344.O.I. Orlovoi-Davydovoi213To O.I. Orlova-Davydova345. Andreyu Nikolaevichu Murav'yovu (Tam, gde na vysote213obryva)To Andrei Nikolaevich Murav'yov (There, on the summitof an overhang)346.V derevne213In the Country347.Priroda - sfinks.I tem ona vernei213Nature is a sphinx.348.Chekham ot moskovskikh slavyan215To the Czechs from the Moscow Slavs349.Kak nas ni ugnetai razluka216No matter how we're crushed by separation350.Sovremennoe216Today's News351.A.F. Gil'ferdingu218To A.F. Hilferding352.Yu. F. Abaze219To Yu F. Abaza353.Krasnorechivuyu, zhivuyu219I read my rebuke354.Tak providenie sudilo219Thus has providence judged355.Radost' i gore v zhivom upoen'e219Joy and grief in living ecstasyFreudvoll (Goethe)356.Gus na kostre220Hus at the Stake357.Nad russkoi Vil'noi starodavnoi221Over ancient, Russian Vilnius358.K.B.221359.Doekhal ispravno, ustalyi i tselyi222Tired and in one piece, I got here on time360.Dva edinstva222Two Unities361.Velen'yu vyshemy pokorny222Submissive to a high command362.Chemu by zhizn' nas ni uchila222Whatever life might have taught us363.Da, vy derzhali vashe slovo223Yes, you have kept your word364.Ah, quelle meprise224I'm bewildered and let me say365.Brat, stol'ko let soputsvovavshii mne224Brother, you have been with me so long366.S novym godom, s novym schast'em224Happy New Year, all the best367.Davno izvestnaya vsem dura224A fool we've known for ages368.Vprosonkakh slyshu ya - i ne mogu224I'm half asleep and I can't369.Chyornoe more224The Black Sea370.Vatikanskaya godovshchina226The Vatican's Anniversary371.Ot zhizni toi, chto bushevala zdes'226Of the life that raged here372.Vrag otritsatel'nosti uzkoi227Enemy of narrow negativity373.Pamyati M.K. Politkovskoi227To the Memory of M.K. Politkovskii374.Den' pravoslavnogo Vostoka228On this day of the Orthodox East375.Mir i soglas'e mezhdu nas229There's peace and harmony between us376.Kak bestolkovy chisla eti229These dates are so illogical!377.Tut tselyi mir, zhivoi, raznoobraznyi229Here's a whole world, living, varied378.Chertog tvoi, spasitel', ya vizhu ukrashen229Saviour, I see your mansion decked out379.Khotel by ya, chtoby v svoei mogile229In my grave I'd love to lie380.Napoleon III229381.Tebe, bolyashchaya v dalyokoi storone230To you, ill in a distant land382.Britanskii leopard231The British Leopard383.Konechno, vredno pol'zam gosudarstva232Of course, it is harmful to the wellbeing of the state384.Vo dni napastei i bedy232In days of misfortune and trouble385.Vsyo otnyal ot menya kaznyashchii Bog232In punishment, God's taken everything away386.Ital'yanskaya vesna233Spring in Italy387.My solntsu yuga ustupaem vas233We surrender you to the sun of the south.388.Vot svezhie tebe svety233Here are some fresh blooms for you389.April 17th. 1818233390.Imperatoru Aleksandru II234To his Imperial Majesty Alexander II391.Bessonnitsa (nochnoi moment)235Insomnia (A Moment at Night)392.Khot' rodom on byl ne Slavyanin235Although he wasn't born a Slav393.Byvaet rokovye dni235Fate Sends Days


                Thisbook has two principal objectives: (a) to provide, forthe firsttime in English, an annotatedversion of all of Tyutchev's surviving poems,including his translations of other writers, which willbeofuse tothestudent of Russian, the Tyutchev researcher and anyone involved in the fieldof literary translation; (b) to serve as the first ever attempt to introduceTyutchev the poet in full to the reader of literature who knows no Russian.Most of the annotations dealwith history, literary andpolitical.Ihave incorporated almost all the notes from Pigaryov's edition, (A:33ii) (1)which are asummaryof manypeople's findings,referencestoAksakov'sbiographyandextracts fromTyutchev'sletters,aswellasincludingcomments by many researchers and myself.The full version and my translationofeveryidentifiablesurvivingforeign work Tyutchev translated permits readers to consider why he may havechosenparticular material for translation inthefirst place and whyheretained itssense or altered itashe did. My versions and, indeed,anytranslations necessarily afford only an approximate idea of this. The way hedealtwith the workof othersis in itselfa fascinating feature ofanyresearch into the poet,for Tyutchev was notalways a faithful translator.While certainof these works are very good renditions indeed, others do notpretend to adhere to the sense of the source poem. It is difficult to regardPesn' skandinavskikh voinov/The Song of theNorse Warriors as a translationofHerder's Morgengesangim Kriege/MorningSong in War Time, written in afolk orpseudo-folk vein, foritdoublesthe Germanpiece in length andintroduces material utterly foreigntothe spirit and movement of Herder'swork, though the new material does owe a little to Russian folklore.On theother hand, parts of Tyutchev's work area direct translation or close copyof the German. Tyutchev sticksclosely to the originalwhen he chooses to,as inhis translationof two short pieces from Shakespeare's A Midsummer'sNight's Dream, which he probably translatedfrom a good German version, andHippolytus's death scene from Racine's Phedre. These are skilful renditions,as are a number of shorterworks from Heine and Goetheand sections of thelatter's Faust (Part 1). But where do we stand withthe extract from Hugo'sHernani?It issignificantlyanddeliberately alteredin someways yetretainsverylarge sections of theoriginal.Do weconsiderthelyricentitled Sakontala to be a translation? It resemblesonly superficially theoriginatingscene fromKalidasa'splay andisnotmuch liketheGoetheversionoftensaid to be its inspiration.ClassicalSanskritliteraturebeing so popular in the nineteenth century throughthework of such asA.Schlegel(1767-1845), Tyutchev's Sakontala shouldprobably be seenas onemoreof manypoems written on oneofits themes.The questionofwhatmotivated him to alter other works in the subtle ways he did remains, and isbeyond the scope of this book.Because it can be so difficult to knowexactly where to draw thelinebetweenTyutchev'soriginallyricsandhistranslations/adaptations/paraphrases, I have considered each of his works aspart of the one evolving body of poetry withoutattempting to classify into"lyric","political"and"occasional", fullyawarethatIgoagainststandard practice in adopting this approach, althoughLiberman has recentlyadopted the chronological manner of grouping the lyrics. (A:19) It hasbeentoo common in the past to present the reader with the bulk of what all wouldagree is his bestlyric poetry, leaving other typesof verse, forexamplethe political pieces, in what has sometimes amounted to an appendix.AnumberofTyutchev's"lyric"poems,ifwefollowPigaryov'scategories, are mediocre and some of his political and, indeed, a handful ofthe so-called "occasional" verses, includinga fewwritten in French,arefar from inferior. Five of his French poems aregood and two are among thisreader's personalfavourites. Topresent an undiluted diet of lyric poetrywrittenoverroughly fiftyyearsistogive an erroneous impression ofTyutchev.It would beequallymisleadingto produceabookofsolelypolitical verse. Itis likely that Tyutchev wrotein these categories moreor less simultaneously and weare probably on safe ground in asserting thatthere isno periodof his creative life when hewas notproducing naturelyrics,politicalverse,lovepoetry,superficialoccasionallines,philosophical statementsand taking limerick-likeswipes at peoplehe didnotlike. Whateverspurred him to write a remarkable description of sunset(Letnii vecher/ASummer Evening[41]),occurred at the same timeastheRusso-Turkishwar (see Olegov shchit/Oleg's Shield [42]) and coincided withan alluring young female turning hishead to anything but poetry, as in theerotic,possiblyadulterous KN.N./To N.N.[51].Since poemsofallcategorieswere certainly fermenting at any one time, itseemslogical todeduce that they all represent insome way the poet as he was at that time.The chronological approach does need to be reinforced. To this end I presentTyutchev's work as I do.While the exact chronology of the poems before 1847 will probably neverbe established, I have adhered to the best chronological sequence I can comeup with at present.Worksclearly showing someone else'sinfluence appearbeside those consideredtruly original. Of course, whilea large number ofhisearlynature poemscouldbesaidto trace theirgenesis to Germanromanticism, a point made early this century by Tynyanov, and Tyutchev beingvery much a poet who saw the world through literary eyes, the best ofthem,whilesharingimageryandthemeswithGermanlyrics,areuniquelycharacteristicof Tyutchev and often considerably more innovative than manyof the works which may have inspired them.It has often been said that there are cycles in Tyutchev. Poems writtento his mistress, Elena Deniseva,are said to make up the so-called DenisevaCycle.Thesewereproduced over several years and in noway constitute acycle, let alone a "novel in verse".(See A:20,vol.1/58) His relationshipwith Elenadid not cramphisstyle when it came towriting toand aboutother women, including his firstand second wives and Amalia Krudner, whosenameandpresence cropup atvariousstages of hislife in letters andpoems. Whether poems to women are in question, nature descriptions or lyricswith all the imagery of chaos so beloved of Tyutchev, hesimply was not thepoet to produce a cycle on any theme, being so unforgivably careless when itcame to looking after hiswork oncethe interest ofimmediate inspirationhad evaporated. Nodalthemes and commonly recurring groups of images,suchasthe so-called"HolyNight", donotsuggest cycles any morethan thelyrics addressedto his mistress. Heine's Nordsee/North Sea, parts of whichTyutchev translated, is a cycle. The lyrics take a theme and present it fromdifferent anglesand withdifferentnuances,but howevermuch each poemmight differ from another, they are deliberately, artistically linked by thesea/abandonment theme, or whatever one might wish to call it.Itisnotevenuseful toconsider thathewrotelyricslooselyconnected,asdid Lamartine in his groupofMeditations Poetiques/PoeticMeditations,number 1of which Tyutchev translated, for all tooofteninTyutchev spontaneity isofthe first importance in the writing of his bestworksand spontaneity andcycles tendnot to go hand inhand.Thesameapplies,from a literary-historicalpoint of view, to periods.Continuityis, as Liberman notes, a most important feature of Tyutchev's style, so muchso that "itis hardlypossible todetect 'periods' in his creative life",differences, when they do emerge, being "unrelatedto the juxtapositionofromanticism and realism".(A:19) Ultimately Tyutchev isunique in beingabrilliant and great poet who, it could beargued, had absolutelyno desireto be any kind of poet at all."It is possiblethat nothing leadsus closer to contemplationof theessence of literature than working at the translation of poetry, or at leastthoughtfully appraising such work." (D:11/147) Translation can enjoy certainadvantages over exegesis. Translators become acquainted with "their" authorsin a way not always permitted by thekindof interpretation which requiresneutralobjectivity, ever respectfully acknowledging the work of others, bethat good, bad or indifferent. Thereare countless trenchantstatements bycountless clever translators concerning the problems inherent in the processof literary translation. Does the translator bring the author to the reader,the"domesticatingmethod",asonewriterputsit,"anethnocentricreduction oftheforeign text to target-language cultural values, bringingthe author back home,ordoeshe adopt the"foreignizing method.... anethnodeviantpressureonthose valuestoregisterthelinguisticandculturaldifferencesof theforeigntext,sendingthe readerabroad".(D:25/20)Perhaps neither of thesemethods is applicable to Tyutchev, who,itcouldbe said,was Russian bynationality onlyandpossessedto nosignificantdegreeRussianculturalvalues.Totranslateonesocosmopolitan, evenrootless, perhapsthedomesticatingandforeignizingmethods are irrelevant.Imitation,for all the following caveat,maybethebestmeans ofdealing with the source languages, the imitatorhaving "nottheslightestintention of bringingthe two together - the writer of the original and thereader ofthe imitation -becausehe doesnotbelieve that an immediaterelationship between them ispossible; heonly wants to give the latter animpression similar to that which the contemporaries of the original receivedfrom it". (D:19/41) Inmy owntranslationsI often strive to give such animpression, soperhaps Ijoin Schleiermacher's ranksof imitators, thoughwhile I accept that it is "foolish to argue for theexact reconstruction ofa poem in another language when the buildingblocks at one's disposalbearno resemblance tothose of the original",(D:27/107) I do feel that a morethanadequatereconstructionis notbeyondthegraspofthecapabletranslator.Concerning the reproduction of those formal aspects of a poem which setit apartfromany other pieceof writing,Jacquin allows thetranslatorpretty wellfree play:"Ifrhymed versebecomesblank or free verseintranslation (something which is sometimes prose in disguise ...) the poet isbetrayed and thereader led astray; for the translation deflects from theirfunctionsformsinscribed intradition.But topreserverhymesistorestrict one's choice of terms, hindered moreover by lexical and grammaticalrestraints, torisksacrificing theothervaluesofthe piecetotheornament of sound and thus to destroy its cohesive power". (D:6/52-53)I donot attempt to produce a lyric which reminds an English reader ofwhat he likes in English poetry. Nor is my aim to achieve a general romanticornineteenth-century"feel", whateverthat may be. I do notconsider anadherence to formalcharacteristics to beof the first importance any morethan I ignore them, for if theyare present ina poemthey are important,and if thetranslatorchooses to sacrifice them, something else musttaketheirplaceinorderthat theresult bepoetry and not prose. Whatisnecessary,andit isthe only thing that will work, is a juggling act, anability to read between the lines, keeping one eye on the foreignness of thesource and another on what isprobably a desireon the reader's part to bepresentedwith something with whichhe feelscomfortable.Thisideaof"comfortableness" mightbeconsideredsubjective, even vague,but itisimportant andcangenerally be achieved provided thetranslatorcan say,with a degreeof confidence,"Iam acquainted with the person who is thatwriter".Itiscertainlylikelythatintranslatinglyricpoetry,"thetranslator will havechosen the poem himself, and even more likely that thetask will be undertaken with empathy and adegree ofpersonal commitment".(D:20/631) This personal choice, this commitment on the translator's part isofthe first importance. Thetask might belikenedtoexplaining toanoutsider what a close relative or friend who has lost his voice is trying tosay. Most emphatically, Iamnot a poet ofany description.My target issimply to introduce the reader directly to Tyutchev.Awareof the many well-researchedconclusions reached by theorists inthe fieldof translation studies, Ibelieve three things are essentialintheattainmentofthistarget.The first andmost obviousisagoodknowledge of thetarget and source languages; the second, occasionally morecontroversial, is adegree of expertise in the manipulationof language, amostimportantwillingness andabilityto take risks atthe expenseofstructural fidelity, even atthe apparent expense of faithfulnessto majorimagesandpoetic formulae;the third,notreadily appreciatedbyalltranslators, is an acceptanceof the importanceof thewriter's life, notonly his creative life, for on its own this is a thing ina vacuum, but hispersonalmotivations,hissocialmilieuxandhispolitical/historicalenvironment. A close acquaintance with the writer can allow usto clear, atleastin part,thehurdles posed by the untranslated words.Whilewordscannotalwaysbetranslatedperfectly(2),once thevariouspossiblemeanings and their nuances, taking into accounttheage in which they werewritten, have been listed, the emotions and thoughts which produced them canbe coped with tosome extent for, whether we be EnglishorRussian,whatmakes us feel, think, believethe way wedo is universaland,therefore,capableofbeingtranslated.The reproductionoftheword is not,itfollows, my ultimate aim, for the words lead us into the thing the writer isexpressing.From the meltingpot ofmy priorities emerges, it is hoped, anew creation which is an accurate statement about Tyutchev in agiven lyricat a given time.Mytranslationmethods correspond broadly with two of Nabokov's threemodesoftranslation, the"paraphrastic" andthe"literal"(D:2,vol.1/viii).From his early, relatively free translations, Nabokov becamemoreand more dogmatic,even obsessive, scathingly attacking anything other thanthe purely literal (and by implicationhis own early,excellent renditionsof Tyutchev), once claiming that his ideal translation wouldbeabook ofannotationswiththe corresponding lineof verse every few pages: "I wanttranslations in copious footnotes, footnotes reaching up like skyscrapers tothe top of this or that page, so as to leave only thegleamof one textualline betweencommentary andeternity." (D:12/512) Howevertongue-in-cheekthis comment may be, Nabokov began towork accordingtoit,butsuchamethod of translationis (surely) an extreme business unless translation isto be a purelyscholarly exercise enjoyed by the few. Such is notthe roleof art. Concerning theart of translation, Nabokov wrote,"theperson whodesiresto turna literary masterpiece into another language, has only oneduty to perform, and this isto produce withabsolute exactitude the wholetext,andnothingbutthetext.Theterm"literal"translationistautologicalsinceanythingbutthatisnottruly translation butanimitation, an adaptation or aparody" (D:13/496-512) (3). Such anapproachautomaticallydistances thevast majorityof readers from preciselywhatmakesgreat literature enjoyable. Literalists all too often miss the point.I join those translators who are ready, where appropriate to sacrifice rhymeand assonance "to the silent counterpoint of poetic meaning". (D:22/v)While annotated literalnesscreatesa gap between readerand writer,itsstructural cousin, thesearchforadifferentkind ofliteralnessthroughtheminefield ofany attemptto adhere to formal characteristicssuchasrhyme, is an equally dangerousbusiness and retention of a poem'sformalaspectsshould beconsidered only provided the sense and "feel" ofthe poem remain intact.In producing a work accurate from the point of viewof rhyme and metre, the translator will inevitably be stretching thetargetlanguage,alltoooften in a contrivedfashion,producingan unnaturaleffect not present in the sourcework. Whilethe result mightbeclever,often very good, it cannot be denied that frequently too much will have beenlost. Aiming at contextual literalness produces a "story line" bereft of themusic.By making formalfidelity one'saim, one can easily lose sightofmeaninginthesearchforshape.Sensitive,informedparaphrastictranslation, it seems to me, is the only way forward.My renderingsare literally faithfulwhere appropriate.This isthecase with Tyutchev'sversions of other poets and with many of the politicalpieces. There is nopoint in treating 11-oe maya 1869/May11th. 1869 [342]in anyotherthan arigidly literal manner.They aresometimesloosely"poetic",as in Sovremennoe/Today's Event [350], a political item ending ina more"poetic"structurewhich Tyutchev uses more than once inhis bestwork. I favour a form of rhythmic prosein poems such as [128], where thereisa certain narrative feel. A number of poems are as they are because I amhappywiththem, others, I have to admit, leave me farfrom satisfied. Inthe translation of poetry,there is never a final word. There remainthoseversionswhich, wereNabokov still withus, wouldbe savaged ruthlessly,works which, from the standpoint of imagery and/or structure I haveofferedin adeliberate, considered mistranslation,thoughifthereresults"aslightlywrongmeaning",thereremainshopefully"acompletelyrightfeeling".(D:24/12) Such a work is [200],my original imagerygivingthebesteffectofwhich I was capable atthetime,thepriority being toreproduce the senseofseething,impotent anger and genuine sadness whichmotivated the poet to write it.ThecelebratedFormalist,V.Shklovsky,rightlyrejects"authomatisation", forit"eats things, clothing, furniture, your wife andfear of war". (D:12/11-12) Shklovsky believed that the artist is called uponto counteract routine by dealing with objects out of their habitual context,by gettingrid of verbal cliches and their stock responses.Iam infullagreement with Shklovsky on this matter. I would not at this stage undertakeaserioustranslation ofpoemsby Blok,Baudelaireor Holderlin,evenenjoying these writers intheir own languages, and certainly being abletotranslate the words and sentences which make up the elements of their works,for Icould notapproachthem with the confidencewith whichIknowaTyutchevlyric. Given the often scanty information at hand and the abyss oftime between us, I feel I have come to know him to some extent, his milieux,hisfamily, thewayhefeltand thoughtand passedthetime, whetherobservinghis dog chasing ducks or wishing, on a boattrip, his friend wasthere with a gun for theshooting of fowl, moaning to alland sundry abouthisgout and rheumatism, complainingtothe heavens that heis bored andlonely,irrespective ofthe heartacheto which he subjects those close tohim, pulling Schelling to pieces, cursing the British, the French, the TurksandtheVatican,irritatingPogodinwithhisintellectualarrogance,vilifying the tsar and his ministers for their crass ineptitude, or angry athis daughter formarrying asailor who -sin of sins -spoke Russianinpreference to French. Suchproximityis essentialin the production ofagood translation, for it allows the translator topull apart convention andrewrite the poet with confidence.Shklovsky's "making strange", making form difficult, "seeing" (videnie)as opposed to "recognising" (uznavanie) (ibid.)shouldbeborn in mind asthe readerapproaches many ofmytranslations. The much-anthologised goodpoem can loseone of its greatestqualities, thatofnewness,bybeinganthologised, whether in abook or in a particular, acceptedformat in thehands of translators, bybeing there, by looking moreor less the same allthe time. I believe that the translator must make thereader sit up and payattention. He must not be the critic who, in Steiner's words, "when he looksback ... sees a eunuch'sshadow" (D:7/21). The translator of any literatureworth 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 itfollows that great literature needs retranslating every so oftenin order to make sense to different generations.While the possessiveness of thecommitted translatorwho has "chosen"his poet can allow an illuminating insight into the workings of the writer'smind, it can, of course, work the other way and the good translator needs toensurethat he isproducing the writer and not himself playing at beingapoet.Itis also veryeasyto become blase about one'sknowledgeofaforeign language, for unless one is genuinely bilingual, as, indeed, Nabokovwas, the brain, albeit translating quickly, nonetheless pauses to translate,and this pauseindicatesan inability, at timesnotvery significant, totranslate instinctively. This pause can also be a useful thing. I have oftenfound, on renderinga poem into English, that an imageinthe Russian hasstruckforcefully home for the first time, despite having read the workinquestion many times.Students offoreignliteraturecould doworse thanattemptoccasionaltranslationifforno otherreason than tosatisfythemselves that they have indeed understood whatthe poet'swords actuallymean, let alone what might beimplied.They shouldcertainly never be putoff. If a translator can be sobold as to render Khlebnikov'sentertainingZaklyatiesmekhom/IncantationbyLaughterintoScots,thereismostassuredly hope for the youngest novice (D:4/89).Where I have taken considerable liberties, there will, itgoes withoutsaying, be those who point out that I have altered the structure of the poemand,therefore, itsmeaning.Whateverthecasemay be,my targethasremained throughoutthe accuratecommunication of what I believeTyutchevwas feeling,thinkingthensaying. Ihope thatmorethan ahandful ofeducated Russian speakers now feel that they can enjoy the complete poems ofthis major writeras a result of my approach, despite it being"as wise tocast a violet into a crucible thatyou might discover theformal principleof its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into anotherthe creations of a poet". (D:1/).The reader unfamiliar withthis authorwill finda story anda lifeunfoldingfromthe earliest extant poem written on hisfather's birthday,throughtrulywondrous nature lyrics, sharp,oftenhurtfullovepoems,occasionalverse,chauvinisticpolitical pronouncementsonPan-Slavism,philosophicaland religiouslines,totormentedprotestsinwhichanembittered,frightened poet of alienation faces innerturmoil, illness andencroaching death.Inthe Romantic age ofPushkin and Lermontov we find aseriously "modern" poet; in the realistic age of Dostoevskianand Tolstoyanprose, a poet who would not be disowned by later existentialist writers willbe discovered at a time when the reading public is less enthralled by poetrythan by Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov.My former supervisor, Dr. R.C. Lane,isa leadingauthorityinthefieldofTyutchevstudies.Discussionswithhimhavealwaysprovedinvaluable. He has read thefirst section of my manuscript and the endnotesandIamgratefulto him for his suggestions, encouragement andgeneralassistance, as well as forkindly writing a foreword to the 1983 edition. Ihavechosento retain this, for it says what I wish to have saidabout myapproach and,I feel, could not beimproved. His doctoralthesis and manysubsequentpublicationsrepresent,inmyview,thefullest,mostcomprehensive studyof the poetinEnglish. He has produced articlesandreports on variousaspects of Tyutchev'slife, poetry anddiplomatic workandon some of the philosophicalinfluences in the lyrics in addition to acomplete catalogue of works by and about the poet up to 1985. Since he firstlooked at the manuscript,I have amendedcertain sections. Any defectsinthe later or, indeed, earlier material are my responsibility alone.R. Gregg's book is a solid introduction offering interesting studies ofthepoemsif oftensomewhatbiased towards psychoanalysis. K. Pigaryov'sstudyand I. Aksakov'sbiography are essential preliminary reading for thespecialist,as are many Soviet contributions. The latter containessentialbackground information.Some deal intuitively withtheinspiration behindthegreatestpoems and cleverly with their structure,notablyTynyanov'sfamous article on the shortlyric as a "fragment" of the neo-classical ode.The point Tynyanov makes is that Tyutchev, wanting to retain the "monumentalforms" of the "dogmatic poem" and of the"philosophical epistle", realisingthat these had moreor less disappeared since Derzhavin'stime,found hisoutletin theartistic form ofthe "fragment", the latter,he goes on toclaim,realised inthewestby theRomanticsand canonisedbyHeine.InevitablySovietscholarshiphas suffered fromarequirementtogiveprominence to approved themes.The so-called Tyutchev-Pushkin question is acasein point.Onvarious somewhatspuriousbases(e.g.Pushkinonceridiculed Raich, Tyutchev'sfriendand tutor), an enmity betweenthetwopoets was created. Apartfromthefactthat such a matter isremarkablyirrelevant, 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 themainstream literary scene in his country and famously made no effort to havehis bestwork readby thepublicbefore 1836(he mayhave deliberatelydestroyedsome of it), such"professional" hostilitywould probably neverhave existed. I have avoided any further reference to this matteror to anyconcerning a comparison of his talents with those of other writers.Tyutchevhas had severaltranslators. Each one worthyof mention hastackledonlya very smallnumberof the better knownlyrics,withthenotableexceptionofAnatolyLibermanwhohastakenonthe bulkofTyutchev's bestwork, sticking rigorously to the formal features, includingrhymes. Heisthe first tohavepublished such alarge number of worthytranslations of Tyutchev's lyrics, preceded by an excellent introduction. Heand I have different attitudes towards poetic translation. He informed me inoneof many communications that when I decide nottoreproduce Tyutchev'srhyme schemes, the "general aurathat okutyvaet"("enwraps") my renderingstends to make up for this. I am more than happy with this judgement.Work in Europe and the USA, a relatively slow trickleof research, haslaid the as yet extremely narrow foundations of theWest's understanding ofTyutchev.Considering the importance of his position in Russian literature,it is astonishing just how many students of western European literature havenever even heard of this amazing writer.A lotof building remains. I hopethis book will fill one of the gaps in the edifice.


                1. References to the Bibliography go as follows:"A" is a main section, the following number is the item in the section,a Roman numeralis used where an author has more than one contribution, andpage 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(andinfamous) translator'sprefacetohis version of Pushkin'sEvgeniiOnegin. Nabokov writes,"Attempts to render a poem in another language fallinto three categories:(i)Paraphrastic:offeringafreeversionoftheoriginalwithomissions andadditions prompted by the exigencies of form, the conventionsattributed to the consumer, and the translator's ignorance. Some paraphrasesmaypossessthe charm of stylish diction andidiomatic conciseness but noscholar should succumb to stylishness and no reader be fooled by it.(ii) Lexical (or constructional): rendering the basic meaningof words(andtheirorder).Thisa machinecan dounderthedirectionofanintelligent bilinguist.(iii) Literal: rendering as closely as possibleas the associative andsyntactical capacities of thelanguage allow,the exact contextual meaningof the original. Only this is true translation". (D:2, vol. 1/vii-viii)


                In Russian the commonest"e" sound is more or less the "ye"of "yet".However, dueto the role played by stressedandunstressed syllables, thefull"ye" is notalwaysheard. I transliterate both thisand thesecondRussian "e" simplyas "e".Foreignnames beginning with "H" tend to startwith "G" in Russian. I retain the "H". I stick to general convention inthecases of certain names (e.g. Tolstoy, Alexander, Ernestine). I reproduce thesoftandhard signsby 'and '' respectively and represent theletter ikratkoe by "i". I also tend to omit patronymic names. Where appropriate, theacute accent indicates thestressed syllable. This produces theoccasionalunfamiliarsound, such as"Sevastopol",and notthe "Sevastopol" Englishspeakers are used to.


                I am indebted to the following for their assistance:1.Dr.P.J. Fitzpatrick(Departmentof Philosophy, UniversityofDurham) for histranslations of two of Horace's Carminaand part of a poemby Ausonius.2.ProfessorA.Liberman(UniversityofMinneapolis)forhisencouragement throughseverale-mails and for reading and commentingon asmall selection of my work.3.Mr.J.Norton(DirectoroftheCentreforTurkishStudies,UniversityofDurham)for assisting me withinformationon MehmedFuadPasha.4.Thanksare duetomy formerteachers atDurham.ProfessorW.Harrison showed me that Historyisimportant,as well as interestingandentertaining, and he, Mr. L.S.K. le Fleming and Mrs. S. le Fleming, togetherwith Dr. R. Lane, helped a self-taught student witha somewhat chaotic mindto channel his energies and occasionally write something which made sense.5. Shouldthe anonymous translator of Manzoni's Il cinquemaggio everrecognisehis/herwork,I shallgladlyacknowledge this inanyfutureedition.6.Mr. A. Stansfield (ITS Consultant, University of Durham)explainedto me the essentials of web page design. Thanks to him I now have a web siteon which parts of this book appear.7. The manuscript, untidy and very faded in parts, was ably typed up byMiss Julie Bell of the Physics Department.My book isvery muchaproduct of happyyears as a studentatSt.Cuthbert's Societyin the University of Durham, acentreof learning withwhich I have never cut the ties and, hopefully, never shall.

                * INTRODUCTION *


                TheTyutchevfamilytradition,in line with generalpractice amongRussiannoblefamilieswhich liked to linktheirgenealogy with foreignimmigrants, had it that a VenetiantradercalledDudgiaccompanied MarcoPolo on histravels to Chinaand, on the way home,settledin Russia. Itwould be surprising if Tyutchev had not at some time made a flippant quip attheItalian's expense. When d'Anthes wasexiled from Russiain perpetuityfor slaying Pushkin in a duel,Tyutchev, who never liked living inRussia,remarked,"Well, I'm offto kill Zhukovsky", the latter beingthe veteranpoet andhighly esteemedtranslator(1783-1852) (A:5).From the Niconianchroniclecomes the equallyattractivetale, impossible tolink directlywithTyutchev's family, oftheshrewd ZakharyTyutchevsentby DmitriiDonskoi asambassador totheGoldenHordeontheeveof thecrucialfourteenth-century Battle of Kulikovo. It is said that on receiving a demandfor increased tribute to the Horde, the diplomat,on theway home, tore uptheMongolmissiveand sent thepieces backto thekhan. After a greatRussian victory, news reached the right quarters and Zakhary became the heroof the tale, Pro Mamaya bezbozhnogo/Concerning Mamai the Godless.The secondsonofland-owning parents, (1) Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchevwas born on November 23rd. 1803(2) in the village of Ovstug, aboutthirtykilometres north of Bryansk in whatwas then the Orlov province (C:15). Thevillage of Ovstug was partlyin the possession of the Tyutchevs and lies ontheriver Desna in a denselywooded part of south west Russia. Thefamilywould spendwintersin Moscow.In August1812 they moved temporarilytoYaroslavl on the eve of Napoleon's taking of the capital. The boy was raisedin a household where French wasspoken almostexclusively, although serfs,servants,nanniesandthelocalclergyusedRussian.Thismadehimeffectively bilingual. Throughout his life hespoke French. His letters areoverwhelmingly in French, as are his articles and a handful of verses.In1812 his education wasentrusted to SemyonRaich, a conscientiousand giftedstudent of Classical andItalian literature, enthusiasticpoetand translator. Tyutchev went up to Moscow University in 1819, graduated andin 1822 enteredgovernment service in the Office of Foreign Affairs inSt.Petersburg. In the stimulating atmosphere of the capital many would-be-poetsmade small contributions to Russian lettersand playedtheir partintherapidlydevelopingculturallifeofthecity.Germanwritersandphilosophers were being popularised, particularly Schelling, who referred toTyutchev as "an excellent and mostcultivated man with whom it isalways apleasuretoconverse" (A:5,vol. 3/492).Tyutchev had aless flatteringopinionoftheGerman,asafamousconversationbetween thetwo menindicates A:1/319).InattemptingtoreconcileChristianmysterywithempiricalinvestigation, Schelling fellfoul ofTyutchev's sharp mind, probably morethan once. Karl Pfeffel (thebrother of Tyutchev's second wife) reports thetwo having several conversations "in the field ofmetaphysical speculation"(ibid.). Tyutchevfelt an instinctive impatience forany scientific system(adistrustwhich never altered throughout hislife)andfor anyone whoattemptedtoexplain man'spresence in the universeasno morethanagradual process of self-cognition. InTyutchev'sview, what Nature allowedtohappen simply happened, in her extreme indifference to man. The argumenthighlights Tyutchev's insistence on blind faithintheschemeof things,despitebeingalessthandevoutpersonhimself,but,ofcourse,intellectual conviction cangohandinhandwithdaily practicewhichappears tocontradict it. After all, Kant thephilosopher was the sharpestcritic of the Protestantism to which, in practice, he adhered passionately.Tyutchev's celebrated objection went along the following lines: "You'reattemptinganimpossibletask...Aphilosophywhichrejectsthesupernatural and wantsto proveeverything byreason mustinevitablybedivertedtowardsmaterialisminordertodrownin atheism.Theonlyphilosophy compatible with Christianity is containedin its entirety in thecatechism. You must believe what St. Paul believed, kneel before the Madnessof theCross ordenyeverything. The supernatural is fundamental tothatwhich is most natural to man. Ithas roots in human consciousness which arefar superior to what we call reason, this poor reason which allows only whatit understands, in other words nothing". (ibid.)The section ending at "the Madness of the Cross" (La Folie de la Croix)is as muchasmost commentators choosetoquote. The lines following it,however,might be seen to indicate a nod in the direction of a more generalsense of man being but amote in God's eye.The word "nothing" returns us,perhaps,totheformlessnessSchellingwasstrivingfrombutwhichChristianityaswell needed toescapeby producing its ownsystem. ThatTyutchevactuallyadheredtohisbelief, at least publicly, is born outthroughout hislife inpoetry, conversation andletters. Some ofwhat hethought appears to have been passed onto his clever, influentialdaughterEkaterina("Kitty").Writingtothegreatstatesmanandproponent ofconservativenationalism,K.Pobedonostsev(1827-1907),whoconsideredTyutchev'sdaughter tobe hisclosestfriend,Ekaterina,around whom asignificant literary circleoften met in her aunt Darya's house, complainedof The Brothers Karamazov that Dostoevsky hadignoredthe fact that "thereare deepstreams whichcannot, should not be touched bythe word ofman"(B:11iii, vol.15/495). Thiscommentconcerned worriesexpressed inhercircle that Ivan Karamazov's rebellion would be taken more seriously by morepeople thanZosima'steaching. Thecomment certainly smacks of the publicTyutchev.WhileTyutchevstudiedatMoscow,anumberofhisfriendsenthusiastically experimented with the relatively untried medium of literaryRussian, some asmembers ofMerzlyakov's "little academy".During much ofthe eighteenthcenturyRussian hadtendedtobe an unwieldytool for agenerally tedious and imitative literature. At the turnof the century suchwritersasDerzhavin(1743-1816),Karamzin(1766-1826)andLermontov(1814-41)and Batyushkov(1787-1855) were laying the groundwork of the newliterature. Theirefforts were crownedbythe prolific geniusof Pushkin(1799-1826),whose compositionssecuredRussianliteratureits rightfulplace in Europe.In theyear he obtained his first appointment, Tyutchevwas offered apostin theRussian legation in Munich, thanks to the efforts of an uncle.Shortly after his return on leave to Russia in 1825,the Decembrists stagedtheir revolt. After it thepolice arrestedscores of young revolutionariesandidealists whohad beennomore than spiritual sympathisers withtheinstigators of the uprising. The ringleaders' original sentence, quartering,was commutedto hanging(Russiahadnot seenthe death penalty used forfifty years)and manyothers wasted their lives in thearmy in skirmisheswithsoutherntribes orin exilein Siberia.The generally unrebelliousTyutchev produced an interesting work entitled 14-oe dekabrya1825/December14th. 1825[30], in which the comparison between autocracy and a glacier istempting for those seeking a revolutionary beneath a conservative veneer. Herefers to the insurgents as misguided people. His sadness attheir fateisreal. The most accurate gauge of Tyutchev's feelings about theDecembrists,if not of his intellectual conclusions,isthe poem itself. As a polemicalpiece directed againstwould-be revolutionaries itisweak. Asanearlyexample of hisbetterpoetic imageryitis fairly effective; the glacierimage hardly flatters the regime of Nicholas I. The poem is an indication ofa growing,very public conservatismand nationalismwhich lastedall hislife, as wellas of his day-to-day view ofRussiaasa cold, undesirableplace, both literally and figuratively. Tyutchev's concern about the dangersofrevolution, especiallyclosetoRussia'sborders, becameapassionlasting untilhisdeath.HewouldinterpretvariouswesternEuropeanpolicies as a series of efforts to deny Russiaher geographical heritage tothe advantage of the Turks. Tyutchev was obsessed by the Eastern Question.Returning toMunichin1826, hemarried Eleonore Peterson(nee vonBothmer),a twenty-six year old widow withthreechildren.She had threemorebyhim (3).Bothwere impractical peopleand experienced financialhardship.Little isdocumented about Darya,but AnnaandEkaterinaarerevealed in thememories of various people asintelligent,energeticandcreative women in different ways. Indeed, Tolstoy himself showed more than apassing affection for Ekaterina. Aselectionof his comments from 1857to1858 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.Sheoccupiesmepersistently.It'sevenanuisance,especially since it's not love; it doesn't have love's charm"."WenttoTyutchev'spreparedtoloveher.She'scold,petty,aristocratic"."Alas, I was cold towards Tyutcheva"."I'd almost be prepared to marry her impassively, without love, but shereceived me with studied coldness". (B:39)There are girlish hints in the sisters' letters to each other about thepossibility of marriage between the daughter of a celebrated poet and one ofRussia's greatest novelists, butKittyonce said she was so discriminatingthat the opposite sex would just have to put up with her never marrying. Shenever did.She did buy the Varvarino estatein 1873 and began the buildingof aclinicandaschool, alsowritingchildren'sbooksanddoing achildren'sversion ofthe Bible. Anna was Tyutchev's favourite and wrote afascinating diary of her life aslady-in-waiting to the empress (C:19). ShemarriedIvanAksakov,a major publicist, public figureinthe fieldofSlavophilism, and the poet's first biographer.Tyutchev travelled through Germany, Austria, Switzerland, visited Parisand,hisdutiesbeing far fromonerous,enjoyedafullsociallife,returning for ashort while toRussiain 1830. A numberof poems writtenduring these early yearsin Europe showtheincreasing importanceof thebeauties of west European nature in hislife, while there is a tendencytoemploy imagesof bleaknesswhendepicting the eastEuropean countryside.Coming back from a diplomatic mission to Greece in1833, he decided to tidyuphis desk. In 1836 he wrote to his friend, Gagarin: "What I have sent youis but the tiniest handful of thepile that time has amassed but which fateor some act of incomprehensibleprovidence has dealt with. Having set aboutsortingmy papers in the twilight, I consigned tothe abyss the major partof my nocturnal, poetic imaginings, and did not notice this till much later.At first Iwas somewhat vexed,butsoon consoled myself with thethoughtthatthelibraryatAlexandriahadalsoburned.Incidentally,thetranslationoftheentire first actof Part2of Faust was there. It'spossible that was better than all the rest".Only one hundredandfifty two lines of histranslationsofGoetheremainwhile one hundredand fifteenfrom Part 2 were lost. Forwhateverreason Tyutchev did throw out his work, we are facing a significant literaryloss, though it seems to have bothered him little, for therewill have beenpoems of the quality of the best ones still in our possession among the pileofpapers he destroyed,and Act 1 of the second part of Faust contains thekind of description Tyutchev would have donesuperbly. While he was capableof getting ridof his work on purpose, we simply have no proof. What wedoknow isthat his poetic eyewas very much fixed on the universe around himand not on the scraps of paper for whichhe had the scantest respect. It ispossible that, as Barabtarlo has pointed out [A:2/425], Tyutchev wasin thehabit ofdestroying rough draftsand, since hisfair copies tend tolooklike his rough drafts, a genuine mistake mustbe considered.Theflippanttoneof this section oftheletter is characteristicofhisdismissiveattitude towards his best work. He describes the lyricsin question as mereelucubrationspoetiques/poeticimaginings(almost"ravings").Suchanattitude resulted in his being known as a poet of worth among only a handfulofclose friendsand partly explains whyheplayed no direct part in theGolden Age of Russian poetry.The situation changed slightlyin 1836 when,after constant cajoling,Gagarin finally persuaded his friend to send him some lyrics. Gagarin showedthem to Zhukovsky,then to Pushkin, and in the same year sixteen Poems SentfromGermany appearedin Pushkin'sjournal Sovremennik/TheContemporary,over the initials "F.T.". More appeared later, butfor a variety of reasonssparkedoff littleinterest inRussia.Tyutchev was notat thistime aconspicuousmember ofthe literary scenein his homeland; he was carelesswhenitcame topreservinghisownlyricsandindifferenttotheirpublication; and the age of realistic prose wason the way in. Tyutchev was"discovered" in the 1890's by such poets as Bryusov, at a time when the ideaof pure art, or Art for Art's Sake, was becoming popular. The latethirtiesand middle years of the century weretheage of Belinskyand Dobrolyubov,for whomarthad tobe sociallyrelevant. Belinsky was alsothe leadinglightinthewesternisingmovementwhichwas fundamentally opposedtoSlavophilism,the latter to becomeof increasing importance to Tyutchev ashegrew older and settled in Russia. Considering Belinsky's great influenceand the riseof the Russian novel, it is hardlysurprising that Tyutchev'spoetry initially raised little interest.In May 1838 fire sweptthe steamer Nicholas I on which Tyutchev's wifeand family were travelling to Germany. On board was the young novelistIvanTurgenev(1818-83). He has givenafrank accountof theincidentin UnIncendie en Mer/A Fire at Sea,describing the panicwhich swept the vesseland his ownterror (B:40ii, vol.14/186). It seems that Eleonore ("Nelly")Tyutcheva,encumberedby three smallchildren andananny, showed greatcourage andwas oneof the last to leave the ship. The highly-strung womanwho had attempted suicide (probably more of the call-for-help kind) in 1836,did notsurvivetheordeal and diedin Augustof thatyear,householdtensions havingexacerbatedher condition. Extremegrief did notpreventTyutchev from flinging himselfinto the fast social whirlof Lake Como, atthe time beingvisited by members of the Russian imperial family, and wherehe met and became friends with Zhukovsky.In 1839 he married Ernestine von Dornberg. They had been lovers for sixyears and she was already having his child. Having been allowed to marry butrefused leave of absence, helocked up the legation and left, losing secretdocuments in theprocess (A:18v). The couple settledin Munich. Tyutchev'sdecisiontotakeleaveofhis postdespite his superior'srefusalofpermissionhadlefthimjobless.Ernestinepossessedarather calmerpersonality, not to mentionmorepersonalcapital, thanEleonore. In hismemoirs,Meshchersky,editoroftheGrazhdanin/TheCitizen, wrotethefollowingof the coupleas he observed them in lateryearsin the familyseat of Ovstug: "The soul and heart ofthis family was Ernestine Fyodorovna... a poetic and sublime woman inwhom theintelligence, the heart and thecharmofawoman fused into one harmonious and graceful whole ...FyodorIvanovich himselfwas some kind ofvisitor in spirit to this household ...Life's prose did notexist for him. He divided his life betweenpoetic andpolitical impressions." (C:15/65)Inthe early1840s the poet wrote a number of nationalistic poems andpublished his firstpolitical letter,the Lettre a M.leDocteur GustaveKolb/Letter to DoctorGustav Kolb (A:33i), attacking the German press whichsaw Russiaas athreat to German unification. In ithe also attemptedtoexplain Russia's role in relation to what he saw asthe revolutionary West.This idea was to evolve intothe latertheme of the legitimacy ofhumble,peasant,OrthodoxRussiaopposedtothefundamentallyillegitimate,anti-ChristianEurope and recurred in twofurther articleswritten duringthe years 1848-50 (ibid.) and some political poems, the latter produced from1844 to 1873, nearly half his surviving output in terms of lines written. Attheirworstthey aretendentious, biasedand turgid though, despite whatsome commentators havealways thought, rarelyanythinglessthan sharplythought outand oftencleverly expressed.At theirbest theypossessahighly eloquent qualityof indignation and frustration. The political versewas the only part of his poetical output he made anyeffort to publish.Hewas known tohave taken such workalongto an editorpersonally while hecouldscribblelyricsof worthon scrapsof paper for otherstofind,dictate them, send them in letters, and generally not appear to care whetherthey eversaw the light of day. Gagarin's insistence that he be allowedtoget his friend's poems publishedmightwell have beenthe kind of triggerannoying Tyutchev enough to make him throw them out in a fit of pique.As a writer destined for a placein thehistory books, the oddswerestackedagainst Tyutchev. Obviouslywhen impelled as a poet towrite, hisinterest lasted as long as his inspiration and afterwards he felt no need totake any trouble overthe physical manifestations asthe emotions in whichthey took their source hadbeen replacedby others. His political writingsanswered a different need and were calculatedly produced to make influentialpeople see things from his point of view, not to mention ultimately persuadehis former employers to lookfavourablyon himonce moreand,after hismarriage, give him a job. This worked, and after Tyutchev settled inRussiain 1844, it was as an increasingly respected government official.Althoughheand hisfamily visited the Westseveral timesover thefollowing years, Russia had become his permanent home. Several poems writtenfromthis point expresslonging for the blueskies, warmthand lightofWesternEurope,andonmanyoccasionshereferstoRussiainsuchunflattering terms itis difficultat firsttounderstand his constantlypassionatedefenceof that country. And,despite adoring nature, he spentmostofhistime intowns. Indeed, "thischampionofRussiaanditspeculiarly eastern way oflife was seldom happier than when he wasleavingfor the West; while Russia's greatest nature poet was throughout his Russianyears at least, a confirmed city-dweller". (A:14/17)In 1846hemet Elena Deniseva, overtwentyyearshisjunior.Theensuingloveaffair scandalisedpolitesocietyandcaused the partnersintense emotional suffering and bitterness.Elena's mother was Principal ofthe Smolny Institute, a girls' school where Darya and Ekaterina were pupils.Elena more than cared passionately for him. She wasneuroticallyconvincedthat she and she alone was the real Mrs.Tyutchevaand that onlyexternalcircumstancespreventedtheirmarrying.Shewasknownforirrationalbehaviour and tantrums, at least oncethrowing anobject ather lover. Hecould not endure life without her. She bore them three children. Fully awareofallthis, Ernestineremainedstoicallyfaithful,although oncedidsuggest theyseparatefor awhile. Astheaffair became a major talkingpoint, society shunned Elena, though Tyutchevremained in as much demand asever in the salonsof the capital. It caused displeasure at court level andresulted, peripherally, in old Mrs. Deniseva being forced to leave her post.Thelove affair produceda small body of lyrics rightly considered tobeamong the finestlovepoems in Russian. Short,sometimes employingadialogue technique in which the lyric-hero appears to be conversing with hislover, sometimes taking the form of monologues, and frequently characterisedby a cogent,highly lyrical and profoundsense of his owninadequacyandselfishness, the Deniseva poems bare the love affair like an openwound. Inthese and other worksabout love and his relationships with people close tohim, there is often a quality of anger and open contempt for the opinions ofanarrow-minded publiceverready tocastthe firststone.Tyutchev'sdeserved reputationasa greatnaturepoetshould neverbeallowed toeclipsehis standingasportrayerofthe love-haterelationshipwhichaccompanies an illicit love affair.He is a ruthless analyst of the anguishtormenting an individual in his blackest moments.While he never ceased writing entirely, there is a hiatus from1838 to1847. In 1847 he began composing once more in quantity. He was reinstated ingovernment service in 1845 and in1848became Senior Censor in the RussianForeign Office andultimately a fairly liberal Chairman of the Committee ofForeignCensorship.During 1848 he wrote La Russie et la Revolution/Russiaand Revolution (A:33/i),anarticledealingwith theroleofOrthodoxChristians as saviours of theirbrother Slavs in the west. A third article,La Papaute et la Question Romaine/The Papacy and the Roman Question (ibid.),attackedthe Catholic Church forthesecularismwhich had, in Tyutchev'smind, inevitablyinfecteditsinceitsbreak withOrthodoxy. From thispoint, these themes are frequently reinforced in the poetry.Tyutchev remainedtillhis death obsessively anxiousaboutRussia'shistorical destiny,characteristically never pulling his punches, certainlyin his letters andoften byhint and image in the lyrics, when itcame toexpressing disapprovalofofficial Russianpolicy. He experienced genuineanger and griefat theCrimeandebacle and never losthiscapacityforberating the West, the Vatican and thewaning Turkish empire. He maintainedasteady,oftenimpassionedinterest in foreign affairsgenerally.Hisstatementsaboutpolitics,oralorwritten,areclever,frequentlysarcastic, and constantly nationalistic,although, despite nottrusting itpolitically,his love ofthe westnever desertedhim. His shockattheRussian defeat in theCrimea was repeated,if not so publicly, at France'srout in the Franco-Prussian War.His personal happiness wasmarredbyseveral blows. Elena's death oftuberculosisin1864shatteredhim. Familybereavement followed. Two ofElena'schildren byhimdied, aswellashiseldest son Dmitrii,hisdaughter Maria, and his brother. With that dark humour which never left him,Tyutchev compared hisexistence, rapidly emptying of those close to him, tothe game of patience in which one by one cards vanish from the pack. All thesame, till theend hewas unable toresistthe charms of a young, prettywoman, as a jocular album contributiontells us in 1872 [376]. It expressesdoubtatwhat hissenses tell him, in other words that afineday(thewoman) has arrived in November (his old age).Increasing ill health and anguished thoughts of his own death tormentedhim during the final years,although a certain amount ofprobably harmlesswomanising was still possible. The widowElena Bogdanova was his last flingand,whilenothingisthought tohavecome ofit, it showed theagedTyutchev stillcapableof thatselfishness which could all tooeasily beinterpretedas lack of concernfor hisown family.Such difficulties andgriefaccompanied at this late stage a growing reputation asa poet. Whilethepoeticoutputofthelast halfdozenyearsof his lifeis oftenconsidered mediocre, he composedseveralmasterpieces duringthis period.Theycover thecommon themes of personalsuffering and ageing [284, 309],man'srelationshipasanindividual to Nature [289], nature description,sometimeswithacleverpoliticalsubtext[295,297,298],superblyindignantattackson narrow-mindedpeople[300] andthe Vatican[370],epigrammaticprofundities[311, 347,385],and anastonishing,elegiacdescription of the gardens ofTsarskoe Selo [307]. Despite composing lyricsof genius, Tyutchev remained totally uninterested in his work.In January1873the first of several strokes partly paralysed him andon July 15th. he died.


                Pantheism is asynthetic viewoftheuniverse, anoutlook bringingtogether all facets of creation, making of all things one and not permittinganycategorisationof existenceinto"nature","man","God" or "gods".Tyutchev certainly appears to be a pantheist. Whetherthere is ultimately aconsensus of opinion about thequestion ofhis poetic attitude tonature,sufficeit to say that many ofhis lyrics are so replete with sensation inthe face ofits beauties that"pantheistic" is one of several labels whichwill endure over the years.In short, often aphoristic lyricswritten in simple, lucidRussian-despite a number of archaisms, whichremainquite easy to copewith -hedepictsnature as an ordered,palpable entity with whichmanis often atone.Equally therearelyricsexpressing his sense of being cut off fromnature,in which he is aware ofcurrents of disorder. Tyutchev'spoetry -and Tyutchev the man, in many ways-are bipolar. Tyutchev's poetic imagesfor this order and disorder are "cosmos"and "chaos", and he employs a widerangeof vocabulary todescribethem.Chaos isfrequently seen tobe aresult ofman'sdrawing back from the whole in order to observe existence,splitit intoseparate phenomena and compartmentalise these. When Tyutchevwrites of that aspect of existence we commonlyrefertoas"nature",heindulgesin no tritepatheticfallacies; hisapostrophes tonaturearedeeplyexperiencedstatementsofwonder andempathy. There is novapidphilosophising,drawing ofpredictablemoral conclusionsnorattempt toconstructscientificorphilosophical structurestoexplain things; hisscenesrepresenthis senseof man's physical and mental onenesswith theuniverse,the universe not onlyofspace, butoftime."InTyutchev'spoetry,thetemporalepochsofhumanlife, itspastandits presentfluctuate and vacillatein equal measure.The unstoppable currentof timeerodes the outline of the present." (A:20/487)Insensing man'sposition in the universe,Tyutchevproduces in hisbest lyrics a feeling of genuine awe.The reader feels the movements of theair and the sea, theheat of the sun on peaks, warm rain from a spring sky,and such naturephenomena are there for their own sakes. Whenhe describesmountain summits as bozhestva rodnye/gods who are our cousins [49],he doesmore than simply transplant classical deities intoa given landscapeafterthe fashionof the eighteenth century mimicking itsRoman mentors.He is,indeed,behavingmorelike many classicalauthors themselves,forwhomnature was literally peopled by gods.Dealingwith a world Tyutchev felt was teemingwith itsown kindoflife leaves the reader with the impression that man, while observing nature,ishimselfoneofitscreations.Inthe best poems,theimmediatelyaccessible visual-audial-tactile level, the "feel" of the poem, is more thanmerely a set of references to Hebe, Zeus, Pan or Atlas, "titanising" nature,asGregg putsit (A:14/78).In Tyutchev,mythologisation isapowerfulpoetic technique and involves an ability to animate a scene in such a way asto recallto us acommon, ancient sense of belonging and oneness. To claimthat simple "titanising"is takingplace is todemean this writer,whosepoeticstatementsbearsome resemblancetoVico's.Thelatter's"newscience" castigated "our civilised natures"because by them"we ... cannotat all imagineand can understandonly by great toil the poetic natureofthese first men" (B:43/22).Tyutchevresurrects an ancestry scientific manhad apparently forgotten. Natural objects and phenomena in his naturepoemsareportrayedin amanner strikinglyinnovativeforthe age, preciselybecause of this skilfully manipulated awarenessthat man is literallypartof natureandnot apart fromit."Myth"in Tyutchev is neithertoy norpretty poetic game.Mythisakind of truthevery bit asvalidas thescientific "truth"he attacked in the earlypoem addressed to A. Muravyov,A.N.M. [13]. Mythisseen asancient man's way of explaining the universeand,yearsafter Newtonand Descartes,itremained asvalid as ever toTyutchev, despite, or perhaps because of being "unscientific". In this senseTyutchevfits into the broad Romanticmouldof LamartineandHugo,whorepresented a revolt against the rationalism of thepre-Revolutionary yearsin France.Asfor the differencein feel betweenthe earlier"European" naturepoetry and the later "Russian" lyrics, while his attitudes and emotions weresubject to different ageing andenvironmental influences, I feel it is glibto consider that"the image of nature, which had beenlargely mythocentricin theearly Munich years andanthropocentricin the following decade, isnow very largely itsown excuse forbeing." (A:14/193) Tyutchev's attitudetowards nature never changed. Hewas a floatingparticlein it, unable tocomprehendit,unlike Pascal who believed hecouldunderstand it throughreason, and whether we have in mindthe lush, warm, bustling quality of theMunich years (Kozhinov rightly mentions themnogolyud'e/populousness of theearly years (A:17/352-353)), or the desertedness ofthe Russianworks, thesame awarenessofbeingsubservientto natureis evident.Thechangesaffecting Tyutchev the man, the poet,the diplomat, the erranthusband didnot alter the sense of awe with which he dealt with the natural world aroundhim.Tyutchev produces some amazing results. Sometimes it is as if a mysteryis about to unfold over the earth, as when nocturnal lightning-flashes teasethe clouds,Kak demony glukhonemye/Vedutbesedu mezhsoboi/like deaf-muteghouls/debating heatedly [298]. In Son na more/A Dream atSea [92], and Kakokeanob''emlet sharzemnoi/Just as the oceancurls around Earth's shores[64], the boundary between two kinds of reality, that of dream/hallucinationand diurnal, observable existence ishazy. Man isoften described as beingabandonedandfrighteninglyaloneinanincomprehensible,boundlessuniverse, and when this is not stated it is implied. Behind the cosmos,thechaotic elementsofthe thing that is Tyutchev-in-nature are ever-present,part of an essential,inescapable reality, a Pascalian duality evident fromthe earliest poems, in hisletters and refusing to leavehim in peace evenin his final years.At firstglance thewestern-naturelyrics arehismostattractiveworks. Theyare certainly themost numerous and,even permanently settledback in Russia, he oftenwrote poemsof reminiscencein which some of themagicofthe Europeandaysraisesitshead.Theyare descriptions ofsun-soaked lands, vernal and aestival days, warm nights by the Mediterraneanbeneath clear,star-filledskies.They arealso, asarule,skilfullyanthropomorphic.Whenit comestoconcreteness,incredible accuracyofdetail andphotographic precision in placingobjects in a landscape, thosepoems describingRussia's countryside are farsuperior and earn Tyutchev aspecial place inRussian letters as a poet who, despite his dislike ofhisnative land, has produced among the finest verses possible about the bleakeraspectsofthatcountry, somuch sothatone questions the traditionalapproachwherebyheis seen asa poetof the Westwho also wrote aboutRussia.Thesharp-limnedlandscapesofthe "Russian" poemsarealmostentirelylacking inthe "European" ones, whose unbelievable landscapes aredeceptive, for they are frequently vague. In them the reader feelsheat butdoes not alwayssee a great dealto suggest it to the eye. In the greatestRussian poems, things are generally "seen".InRussiaitis not oftenthe casethatlaughing,benignnaturedistractshim, makeshim feel contented. Heobserves the harsh reality ofhis surroundings for what itis anddepicts itwith unerringsureness oftouch.HisRussiannaturepoemsare notindicatorsofanysenseofwell-being. Many ofthem are "cold" and it is in them that we discover someof the most wondrous visual effects of his entireoeuvre. In Navozvratnomputi/OntheJourney Home [241], ponderous clouds and stagnant pools make afeeblehearkeningback towesternblueness (11.14-16, pt.2) mediocrebycomparison.Theperfectly placed strand of spider-webacross afurrow inEst' v osenipervonachal'noi/There is a fleeting, wondrous moment [233], isevidenceof thepoet's huge talent in describing scenes, here implying, asTolstoy noted, restfulness after hard work by the peasantsin the fields bythecareful positioning ofasingle, aptlychosen object. Intheseandothers,headymythologisationsaresupplantedbysad,bleakexternalreality. But the resulting poetry is astonishing.Thisisnot tosay thatthereare no "warm" poemsdescribingtheRussiancountryside. Themovementof Tikhoi noch'yu, pozdnimletom/Quieteveninglate insummer [153],eight linesproducedasif inasingleexhalation,notevenconstitutingasentence,is notexceptional.InNeokhotno i nesmelo/Timidly, unwillingly [151], simple images culminate in acharmingimageofthesunshylypeakingdownataland"crumpled"(smyatennaya) by a warm shower. There are others. While as descriptions theyare better, there is, nonetheless, something missing, and it is something inthe poethimself: quite simply,while geographically at home, in spirit heis not. Thisabilitytocreate superb poetryabout locations he does notenjoy living in is further evidence, if it were needed, of his gift.When Tyutchev isat his bestinthose early years (1822-44) whenhelived and worked inWesternEurope,heistrulygreat.In one ofhismasterpieces,Letnii vecher/A Summer Evening [41], the almost magical senseof peaceisachievedby transforming the earth into a giantess from whoseheadthe setting sun rolls heavily, while stars become creatures physicallyhoisting up thesky and a nature-goddess sensuallysplashesher feet withcold water after a day of oppressive heat. There is in such works a sense ofexcitement and sensual delight, occasionally a hint of apprehension,in thepresence of natural beauty whichcumulatively producesskilful landscapes,remaining at once superb natural descriptions andindicators ofthe poet'sstate of mind. The picture is wonderful, unparalleled in that era, and it isdoubtful if any purely concrete treatment could improve upon it. In Snezhnyegory/Snowy Mountains [49], the earthis an enormous female expiringin thesun while youthful mountain peaks play games with the sky. By stark contrastone ofthe veryfew early Russian nature poems, Zdes', gdetak vyalo svodnebesnyi/Here the sky stares inert [68], contains sparselysprouting bushesand lichens, ugly creatures of nightmare, inmates of some fevered dream evenbefore Tyutchevusesthatsmile (Kaklikhoradochnyegryozy/like fevereddreams).Tyutchev will alwaysbebestknown for his nature poetrywhich has,perhaps, been anthologised at the expense of other kinds. Hisnature lyricsare extremely simpleto read,relying on short, uncomplicatedversesandgeneric language (in Tyutchev there are few birches, oaks or elms; there aremany "trees"). Asin thelyrics of Pasternak,it isoften as ifwearesurveyingasceneforthe firsttime,objectsandtheirsurroundingphenomenaappearingastheywere "on the firstdayof creation".(See[100].) Such poemsasthose described are, in addition,much morethan aseries of nature descriptions of genius.His poemscontain imagesso nodal that they becomethelynchpins ofwhole poetic scenarios. Son translates both "sleep" and "dream". Tyutchev isa master atplayingwith thisword.Dreams become part of diurnallife,linking man with his inner life.Nature sleeps and dreams change into youngdeities playing around woods and mountains. Sleep can be the erotic state ofhalf-slumber or the nightmarish versionof hell blazing from the night sky.In the form of half-sleep, or dozing, it forms part of daily life and we allreadilydaydream(his words forthis kindof dreamingbeinggryozy andmechty).Dream,attainedthrough sleep, may bea harking back to ancientmemory, individual or collective. Sonzheleznyi/ironsleeprepresents theatrophiedintellects andhearts of the Russia ofNicholas I. Sleep can bethe romanticescaperoute from daily realityinto fantasy. Fromthe verybeginning, in suchan early work as an adaption ofHeine's Ein Fichtenbaumstehteinsam/Asprucetreestandsalone[21], he ismesmerised by thequality of dream, for "it... (Heine's poem - FJ) is a dream-poem. Its melodysoothes asleeptheArgus-eye of common sense ...And again,it is a poemabouta dream;aboutthe bitter sweetness of all passionate yearningforthings so remote that only in dream can they be ours". (C:23) Sleep/dream istantalisinglymulti-purpose.What is more, itdoes not develop throughaseriesof stages as a poetic image.Rather, as partand parcel of life atany one moment, it is present from the start."Night", "Time", "Space" -these and othersare concepts of the firstimportance to Tyutchev. His expression of what lies behind the facade of theuniverseand those dark elementswithin man's inner being owes more than alittle to Pascal, one of whose Pensees goes, "The eternal silenceoftheseinfinite spaces frightens me" (B:31/233). Tyutchev once remarked in a letterto Ernestine (1858), "I don't think anyone canever have felt themselves asempty as I do faced by these two oppressorsandtyrants ofhumanity: timeandspace".NightinTyutchevisthepoeticimageoftencoveringeconomically and simply the vastnotionsof timeand space as they affectman in his struggle through life. A given scene in Tyutchev has little to dowithanySchellingian ideaof some primordial blacknessoutof which wegraduallymove.Suchan"evolution" does notexistinTyutchev. He ispreoccupied with eternal night forever threatening man whileeveraware offullness, of manbeing part of aliving nature, a result ofitscreativeimpulse. However he expresses his feelings about his universeof cosmos andchaos,whetherTyutchev/manis centralor peripheral,Naturedoesnotchange.There are too many strands to Tyutchev's talentas a poet of nature todeal withinsucha short introduction.Thereis lyrical position,theup-down movement ofso many of his pieces, be it someone lookingdown at ariver along which a steamerchugs [111], orasif flying andgazing downinto a valley [48], staring up into the skyat star-deities looking down athim[167,176],orexperiencingthesickly, hallucinogenicsensation offloating above a nightmare storm [92].The use of asuddenflashfrom orinto a different time, sometimes almost a different universe, is common, itsearliestmanifestationbeingProblesk/TheGleam[27].Weavingnaturalphenomenaintothe verybodyofawoman,as in the raindrops image of[102,106] and the sky-woman picture of [257], is oneof his mosteffectivetechniques, andthe sense of some sound being almost out ofearshot [100],are but a few of the differentand powerfultechniques Tyutchev brought toRussian poetry.Tyutchevwasrenowned for the attentions he paidto women; not to anideal,to some poetic notion of femininity,but to flesh-and-bloodwomen."Tyutchev knew the woman (zhenshchinu -FJ) (fordepth of passion,no-onehas yet matched him), butFemininity (Zhenstvennoe - FJ) wasthefield ofLermontov,Fet, Vladimir Solovyov, Blok" (C:20, vol.1/217).There are manypoems tomanywomenandmatchingupverse and female can be an amusingguessing game.His lines vary fromK Nise/To Nisa [25], apparently writtenina fit of pique - heclearly did not always gethis own way,sexual orotherwise - to K N. N./To N. N., a poetic masterpiece of lust[51], throughtheplayfullylightweight Cache-cache/Hide andSeek [40], the mysterious,languorousItal'yanskayavilla/An Italian Villa [127],dealingwithhisaffair withErnestine, the poems to Elenawhich show lovers' arguments andrecriminations, to his finaloldman's reminiscencesaboutpast glories.Tyutchev the lovepoet does not allow of anything other than a woman's fullcommitment to him, shows hisirritationatElena's demands to be theonewoman 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 otherprotagonist (forTyutchev's lyrics can bemonologues,the audience beforehimandanother character just off stage,listening).Equally, thelovepoemsgivespaceto thegenuineandsoft aspect of theemotion and toErnestine's strength.Loveinthe lyrics is a mixture of deep, genuine,tender feeling andlust, fired, especiallyin the Deniseva years,by a sense of conflict. Hisloveaffair with Elena produced gems of poetic anger, as inChemu molilas'ty s lyubov'yu/What you guarded in your heart [200]:Akh, esli by zhivye kryl'yaDushi, paryashchei nad tolpoi,Eyo spasali ot nasil'yaBessmertnoi poshlosti lyudskoi.***God, if your soul had wings to leave your body,to lift you by the napefrom the crudeness of the crowd,to keep you safefrom man's eternal rape!Equallyhecanaddresshimselfwithunconcealedcruelty,almostcontempt:I, zhalkii charodei, pered volshebnym mirom,Mnoi sozdannym samim, bez very ya stoyu -I samogo sebya, krasneya, soznayuZhivoi dushi tvoei bezzhiznennym kumirom***a weak magician in a little magic rolecreated 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], havingtaken the readerthrougha soothing descriptionof thevilla, its cypressesandbabblingfountain,Tyutchev,there with his mistress, Baroness von Dornberg,whilehisfamily was in St. Petersburg, makes thosevery natural items voice thelustful sensations undoubtedly running through the lovers:Vdrug vsyo smutilos': sudorozhnyi trepetPo 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 andhis mistress have crossed a "forbidden threshold",suggesting that the lifethey are livingrightthen is"wicked", thattheirlove is "turbulentlyhot", but until thatfinalstanza,loveisin the handsofthe naturesurrounding them.Spurredon bythe possible marriage of Gorchakov to his niece andbythe attendant gossip, Tyutchev attacked thescandal-mongers in an indignantworkinwhichNadezhdaAkinfeva'ssoulis"cloudless",its"azure"untroubledbywaggingtongues.Heconcludeswithatypicalpiece ofcleverness:K nei i pylinka ne pristalaOt glupykh spletnei, zlykh rechei;I dazhe kleveta ne smyalaVozdushnyi shyolk eyo kudrei.***Not a speck of dusk adhereswhen those nauseating churlssow their stupid calumnywhich cannot even crumplethe airy silk of her curls [300].The physical attributesof the woman,dealt with in terms of theskyand theairaroundher(the speck of dustfloatingin it),becomeasimportant in this poem as the direct effect exertedon her by whatsocietyhad to sayabout theaffair. Thesuperb musicofVostokbelel.Lad'yakatilas'/Theeastwhitened [106],withitsliquidrepetitionsrunningthrough each stanza,bears alongwithitaconcrete,possibly sexualsituation which is inseparable fromthe verbal expression of thecoming ofdawn.Thereisa great deal of self-centredness in Tyutchev'sdepiction oflove. In a remarkable work on Elena's final days [275],he produces oneofhis mostcharacteristic types of poem, onein whichnature andwoman aresomehowinterlinked,natureremaining,asalways, indifferentto humansuffering:Ves' den' ona lezhala v zabyt'i,I vsyu eyo uzh teni pokryvali.Lil tyoplyi letnii dozhd' - ego struiPo 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 gamesAswarm,summerrainfallsthroughbranches,gailyandloudlysplashing,the dying woman comes to andmutters how much shehad loved itall. Shadows,literallyandfiguratively, gather over her,yetTyutchevsaveshis burst of anguishfortherealisationthathewillhaveto"survive" herdeath.This isnot the only example of a lyric inwhich hecomplains that he must survive someone else's agony.The image of love as theone thing Tyutchev could foreverhold on to,despite the vicissitudes of a fate he so often reviled, stayed with him tillhis 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 flowsand my heart believes in truth and love. [393]Itremainstolook atthe politicalpoems.They haveneverbeenseriouslystudied as poetry. Not all are tasteless.Some are evengood. Afew, perhaps, may be better than a small number of his non-political lyrics.In thequality oftheir indignation and the unswervinglyaccurate, cleversniping backedupby witty rhymes andmemorable metres,theywillhavecaused morethan onepompousfigure to wriggleuncomfortably.Some,ofcourse, are dreadful, but Tyutchev wasfully aware ofthis.Conscious allthe time of his everyline being the subject of scrutiny of the censorsofwhom he was, in later life, an influential member, he knew precisely what tosay, to whom, when and how, althoughhe did occasionally get itwrongandfound his own works the target of the editing pencil. (See [39, 132, 370].)Gregg (A:14/146) appears tosee a flaw in Tyutchev's personality whichproduces such apparent ravings asthoselinesfrom RusskayaGeografiya/ARussian Geography [149], in which the poet describes the Nile and the Gangesas elements of the Russian empire. Nothing could be fartherfrom the truth.Tyutchev wasan exceptionally intelligent and cunning writerand chose histhemes and times carefully. It should not be forgotten that from the time hebeganwritingtill theyear he died, Russiawasembroiledinone ajorforeign-policy adventureor warafter another, among themtheNapoleonicinvasionof1812, the Russo-Turkish war (1828-9),three Polishuprisings(1830, 1846, 1863), the Crimean catastrophe (1853-6) and the Khivan campaignof1873. Nationalismis aheadyforce, especially attimesof waranddepression,and, bearing in mind Russia's eternal paranoia aboutinvasion,borders and ice-free ports, Tyutchev's nationalistic outpouringscan easilybe understood. Itisinaccurate and misleading in the extreme to attributethesepolitical worksto some psychological aberration. To claim thattheideology of thepolitical verse is "expounded with the repetitiverigidityof a child's catechism, their realia ..the kings, swords, flags and altarsofaboy'sadventure book ... enunciatingwith obsessive regularitythethemes of betrayal ofRussia,punishment andthe necessarysubmission toauthority"(A:14/146) istomisunderstandverse which,while taking themessage seriously, in his heart of hearts Tyutchev must have cringedat. Tocontinueby saying thatif "ultra-nationalismistakento representanadult's refusal to accept maturity, then it becomes (as in Tiutchev'scase)aninfantile disorder" (ibid.)istomake ofrelatively straightforwardmatters something complex and employ atotally inappropriatevocabulary tomake thepoint. Whenitcameto politics, Tyutchev always knew preciselywhat he was saying.Frequentlyamediocrepoliticalpronouncementstartsorfinishespowerfully, the poetic mediocrities reservedfor the central "message" partof 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 corpsesresurrected for fresh funerals.The poem thendevelops quicklyalong overtlynationalistic,largelynon-lyrical lines, culminating in a call to Russia to stand firm whenfacedwith foreign hostility. There is awarm start and a gently eerie finishto[357]:Nad russkoi Vil'noi starodavnoiRodnye teplyatsya kresty -I zvonom medi pravoslavnoiVse oglasilis' vysoty.....................V tot chas, kak s neba mesyats skhodit,V kholodnei, rannei polumgle,Eshchyo kakoi-to prizrak broditPo ozhivayushchei zemle.***Over ancient, Russian Vilniuskindred crosses glimmer.Orthodoxy's pealing bronzemakes all the heavens shudder.....................and as the moon's about to leave the sky,in that early morning chill,across the land just waking upa spectral visitor wanders stillThe opening of Gus na kostre/Hus at the Stake [356] parallels the lyricpoem Pozhary/Fires [331]. The political piece begins:Kostyor sooruzhyon, i rokovoeGotovo vspykhnut' plamya; vsyo molchit -Lish' slyshen lyogkii tresk, i v nizhnem sloeKostra ogon' predatel'ski skvozit.***The pyre has been built. The fatefulflame's about to flare and all is silent,save for gentle crackles as deep within the pyrethe treacherous fire filters.The more lyricalofthe twoworksisa treatmentof thecunning,treacherous beast which is the fire:Na pozharishche pechal'nomNet ni iskry, dym odin, -Gde zh ogon, zloi istrebitel',Polnomochnyi vlastelin?***On this sad, scorched siteno sparks, only smoke.Where's the fire, malicious destroyer,omnipotent master?Many of Tyutchev's political poems are more complex than has often beenthought. They havetheirgenesisinthelyrical mindof the poetand,irrespective of their content,whatis at times onlya residual degree oflyricismoftenimbuesthemwithapoeticqualitywhichsuccessfullyreinforces their political message.The three thematic groups,nature, love andpolitics, all too brieflydealt withabove, sum up Tyutchev's poetic preoccupations. This isnottosay that he did not have other themes. There are justly famous religious andphilosophicalpoems, but a number of the religiousworks areinextricablylinked withpoliticsand many ofhisphilosophical linesarescatteredthrough works which more properly belong in one of the other categories. OnereachesapointinTyutchevwhereit becomesimpossibletoclassifyaccurately, for themes and imageryspillacrossborders. Andjust as hispolitical works are not all bad,somany of his religious lyrics, far frombeing "flaccid littleexercises in other people's piety"(A:14/137-9), are"inspired and noble", possessing a"depth andsincerity" which "cannotbedoubted"(A:18vii/328).Hisphilosophicalworksareequallygenuine.Tyutchev did not present asystem of ideas in his lyrics, rather expressing"moods and problems which the leading thinkers were only beginning to tackleand of which others were not yet even aware".(ibid./330-1) These moods andproblems of which Lanespeaks are dealt with,often subtly,certainly notalways overtly, in poems of many kinds.No matter how a reader reacts to Tyutchev's oeuvre as a whole or to oneor the other of his broad categories, the poet must ultimatelybe judged onhis greatest lyrics. In the thirties,no Russian poetproduced such a workasLetniivecher/ASummerEvening[41].Lines containingtheechoingdepressionof Bessonnitsa/Insomnia[47]flowedfrom the penofneitherPushkin nor Lermontov.There are many other examplesofthe uniqueness ofthispoet: theegocentric, strange detachment of a mind floatingaboveaworld which might be real orunreal, as in Eshchyo shumel vesyolyi den'/Thehappyday was loud [52],the almost sexually explicit final stanza of K N.N./ToN. N. [51],the slow,languorous movement andominous imagery offadingand deathof Osennii vecher/ An Autumn Evening [73], thePascalianpictureofmanhanginglost inanabyssofKakokean ob''emlet sharzemnoi/Just asthe oceancurls aroundearth's shore [64], andthe pithy,philosophical comment made with impressive economy,asinSilentium!/StaySilent![83], containinghismost famousline,Mysl' izrechennayaest'lozh'/A thought you've spoken is untrue.Tyutchev's existing poeticworksconsistofjust under four hundredpieces. Approximately half of these are translations, occasionalpoemsandthe political verse. Of theremaining fifty per centnot all poemsare ofequal merit and his best works are very short. It isremarkable that on thebasis of such an insignificant output in terms of lines written, over such along period, Tyutchevshould be considered at least theequal of Lermontovandby nomeansfar behindPushkininthepantheon ofRussian poets,althoughsuch asituation isnot unique.After all, Kafkawrotelittlefiction. Tyutchev's importance is attributablenot onlytothe veryhighquality of poems written in arelatively new literary age, that which beganinRussiaattheendof theeighteenthcenturyanddevelopedapacethroughout the"golden" nineteenth,whenRussia boasted scores of clever,talented poets whose work was by no means inferior to thatof their Westerncounterparts.Ultimately, perhaps, we judge himon that originality,thatsense of being different which is a characteristic of the voice out of placeinitstime, for Tyutchev'smost celebratedlyricsare brilliant, oftentroubling workswhichdonot properlyrepresent the first thirdofthenineteenthcentury.So manyobservationsinspiring hislyrics triggeredconflict in his mind. His scenes, even at their most idyllic, are parts of alarger picture of anxiety.Turmoil andbrooding questioning are central toTyutchev's view of the universe andheexpresses themwith a very modern,uncompromising sharpness which appeals to our own agerather more, perhaps,than the florid, immense variety of Pushkin and Lermontov.


                1.Tyutchev'sparentswereIvan(1776-1846)andEkaterina(neeTolstaya,1776-1866). Hehad abrother, Nikolay (1801-70)and asister,Darya, (1806-79),married name Sushkova). Apart from these, Sergei, Dmitriiand Vasilii died in childbirth.2. Prior to the decree ofFebruary 14th. 1918,Russia used the Juliancalendar which was twelve days behind theGregorian in use in the West. Thetwo dating systems are referred toas Oldand New Styleand alldates inthis book are Old Style.3.His first wife wasthe widowed Eleonore Peterson (nee Countess vonBothmer, 1799-1838), four years older than he and with three children of herown. She had threedaughters by Tyutchev, Anna (1829-89), Darya (1834-1903)and Ekaterina (1835-82). His children by his second wife, Baroness ErnestinevonDornberg(neePfeffel, 1810-94), also a widow, were Maria(1840-72),Dmitrii(1841-70)andIvan(1846-1909).Hismistress,ElenaDeniseva(1826-64)borehimElena(1851-65),Fyodor(1860-1916)andNikolai(1851-65).52

                * THE POEMS *

                1. DEAR DAD!

                On this happy day, a son“s tender feelingsseek a gift for you, but what sort?A bunch of flowers?But the blooms are all overand meadows and valleys have lost their colours.Shall I ask the Muses for some verses?I“ll ask my heart.Here“s 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 sunlooks down with smile upon flowersbrought to life by its beams.

                2. NEW YEAR, 1816

                Already the heavens“ 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 urncomes the Sun“s new son, the New Year!His forerunner has vanished from the face of the earthand on the current of revolving ages,like a drop in the ocean, has drowned in eternity!This year will pass too.Heaven“s statute is sacred.Oh, Time!Eternity“s mobile mirror!Everything disintegrates, falls beneath your hand.Your boundaries, your beginning are hiddenfrom 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 Troy“s toppled stonesstinging thorns are thickly entwined!..........And you, oh son of luxury, mortal voluptuary,your life of idle bliss and comfortrolls peacefully on!But you“ve forgotten, unfortunate man,that we must all gaze at the shores of fearsome Cocytus.Your elevated rank, your flatterers, your goldwill not save you from death!Can you really not have seenhow frequently fire-winged lightningstrikes the brows of towering cliffs?..........Yet still your greedy hand has daredto 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 foreverhanging by the finest hair above your head;your ulcerated flesh will be garbednot in purple cloth, but in a blanket of writhing worms!You will lay your torn members upon a bednot 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 shadesmaliciously 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 hell“s vengeance!Your forgotten grave is now covered by grass!The voice which flattered you up herehas forever fallen completely silent!

                3. TO TWO FRIENDS

                On this blessed day, one of you adoptedthe name and virtue of that maidenwho struggled in the name of sacred religion;nature conferred upon the other one existence.She engineered it that in both, feelings and deedsshould 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 heartsyou“ll finally see her,forgetting past suffering!4.Let envy gnaw Zoilus“s heart!Voltaire, he cannot harm you!The Muses protect their fostered ones:into eternity“s temple,Oh wondrous one, they“ll lead you.


                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 flatterer“s hand,the aromas of anemones and lilies pour fragrantly onto the feastand 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 templesentice 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 penateswhere everything is beautiful and breathes simplicity,where the cold glitter of purple and gold are alien,that“s 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 steppedinto the regions of heat and along a flaming pathflows 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 shadeand 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 compatriots“ happiness is the good and worthy fruitof your unremitting endeavours.On their behalf you would like to know what fate has in store,but the stern ruler of Earth, Heaven and Hellhas 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 confusionand this turbulent sage will be the gods“ 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 wavesthrough peaceful glades and along banks luxuriant in abundant swards.Across the ripples“ silver, the sun“s golden lightplays and slips; but give it an hour and, quickly tempestuous,forgetting its shores, forgetting its peaceful movement, it“s lost inthe 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 thecelestial Guidewhich flows to rest in Neptune“s domains,who, overjoyed, can say to himself: I have lived!Tomorrow, through a leaden cloud, letthe omnipotent god of thunder throw a crimson mantle toenvelope the darkening air,or let sunlight once more scatter through the skies,for mortal man it makes no difference, and what the wingedyears have taken away with them from earth“s sad faceinto the repository of timenot 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 universethrough 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 witnessand 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 depthsand fuse the black hills of the sea“s seething waters withthunder clouds, ripping fragile ships“ 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 sleepif 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 I“m the one who gets the smack.

                7. URANIA

                It has been revealed!Is it not a dream?A new world! A new force,likea 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, constrictingshroud of turmoil and vanity has gone!Like the sun“s golden beams, the ether has touched my eyesand blown earthly dust from them.I behold the dwellings of the all-highest oneswhence, through open doors of mystery,by the good will of fate, Mnemosyne“s 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 wavesthe 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 cloudsUrania“s islet lifts from silvered foam.A steady light pours all around meborn of the smile of goddesses.The sounds of lyres rise higher.The world drowns in enchantment!..........Setting aside the shades of the ethereal coverand the Charites“ magic belt,Urania has adopted her own imageand a starry crown burns on the goddess!On earth, what captivated us as a dreampresents itself up here as Truth...........Only here, under a clear sky,will life“s murky current brighten;only here, forgotten by Aquilon,it flows deep and bright!Only here is life“s genius fair,here, where roses of pure pleasure last forever,is Poetry“s garland eternally young!..........Like Pharos for enlightened souls and minds,the temple of the Heavenly One has been erectedand Wisdom invites those captivated by what is heavenlyto 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 mortalscreators of good, of order, of cities.Behold eternally youthful Peace, with golden chainsbinding 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 land“s 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 staffthe 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 heavensreaching, she embraces the universe and pours life“s giftsonto 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 gatesthe Sun haughtily passes through the dwelling of its birthand 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 steppeswhere they are sorrowfully met by the hunter or the ploughman,fruitlessly digging the burning sands or sadly, bashfully slippingacross 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 boweda welcoming head to it, and on the hills of HellasAthene“s 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 Ares“s hand,and the sweet songs of shepherds;Rome rose, and the thunder and sweet-sounding songs of Marsresounded a hundredfold across Tiber“s 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 world“s morning star has set.Everywhere there is chaos and darkness!”No!The light of the sciences is eternalIt will not be embraced by the ungovernable gloom.Its fruit is imperishable and will not die!‘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 lion“s neck.Everything began here!The holy ground,valleys, the bowels of mountains, streams, woodsand 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 battlesnor 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 Jerusalemvictory and a crown.There the nymphs of the Tajo, there the waves of the Guadalquivirflow 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 Edenand high priests of incomprehensible mysteries,one from Britain“s 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 heavensin 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 salvationand 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 fruitand 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 skiesthat he may block the path of flaming storms.With Minerva“s lance he struck the bowels of earthand golden treasures flowed forth.He stretched his imperial gaze across the seaand his light burns, like Castor and Pollux!..........The singer, on the grave of the father, the hero-tsar, laidfresh laurels, and he has illuminated Elizabeth“spriceless days of peace and bliss.Then, spilling out, light from the northern lightswas reflected on the steep shores of the Araksand the geniuses reached their hands to gaze that wayand 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; God“s spirit reposes above him!The Muses have joyously sung the praisesof 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 drapehis mighty bark with flowers?Beneath their luxuriant, shining verdurewill he not hide the scars of dark tempests and seas?..........You too with fearless glory sunderedthe seas“ expanses with your rudderand today, my friend, stately in peace,rejoicing, you fly into your haven.Quicker to the shore, onto friendship“s bosomincline your head, oh singer,that I might weave sprigs from Apollo“s treeinto his foster-child“s hair!

                9. ON PUSHKIN“S ODE TO FREEDOM

                Alight with the fire of freedomand drowning out the noise of chains,the spirit of Alcaeus has awoken in the lyreand slavery“s dust has fled it.Sparks have scattered from the lyreand in a stream,like a divine flame, they have fallenonto 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 truthsto inveterate tyrants!And you, fostered by the muses,have been rewarded by this great lot!..........Sing and with the power of euphonysoften, touch, transformautocracy“s sold friendsinto friends of goodness and beauty!Singer, trouble not our civic calm,darken not the royal glitter!Beneath the kingly velvet,let your magic strummingsoften hearts, without alarming!

                10. CHARON AND KACHENOVSKY

                CharonAre you really from the land of the living, brother?You“re so dry and thin.In truth, I“m ready to swear here and nowthat your unclean spirit has long been languishing in Hades.KachenovskyWell, friend Charon.I“m skinny and dry from booksand - why hide it any longer?I“ve 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 oftenI sit pensive in the shade of dense thickets,evening“s 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 pondare bright in deep silence.Through the dark foliage of treesI see dusk“s last ray still wandering.The moon slowly rises from the northon a chariot of clouds and from a lone belfrydrawn-out, indistinct peals are heard all around.The passer-by listens, and the distant bellfuses its voice with the day“s final sounds.The world is beautiful!Yet rapturehas 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 nature“s beauty!And you, my fields, copses and valleys,you are dead!Life“s 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 changeand there“s 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 throughthe 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 divinity“s 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 life“s 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 freedomrises, fans around us!Joy has poured into our hearts,like an echo of spring“s celebration,like the life-creating voice of a god!..........Where are you, sons of Harmony?Come, with bold fingerstouch the slumbering strings,warmed by the bright raysof love, of ecstasy, of spring!..........Just as in full, flaming bloom,at morning“s first, young lightroses glisten and burn;as the zephyr in its joyous flightscatters their aroma,so do you, life-joy, pour yourself into everything.Singers, let“s 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 mother“s breastthe flower it picked in a meadow!

                13. A.N.M.

                You have no faith in wondrous fancies.Reason has destroyed everythingand, subjugating to constricting lawsthe air, the seas, the land,like prisoners, has laid them bare.It has dried to its depths that lifewhich 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 Natureclearly, without glasses!No, you“re 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 offtheir gold-winged dreams.Believe me - experience is all the proof you needthe magic temple of good fairieseven in a vision, is more joyfulthan, in waking life, languishing boredin your squalid shack!


                AndromacheOnce more, Hector, do you hurl yourself into the storm of battlewhere, unapproachable with his sword of steel,the vengeful Pelides fights furiously?Who will look out for Hector“s son?Who will teach him his lordly duty,instil fear of the gods into the baby?HectorAm 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.AndromacheIn these halls of fame am I fatedto see your sword idle and rusting?Are all of Priam“s kin condemned?Soon, where there is neither love nor light,where the dusky Lethe flows,soon your love will die!HectorAll my soul“s hopes, all my impulseswill be swallowed by the silent waters,but not Hector“s love!Do you hear?They“re rushing off...The flame of battle is burning!The hour has struck!My son, my wife, Troy!Endless is the love of Hector!


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


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


                We“re far too quick to criticise.What“s wrong with liking drink?Drinking wine“s a healthy joyno man of sense denies...........Curses and grief to those who dareto dispute what“s so blatantly clear.I summon the heavens to the boxto 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 grapeyet let an apple turn his head..........Honour and glory has Noah earned,conducting himself with skill,becoming friendly with the winewhen water he had spurned...........Neither quarrels nor reproachescould spoil his drinking pleasure,the juice of the grape he often pouredinto his cup at times of leisure...........All of his best effortsGod himself has blessed.They both reached an agreement,divine good will to test:..........Should any of his sons not learnto love to take a drink -the scoundrel! - Noah intervened:the blackguard was condemned to burn...........So let us stand and raise a glasslet“s sup it out of piety,so that along with Noahthrough heaven“s gates we“ll pass.

                18. AN EPISTLE TO A.V. SHEREMETEV

                Your good genius had difficultygetting 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 sabrein the hero-agronomist“s garden.Okay then.Free once more, could you everbe faithless to your favourite dream?Inactivity can spell trouble, friend,If you“ve no-one to share it with.Take my friendly advice(the Oracle would speak in verseand always convinced its listeners):amongst the beauties of Moscowno doubt it“s easy to finda pretty girl of fifteen,who“s bright, who has spirit and serfs.Leave for a while the plough of Tolstoy,forget chimerae and rank,get married and in the world“s full sensebe the aide-de-camp of your wife.Then we“ll surrender to inspiration,Hymen will wake up the Muse.I“ll 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 offeringwe devote our hearts to you!Whatever the whim of the world has separated,your altar brings together once again,and the soul you have warmeddrinks love in your rays!..........ChorusGet into one circle, children of God!Your father is looking at you!His summoning voice is sacredand 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 another“s hearthas echoed in a brother“s breast;whoever cannot love, out of the circlewith you, leave in tears!..........ChorusFamily of souls!Oh, heavenly ray!Almighty link!It leads to the heavenswhere the Unknown One dwells!..........At the breasts of good natureeverything which breathes drinks Joy!All creations, all nationsare 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...........ChorusHearts, 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 feedsthe soul of God“s creationwith 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 chaosand in space, not subservientto the astronomer, it has poured it!..........ChorusAs worlds roll on one behind the otherbehind the ever-moving finger,we flow on to our destinationbravely, like a hero to battle!..........In the bright mirror of truthyour image shines in our eyes,your jewel burns at the bottomof the bitter phial of experience.Like a cloud of coolness, youappear to us amidst difficulties,you shine like the morning of rebirththrough the cracks in tombs!..........ChorusBelieve in the guiding hand!Our griefs, tears, sighsare preserved in it like a pledgeand 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...........ChorusWe 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!..........ChorusYou, 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 heart“s blood!The bold voice of the citizento the council of earthly gods.Solemnise the sacred deed.Eternal shame to his enemies...........ChorusOur 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 caressthe sparkling, deep red of the wine,or peer through the foliageat the scented ruby of the vine...........I love to watch creation deepin spring time in sweet fragrancewhen the world is slumbering sweetlyand is smiling in its sleep!..........I love the face of a pretty girlablaze in the breeze of spring,her cheeks folding into dimples,the sensual silk of her curls...........But what are Venus“s delights,the juice of the grape and roses“ aromas,compared to you, oh sacred well of tears,the dew of the god“s morning light!..........Heavenly beams play upon themand, refracted in fiery showers,on the storm-clouds of existencethey sketch rainbow-living colours...........And should the pupils of mortal manbe brushed by the wings of the angel of tears,then the mist will vanish in tearful swirlsanda sky of seraph faceswill 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 snowand has fallen sweetly asleep in the frosty mist,and the blizzard lulls its sleep...........It dreams all the time of a young palmwhich, in the East“s 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 spectreof the sort occasionally producedby the poet“s fiery mind?..........No, I can“t believe that: the dear lightof 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 idol“s dreams,this is what the poet“s 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.


                Friends, what the divine one sangin a fiery outburst of freedom,in the full emotion of Existence,when to nature“s feastthe 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 hymnfar 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 stringsare soaked by tears of sadness and torn by Separation!But, friends, you“re no stranger to inspiration!In a second“s heartfelt ecstasyinvoluntarily I“d forgotten my lot(a transient, but sweet oblivion!)I flew in soul to what has taken its courseand sang of joy while I thought about you.

                24. TO N.

                Your dear gaze, with innocent passion filled,the golden dawn of your heavenly feelingsserve as a silent reproach to them,at propitiation it is unskilled...........These hearts in which there is no truthflee, my friend, as they would flee a judgement,fearing as they fear childhood memoriesthe 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 flameburns 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 tossedme away from those who admire you...........Indifferent and carefree,you gullible little tease,you do like laughing at me.My gift of true love couldn“t please...........Nisa, Nisa, I“d have been true,but you prefer to play the field.It seems my feelings just never appealed.Nisa, I“ve just had enough of you!


                Cold, bright,day has awakened.The early cockhas shaken its wings.Warriors, leap up!Rise, oh friends!Brisker, briskerto the feast of swords,to the fight!..........Our leader is before us!Be men, oh friends,and behind the mighty onelet us strike like a storm!..........We shall hurtle like a whirlwindthrough clouds and thunder,to the sun of victoryfollowing 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 bloodhe 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 cockhas shaken its wings.Warriors, leap up!..........It is not a foaming cup of fragrant meadwhich the rosy morning hands to the heroes;nor does the love and conversation of voluptuous womenwarm 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 harpdeep in the nightcarelessly brushing midnight,sleeping strings wakingto trouble the silence,resounding, fading fast,as if a final cry of anguishhad echoed there and died?The breeze“s every breathstings them to sorrow:perhaps a lyre fell to earth,playing dirges for lost bliss.Captive, our souls soar in immortal skies,gathering memoriesas we gather the dear shades of friends,clasping them tight against our breasts.How readily we believewith living faith,how glad and bright our hearts become:you“d 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 moment“s effort we barely managea short-lived, troubled, trembling glancefrom the window of our daily dream,half-rising, staring round the sky.The sky is weighty on us.A single beam can blind usand we“ll fall.Peaceful sleep does not await us.Exhausting dreams reclaim us.

                28. IN MY ALBUM FOR MY FRIENDS (BYRON)

                As the traveller“s attention tarrieson cold tombstones,so let my friends“ attention goto the writing of a familiar hand!..........In many, many yearsit will remind them of a former friend:”He“s no longer with you,but his heart is buried there!‘

                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 beautyin rays of imagination,everything, everything Poetry has pouredinto you alone, Sakontala.

                30. DECEMBER 14TH., 1825

                Tyranny itself seduced you.Its sword has mown you like reeds.The Law is incorruptibly impartial.The Law“s infallible in word and deed.Disloyalty is shunned by our people.They“ll 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 sawyour thin blood trickling,covering the ice-capsas if alone it could thawthat age-old polar face.Why, it would scarce have time to sparklewhen up there“d gust a breath of iron winterto murder every tiny trace!

                31. (HEINE)

                Sadness stole into my heart and I vaguelyrecalled the past;everything was so cosy then,and people lived as in a dream...........Now it“s as if the world has disintegrated:everything“s upside down, everyone“s been knocked over.The Lord-God in his Heaven“s deadand Satan“s expired in Hell...........It“s as if people live in the world reluctantly.Everywhere there“s grumbling, everywhere there“s dissent.Were it not for a crumb of love in a person,I“d 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,”Oh settle life“s riddle for me,this agonisingly ancient riddleover which hundreds, thousands of headsin Egyptian, Chaldaean capsembroidered with hieroglyphs,in turbans, mitres and skull-caps,be-wigged and shaven,hosts of poor, human headshave spun and withered and sweated.Tell me, what is the significance of man?‘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 corpsethrown 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 sky“s monstrous daughters!Into misty vessels they scoop the sea waterand with their burden, tired,drag themselves into the distanceand 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 visionsrise, tormentedly joyful!A woman lives in the north!A beautiful image, regally beautiful!Her figure, shapely as a palm“s,is wrapped all around in white, voluptuous material;the dark billow of her luxuriant curlsflows like a night of blissful godsfrom a head crowned with plaitsand softly flutters in light ringletsaround her pale, dear face,and from her dear, pale faceher frank, fiery eyesshine like a black sun!Oh fiery black sun,oh how many, many times in your rayshave I drunk the wild flame of ecstasy,drunk, grown number, shuddered,and with heavenly, dovelike meeknessa smile has fanned across your lips,and your proudly dear mouthhas breathed words as quiet as moonlightand as sweet as the fragrance of roses,and the spirit reviving in me has taken flightand soared like an eagle to the sun!Be silent, birds, stop roaring, sea.Everything has perished, happiness and hope,hope and love!I“m alone here,thrown up onto the desolate shore by the storm.I lie prostrate and with my glowing faceI scrabble the wet sand of the sea“s depths!

                34. (HEINE)

                As the bright moon sometimessails 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 banksstretching out before us,..........and at the feet of a charming ladyI sat reflective,and on her dear, pale facethe 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 wentmountains and castles on hillsand they shone, reflectedin my dear companion“s eyes.

                35. THE SPIRIT“S GREETING (GOETHE)

                On an old tower by a riverthe spirit of a knight standsand as soon as he sees my boats,he sends them a greeting:..........”Blood once boiled in this breast,my fist was made of lead,and there was a hero“s 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!‘


                1He who has not eaten tears with his bread,who has not in life sat entire nightscrying 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!2He who would be a stranger in the worldwill soon be one.Ah, people have someone to love,what are our needs to them!..........So!What am I to you?What“s my misfortune to you?It“s mine aloneand I“ll not be split from it!..........As the lover steals hidden to his darling:”Answer me, love, are you along?‘so by night and day wanderingaround me goes anguish.Sadness is all around me!Ah, is it only in the gravethat I“ll manage to get away from them all?In the grave, in the damp earth,there they“ll 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, feastingrenew your existence!..........There I shall penetrate in secretto the hidden sourcesof primeval generationswhich directly hearthe voice of divine commandswithout racking their minds............Sanctifying the memory of our forebears,where foreign ways are sickened,where balance has been preserved in everythingand thought is narrow, faith is spacious,where the strong, esteemed wordis like a living revelation!..........Now with shepherds beneath copses,now in the blossoming oasisI shall rest with a caravan,trading in aromatics.I shall keep an eye on all movementsfrom the desert into the settlements...........The sacred songs ofwill sweeten the steep paths:their vociferous guide,singing in the pure firmament,awakens the late starsand irks the camels“ 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 poet“s honeyed tonesrouse desire in heaven“s maidens!..........Do not impute this haughtinessto superstition;know that every word of the poetin a light swarm, greedy for light,knocks at the gates of paradise,imploring the gift of immortality!

                38. A SPRING STORM

                I love May“s first storms:chuckling, sporting springgrumbles in mock anger;young thunder claps,a spatter of rain and flying dustand wet pearls hangingthreaded 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.You“d 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. NAPOLEON“S TOMB

                Spring“s soul brings nature back to lifeand everything shines, celebrating peace:the skies“ 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 waveson the marble, warmed by spring...........A thunder of his victories long ago fell silent,but their echo still resounds...........A great shade has filled man“s mind,and his solitary shadow upon a wild shore,alien to everything, consoled by sea-birds“ shrieks,listens to the ocean“s roar.

                40. HIDE AND SEEK

                There“s her harp in its usual corner.By the window, carnations and roses.On the floor a midday sunbeam dozes.Time“s up.So where“s she hiding?..........Who“ll help me catch this teaser?Come on out, sylph!Where“s your lair?I can feel your magical nearnessabundantly poured into the air..........Carnations peak slyly, nestling besidemore fragrant, warmer roses,but I know who“s wrapped in your blossoms,I know who you“re trying to hide.........Was that your harp I heard?Do you think you can hide in its golden strings?You“ve brought the metal to life!I can feel it shuddering as it rings...........See the dust dancing in the sun“s shimmers,Like living sparks in kindred flames!Stop whirling, dear guest,magical being. How can I not know you“re there?

                41. A SUMMER EVENING

                Earth nods its head.A glowing sphere rollsinto the ocean, which enfoldsthe calm, evening red...........Bright stars start rising,heads still moist.They take the sky and hoistit far over the horizon...........Sweetness shudders through the landas if, freed from the heat,nature“d scooped spring waters in her handand splashed her burning feet.

                42. OLEG“S SHIELD

                ”Allah, pour your light on us!Oh beauty and strength of the faithful!Terror of the two-faced heathens!Your prophet is Mohammed!‘..........”Oh, our fortress and our bulwark!Great God, lead us nowas once, from the desert,you led your chosen people!‘...........Deep midnight!All is still!Suddenly from behind a cloud the moon shines downand there above the gates of Istanbulit lights up Oleg“s 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 creationstampede the heavens in unbridled run...........Night draws in, thick Chaos heavy on the seas.Oblivion presses on the earth, like Atlas.Alone on the Muses“ virgin soulin seer-dreams the gods inflict unease.

                44. BYRON (ZEDLITZ)

                1Come 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 there“s been no changefor silence standing guard here.On the thresholdthe 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 giftof the inextinguishably fiery word,why did you flee your own roof?Why did you betray your father“s hearth?Ah, and where, in untimely repose,did this tempest which carried you off, speed you?2So, a mighty dweller once lived here.Here he breathed song and his breathingdid not seem like that of the playful babblingof 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 gardenit tore off the rivetsand spewed out darkness and ice and flame,scorched with fire and furrowed with hail.Only in those spots where the cloud had torndid the sky“s azure smile charmingly!3They say the frenzied singing of demonsdrove those who listened mad.Thus it was with him, like an unearthly force,it tore up all the depths of his soulsand on the very bed it awakened crime.Breathing stopped, the heart achedand something constricted the breast.Like a layer of air, thinning all around,he sucked the living blood from our veinsand in the struggle we ran out of strengthand 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!4And is it any wonder that a memory of the sublimevisited your soul with involuntary sadness!Fate did not create a swan of you,dipping its wing into the crimson waveswhen the sunset burns above the currentsand it swims, admiring itself,between a dual dawn.You were an eagle and from your native cragswhere you wove your nest, and in it, as if in a cradle,storms and blizzards lulled you.You plunged into the skies“ depths, inexhaustible,soared high above sea and earth,but your eye sought only corpses!5Ill-fated spirit!Like the glow of a conflagrationwas 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 browand with the sceptre of power at this unearthly councilin this confused world, you lovedto 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?6He 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 wingsof the sea bird, dweller of bleak cliffs,so the gods decreed that he should passalong life“s 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!7Fugitive from his native land, the bard now hurtlesto 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 fragrantlyand 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 geniusseems fanned by the magic lightof Alhambra“s patterned colonnadesor the sweet-scented thickets of Granada!8Now 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 footstill trembles involuntarily even now,like a tundra of blood.Here, in dreadful torments,ranks of valiant hearts have been trodden into the groundand their ash lies layered around the plain.Enemies, they fell quiet together,some thirsting for, some thrilling in their vengeance!9The bard goes on and sees before himthe grape-bearing, eternally youthful Rhine,and here and there, on vine-covered heights,a castle flashes, even today fannedby 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 shadeand above it all icy heights,now pale, now fierily alive!10Then from the heights, where waters separateinto the wide, southern plains,hurling their currents as if going to a feast,whence more than once, like glacial avalanchesnorthern tribes have torn downinto 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 rosesand rustles like a transparent blanketabove the slumbering, ruined past!11But to the blossoming, deserted Eastthe singer was drawn by an all-powerful passion,to his imagination“s favourite land!Once more before his demise he sawthis world of violence, indolence, voluptuousness,where life and destruction embracedin luxuriant desolationand like friends in the evening lightmountain peaks grew, where once there lived happy brigandage.There, beyond the cliff, is the pirate“s white sail,here the horn of the moon, burning on a mosque,and the pure remains of the Parthenonagainst the virginal rosiness of the heavens.12But you annulled the union of this creation,spirit of freedom, immortal element!Battle flared up between Despair and Power!Blood flowed like spring watersand 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 loveon the spot where the spirit of the singer wanders,where in the gloaming of sickly hopedeath closed his earthly eyelids!13The 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 heavensthe high divinity of sufferingwas for him a hostile riddleand, 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!14Thus he was, mighty, majestic,exulting critic of creation!But is his lot worthy of envy?Like the parental gift of existencehe 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 staronly rarely blew away the gloom of his soulwhere storms howled.He has quietened now, a burned out volcano.And the late luminary of immortalitysadly looks down on him from the night skies.

                45. THE MEANS AND THE END

                I“m in no hurry to receive garlands from you,though I am partial to your praiseswhen I meet them along the way...........Although the ballast does not determinewhere 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 swordto lead his people from the shades of deathand 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 handthey will fall to the foot of the cross.Complete your work, the salvation of people.Say, ”Let there be light!‘ 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 talein a foreign language we can“t failto recognise as ours...........Who can claim it never befellhim to hear time“s muffled groansstab his soul at night, the drone,when all“s quiet, of a prescient farewell?..........It“s as if the world had been orphanedby 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 earth“s edge,and with our friends and with our ageit pales into the distance...........While under the sun there is a birth,a new and youthful tribe“s begottenand it has long since been forgottenthat we, our friends, our age, were ever on this earth!..........At times, performing some gloomy rite,we can her metallic sighsbemoaning our demisein the silence of the night.

                48. MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS

                Morning smiles blue across countryrefreshed by rainstorms over night.Dew-bespeckled, through the mountainsa valley“s a snail-track of light.Above it all the soaring summitsare half in misty curtains caught,as if they were the airy ruinsof 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 woodswhich spread beneath the haze.Below, there is a steel-bright mirror.Blue currents in the lake invite quick streamsto leave the heat, to scamper by smooth bouldersand 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 that“s left to die,the mountains“ icy peaks play withthe fiery blueness of the sky.

                50. THE FINAL CATACLYSM

                When nature“s final hour strikesand earthly matter has disintegrated,the visible universe will be flooded.In the waters God“s face will be reflected.

                51. TO N. N.

                You know how to love.You“re such a good actress,and when we“re in a crowd(and they can“t see us!)and my leg touches yours,you answer me without a blush.You always look so absentand you“re callous.As your breasts move,as you glance around and smile,that hateful guardian of a husbandadmires your servile beauty!Thanks to people, thanks to fateyou“ve learned the cost of secret joys.You“ve learned about the world,that world which will betray us!Treason flatters you!Virginity“s first blush has leftyour youthful cheeks,as morning sunshine ravishes young rosesof their sweet-smelling soul.So be it!In scorching summer heatour feelings are more flattered,our eyes more temptedby parting a vine in the shadeand watching the grape,through dense, tight leaves,oozing its blood.


                The happy day was loudand streets shone with crowdsand shadows, cast by evening cloud,flew across bright buildings.From time to time the noise would floatto me, sounds of heavenly existence;they“d merge into a single note,a hundred sounds, loud but muffled.The day moved on.I fell asleep.Spring“s 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 gleameda pallid star which kept a secret,and as it peered at me it seemedit was a guardian of my slumber.It seemed to me as if I“d beenabducted by some loving geniewhich craftily and quite unseenhad sped me to a land of shadow.

                53. EVENING

                Melting in the air above the valley,distant bells are chiminglike 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 sunlightinto your motionless eyes,but envy the swan,the pure, white swan.In a dual abyss,the deity has clothed youin the pure element,that god which cherishes omniscient vision,so that the swan is captured,surrounded on all sidesby the full, starry glory of the sky.

                56. SCENES FROM A JOURNEY (HEINE)

                ”It“s going to be a nice day‘, my friend said,glancing at the sky from the window of the carriage.Yes, it“ll be a nice day,my praying heart repeated,and it shivered in sadness and bliss!It will be a nice day!The sun of freedomwill burn more animatedly and hotly now thanthe aristocracy of nocturnal luminaries!And the happiest tribe will bloom,conceived in arbitrary embraces,not on the iron bed of coercionbeneath the strict customs scrutinyof the spiritual police, and in these souls,free-born, there will flare boldlythe purest fire of ideas and feelingsincomprehensible to us, by nature slaves!..........Thus I thought and climbed from my carriageand with a sincere, morning prayerstepped onto the dust, sanctified by immortality!As beneath a high, triumphal vaultof vast clouds, the sun rosevictorious, bold and bright,announcing a fine day to nature.But at the sight I was so melancholy,like the moon, still a visible shadepale in the sky.Poor moon!In the deep night, alone, orphaned,it completed its bitter pathwhile the world slept and onlyowls, apparitions and bandits caroused.And today before the young day, rising in glory,rays ringing forth joyand shot through with the dawn“s purple,it runs off.Just one more glanceat the luxuriant universal lightand like a fine wisp of smoke it flies from the sky...........Ah, equally incomprehensible to themwill be that night in which their fathersjoylessly languished their entire livesand carried on a despairing battle, a cruel one,against foul owls and subterranean vampires,monstrous things begotten of Erebus!Ill-fated warriors, all the spirit“s strength,all the heart“s 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 sunwill not enliven exhausted hearts,will not bring fire once more to dulled cheeks!We shall hide before them, like the pale moon!I don“t know nor do I seek to foreseewhat the Muse has in store for me!The poet“s laurelsmay or may not grace my gravestone!Poetry was to my soula childlike-divine toyand 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 faithin her sacred battle all my life!


                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 seemsexhausted, a pitiful wraithe.Wait till night falls,then you see this radiant godenfolding sleeping copses in its beams!


                Among society“s gossips,in the pointless noise of day,at times my gaze, my movements, feelings, wordsjust can“t be happy, don“t 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 mirrorthe fragrant, amber nectar of its light!

                59. FROM FAUST, PART 1 (GOETHE)

                1As in days gone by, before you is heardthe day“s luminary in the system of the planetsand along its predetermined coursethundering, it completes its flight!Seraphs marvel at it,but till now who has comprehended it?As on the first day, incomprehensibleare the deeds, Almighty, of your hands!..........And swiftly, with miraculous swiftness,the earth“s globe turns,replacing the quiet light of the skywith the deep darkness of night.The waves roar over the sea“s abyss,gouging out its rocky shore,and the chasm of waters with its cliffsthe 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 heavens“ praise thunders to you!As on the first day, incomprehensibleare the deeds, Lord, of your hands!2”Who called me?‘”Oh, horrible sight!‘”With a powerful and persistent charmyou gnawed my magic circle and not in vain, and now ...‘”Your aspect benumbs me!‘”Was that not you praying, like one in a frenzy,to see my face and hear my voice?I inclined myself to your persistent calland here I stand before you!What despicable fearhas suddenly possessed your soul, titan?Is this the breast whose creative powercreated a world, nourished and cultivated itand, hoping for unterrestrial valour,with indefatigable effortstrove 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?‘”Do 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!‘”The tempest of events and the swell of the fatesI 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!‘”With what insuperable affinity,immortal spirit, you attract me to yourself!‘”Only to that nature you have dreamed upare you alike - not to me!‘3”What 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 soundstill entices me to existence!It would happen that the heavens would kissme in the silence of Sunday.I heard the trembling of sacred bellsin the depths of my soul,and the prayer was living sweetness to me!The soul“s urge to be one with heavencarriedme off to woods and dalesand, drenched in warm tears,I created a new world for myself.About happy youth“s game,about bright spring would this glad news be.Ah, and at that solemn hourthe recollection of them would master my soul!Sing out, voices, play again, sacred hymn!My tear flees!Earth, I am yours once more!‘4Why destroy in empty depressionthe blissful possession of this hour?See how evening shines and scatters aroundthe huts with their greenery.The day is through, and to other skiesthe day“s 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 feetand, 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 shiningin its gulfs the ocean.But the bright divinity inclines its head to the watersand suddenly the mysterious might of its winghas come to life again and chases after the departing oneand 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,we“ll 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 breastand at times it comes to life in us,when, during spring, above our heads,the lark“s song tinkles from a cloud,when over a steep, wooded slopethe eagle, spreading its wings, soars,when over lakes or the empty steppethe crane hurries home.5There was a king, so few they are now,faithful up to his death.As he died, his loved onegave him a goblet...........He valued it greatlyand frequently drained it,his heart beating strongly in himthe moment he picked it up...........When his turn cameto quit this world,he divided out his possessions,but did not give away the cup...........And into the castle above the seahe summoned his friendsand, taking his farewells of them,he sat there carousing...........When he drank for the last timethe fiery liquid,he leaned out over the abyssand 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 beatthe king had drunk his last drop!6Almighty spirit, you have given me everything, everythingI prayed for!Not for nothingdid your face lean radiant to me!You gave me all of nature to possessand showed me how to love it.You allowed menot to be a mere, idly-amazed guestat her feast, but admitted meinto the very depths of her breast,as into the heart of a friend!The ranks of earth-bornfiled past me and you taught me,in a thicket, in the open, or on the seas“ 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 crackin a crash of falling boughs, indistinctly a rumblearises all around and, unsteady, the hillsides groan.You lead me into a peaceful cavern,and you present meto the eyes of my very soul and its world,its wondrous world, you reveal for me!Let the all-sweetening moon risein its meek brilliance and to me there flyfrom craggy mountains, from the humid pine forest,the silver shades of past ages,and in the stern consolation of contemplationthey soften me with their mysterious influence!

                60. FROM THE FIFTH OF MAY (MANZONI)

                Lofty presentiment“surges and languor,the soul, thirsting for mastery,in its seething aspirations,the coming together of designsas 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 centuriesin cruel conflict,seeing him, suddenly made peace,as they would before omnipotent destiny.He commanded them to be silentand sat between them in judgement!..........He disappeared and in exile saw outhis 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 shorevainly visible to palpitating glancesappears from above,..........so memory above his soul,gathering, lies heavy!How often this soul desiredto speak outand, stupefied, onto the sheet already begun,the hand suddenly fell!..........How often before day“s end,a day of joyless torment,lowering his lightning-flashing eyes,folding his arms across his breast,he would stand, letting the pastpossess him!..........In his mind“s eye he saw the campaign tents,the plains of battle,the long glint of infantry ranks,currents of cavalry formations,an iron world breathingby one command alone!..........Oh, beneath such a burdenhis heart lost its energyand his spirit sagged ... but a powerfulhand came down to himand, merciful, to heavenraised him!

                61. FROM PHEDRE (RACINE)

                We had just left the gates of Trezene.He sat on his chariot, surroundedby 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 air“s silence,and at that moment some fearsome voicefrom beneath the earth replied with a groan.Everyone“s blood froze in their chestsand the keen horses“ manes stood up.But then, white above the watery plain,a wave rose, like a mountain of snow,growing, getting nearer, smashing into the shoreand 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 lanceand, 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 horses“ feetand, scrabbling at the ground, from its bloody jawspoured 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 tridentprodded their steaming flanks.They flew across rocks, patches of undergrowth.The axle creaked and broke.The fearless Hippolytusfrom his smashed, crushed chariotfell to earth, enmeshed in the reins.Forgive my tears!This mournful scenewill forever call tears from me!I saw, alas, your sondragged 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 thornsbloody clots of hair hanging.Our maddened cries carried across the land!But finally the crazed steeds“ardour calmed down.They stoppednear where your forefatherslie at rest in ancient tombs!I ran up, I called.With enormous effortopening his eyes, he gave me his hand:”The 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 son“s innocence,oh, to console a complaining shadow,let him alleviate his prisoner“slot!Let him return to her.‘The hero died at these words,and in my arms which held himthere remained a corpse, savagely distorted,a sign of the horrible punishment of the gods,unrecognisable even by a father“s eyes!

                62. NIGHT THOUGHTS (GOETHE)

                I pity you, hapless stars!So beautifully, so brightly do you burn,willingly lighting the mariner“s way,unrewarded by God or man!You don“t know love.You“ve never known it!Unstoppable, the gods of time lead youthrough the sky“s limitless night!Oh, what a path you have traversedsince the moment when, in my sweetheart“s arms,I sweetly turned off from midnight and you!


                1Lovers, madmen and poetsare forged from one and the same imagination!One sees demons which don“t even exist in Hell(the madman, that is), another is equally insane,the passionate lover, seeing, entranced,Helen“s beauty in a dark-skinned gypsy.The poet“s eye, in bright frenzy,turning round upon itself, sparkles and slipsfrom sky to earth, from earth to sky,and, let his imagination but create formsfor unknown creatures, then the poet“s wandtransforms them into people and givesaerial shades a place and a name!2The hungry lion has begun to roarand 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 screechand to the invalid on his death-bedhas predicted an early shroud...........All cemeteries at this timefrom yawning gravesinto the moon“s damp dusksend forth their dead!


                Just as the ocean curls around earth“s shores,our earthly life“s embraced by dreams.Night comes and brings the elementand night intensifies its roars...........Now, there“s its voice, persisting, pleading.The magic skiff is straining to be free.Now out it goes, its human cargo leadinginto the dark, immeasurable sea...........Heaven“s vault“s aflame with starry glory.From every side, as long as we“re 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 itand the entire purple-born throng beneath their feet!All other powers, authorities, possessionsare legacies and accidents of birth,but God Himself has given the pope and the caesar to the earthand 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,you“re 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, majesticallyit 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 earthlyhappens only by and through them.Like a living mysteryheaven 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 twoexists 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 disgracenot 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 wasof 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 it“s all contained in here!Seek out dominions and weigh the handful of dustof him who had everything, his power revered as much as God“s.Fill with thunder the whole of earth, build, raise upyour columns to the clouds, ever higher, height upon height,although your fame has touched the immortal stars,that“s 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 creationon high - alone - between heaven and earthand 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 sea“s 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, they“re 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 skeletonsof 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 seizethe 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 stormsin God“s open plains!He taught and trained youto play, to leap at will...........I love you when you boundmadly, 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)

                ”What sounds are they in front of my house,what voices before my gates?Let the song ring out before usin our high tower!‘The king spoke, the page runs,the page returned, the king speaks:”Quickly, admit the old man!‘..........”Praise 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 timeTo idly entertain my eyes!‘..........The grey-haired singer shut his eyesand 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 chainwith which to honour the grey-haired singer!..........”Don“t 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 toilsthis golden burden!..........I sing at God“s will,like a bird in the sky,not seeking recompense for my songs,for the song is reward enough!I“d ask one boon of you, just one,and that“s a golden gobletfilled with bright wine!‘..........He took the cup and drank it dryand spoke with heat in his heart:”Let God bless such a householdwhere this serves only as a meagre gift!Let him send his favours to youand let Him comfort you on this earthjust as you have comforted me!‘


                Here, the sky stares inertat 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 oakis prostrate, smouldering still,boughs trickling blue smokethrough the greenery, where,for a while now, louder, fuller,throughout the storm-refreshed copse,bird-song resounds,and a rainbow has settledthe end of its arc amongthe green summits.

                70. TO TWO SISTERS

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


                I recall that day.For me, it was the morning of life“s 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 loveburst from her breast andI saw a new world!

                72. CICERO

                The Roman orator was speakingas citizens started to fight:”I rose late, and while I was walkingwas chased and captured by Rome“s night‘.So be it!But making your farewells, you sawin grandeur and with awe,Rome“s bloody star go down...........Blessed is he who visits this lifeat its fateful moments of strife:the all-wise sent him an invitationto speak with them at their celebrations.He“s 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 eveningsthere is a touching, mysterious charm:an ominous glitter, motley trees,a light, languorous rustle of scarlet leaves,a hazy, quiet bluenessacross the sadly orphaned worldand, presaging gathering storms,at times a gusty snap of wind.Loss.Exhaustion.And on it allthere is that gentle smile of fadingwhich, in a thinking creature, we should callthe divine shame of suffering.

                74. LEAVES

                Let pines and firsjut out all winter,curled up and sleepingthrough snows and blizzards.Their meagre greens,like a hedgehog“s spines,might never yellow -they“re never fresh...........But we, we“re a light tribe,blossoming, glitteringsuch a short time,guests on our branches.All the fine summerwe“re 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 it“s betterto fly away with them?.........Faster, wild winds,faster, faster!Snatch us quicklyfrom boring boughs.Tear us, hurl us away.We don“t want to wait.Fly, come flyand we“ll fly with you!


                Crossing Livonian fields ...Baltic emptiness, sandand the dull emptiness of this colourless landallowed my soul to yieldto contemplation of its former sad plight,a dark and bloody statewhen its citizens, prostrate,kissed the spurs of invading knights.I stared at a deserted water-course.Along its length were silent spinneys.I thought, ”You“ve had quite a journey,you peers of the past, you“ve forceda path into our livesfrom the shores of another time and place!‘So many questions!Such frustration!I strivefor 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 gamesand keeping his secret during the day.


                Sand gives softly.Hooves sink.We ride.It“s late.Light starts to fade.The shadows of the pines along the roadsidehave merged into a single shade.The wood“s dark heart grows denser, blacker.It“s 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 enablesthis exile from the cares of hometo sit as a guest at Heaven“s 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 townsthe 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 sky“s misty haze disappears,in carefree gaietylives pitiful insanity...........Beneath rays which burn,digging into flaming sands,his glassy gaze is turnedto seek things far above the land...........Suddenly he“ll 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 mirthas they course beneath the ground,and he thinks it“s a cradle-song he“s foundas they noisily burst from the earth.

                79. THE ALPS

                Throughout blue nightsglisten mountains“ eyes,eyes of death, eyes of fright,by icy horror paralysed.Charmed by some spelltill Dawn“s first beams,in hazy menace they dream,like all those ancient kings who fell...........But let the East begin to shineand the fatal charms are broken.High up and first in linethe eldest brother has awoken.From the head of the next there rollsa stream onto the heads of all the others,till, glistening in crowns of gold,all the family“s resurrected with the brothers!

                80. INFECTED AIR

                I love God“s 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 breast“s 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, voicespresaging our final hour,sweetening our final torment,and as the fates encroachand call earth“s sons from this life,perhaps their messenger uses them,weaving a veil to hid his faceand his fearsome approach!


                We walk behind our ageas 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 fieldsbut spring is in the water“s voice.Running, the waters wake the sleepy banks.They run, they glisten, they rejoice...........”Spring is coming, spring is coming!‘in every direction they shout.”We“re the young spring“s runners,with the news she has sent us out!‘..........Spring is coming, spring is coming!In a bright, rosy round-dance playsa frolicking, happy bustleof May“s warm, quiet days.

                83. STAY SILENT!

                Stay silent, out of sight and hideyour feelings and your dreams inside.Within your soul“s deep centre letthem silently rise, let them setlike stars in the night.Don“t be heard.Admire them,Don“t say a word...........How can your heart itself express?Can others understand or guessexactly what life means to you?A thought you“ve spoken is untrue.You only cloud the streams you“ve stirred.Be fed by them.Don“t say a word...........Making living in yourself your goal.There is a world within your soulwhere mystery-magic thoughts abound.By outer noise they will be drowned.They“ll scatter as day is bestirred.Just heed their song.Don“t say a word!


                Asa piece of papersmoulders, catches, burnson glowing embers,the flames indistinctand 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 oncerange flame-like at will,not languishing, and not tormented,bursting into brilliancebefore - just going out!

                85. TO....

                Lips which greet me with a smile,a young girl“s rosy complexion,your gaze which is bright and which sparkles....it all entices me to pleasure...........Ah, this gaze in passion“s fireon gossamer wings sends out desire,and with some magical powerlocks hearts in its fabulous tower!


                Just as Agamemnon brought this daughteras an offering to the gods,asking the indignant heavensfor the breath of fair winds,so we, over woeful Warsaw,have struck a fateful blow,and at this bloody price we“ll buyRussia“s integrity and peace...........Away from us, inglorious wreathwoven by a servile hand!Not for the koran of autocracydid Russian blood run like a river!No!We were animated in the fightnot by any love of carnage,not as trained and bestial janissaries,and not because, as executioners, we must subdue!..........A different thought, a different beliefbeat in Russians“ hearts:we needed to maintain the integrity of authorityby the saving storm of example,to gather under one Russian bannerkindred generations of Slavs,to lead them in the campaign of enlightenment,all of one mind, like a host!..........This higher consciousnessled our valiant people.It boldly takes upon itselfthe vindication of heaven“s ways.It senses above its heada star in the invisible heightsand unswervingly follows the starto its mysterious destination!..........Pierced by your brother“s arrow,fulfilling destiny“s 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!


                ”The storm howls more evilly, screaming its spite.Caress me, my lover, cling to me tight.‘”Oh darling, I fear the skies“ vengeful power.Don“t talk of forbidden love at this hour.‘”The song of the storm is so sweet as it gustsand lulls us on our bed of lust.‘”Oh, remember the sea and the miserable sailors,gracious lord, shelter all of those wretches.‘”In the sea“s broad ravines let the waves roam at will.They won“t breach our refuge nor shatter this still.‘”Oh darling, don“t say that, such talk is not right.Don“t you know who is out on the ocean this night?!‘Lamenting and trembling, her voice fades awayand 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 roundand 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 childshe crashed to the ground in a swoon.In the lightning flashes which sundered the gloom,the ghost of her husband was clearly seenwhere he sat by the cot at the end of the room.

                88. PEACE IN SPRINGTIME (UHLAND)

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


                You were the best leafon humanity“s high tree,nourished by its purest sap,grown in the sun“s purest rays!..........More harmonious than allyou shook with its great soul,prophetically talking with storms,happily playing with breezes!..........Not a late wind, not late summer raintore you from your native branch.Fairer than many, outliving so many,you simply fell, like a leaf from a garland.


                Two demons served him.Two forces merged wondrously within him:in his head, eagles soared,in his breast, serpents writhed,a daring eagle-flightof wide-spanned inspirations;and in the very riot of audacitythere was a calculating serpent.But not sanctifying power,a force of which the mind cannot conceive,illuminated his soulnor stepped towards him.He was of earth, not God“s flame.He proudly sailed, despised the sea,but on the hidden reef of faithhis 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 sorcerer“s wail,the sea-deeps my wanderings stormed and assailed,and into my silence of dreams burst the lashof tempests, of howls, of the sea“s frightful crash.

                93. (BERANGER)

                I“m ending of days in a ditch.I“m weak and old with no strength to go on!”He drinks, can“t you see?‘ they say about the tramp.Just so long as they don“t 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!ŇŇŇ.I“ve laboured through, I“ve coped with the years,clearly people don“t die of hunger.Perhaps, I thought, on a bedthey will at least let me die,but their hospitals and gaolsare all full!You can“t 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.”We“ve barely work for ourselves!Pick up your bag.Get out and beg.‘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 roaddid 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 cameand captured our splendid town,and I, like an idiot cried in vexation,cursing the foe who fed me!..........Why did you not crush melike 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.I“d have blessed you, brethren, I would.Instead, as he dies, the tramp curses you!

                94. THE SKALD“S HARP

                Skald-harp, long ago your poet-masterleft 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 swirlsin your heart as you recall past days?Memories of nights when voluptuous girlstold old stories, sang sweet lays,or when, in these gardens still fair and green,seeking trysts, their light feet tripped unseen?


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

                96. (HEINE)

                With which of the two has fate decreedthat I should fall in love?Daughter and mother are fair indeed,like each other, each uniquely charming...........How her untried, youthful memberssweetly agitate my mind!Yet the charm of those brilliant glancesis omnipotent over my soul...........Flapping my ears in contemplation,I stand just as Buridan“s friend did,between two hay ricks, staring,wondering which of the two would be the sweeter?


                From land to land, from town to townlike 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 love“s final farewell.So many tears are left behind.Ahead, there“s mist.Ahead is the unknown!..........”Oh, wait, look back!‘Where are you running? Why run at all?Love“s dropped behindWhat“s better in the world than that?..........Love“s still falling back,in tears and in despair.Have pity on your pain,your bliss you should spare!..........Bring to mind the blissof so many, many days.All that“s dear to your soulyou“re abandoning along the way!..........It“s not the time to summon shades:that time is now dead dark.The shadows of departed soulsare 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!


                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 touchedthe age-old keep“s remainswhile the sun dallied in its farewellsto the castle, the hill and to you.A quiet, passing breezeplaying with your dress,and from wild apples, flower after flowerstrewn 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 louderfrom the river in its darkening banks.In carefree joy you spent the happy day.Sweetly the shade of swiftly-flowing lifepassed over us and flew away.


                My soul, you“re an Elysium of shades,silent shades, beautiful shades which shineand 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 polesfrom men who have no feelings?


                How sweetly sleep lies on the green gardentaken by night“s blue in blissful swoon,and through the apple-blossom-whitened boughshow sweetly filter rays from the golden moon!As on the first day of creation, with mysterythe starry hosts burn in the shoreless sky,and there are heard the shouts of distant music;still louder“s the voice of the brook nearby.Across earth“s day there“s been unfurled a curtainAll movement“s been exhausted, energy“s 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?


                No, Mother-Earth, my tenderness for youI“m powerless not to display!I do not thirst for pale delights of fleshless spirits.Your loyal son I“ll 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?..........I“d rather spend all day in deep inaction,spring“s warm air drinking deep and true.At times, across the distant, pure skiessail cloud-wisps which my eyes would eagerly pursue.I“d wander aimless, doing nothing,and stumble inadvertentlyupon a lilac“s fresh aroma,or on a shining reverie.


                Silent air enwrappingme, storm-threatening,crickets louder singing,roses“ aromas sharper rising ..............From behind a white, hazy cloudthunder rattles round the land.Lightning scampers round the sky,sewing for its waist a band..........Life-surplus overflowing,nectar pouringthrough the air, scorching,melting through my veins, burning .............Girl, what things excitethe gauze across your breasts,darkening and troublingyour eyes“ 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 lashestears form -are they early raindropsof the coming storm?


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


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


                Into the grave the coffin“s 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 sermon“s under way.Man“s 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!


                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 reddenedand she had started praying.She“d worn a veil.She took it from her brow.She breathed a prayer, and when she turnedthe sky within her eyes exulted...........Dawn flamed.Her head was slowly sinking.Her neck gleamed whitely, cowed,and down her youthful cheeks were burnedthe traces of her fiery tears.


                Blue-grey mingling.Colour darkening.Silence possesses sound.Life and movement have drownedin 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, overfillmy soul,give me void.In the world“s sleeppour me, fold me,let me be destroyed!


                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!


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


                The whole world starts as sunlight streamsto wake it, like a bird which shakes its feathers.Fine, fine!Beneficial dreamshave passed my by while visiting the others.Despite the morning freshnesswafting through my tousled hair,I feel a heavy weight upon me:yesterday“s dust, yesterday“s glare!It“s all so piercing and savageand I detest in every waythe shouts, the talk, the tumult, all the movementof the youthful, fiery day!Red rays falling seer my eyes.Night, night where are your covers,your dusky silence, dews, your cool moonrise?Generations“ 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 shadowwhose limbs and bones are tired and frail,to have to meet the sun and movement,behind new tribes to trail.


                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, swayingunder waters, on them too...........Waves would sing, the moon would listen.High on overhanging hillsknightly 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 otherwords 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 he“d quick awakenand continue his patrol...........Everything has gone.The years have seized it.Danube, fate has not missed you:now your lot“s to see the steamerschugging up your waters blue.


                Across vine-covered hillsidesgo sailing golden clouds.Below, its waters swelling greenly,the river darkens, calling loud.My gaze climbs slowly from the valleyand bit by bit the peaks are found.Upon the very summitthere is a temple, bright and round...........Into that unearthly dwellingmortal foot will never go.There is such light there.Desertedly so pure, air flowsto silence sounds which reach the heights.There“s only nature-life up there,and something wafted, lightly festive,that“s like a Sunday“s silent air.


                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 can“t,and at times you uproot and plough upfrenzied noises in your words!..........Don“t sing these songs,these fearsome songsof ancient Chaos, kindred Chaos!How avidly the inner soul of nighthears 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!


                The stream has frozen and dulled,hiding beneath the hard ice.Colour has faded.Sound has died.Ice has fettered everything.Only the stream“s immortal lifedoes not submit to winter“s omnipotent will:the water flows on and as it babblesit 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 barkthere is still life, there“s still a murmur,and at times there can be heardthe stream“s mysterious whisper.


                I sit deep in thought and alone,gazing at dying coalsby tears blurred.Sadly thinking of past days,I look for waysto speak my gloom.I find no words...........The past - well, has there been a past?What“s now - will that forever last?It will go by.It will go by as everything will pass.Drowning in time“s dark morass,each year will fly..........Year after year, age on age!Why does man presume to rage?Such chaff is man!He“ll wither very quickly too.Each summer, blossom, chaff anewis nature“s plan...........All that we knew once more we“ll know.Once again will roses grow.Thorns will too.But you, my flower, pale, forlorn,in summer you won“t be reborn.Life“s not for you...........The hand that plucked you was my own.The bliss, the grief I felt is knownonly on high.Stay, then, upon my breast untilall breath of love in it is stilled,the final sigh.


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

                117. Winter“s spite is vain

                for its time has come at last.Knocking at the panes,spring has castit out and everything“s in turmoil,bustling Winter out,and skylarks in the bluenesshave taken up the shout.Winter is still fussingand 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 throwit 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.


                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 meon snow-summits, sparkling white?Now the morning light is sowingred, fresh roses on their heights.

                119. THE FOUNTAIN

                Look, a living cloud,the radiant fountain throwsits flaming spray, scatteringmoist mist towards the sun,tossing rays up to the sky,touching forbidden heightsand once again, a fire-coloured dust,is sentenced to fall back to earth...........Water-course of human thought,inexhaustible water-course!What incomprehensible lawtosses and urges you up there?How greedily you reach out to the sky!But an invisible, fateful handdiffracts and pulls your stubborn streamin showers of spray back down to the land!


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


                Nature is not what you think it is:it“s 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 ripenby the play of outer, alien forces?..........They don“t see and they are deaf,living in this world as if they were blind.Suns don“t breathe for them.The ocean“s waves possess no life...........Rays have never come down into their soul.Spring has never blossomed in their breast.Forests don“t talk in their presenceand starry nights are dumb for them...........In unearthly tongues,agitating rivers and woods,they“ve never held discoursewith a friendly storm!..........The fault“s not theirs.Can a deaf-mute understand an organ“s life?Alas for them, they“d be unmovedby the voice of their own mother!


                There“s not a spark of feeling in your eyes.When you speak, your words are liesand there“s no soul in you.Stand fast, my heart, right to the end:godless, creation has to fend,so praying“s pointless too.


                I love your eyes, dear,their fiery-playful games,their sudden upward glancesslowly looking all aroundlike lightning-flames...........There“s a more potent spell:eyes lower.A mouth hungers.Lids almost close.Sullen arousal glows.


                Last night in enchanted dreams,the moon“s last raylanguidly lit your lashes,while in late sleep you lay.Silence went quiet around you,shadows frowned darker,the even movements of your breastflowed louder through the air.Quiet-streaming, quiet-wafting,as if a breeze had borne it in,dimly lilac, hazily lightthrough your bedroom came a fluttering,an invisible runningacross rugs which were glimmering,clutching the edge of the blanketsand the sides of the bed, crawling,unfolding like a ribbononto your bed like a writhing snake,teasing beneath your bed curtainuntil with a life-shining quiverit felt your young breasts,with a loud, rosy cryit opened your lashes,felt their silk .... caressed ....

                125. JANUARY 29TH., 1837

                Who fired the shot?Who stilled the life which quiveredin the poet“s heart?In whose hands was the fragile phial shivered?Innocent or deserving blame,in the eyes of earthly justiceand branded forever by heaven,Regicide will be his name.Into a dark, timeless deepyou 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 god“s mouthpiece,but you lived.In your veins, warm blood coursed!This noble blood has silenced jeersstaining honour“s name.Now in the sacred shade you rest,beneath the banner of our people“s tears.Let Him pass judgement!He can hear the flow of blood spilled.You will be first love in a youthful breast:in Russia“s heart eternally dear!

                126. DECEMBER 1ST., 1837

                So, here“s where we“re fatedto say our final farewell,farewell to everything by which we lived,which killed your life, reducing it to ashesin your tormented breast!..........Farewell.After many, many yearsyou“ll 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,December“s 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 sleepin its flowery keep,it submits to heaven“s desires.Heaven“s care is so loving!Warm southern winters, many a summerhave 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 lifewhich coursed through our veins, turbulently hot,step over a forbidden threshold?


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


                What gentle, tender joy, what enamoured pangsare 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 child“s, 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 dreamedwhat the future held for us both,as if stung, you“d have woken with a screamor passed into a different dream.


                Tired by travel, we madea 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 soughtto find again that life we spent together?What things befalla look, a tone of voice, debris of thoughts?That which exists no longer - did we dream it all?


                Watch the west flaming upin evening“s dull glow,the east darkly clothing itselfin a cold, blue-grey comb!Are they enemies?Or is the sun one for both?With its immovable wholenessdividing, 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 trialsto which we daily must succumb,what can resist the breath ofand that first encounter with spring!..........Spring does not know us,us, our grief, our malice ...Her gaze shines with immortality.There“s 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 doesn“t need to know.The sky is cloud-covered.These clouds are her own, leaving not a traceof the extinct life of former springs...........Roses do not sign about the past,nor do nightingales sing it.Dawn does not shed tearsof fragrance for the past,and terror of the ineluctable enddoes 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 feelingsand throw yourself lustily, omnipotentlyinto this life-creating ocean!Come on, in its ethereal streamwash your suffering breastand in this divinely all-peaceful lifefor 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 drapedby 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.It“s here, and from the fated worldit rips the cover of plentyand tosses it aside,revealing the abysswith all its mists and fearsome sights.No wall divides us from them,which is why we“re afraid of the night!


                Don“t believe the poet, girl!Don“t ever make the dread mistakeof calling him your own,and, more than flames, and more than anger from above,be sure you fear the poet“s love!..........Don“t think you“ll win the poet“s heartwith your little-girlish soul.The flames of lust you won“t concealbehind a virgin“s 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 maiden“s curls!..........The rabble, never thinking,may praise or revile him, but they will soon seethat he does not sting the heart like a snake,he sucks it like a bee...........The poet“s 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!


                With such a lovely, sympathetic greetingfrom an unattainable heightI 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 poet“s superstitious,but he rarely serves the powerful...........Before all earthly idolshe walks and bows his head,or else he stands before them,confused and timorous, yet proud,..........and should a living wordfall suddenly from their lips,should he, through earthly grandeur,see all the charms of a female flash,..........and fully, humanly awareof their omnipotent beauty,should wondrously refined featuresshine 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?Isn“t it time that we woke up,shaking handswith relatives and friends?..........We“ve been blind for centuriesand, like wretched blind men,have wandered directionless,lost, aimlessly...........When by chancewe bumped into each other,more than once, bloody rivers flowedand swords tore kindred breasts...........The sea of this mad enmitybore fruit a hundredfold:more than once a tribe has perished,or ended up in exile...........Non-believers, foreign hatedivided 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 warrior“s modest handhas lit a beacon in the gloom..........Oh, what rayshave lit up all parts!Clearly now we see the faceof this entire Slavonic land!..........Mountains, steppes and coastsare 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 speakwith golden-domed Moscow!..........The dialects of our brothersonce again make sense.Now that they“re awake, the grandsons seewhat they grandparents only dreamed of!

                137. THE BANNER AND THE WORD

                Into a bloody storm, through the flames of war,announcing salvation, the Russian Bannerhad led you to immortal victory.In memory of this sacred union, it“s not surprising thatbehind the Russian Banner the Russian Wordhas come to you in kinship.


                MICKIEWICZ“S LECTURES.May the Heavenly King blessyour happy enterprise,son of undoubted calling,son of reconciling love...........Not in vain have you boldly cast asidethe 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 firstto utter the words: —Here I am!“..........You, supernaturally ableto heal all enmity in yourself,on your enlightened soullet God“s Grace repose!


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


                I stood by the Neva, my gazefixed on the giant of St. Isaac“s.Its golden cupola was glintingthrough a murk of icy haze...........Timid clouds sailedonto winter“s night sky.Frozen in a deathly stillbeneath the ice, the current paled...........Sad, silent memories cameof lands whose sun burns.At this very moment,Genoa“s luxuriant gulf“s aflame...........Wizard of northern lands,am I caught by your enchantment?Am I really held in fettersagainst you by your granite hand?..........If only some spirit passing by,wafted through the misty evening,could swiftly carry me from hereback to my sultry, southern skies!

                141. COLUMBUS

                A crown for you, Columbus!Boldly mapping the outlines of Earthand once for all fulfillingDestiny“s unfinished business,you rent the veil with your godlike handand into God“s light, from the limitless murk,you pulled a new world behind you,an unknown world, an unexpected one...........Thus are linked and united foreverin a union of bloodthat reasoning genius of manand nature“s creative power.Let him but utter a secret wordand nature, with a whole new world,is forever ready to respondto his kindred voice!

                142. A REVERIE

                ”What gift can I make at the end of the year?Winter“s wind has killed the turf,flowers die and leaves have faded.At this dead time, no living things stir.‘..........Many a sweet and dear leaf was keptin your herbarium.Your loving fingerswake in fragrant pagesa 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 flowerswhile leafing through dried remains,and by some secret magicin 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 you“d like to seesome 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 fireyou will see it bloom again...........So it happens that when we facethe fatal day, dreams and designs act thus:when memories“ pallor dulls our hearts,they bloom again in Death“s embrace.

                143. THE SEA AND THE CLIFF

                Raging, seething,lashing, whistling, roaring,leaping for the skies,the unassailable skies ...Is it hell, some hellish forcebeneath the boiling cauldronchurning up the deeps,some hellish fireturning 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 strugglewaves come howling backto beat against your granite face...The changeless stonedashes aside the noisy onslaught.Scattered waters fall apart.Impotent gusts fall grumbling away...........Stand, mighty cliff!Just wait awhile.The thundering waves will tireof warring with your foot.Exhausted by its spiteful gamethe sea will be subdued.Forget this howling affray.Beneath the foot of the titan,the waves will slink away.


                A heavy sky which night has prematurely assailed....A monstrous river-floe, ice-dulled...Powder-snow is flailedaround granite quays, threaded, pearled.The sea“s closed in.The living are hurledinto retreat, the living, troubled world.In the dim dusk-glow lulled,the pole attracts: its faithful city“s pulled.


                Longing, desires still ravagemy soul which strives to reach you.In recollection“s twilightI try to catch your image.I can“t forget your face.It is a lovely constellation,timeless, in every place,unreachable, not knowing fluctuation.


                By which can human wisdom more surely be enhanced:German unity“s Babylonian tower,or the sly republican structureof the outrages witnessed in France.


                A cloud bank, bright and highcovers earth with fleeing shades.”That“s our life‘, you sighed,”not the cloud lit up by rays,but that shadow running away.‘

                148. TO RUSSIAN WOMAN

                Far from the sun and nature,far from light and art,far from life and loveyour youth flashes by.Living feelings deadened,dissipated dreams ...Your life flows by invisiblyin this deserted, nameless placeon this unnoticed earth,as a misty cloud just disappearsin the dull and hazy skyof endless autumn“s murk ...

                149. A RUSSIAN GEOGRAPHY

                Moscow and Peter“s town, the city of Constantine,these are the cherished capitals of the Russian monarchy.But where is their limit?And where are their frontiersto the north, the east, the south and the setting sun?The Fates will reveal them to future generations...........Seven internal seas and seven great riversfrom 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.


                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 he“s immersed,in his soul,and from outside there“s 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.


                Timidly, unwillinglysun looks at fields.Thunder rumbles in a cloud ...Earth frowns...........Gusts of warm wind ...Distant growls, spots of rain ...Greening meadowsgreener under threat of storm...........Splitting a cloud -a blue lightning-streak ...White, flying flamehems its edge...........More raindrops...Dust eddied up from fields.Thunder clapsare bolder, angrier...........Once more peeks the sunaskance at fields...Drowning in brilliance -the crumpled land.


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


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


                When clinging, murderous caressicken 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.It“s just as if spring had poured over our souls.


                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 careersdeep in the autumn, when night covers all.


                NAME DAYAs a token of my love, accept this picture,understanding it, of course, and the value which we placeon you, though don“t forget, if you“ll forgive my saying,we like you a lot, though it“s not for your face.


                Across an azure plain of water,chugging on its trusty way,a fire-breathing, stormy-temperedsea-snake bore us all away...........From the sky the stars shone down,sparkling was the water“s swell.Drops of sea-dust in a blizzardswirled 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,women“s chatter, women“s 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 watersto a lullaby they sway!

                158. DAYBREAK

                Not for the first time is the cock crowing.It“s 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 arrivedto strike the bell in the city of Tsargrad?..........Ring out your good news.May it resound throughout the East!It“s 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!


                Once again I see your eyes.Your southern gaze alonehas dissipated the slumberous coldof a sad, Cymmerian night.Before me rises up once morea different land, a native land,as if through the sins of their fathersit“s a paradise perished for the sons...........Stately laurels rustle,ripple the pale blue air.The quiet breathing of the seawafts through summer heat.All day ripening in the sun -the golden vine.A fabulous past of ancient taleswafted from marble arcades...........Like an ugly dreamthe fateful north has vanished,the light, fair vault of the skyshines above me.Once again with avid eyesdrinking in this bracing light,beneath those pure raysI recognise a magic land.


                How he loved the native firsof his beloved Savoy.How melodiously their boughsrustled above his head.With what sensual thoughttheir majestically gloomydark, wild, strange plaintentranced his mind.

                161. LAMARTINE

                Apollo“s 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

                1Revolution“s Son, with a fearsome motherfearlessly 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.2Two demons served him.Two forces merged wondrously within him:in his head, eagles soared,in his breast, serpents writhed:a daring eagle-flightof wide-spanned inspirations:and in the very riot of audacitythere 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 God“s flame.He proudly sailed, despised the sea,but on the hidden reef of faithhis fragile boat was smashed.3And there you stood, and Russia stood before you!Prescient sorcerer sensing battle,you yourself uttered the fateful words:—Let her destiny come about!“Your oath was not in vain:Fate echoed your voice!But from exile you tossed another riddleat the fateful echo.Years have passed.Now back from cramped exilethe corpse has returned to its native land.On the banks of the river you loved,turbulent spirit, you“ve rested now,but you sleep lightly.Tormented during the night,sometimes you will rise.You“ll gaze at the East.Suddenly, alarmed, you“ll flee, as if you“d sensedthe breeze which ushers in the dawn.


                The loving heart cowers,admitting sadness, anguish, fear.I cry ”Stop!‘ to the fleeing hours.”The moment could be herewhen a chasm yawns between us‘..........Frightful worry, implacable terrorconstrict my wearied heart.I“ve lived too much for both of us.The past has weighed too heavy on my back.Let“s keep our love apart from memory.Let history never claim us.

                164. POETRY

                Through conflagration, through thunder“s roars,through seething passion,burning in elemental strife,she comes to us from on high,to earth-bound children,with her gaze, her clear eyesbright-shining,and across the mutinous seasa gentle oil of peacecups 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 Rome“s ancient dust,as if the lunar world, the sleeping city,were one and the same: magic, they“ve 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 casthis ring into these waters:entire aeons, not just years,(peoples marvelled at the wonder)did this magic warrior-ringbind them with its spell...........Loving, peaceful did the couplesettle to a life of fame.Three centuries, or maybe four,mightier and wider growing,spreading out into the world,the shadow of the lion“s wing...........And now?Into oblivion“s wavesso many rings were thrown!Generations came and went.These wedding rings have now becomethe links of heavy chains!


                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 clatterand the dull, red lighting,over sleepless crowds of people,over all this earthly tumult,in the high, too distant heavenspure stars were burning,answering the gaze of mortalswith 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:”The fourth age comes to a close.It will come to pass and the hour will crash out!‘.........Then Sofia“s ancient vaultswill once more house Christ“s altarin restored Byzantium.Fall before it, oh Tsar of Russia.Rise as Tsar of all the Slavs!


                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.People“s 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...”It will not be so!‘You spake, and once again the waters fell away.


                Your cowardice can“t be measured, you dwarf!Squirm and wriggle as much as you like,you“ll not entice holy Russiawith 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 otherthat, 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 victoriesto please people“s cowardice...........What was promised her by the fatesway back in her cradle,bequeathed by the ages,by the faith of all her tsars,.........what Oleg“s troopswent out to achieve by the sword,what Catherine“s eaglecovered with its wings:..........the crown and sceptre of Byzantium,you won“t deprive us of that!The universal fate of Russia,No!You“ll not block that off!


                Lord, send your comfortto him who, during summer“s scorching heat,like some poor beggar past a garden,along a hot road drags his weary feet,..........who gazes in passing across a fenceat the shades of trees, at valleys“ golden grainand at the inaccessible coolnessof softly bright, luxuriant plains...........Not for him have forests wovena welcome with their boughts and fronds;not for him have fountains scattereda misty haze above their ponds...........A being made of mist, an azure grottotries vain enticement at his gaze;his head cannot be cooled and freshenedby the fountain“s dewy haze...........Lord, send your blessingto him who, trailing through life“s heat,like some poor beggar past a garden,along a dry road drags his blistered feet.

                172. ON THE NEVA

                Once again the river surgesand the starlight seems to float,once again has love entrustedto the waves its secret boat...........Between the river and the starlightit slips, as if a dream befellin which this pair of spectres travelledfar off across the river“s swell...........Are they slothful childrenidling at the dead of night?Are they blissful spiritsof this earth-world taking flight?..........Flowing hugely, like the sea,luxuriantly, richly swelling,Neva, conceal the modest boat,its secret never telling!


                Midday breathes its hottestthrough my window opened wideinto my peaceful bedroom.Everything is still and dark inside...........Sweet aromas live there,wandering in the dusky shade.In the sweet dusk of half-slumberrest yourself and fade...........A tireless fountain in the cornersings away the nights and days.Invisible dew it showerson the dark, enchanted haze...........In the glimmer of the half-light,by some secret passion seized,over an enamoured poeta reverie is lightly breezed.


                Forget all cares, don“t reason deep!It“s mad to seek, a half-wit judges.You“ll 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.Don“t wish, don“t pine regretfully.The day“s lived through.Send God your prayers!


                Swelling, darkening watersturn leaden in inclement air.Through their severe lustre, rainbow huesstroke the evening“s crimson glare...........It scatters golden sparks,it sows fiery rosesand the current bears them down.Above the dark-azure riverthe tempestuous, fiery eveningtears off its crown.


                Unsullied gods of lightglow through azure nights.Glory, stars, glory to your splendid rays,glory to that which lasts without decay!Earth“s ephemeridae,the instant we are born we start to fail,watching, greeting as we pass you by:”Those about to die shout their immortal Hail!‘


                Prophetic sleep enfoldssad, half-clad trees.Perhaps every hundredth summer leaf,glistening with autumn gold,still trembles in the breeze...........I share the scene, moved at the sightwhen, through storm-clouds breaking,suddenly on the mottled sheensof exhausted, faded leavesthere“s a lightning-splash of light...........How charming are fading powers!How delightful the sightwhen what once so lived and floweredis now so impotent and frail,smiling at its own last rites!


                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 it“s as if spring has been wafted in,as if something sang of spring...........There“s a familiar voice, a wondrous voice,sometimes a lyre“s note, at times a woman“s 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 slumberin 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 meexpressions of old friendshipand into musical visionsit 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 fairysuddenly the pair of us appeared together!..........Together!And her song resoundedand from the secret porchchased the brash braggardand the loathsome flatterer.

                179. TWO VOICES

                1Be manly, my friends, in the fight do not tire.The struggle“s 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 don“t tire.Troubles and labours belong to mankind.Man cannot know victory.Death“s all he finds.2Be 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 downon this war of inflexible hearts.The fighter who falls beneath Destiny“s dartshas torn from their grasp the victory-crown!


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

                181. THE WAKE

                Regal Troy has fallen.Priam“s city has been destroyedand the Achaeans, preparingtheir homeward voyage,sat in their vesselsalong the shores of the Aegean,singing songs of praise,loudly glorifying all the gods.”Ring out, victorious voices!Ships, wing yourselvesto the shores of our native land,on the path home, along a trouble-free way!‘..........In a long line toothere sat a sadly pale family,the wives and maidens of fallen Troy,complaining and cryingin the great and general grief,crying for themselves,and with the victorious, wild shoutstheir wild lament was fused.”Bitter captivity awaits usthere, far off, in a foreign land.Farewell, native land!How the lot of the dead is to be envied!‘..........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 Poseidonwho engirdles the world,and to you, aegis-bearer,Zeus, who darkens the ether!”Toppled, annihilatedis the great city of Ilion!The long, long quarrel has been resolved.The judgement of the gods is immutable‘...........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 anguishthe royal gaze darkened:many of them had come to Troy,few had returned.”So rise louder, voices of praise!Sing and be joyful a hundredfold.He who knows the golden returnhas not been carried off by hostile fate!‘..........But not all are judged by Godto have a peaceful, joyful return:on the threshold of many homesdoes Murder stand guard.—Alive and well, returned from the battle,in his own temple he perished!“Inspired by all-bountiful Athena,thus spoke inspired Odysseus.”Only that home is steady and durablewhere the law of the family is sacred:the gullible way of womenis disloyal and shameful‘...........With his wife, snatched in battle,happy one more, Atreusputs his arm around her splendid waist,and his passionate looks are glad.A wicked end awaits that which is wickedPunishment follows dishonesty.In heaven, the gods“ court does not slumber!Zeus“s 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...........”It“s good for fortune“s favourites‘,said Ajax“s younger brother,”to honour with praisethe despotism of the Olympians.Unsubservient to a higher poweris fortune in her whims:Friend Patroclus is long in his graveand Thersites still lives!Destiny throws the dicewith her capricious hand.Be happy and sing songsif the luminary warms you!..........Be consoled, my dear brother!Your memory is eternal!You are the indestructible bulwarkof 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 onewho won the great revenge.Not by the victorious hand of the foe,but by your own did you fall.Ah, but it“s often the best of peoplewho are destroyed by pernicious anger!‘..........And now to your masterlyshade, valiant Pelides,your son, Pyrrhus, glorious warrior,prepares a libation.”My parent‘, he pronounced,”no-one but you has Zeus, the great designer,raised to such earthly stature.‘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...........”Although 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.‘Thus the son of Tidaeus foretold.Honour to him who unquailinghas lain down his life for his brothers!The conqueror may have conquered,but the fame of the fallen is more sacred!..........Now old Nestor, venerablereveller, taking his cup, stands,and the vessel, wreathed in ivy,he gives to Hecuba:”Mother, drink, this healing streamand forget your loss!The magic juice of Bacchus is powerful,it heals us miraculously!Mother, taste the healing streamand forget destiny“s law.It heals miraculously,this magic gift of Bacchus.‘..........And the power of ancient Niobeis oppressed by evil grief,but she drank the wondrous juiceand was consoled.Just let the goblet at the table sparklewith paradisal wineand into the Lethe our grief will fallfalling like a key to its bed.Yes, while in the cup there playsthe all-powerful wine,grief is carried away to Lethe,our grief drowns in the Lethe!..........And there rose at the farewellthe soothsayer-wife,and she fulfilled a prophecy,an inspired one,taking one last timethe burned out ruins of her home:—Smoke and steam is all our life is,immortality, oh gods, is for you alone!“As the plumes of smoke waft away,so our days go by!Gods, only you are eternal,everything earthly goes by!“


                Across the river“s broad expanse you see,as the waters come back to life,floe following floeinto 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 seducethe mind of man!Is this your only fate?Is this your only use?


                How we murder while we love!How, filled with passion“s blind fury,we are so consummately skilledat destroying what is closest to our hearts!..........Was it long ago, proud of your gains,that you told herself, ”She“s mine!‘?Not a year has passed.Now ask yourself,”What“s left of her?‘..........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?..........What“s 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 Fate“s dread gaol -your love did that for her -lying across her lifelike a shame she had never deserved...........A life of denial, a suffering life!In the depths of her soulshe 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 hardinto 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 passion“s blind fury,we are so consummately skilledat destroying what is closest to our hearts!


                How I love to find again the sourceof your life“s 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 lightbathes this misty sky!What blossoms coloured the banksof this stream which flowed so purely!What beautiful reverieswere reflected in its blueness!When you have spoken of your childhood,which I have incompletely understood,I have felt my body lifted in a breezeand floating like veiled spring.


                I don“t know whether grace will touchmy sickly-sinful soul.Will it rise from the dead?Will this spiritual torpor pass?..........If only my soul could findpeace 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 foliagewhere birches standed wafted,airily, hazily green,part-translucent, like mist...........They“ve 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 leaveswashed in sunshine,casting their first shadows!And from their stirring we can hearthat in these thousands, through these shadowy masses,you will not find a single leaf that“s dead!


                You“ve often heard the admission:—I am not worthy of your love“.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 kneelbefore that dear cradle,..........where she sleeps, your creation,your unnamed cherub,remember my humilitybefore your loving heart.


                Today it“s 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 he“s there...........Through non-belief he“s dry and burned,he tolerates what man should never bear,aware at every step that he is ruined, not tryingto attain that faith for which he“s always yearned...........The door stays closed though he may grieve.He“ll never offer prayers nor tears.He“ll never call, ”My God, admit me, for I do have faith!Come to my aid, for I cannot believe!‘

                189. THE WAVE AND THE THOUGHT

                Thoughts and the smooth ebb and flow of the tidesare 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...


                Heat has not congealedthis glittering night in Julyand above the dulling earththe storm-pregnant skyshimmers in summer lightning...........Like heavy eyelidslifting over earth,through scampering lightningthreatening pupilsflashing now and then...


                Separation has this lofty meaning:if love lasts years,if but a day it takes,love“s just a dreamand we“re 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 orangeburns like a fire beneath its dense foliage?Have you been there?There, there would Ilike 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 youlies our path.Let“s 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.”What is it with you, poor child?‘Have you been there?There, there with you,let“s go away quickly; let“s go, my parent.


                Day turns to evening.Night approaches.Shadows lie longer down slopes.Clouds fade awayas it becomes late and evening encroaches...........I do not fear the murk of night!Nor do I regret the fading dayas long as you, my magic spectre,as long as you don“t leave my sight!..........Let your wings captureme, soothe the agitation in my heart,and the shade will be bliss indeedfor a soul in rapture...........Who are you?Where are you from?How can I decideif you“re of heaven or of earth?Perhaps you live in heaven,but there“s a passionate, female soul inside!


                Summer thunder“s a happy ogreeddying flying dustwhen a storm, welling darkly huge,troubles the blue of the sky,and when a sudden dart of madnesspounces on a grove, making trees shudderwide-leaved and noisily.As if beneath some unseen foot,the woody giants bendtheir tops in anxious grumblesof a secret conference.Through the quick alarmnot a single bird stops whistling,and somewhere in the middle of it allthe 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 soundshe hears in his sleep;the faces of angelssinging on high...........And now he“s come out of his heavenly slumber,embraced and caressed by the swell,and he hears a voice,like the thrumming of strings;”Come, handsome boy,into my embrace!‘


                Not in vain has the gracious godmade the little bird easily scared.To ensure it survives this life,it“s been created well and truly timid...........No good will come of it.The poor birdhas to live with people, as part of the family of man,and the nearer to them, the nearer to Fate.It“ll come to no good in their hands...........Now here“s a little bird which a girl,from its fledgling feathers, from the very nest,has nurtured, helped to growneither regretting nor sparingcaresses nor effort...........But despite all the love and concernyou spend on it, love,the day will come, my girl, you“ll not avoid it,when your careless wardwill perish at your hands.

                197. PREDESTINATION

                Love, tradition states,is a union of kindred souls.They join together, they combine,fatefully they mingleand it“s a duel ordained by fate...........Whichever is the tendererin this one-sided war of two hearts,more surely, ineluctably will findlove and sad, numb delight ... and painas its exhausted, languid gain.


                Don“t tell me that he loves me as he used to,that, just as he used to, he places value on my life.Don“t!He“s inhuman and he“s 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 - It“s life I cannot bear!




                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,


                What you guarded in your heartlike a tiny, frightened beast,praying, protecting,fate has grabbed by the scruffand thrown into a lions' feast...........The animals stormedthe 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 napefrom the crudeness of the crowd,to keep you safefrom man's eternal rape!


                I knew a pair of eyes.Oh, what a sight!God knows I loved them dearly!My soul could not be tornfrom 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 oncethat I would meet them unperturbed,without a tear springing to my eyes.

                202. TWINS

                There are twins.For the earthbornthey 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 fearsomethan 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 mysterydo 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?


                Mobile comme l'ondeOcean-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 worldin 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 nightguard the secret you have taken...........Not a treasured ring-giftdid I drop into your swell.Not a precious stonedid 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 discernedhis 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 talesfrom childhood's early years.Meanwhile, the dusky, mysterious lightof the stars crept over them...........In truth, he was whole and pure in spirit,dove-like, though not despisingthe serpent's wisdom; he understood it.A pure dove's spirit wafted through himand by this spiritual purityhe 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 soulwhich gave him life, nourished his muselike 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"!


                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 airand the blossoming world of natureis ecstatic in life's abundance...........But in all this surplus of sensationno joy is more acute than a single smile of emotionfrom your tormented soul.


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

                207. LAST LOVE

                On the final slope of yearsour 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 gloriouslyguarding Russia faithfully?Once, only once, by the will of God,you let the Antichrist affrontthe sacred integrity of our Russian landand doing that, you made it firm forever!..........Neman, do you remember the past,the day of that fateful yearwhen 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 itemwith his wondrous eyes............Just one thing he did not see,this wondrous warrior, did not seethat there, upon the other bank, there stoodAnother. Stood.Waited.The companies went bywith awesome, warlike faces.The inescapable Hand of Fateput 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!


                Days of battle and solemnity will come.Russia will regain the frontiers bequeathed to herand old Moscow will bethe 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 dreamwith 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 thisfor no apparent reason?..........In some alarm my eyes are meetingthis glitter and this light.Is someone poking fun at us?Where is the source of such a greeting?..........Ah, it's like a youthful smileon a woman's lips and in her eyes,not ravishing, not tempting us,disturbing our old age a while.


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


                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 allowednot a whole world to threaten you with calamity,but an entire hell to threaten your downfall!..........Every blasphemous mindand every-God-reviling racehas dredged up monarchies of murkin the name of light and freedom!..........Preparing a cell for you,they foretell your ignominy,yours, the Word, life, enlightenmentof better days to come!..........Oh, in this stern trial,in this final, fateful struggle,be faithful to yourself,justify your deeds to God.


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


                FUNERAL OF THE EMPEROR NICHOLASNo, 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 aroundpeople 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 apostlesbe branded by one name:Iscariot, Iscariot!


                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.


                In life there are moments you cannot convey,the earthly paradise of selflessness.Tree-tops rustle high above meand 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!'


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


                From sea to sea the wire goes,a slippery thread of iron.Fame and grief are in abundanceat times along its path...........Following it with his eyes,the traveller will note at timesprescient birds which perchalong the grapevine...........From the plain a ravenrises, blackly sitting on the line,sitting, cawing,gaily flapping wings...........And it shouts and it exultsand it wheels above the wire.Does the raven sense the bloodof 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 oneto those places dear to her heart!.........Let the good spiritspeed her on to meet thathandful 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 cradlethe New Year's born in thunder...........It's features are fearsomely sternand there's blood on its hands and its brow,but it's brought to man on his earthmore 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 strikea 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.


                Oh, my prophetic soul!Oh heart filled with alarm!You'd think you beat upon the thresholdof 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 breastbe agitated by fateful passions.The soul is ready, just like Mary,to cling eternally to the feet of Christ.


                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.


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


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


                For him who served his native landwith 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...


                What I've managed to keep aliveof hope, faith and lovehas merged into one prayer:survive, survive!


                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 meaningof your sickly dream,your struggle, your striving,your alarmed servicebefore the ideal of beauty...........Like an imprisoned Hellenesinking into sleep out in the steppes,beneath blizzard-filled Scythian skies,who hallucinates about golden freedomand the sky of his native Greece.

                230. (SCHILLER)

                Fortune had an argument with a favouriteand flew off to poor Wisdom:"Sister, give me your hand and my griefwill be lightened by your friendship...........With my best giftshave 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."


                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.


                Above this ignorant crowdof 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 voidthat gnaws the mind and pains the heart,what can heal that, what can cover it up?Only you, Christ's pure image.


                There is a fleeting, wondrous momentduring 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 noticeacross 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 flowingacross the resting plains.


                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 rootsof trees fed by that rill,where trees waft in their thousandsthe stream which whispers in the dusky still...........Delirium runs her fingers through the leafy summitssuspended in the midday heatand every now and then an eagle screeches,from very far away.


                When your eighteen yearswill 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 featuresof a northern girl, a frail, languishing creatureborn 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 lightis trying to mimic a birch-tree.


                At times when there isdepression in our breasts,when the heart is tormented,when ahead there is only mist,when, powerless and static,we're so crushedthat even our dear friends' consolationscease to amuse us,suddenly a sun-ray greets us,stealing stealthily up,fire-colouredly splashingin a stream across the walls,and from the benevolent sky,from the blue heights,a sudden fragranceflutters into our window..........Admonitions and adviceare not what it bringsand it will not save usfrom 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!


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

                239. PEACE

                When what we called our ownhas left us foreverand, as if we lay in our grave,there's a heavy weight upon us,..........we can always cast a fleeting glanceacross the waters' slopewhere streams flow headlong,wherever the current leads...........Jostling each other,the currents run, hurryto some fateful summonsthey'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 eyesand through them we see,excitedly bubbling,everything more swiftly born away...........The soul becomes obliviousand feels right thenthat it too is borne awayby omnipotent waters.


                Late in autumnI love the park of Tsarskoe Selo,when a still half-duskseems to drown it in slumberand winged visions of whitein the lake's dull glass,voluptuously mute,hang limply in the dusk..........On the royal stepsof Catherine's hallslie twilight shadowsof early October evenings.Like thickets of oaks,the gardens darken.Like a reflection of a glorious past,out of the murk with the starsa 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 mindsteals the place I've left behind ...Its moon's alive and it delightsin 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 listand let faint hints of bluefilter down to touch dark woodsmuffled in late autumn mist...........No life at all here ...Boundless silence, dull and bare ...The scene's drab greyness brokenonly 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 exhaustionman 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 reflectblue mountains caught in golden rays.


                There are many tiny, unnamedconstellations in the lofty sky,indistinguishable one from the otherto our weak, hazy eyes...........No matter how they shine,it's not for us to judge their glitter.Only the telescope's wondrous powermay be able to reach them...........But there are different constellations,sending different rays:like fiery-living sunsthey shine to us at night...........Their bracing, joy-bearingbeacon is a boon to our soulseverywhere, 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, unawarethat day is coming to,albeit lazily and timidly.Ray after ray creeps out of cloud,though night in majestystill shines across the sky.Just give it three or four more momentsand night will dissipate,while in its blinding fullnessday will show itself and claim the earth.

                246. TO E.N. ANNENKOVA

                Into daily lifecome radiant dreamsby which we're suddenly whisked offto 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 toand in the pure, flaming skythe 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 himselfTime and Eternity,has protected himselffrom every grief.


                "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!


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


                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 glancesat this land, this lake, these mountainsluxuriantly 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 lovedthese mountains, waves and stars,loved with her keen, loving soul.And in dissolution's approaching strife,what tender feelings lived in herbefore this ever-youthful life...........The Alps gleamed, the lake breathed.It was here, through tears, that we came to understandthat 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.


                Though I've built my nest in valley,still there are times when I knowthat somewhere far above me, life-pulsingaerial currents flow.At times like that I'd leave this stifling world,towards those heights impelled,when everything which suffocatesI desperately need to repel!..........I can gaze for many hoursat inaccessible massifswhich pour their coolness, rain such showersnoisily towards me!In sudden iridescencebursts into light the virgin snow.That's when I see the traces on the summitswhere unseen angels go.


                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.


                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 warmershe 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 soulgazing long and hard at you...........She didn't pass you by.With time to spareshe nourished, caressed, cared tenderlyfor your talent.Her love becamemore tender year by year...........Just as with the years the strength and fireof the noble vine develops,so in your goblet hotter, brighter,inspiration poured...........Never did such wine as nowcrown your cup of fame.In honour of the goddess, prince,let's raise the foaming vessel!..........In honour of the goddess who nobly preservedthe sacred legacy of the soul,our native tongue.Let her grow freelyand fulfil her great task!..........Then, reverently silent,we'll hold a sacred repast for the dead,a triple libationto three unforgettably dear ones...........There is no echo to the voice that calls them,but on this bright festival of your saints-dayis there anyone who cannot feel their presence,Zhukovsky, Pushkin, Karamzin!..........We believe right now that these invisible guestsleave their celestial worldto hover lovingly among us,sanctifying our feast...........In the name of your Muse, we followwith a goblet to drink a toast.Let the wine in this bright cupsparkle and foam for years!


                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 ageby the lord's great grace.He displaced the form of slavery from man,returned the younger brother to the family.


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


                Not for nothing have your remembered the soundsof 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 goneto prepare this feast for you,all this shoreline, this sea,this whole wondrous world of summer.With its foot on the last stepand 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.


                Play while above youthe 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 dreamsof the barely woken day,but late, living storms,passions' outbursts, passions' tears,no, none of this is for me!..........But perhaps in summer heatyou'll recall your spring.Oh, remember this time tooas we would a vague dreamescaping us as dawn approaches.

                261. ON SENDING THE NEW TESTAMENT

                Fate did not select for youan easy nor a happy lot,and very early on you enteredinto unequal combat with merciless life...........You fought with rare courageand in this fateful struggleevery fibre of your soul enduredthe very harshest trials...........No, life did not defeat youand in the hopeless fightnot once, my dear, not once did you betraythe truth in your heart, nor yourself...........But earthly powers are feeble:malicious life will suddenly rage insanelyand, as if about to be buried,we will suddenly feel such depression...........At such times, rememberthis book with love,let all your soul incline to itand rest, the way you'd sink into your pillow.

                262. TO BOTH NICHOLASES

                We wish all the very bestto both Nicholasesand greet them with heartfelt sincerity.


                He used to be a gentle cossack.The fool now tries to administrate.He's Philip's son, I suppose, but stillhe'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 ittell you, silently at least,how dear your greeting was to me,how touched my soul was by it.


                Nature has endowed some with a sensewhich is prophetically sightless from its birth.They feel with it, they hear watersdark-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 lieslike a fascinating secret.The sky has gone in so deeply on itself,the stars burn so highand the Donets glistens in the dark...........Sweet hour of peace!The peeling of bells, the prayers, the psalmsof 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 Heavenlike an eternal sentryguarding the monks...........It is said that in its womb,locked away, as if in a grave,a wondrous monk livedin severe abnegation for many a year,shedding so many tears before God,lavishing so much faith!..........It's for thatthat 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.


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


                We've been burdened by a horrible dream,a horrible, ugly dream:up to our ankles in blood, we're fighting corpsesresurrected 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 calledto 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 armshas 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 withsomeone 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, shoulderedthe 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!


                Just as now and then during summera bird will flutter into the room,bringing with it life and light,announcing, illuminating,pulling after it into our nookthe blossoming world of nature,green woods, living watersand the gleam of a blue sky,so did our guest paya transient, aerial visitto our stuck-up stifling world,shaking us all from sleep.Warmed by her presence,life shook its feathers anew,and even Peter's summerthought of thawing out when she arrived.While she was here, old age became young againand experience became an apprentice.She twisted this diplomatic milieuaround her little finger.It was as if our entire house came to life,choosing her as its inhabitant,and already we were less troubledby 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 timethose 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 hairwhich 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 outand by some charmthe 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 meall the time your little bird was singing.

                272. FEBRUARY 19TH., 1864

                With his last, quiet stepshe approached the window.Evening was comingand with rays as pure as graceit 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 shonefrom his face, emotion-filled...........Two cherished, kindred imageswhich 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 himselfrelease his true, obedient servant.


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


                The breeze has dropped and lighter is the breathof 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 lulledby the air's caressing billow.And there, peacefully solemn,disrobed since early morning,Mont Blanc is shininglike some unearthly revelation.My heart could forget everything here,could forget all its torment,If only back home there were one grave less.


                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 absorbedas 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!


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


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


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

                279. AN ENCYCLICAL

                Once, the hammer of the justice of the Lordsmashed and destroyed the primal templewhere the high priest gasped his last,impaled upon his own sword...........More fearsome, more implacable, God demands that he atoneon these days of heavenly judgementin apostate Rome, and capital sentence will be passedon that Pretender to Christ's throne!..........Passing centuries disguiseblack deeds and lying rumours,but God in his justice cannot pardonthis latest in a string of lies...........No human being will winthe 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 honourof deceived, insulted Russia.Nothing deserves more praise.Today you're faced with other feats of bravery.Stand up for the thought, save the spirit.


                Ocean-billows, night-surging,here radiant, there blue-grey,living creature, washed in moon-rays,breathing, striding, glimmering...The water-world has no skyline.Barebut 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 soulimmersed, ocean-tossed.


                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 whollyto cherished love alone,breathing by it, suffering by it.May the Lord bless you, soul!..........He, the charitable, the omnipotent,He, warming with his raysluxuriant 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!


                In the martyrdom of my stagnationare 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 affectionclose 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 worldwhich 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 breakersupon 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 ableto bear such pain, to pray, believe - to love!


                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 passedand 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 freedomit 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 mindhe fought for Enlightenment for us,not enslaving us to it...........Like that Old Testament fighterwho struggled till dawnwith an unearthly Powerand survived the nocturnal battle.


                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 braincould 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 mumblingof our native land's black sheepwill not be heeded by Russia!..........Learn your lesson!Let's not hearthat 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 Godof 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 usthere are bonds stronger than nature:with every heart in Russianow he prays for her,..........for her, whose sorrow and trialsare understood and gauged only by the onewho, sanctifying herself through suffering,stood crying by the cross.


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


                Est in arundineis modulatiomusica 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 signof nature's utter consonance.Only our spectral libertyimparts 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 seaand 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.


                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 battleand 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 goodnessfrom all kinds of squabbles, alarms, troubles,as well as from insomnia at night.


                Poor Lazarus, wretched Iros,with effort and in turmoilI write to you, getting up from my sick bed,and let my lame greetingbe given wings by the telegraph...........Let it hasten it on, playing,to that wonderful, bright cornerwhere all day, never silent,it's as if a rain stormsings in green copses.


                It's fifteen years today, my friend,since that blissful fateful daywhen 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.


                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 lightwhich seems to glow with hidden passion.Brighter, more alive,burning right through ...Another moment - acrossthe boundless skiesa universal pealing heraldsthe sun's triumphant rising.

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

                Wandering along the highwayas 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?


                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 visionis 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 surelyas what you breathe and live by goes.


                Sad night creepsacross an earth besetneither by thought nor threatbut by joyless, sluggish sleep.Lightning brightens the scowls,winking intermittentlylike deaf-mute ghoulsdebating heatedly...........A sign has been agreed:the sky's alight.A sudden surgesnaps from the murk with sudden speedand 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 affairthey'd ratified above the clouds.


                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 seathat it's buried in the sand.


                Let foul slander rage,labour to crush her with lies.Every demand quailsbefore the candour of her eyes...........Sincere and lovely,of wondrous form,her cloudless soul's a skyuntroubled by storms..........Not a speck of dust adhereswhen those nauseating churlssow their stupid calumnywhich cannot even crumplethe airy silk of her curls!

                301. TO COUNTESS A.D. BLUDOVA

                However meagre life becomes,however much we're forced to come to termswith 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 anothernever to betray ourselves.


                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 bloton all the history of the Russian race!


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

                304. TO PRINCE SUVOROV

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


                In God's world it can happenthat 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.


                When our disordered exchequerdoesn'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?


                Lake's still currents,gold-glinting roofs,past glories in abundancein 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 pastseems to breathe oblivion,slumbering sweetly, carefree,unworried, unalarmedin wondrous dreamsby the momentary tremorof swan-voices.


                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".


                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 animosityat our changing life,from feelings of suppressed spiteat the world which is being renewed,where new guests sitat the feast prepared for them,at the bitter, galling awarenessthat 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 loveis an old man's peevish passion.


                The pale, blue skybreathes warmth and lightand greets Peter's citywith an unheard of September...........A warm, moist fullness in the airwaters fresh foliageand quietly ripplesthrough the stately pennants...........The sun sows glittering heatalong the deeps of the Neva.Everything gleams and wafts like the southand life is like a dream...........More free and easy, more welcomingis the vanishing day,and the shade of autumn eveningsis heated by summer comfort...........At night, multi-colouredlights flame...enchanted nights,enchanted days...........It's as if nature's strict ruleshad been relaxedin favour of the spirit of life and freedom,of the inspirations of love...........It's as if, eternally indestructible,the eternal order had been destroyedby the loving and lovedhuman soul...........In this caressing radiance,in this blue skythere's a smile, there's an awareness,there's a sympathetic reception...........And sacred emotionwith the gift of pure tearshas come to us like a revelationand echoed through everything...........What was unprecedented till nowour knowing people has understood,and the week of Dagmarwill cross the generations.


                Russia is a thing of whichthe 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 sympathyshall we honour this glorious day,this national, family festival?..........What respects shall we send you,you, our good, pure genius,amidst the perturbations and doubtsof these much-troubled years..........with their ugly mixtureof impotent justice and glaring lies,so hateful to a soulwhich is high, passionate about goodness,..........a soul, such as yours waswhen it still fought on here,but which headed irrepressiblyfor 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 togetherinto an unbreakable, whole structure,everything humanly good,reinforcing it with Russian feeling,..........able, your neck unbendingbefore the crown's charms,to be a friend of the tsar to the endand a true subject of Russia.


                Russian star, will you always seekmists to stay concealed,or like an optical illusionwill you forever be revealed?..........Will you really be to avid eyeswhich seek your glow at nightan empty, mocking meteoraimlessly 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 palacea 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."


                Although it has slipped from the face of the earththere 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 protectthe 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 soundsand, like Pilate, wash your hands.Don't you see, it's your heart that's bleeding!


                Above prostrate Russiathere arose in a sudden stormPeter, nicknamed the Fourth,Arakcheev the Second.


                How I love the cherished pagesof 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 lineshas fanned me with the past!The temple has emptied, the thurible's fire has gone out,but the sacrificial smoke still rises.


                "The smoke of the fatherland is sweet to smell!"Thus a former age, poetically, would speak.But ours forever seeks sunspots as welland 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 thicketsand 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 forestwe 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 throughwhere the fire's left it bare,and white flames run across the burned boughswith an ominous crackling...........No, it's a dream!No, the breeze will spring upand bear away the spectre of smokeand 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 youto 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 homethan in your own native land,here where the rule of foreign powers is unknown,here where there is but one tonguefor all of us, rulers and ruled,and where Slavdom is not held accountablefor the grave original sin...........Although we've been split apartby 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 Russianor Russia forgiven for you!..........They're worried to deathby the fact that the Slavonic familyis telling friend and foe to their facesfor the first time, "Here I am!"At the memory which will not go awayof 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 reinforcedthem, as the inheritance of the Slavs.And that which lasted centurieshas not dried up today,and weighing down on us,above us, gathered here ...Still smarting from old painsis 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 disgraceand has not succumbed to their enmityis he who for his own kind everywhere and alwayshas been the foremost miscreant:they will only honour our Judaswith their kiss...........Shamefully conciliatory tribe,when will you become a race?When will your time of differences and adversitybecome redundant,and when will a cry ring out for unityand bring down that which divides us?We'll wait and trust in providencewhich knows the day and the hour.And this faith in God's justicewill no longer die in our breasts,though many sacrifices and much sorrowwill still be met by us on the way ...It lives - this supreme achiever -and its judgement is not meagre,and the word liberator-tsarwill 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 apartduring their ardent onslaught!..........Yes, there's a wall, all right, but it's a big oneand 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 globeit 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 warriorsretreated 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 attemptsof the Germans constrict and press youto 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 youand, like a living bulwark for you,will stand between you and the enemyand move closer to them.


                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 guaranteethat the desired day will come...........For all your constancyin the battle which has still not ended,let the first All Slav festivalbe an offering to you!


                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 benot the servants of enlightenment, rather its serfs.


                In these bloodily fateful dayswhen, calling a halt to its fighting,Russia has sheathed her sword,her sword, pitted in battle,he was summoned by the will of authorityto stand guard, and he stood,and he conducted on his own with Europea valiant, unequal struggle...........For twelve years nowthis 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 recognisedthe Russian spirit as the union of strength,and this crown is his just reward.


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


                However burdensome the end,that thing we'll never comprehend,our mortal suffering's exhaustion,more horror in our souls is rousedby watching one by one being dousedour every cherished recollection.


                A righteous punishment is being meted outfor 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 justiceand whoever you might call to for support,judgement will be passed and the papal tiarawill 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 hairbe not dirtied by spilled blood.


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


                Once more by the Neva I stand.Once more, as in the past,as I were alive, I stareat these sleeping waters...........There's not a spark in the sky's blue.Everything's stilled in pale enchantment.Alone along the pensive Nevacurrents of moonlight stream...........Am I dreaming all this,or am I really seeingwhat we saw by this very moonwhen 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 firsthinned out on the horizon.On this sad, scorched siteno sparks, only smoke.Where's the fire, malicious destroyer,omnipotent master?Stealthily here and there,like some red beastcrawling through the undergrowth,the living fire runs!Let twilight comeSmoke and darkness merge.With consoling flamesthe beast illuminates his camp.Before the might of this elemental enmity,silent, arms drooping,stands sad man,stands a helpless child.


                Clouds melt in the sky.Beaming in the heat,the river runs, sparklinglike a steel mirror...........It's hotter by the hour.Shadows retreat to silent oak thickets.From whitening fieldswafts honey-scent...........What a wondrous day!Centuries will passand in the same eternal orderand river will sparkle and flowand meadows will breathe in the sun.


                Here's an unsightly list of my verses.Without glancing at them, I present them to you,not controlling my sloth enoughto 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 oblivionwill carry out its editorial task with precision.

                334. IN MEMORY OF E.P. KOVALEVSKY

                In the ranks of the fatherland's forcesyet another bold warrior's fallenand yet again all honest, Russian heartswill sigh at their grievous loss...........This living soul was valiantlytrue to himself, always and everywhere,this living flame, often smokingas it burned in suffocating milieux...........Unembarrassed, he believed in truth andall 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 joylesslythere too will flow tears of recognition.


                The well-wishers of the Russian press,as do all of you, gentlemen,make her feel sick, but the trouble isthat 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 glisteningand an invisible choir sings of love.


                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 valouryour freedom of speech allows you to fulminateagainst all those whom you've muzzled!..........Not in vain have you servedwith your pen the aristocracy.In which servants' quartersdid you acquire this knightly manner?


                "No, I can't see you..."Thus indeed I spokenot 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 accustomedto admire its best star?


                With which heartfelt, simple greetingshall we commemorate the holy memoryof the thousandth anniversaryof 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, recallinghis 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 rejectyour great service to the Slavs.'


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


                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 kneeland they don't answer for their deeds.They show no mercy.They don't heedour 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 blindwhen beneath his scythe as equals they assemble...........Society is different: disharmony and strifethis jealous leader will not tolerate.He will not cut you honest and straightbut by the roots will rive your life...........And woe to him, alas, twofold woeto that youthful, energetic pridewhich with smiling gaze and decisive strideinto that unequal battle dares to go...........When, fatefully aware of all his rights,with the blossoming courage which beauty has plantedin him, unflinching, by his task enchanted,he encounters slander and he fights,..........no mask covers his eyesHe'll not be humbled, beaten, pushed.See, from his brow he's brushedabuse 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 brutewhere the guilt's more humanly sincere.

                342. MAY 11TH., 1869

                The word of the Gospel has now taught us allin 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 summitso that all may see it, all the fraternal tribes.


                Just as the treesin Peter's plantationshave grown splendidlyin 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.


                There, on the summit of an overhangan aerial, iridescent templegoes off into the skies, a wonder to the eyes,as if soaring to heaven,where the First-Named Andrey'scross still shines today,white against the skies of Kiev,sacred observer of these places,..........reverently leaningyour dwelling against its feet,you live there, no idle dweller,at the decline of the working day.And who without humility couldnot revere in you todaythe union of life and aspirationand steadfast firmness in the battle?..........Yes, many, many tribulationshave you endured and overcome.Live, then, not in vain awarenessof your deserts and good deeds,but for love, for example,so that people might be convinced by youof what can be accomplished by effective faithand 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 alarmmakes 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 braghas totally ruined the regal peaceand 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 steelas 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 fearthat it puts the geese and ducks to flight?..........Ah, but there's a purpose, to it all, you see:someone noticed a stagnant creekand for the sake of progressswift action was the decree.So, benevolent Providenceslipped the urchin from his chainso that the purpose of their wingsthey should never forget again...........Though in much that happens todaythere doesn't seem much sense,that very genius of the ageis 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 releasethe logical faculty of ducks and geese.


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


                Brethren, to your festivals,meeting you in your exultation,Moscow comes to meet youwith 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 handsthat which once was yours,that which the old Czech familybought for itself at such a price,..........such a fearful pricethat even today the memoryis your best sanctuary,your life blood...........Take the Cup!Like a starin the night of fates it has shone to you,and it has raised your impotenceabove the world of man...........Oh, remember what a beloved signit was to you,and that it was in the inextinguishable firethat 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 deprivedby foreign, audacious falsehood,you allow it, alas, to smearthe honour of your fathers and God's truth!..........And are you condemned for longto bear this heaviest of sentences,this spiritual captivity,oh Czech people of one blood?..........No, no, not in vain did your forefatherscall down grace upon you,and it will be given to you to understandthat there is no salvation for you without the Cup...........It alone will finally solvefor you the riddle of your people:in it there is spiritual freedomand the crown of union..........Approach this wondrous Cup,gained by your best blood,approach, step closer to itwith hope, faith and love.


                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 handsis a single coverthat we can only half see through...........We know that underneath this gauzelies everything which pains our soul.Like some strange, invisible beingit hides from us, stays silent.........What's the point of such trials?The soul can't help being confused.On the wheel of bewildermentit cannot stop being whirled...........The moment of separation has passedand we don't dare, when the time is ripe,touch then pull asidethis 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 pashahas invited guests to merry toasts...........He regales them all most handsomely,his dear allies from the West.He'd pawn his whole authorityto give them nothing but the best...........From the very sagest reachesin 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 worldenjoys 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 backdropof wondrous mountains and two seasthis Christian princes' congresswith 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 yetone shines bright while they carouse,the fairy in her coronet,the daughter born of Rome, his spouse...........Notorious in her theatreof 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 herthe sun has risen from the West!..........Only where the shadows wanderthrough the mountains, through the vales,far from all this noise and racket,only where the shadows wanderin 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 successI 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 heardprecisely 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 knowsthe credit's yours alone, and this is why they're peeved...........Throughout this whole enormous placethey'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 underwritesfor 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 hearthe notes of its dusky, kindred speech...........Something groans within them, violently heaving,a spirit-prisoner in chainspleading 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 painit grasps the links which held it, severs, rends.Wild-willed the soul exults,its sentence at an end...........This infinitely mighty summonscauses light and dark to rollapart and from within we hear no music -we hear your living soul.


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


                Thus has providence judged:the imminent grandeurof the great Slavonic tsarshall be proclaimed to the universenot 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 fatefulflame's about to flare and all is silent,save for gentle crackles as deep within the pyrethe 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 assemblyof 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 Czechsunwavering witness to Christ,stern exposer of Vatican liesin all his high simplicity,..........betraying neither god nor his own people,undefeated, battling onfor holy truth and for His freedom,for everything which Rome called heresy...........In spirit he's in Heaven, in family lovehe's here still, among his people,shining, knowing that it was his bloodwhich 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 Romeoppressed you for so long,on Hus's inextinguishable pyremelt the final link!


                Over ancient, Russian Vilniuskindred crosses glimmer.Orthodoxy's pealing bronzemakes all the heavens shudder...........Fearsome deeds forgotten.Gone the ages of temptation.Heavenly lilies blossomacross the blight of desolation...........Sacred ways are coming back,traditions fine of early days.Only the most recent pasthas dropped into the realm of shades,..........whence, as in a hazy dream,before the world's awake,our very peace of mindthis 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 upa spectral visitor wanders still.

                358. K.B.

                I met you and the pastcame back to life in my dead heart.Remembering a golden time,my heart became so warm...........Just as in late autumnthere are days, the transient hour,when suddenly spring wafts againand something stirs within us,..........so, winnowed within by the breathof 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 agesI stare at you and think I'm dreaming,and suddenly sounds unsilenced in mecould 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!


                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 cupfilled 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.


                Submissive to a high commandstanding 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 bea mere guard of honourrather than have the warder's key.


                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 fadingwill not touch unearthly flowers,and in the midday heatthe dew on them will not dry up,..........and this faith will not deceivewhoever 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 fewis accessible only to thosewho in life's stern trials,like you, still loving, were able to suffer,..........have been able to cureothers' ailments by their suffering,who have laid down their soul for their friendsand endured everything to the end.


                Yes, you have kept your word:moving not a cannon, not a rouble,our native Russian landonce 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 victorynot by blood but by the intellect,happy he who can find in himselfArchimedes'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 leverstrengthen stubbornness in clever folkand lack of awareness in fools?..........


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


                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 vacatethis 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 sameand 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.


                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.


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


                I'm half asleep and I can'twork out this combination:I hear the whistle of runners on the snowand 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 rattleof Sevastopol rumbling...........The last, thunderous shotsuddenly rang out, life-creating.The last word in the cruel battlehas only now been spoken.It is the word of the Russian tsar...........And everything which till so recentlyhad been raised up by blind hostility,so insolently, so arbitrarily,has crumpled in on itselfbefore 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 onand you sparkle in proud beauty!..........Fifteen years you spentin 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 billowscall on your kindred Russia,and into this feud, reasoned out by God,great Sevastopol awakesfrom its enchanted sleep..........And that which you, in days of old,hid from martial inclemencyin your sympathetic breastyou'll give us back, without casualties -the immortal Black Sea fleet...........Yes, in the heart of the Russian peoplethis day will be consecrated,it is our external freedom,it will illuminate the grave's shadowsof 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 foothe stepped into the bottomless emptiness,..........when, obeying others' passions,the plaything and victim of dark forces,so blasphemously-equablyhe proclaimed himself a divinity...........Suddenly a parable was created and appearedabout the new Man-Godand to sacrilegious tutelageChrist's church was betrayed...........Oh, how much dissension and turmoilsince then has that infallible one caused,and how beneath the storms of these debatesblasphemy ripens and temptation grows...........In fear seeking God's truth,suddenly coming to are all these tribes,and as with the thousand-year old lieit's finally poisoned for them...........And it is powerless to overcomethis 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-Lamawill not be summoned to be the vicar of Christ.


                Of the life that raged here,of bloody rivers that stained the groundwhat'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 carewhose dust, whose memory they uproot...........Ignorant of her past, nature seems.Alien to her are our spectral years.We are vaguely aware that we existas shadows in her dreams...........Completing life's useless game,one by one her childrenshe devours in her peace-making abyss,welcoming, treating every one the same.


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

                373. TO THE MEMORY OF M.K. POLITKOVSKAYA

                Elle a ete douce devant la mort.The meaningful wordhas 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 lackof abundant love in your soul,there was an inexhaustible supply...........And that very loving powerwith which, not betraying yourself,you endured till the endall life's labour, all the day's malice,..........that rejoicing powerof benevolence and love,not giving way, made a homefor 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 youon my path through life,but with sincere anguishI say "Farewell" to you...........In these days of desperate doubt,these days, suffering from lack of faith,when denser all around the shadows pressonto the ruined earthly world,..........oh, if in this fearsome divisionin 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.


                On this day of the Orthodox East,this sacred, sacred great day,spread wide across the whole world your pealsand clothe all Russia in them!..........But do not limit your summonsto the frontiers of Holy Russia.Let it be heard throughout the world,let it overflow its brim,..........with its distant waveembracing that valewhere my own childfights with wicked sickness,..........that bright land, where in exilefate drew her,where the breathing of the southern skyshe drinks as she would a medicine...........Oh, cure this ailing girl,pour joy into her soul,so that in Christ's resurrectionher whole life would itself be resurrected.


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


                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!


                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!


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


                In my grave I'd love to lieas now upon my bed I lie.Silently, eternally I'd hear youas centuries passed by...........The following poems were written during the last six months of Tyutchev'sfinal 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 solvedbut, the irresistible preacherof God's justice, not of earth's,you demonstrated to the world indeedhow unsteady everything is if there's none of this truth there:you spent twenty stormy yearspointlessly agitating the world,you sowed a lot of lies in the worldand started a lot of tempests,and you scattered what was leftand wasted what had been built up!The people who laid the crown upon youbecame dissolute thanks to you, and perished:and, true to your calling,stirring up the terrified world with your game,like a stupid childyou 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 lateryou'll be defeated by it!But in expatiation of dark deedsyou bequeathed to the world one great lesson:let people and lords make sense of itand each one who would compete with you;only there, only in that native family,where a living link with a higher power is sensedand where it's reinforcedby mutual faith and a free conscience,where all its conditions are sacredand the people take heart in it,whether he stands by the throneor stands vigil at the headof the death bed, where the tsar's son lay,and all the people recentlystood around that bedin Orthodox prayer.Oh, there's no place for treason here,or for various kinds of cunning,and extremely pitiful would be hewho would insult this peopleby either slander or suspicion.


                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 seait 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 attentionthey 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.


                British leopard,why get so riled at us?Why do you wave your tailand growl so vexedly?Where's the source of this sudden alarm?What have we done wrong?Is it because, having penetrated deep intothe central Asian steppes,our northern bear,our all-Russian man of the landrefused to surrender his rightsto defend himself, even biting back?To show his friends that he means business,he's not about to let the worldsee him as some hermit-fakir.He's not willing to let the world,right in public view,see him offer his body as a mealto 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 itselfin my presence, raising its paw,even snapping at me!You'll see, it'll come to such a passthat he'll start to think he has the same rightsas me, the radiant lion.We cannot tolerate such mischief!"


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


                In days of misfortune and troublewhen from the Golden Hordebaskaks were sent to Moscow,I'm sure that even theywould choose to despatch to the capitaltheir 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.


                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 bloomand its whiteness has infused all the greenery.


                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 placeswith 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 wisheshurry after you,the solemn wishes of all Russian souls.


                Here are some fresh blooms for youin honour of your name day.I spread more blossomsand myself, I wither so fast.I'd love to pick a handful of days,to weave one more garland with themfor 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 stormwhich arose in the cloudless sky,suddenly replaced by a salvo of cannon.Everyone shuddered, comprehending this howl.Festive Moscow burned sowith irridescent blue bannerson this first azure-golden spring day.Here for the first timeI understood the newsthat in the world there was a new dwellerand a new royal guest in the Kremlin.At that moment you were endowed to the earth.From that moment this recollectionhas been burned into my souldearly, 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 meand has illuminated my sad sick-bedand proclaimed a celebration of grace.I always imaginedthat the very hour of this early eventwould be a good omen in my lifeand I wasn't mistaken: my whole life has passedunder this gentle, beneficent influence.Good fortune was allotted meby gracious fate,and all my age I (above myself)saw the one constellation,his constellation, and let it be till the endmy single star,and many, many timeslet it give joy to this day and this world and us.


                Good-hearted tsar, tsar with an evangelistic soul,with a sacred love to what is close to you,favour us, powerful one, by acceptingthis hymn of simple gratitude!You, embracing with your lovenot hundreds, but thousands of people,have with its wingsbenevolently covered my wretched self today,I have not declared myself in any way,and can have no claim to the tsar's attentionother than that of my own suffering!You have deigned to look after mewith your beneficent attentionand, my spirits having risen, you have calmed me.Oh, be a renowned and praised tsarbut not as a tsar, rather as God's vicar,lending your ear not only to the bright legionsof your chosen ones, your heavenly servants,but also to the isolated, cut-off groansof 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 asyou are summoned by sacred fateto 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 townthere's an anguish-laden timewhen darkness grips streets tightand mist reigns in every corner.There's quiet calm.The moon has risenand the moon's blue-grey glimmerpicks 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 sobut, weakening, finally go.


                Although he wasn't born a Slav,Slavdom's taken him to its heartand 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.


                Fate sends daysto 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 daysthe all-merciful God sends methe best of priceless gifts,a friend's sympathetic hand,a warm, living handwhich, touching me only lightly,dissipates numbness,scatters the fearsome nightmare from aboveand turns the tables on Fate's cruel blows.Life lives again, again blood flowsand my heart believes in truth and love.

                * NOTES *

                Thesenotescompriseinformationgleanedfromawidevariety ofsources. Tyutchev's translations ofother poets appear in the main bodyofthe text. All Russian, German and French sources are in my own translations.The English versionsof works inLatin and Italianare referred to in theAcknowledgements and Bibliography.Allpoemsnot written by Tyutchevaregiven in full below with literal translations. Titles are given in the firstinstanceintheiroriginallanguages,Russianbeingtransliterated,subsequentlytranslatedand where appropriate abbreviated,e.g.Herder'sIdeen zur Geschichte der Philosophie der Menschheit becoming Ideas.I have relied on thedatingestablished bysuchRussian scholars asChulkov andPigaryovandIrarely differfrom their generallyacceptedconclusions. When I doI makethis clear. We know the datesof most poemswrittenafter1849, but many of the earlier ones are notoriously difficultto pinpoint. We can often rely on nothing other than Tyutchev's handwriting,inconsistent throughouthislife,althoughacertainspidery, "Gothic"scrawl doesappearto be a favourite style. Sometimes a sheet of paperonwhichhe has scribbleda few lines bears adatedwatermark, thoughthatproves little. Marginally more reliable is the fact thatthe censor's stamphad to appear on any worktobe published, but thissimplyindicates thelatest possible date. His friends and relatives sometimes tell us when poemswereproduced.Post-1847lyricssometimesappearinletters.These,therefore,are generally more easilydatable, though not always definitelyso. Tyutchev's letters and those writtenby members of his family and closefriends are an extremely importantsource of information.We can be fairlysure about the dates of poems written for special occasions and those with apolitical theme. He was especially keen onhaving the latter published, fortheyare oftenstatements intendedfortheauthorities andthe readingpublic.Styleisofminimalhelp.OnceTyutchevcastsasidetheneo-classical medium, his styleand limited vocabulary changelittle. As areader comesto know thiswriter, intuition begins to playalarge part,but, of course, onecommentator'sintuition is differentto another's. Itis,ultimately, probably truetosay that thereis a consensus about thechronology established by Soviet scholarship.With the broadest range of readers in mind, not all of whom will have aknowledge ofEuropean history and literature norofthe Classics, I offerandexplaina widevarietyofliterary andhistoricalreferences.Mypossibly unattainable aimis to satisfy both specialists in variousfieldsandthe educated readerwith a love of Russian literature but no knowledgeof its language. Irarely delveintothe intricacies of rhyme, metreandstructuralcharacteristics. In any case,such a job has recently been donebyA. Liberman (A:19) I completed the best of my work and published a smallportion of it early in 1983 and neither he nor I came into contact with eachother till earlyin 1998. I have attempted to include asmuchmaterial ofinterest as space will allow in order to give the widest possible picture ofTyutchev and his background. Clearly this is a bottomless pit and if certainmatters seem to be dealtwith skimpily, it isonly to make room for otherswhich seem to me more important or interesting.The first entryin each noteisthe dateorpostulated date of theTyutchev poem.A number in square brackets after the name of a workis itsnumber in the collection Ihave used, e.g.Pascal's Pensees [163], and, inthecase of a Tyutchev poem, its number in this book. Extracts from lettersare followed by the date of the letter.ABBREVIATIONSNE Written no earlier thanNL Written no later thanLET.DAR Letter to DaryaLET.ERN. Letter to Ernestine(INDEC)/(...) Indecipherable/doubtful word or phraseTR A translation ofMonthsare generally abbreviated, and otherabbreviations are ofthestandard type (i.e. "vol." for "volume").1. Probably 1813 or 1814. The poet's father, Ivan (1776-1846),was"areasoningman witha calm, commonsense approach tothings ... unusuallygood-hearted, mild-manneredand placidwith a rare moral sense ... neitherintellectually sharp nor talented". (A:1/19)2.LateDec.1815-earlyJan.1816.Thetwelve-year oldTyutchevexperiments by adapting Horace (65-8 BC), bywhom he was much influenced atthisearlystage ofhis writing life. QuintusHoratius Flaccus, borninVenusia insouth-easternItaly, having unwisely sided with Brutus, escapedtherout of Philippi.His poetry earned him the attentionof Vergil amongothers andhe was introducedtothegreatartspatron,GaiusCilniusMaecenas, who admitted the young writer to hiscircle of friends in 38BC.MaecenasandHorace becamefriends and the former gave the poet the smallcountry estate he had always craved. Horace worked abouttenyearsbeforeproducing the first three books of his eighty eight carmina/odes.Thispoem willbethesame as one entitledVel'mozha.PodrazhanieGoratsiyu/The Grandee.An Imitation ofHoraceandread byA. Merzlyakov(1778-1830)ata sessionofthe Society of Lovers of RussianLetters onFebruary22nd.1818.ProfessorMerzlyakovwasone ofa generationofimitative writersof meagre talent whose contribution to the development ofRussian literature in this period it would be uncharitable to ignore, for hegenuinelyloved poetryand, if forgotten now, enthused many youngwriterswith his own passion for writing. Together with heavy neo-classical works hewrote skilful songs in a folk style. Alargeproportion of Tyutchev's poemdeals with the unmasking ofashamelessly hard-heartednoble, thisthemeelbowing aside the new yearone. The poem contains echoesof a whole rangeof Russian poets of the eighteenthand early nineteenth centuries, suchasM. Lomonosov (1711-1765), N. Gnedich (1784-1838) andMerzlyakov, as well assomeofthe more innovativeand important ones, for exampleG. Derzhavin(1743-1816) and N. Karamzin (1766-1826).Tyutchev wastaught Latin by histutor, Semyon Raich (1792-1855), andhis reading of Horace and other Roman poets is evident in certain works.Chronos: the youngestsonof Uranus (Heaven) and Gaia (Mother Earth).Often mistakenly regarded as Time personified.Memphis: the Egyptian city named in honour of thisdaughterof Nilus,god of the Nile.Ilion: Troy.Cocytus: one of the rivers of Hell, extremely cold and running parallelto theStyx. It formedpart of the expanseof water to becrossed by thesouls of the dead on the path to Hades.Eumenides: the Furies.3.Dec.4th.1816. Addressee unknown. The reference in l.2 is to themartyr St. Barbara, on whose day the poem appears to have been written.Thekonets/end of l.14 is probably intended to be nakonets/at last.4. May 8th.1818. Tyutchev possesseda copy of Abbe Jacques Delille'stwo-volume translation of the Aeneid,in whichDelille levels unflatteringcriticism at Voltaire's Henriade (published 1805). Reworking someverses ofI. Dmitriev(1760-1837) addressedtoM.Kheraskov (1733-1807),Tyutchevappears to accuse Delilleof envy.The linesare written on a copy of theHenriade.Kheraskov wrote two vast epics, Rossiada/The Rossiad andVladimirtheformer modelled on La Henriade and dealing with the taking of Kazan byIvanIV("TheTerrible"),thelatterwithPrince,laterSaintVladimir'sintroduction of Christianity into Russia. Both were immensely popular at thetime.Dmitriev was a Karamzinian, writing elegantverse andrejecting theepicnorm. One ofthefounders oftheRussianSentimentalschool,hetranslatedand adapted French poets. He wroteseveral Nadpisi/Inscriptionsto accompany portraits andthefollowing isclearly theinspirationforTyutchev's epigram:Puskai ot zavisti serdtsa zoilov noyut;Kheraskovu oni vreda ne nanesut:Vladimir, Ioann shchitom yego pokroyutI 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 withtheir shield and lead him into immortality's temple.Zoilus:aGreekgrammarian who, thanks to his attacks on Homer, gavehis name to carping, bitter criticism.5.NLFeb.1819.TR Horace. A variation on a theme of Ode 29 (BookIII).Tyrrhena regum progenies, tibinon ante verso lene merum cadocum flore, Maecenas, rosarum etpressa tuis balanus capillis...........iamdudum apud me est. eripe te morae,nec semper udum Tibur et Aefulaedeclive contempleris arvum etTelegoni iuga parricidae...........fastidiosam desere copiam etmolem propinquam nubibus arduis;omitte mirari beataefumum et opes strepitumque Romae...........Plerumque gratae divitibus vicesmundaeque parvo sub lare pauperumcenae sine aulaei et ostrosollicitam explicuere frontem...........iam clarus occultum Andromedae paterostendit ignem, iam Procyon furitet stella vesani Leonis,sole dies referente siccos:..........iam pastor umbras cum grege languidorivumque fessus quaerit et horrididumeta Silvani, caretqueripa vagis taciturna ventis...........tu civitatem quis deceat statuscuras et Urbi sollicitus timesquid Seres et regnata CyroBactra parent Tanaisque discors...........prudens futuri temporis exitumcaliginosa nocte premit deus,ridetque si mortalis ultrafas trepidat. quod adest memento..........componere aequus; cetera fluminisritu feruntur, nunc medio alviocum pace delabentis Etruscumin mare, nunc lapides adesos..........stirpesque raptas et pecus et domosvolventis una non sine montiumclamore vicinaeque silvae,cum fera diluvies quietos..........irritat amnis. ille potens suilaetusque deget, cui licet in diemdixisse 'vixi: cras vel atranube polum Pater occupato..........vel sole puro; non tamen irritum,quodcumque retro est, efficiet nequediffinget infectumque reddet,quod fugiens semel hora vexit.'..........Fortuna saeva laeta negotio etludum insolentem ludere pertinaxtransmutat incertos honores,nunc mihi, nunc alii benigna...........laudo manentem; si celeris quatitpennas, resigno quae dedit et meavirtute me involvo probamquepauperiem sine dote quaero...........non est meum, si mugiat Africismalus procellis, ad miseras precesdecurrere et votis paciscine Cypriae Tyriaeque merces..........addant avaro divitias mari.tunc me biremis praesidio scaphaetutum per Aegaeos tumultusaura feret geminusque Pollux.***Tyrrhenian offspring of kings, for theethere is mellow wine in an unbroached cask,with the flower of roses, Maecenas, andpressed-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, andthe hill of the parricide, Telegonus...........Leave abundance, the bringer of weariness, andyour mass (of masonry) approaching the steep clouds.Cease to marvel atthe 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 Andromedashows his hidden fire, now Procyon ragesand the star of the furious lion,as the sun brings on the dry days...........Now the tired shepherd with his languid flockseeks the shade, and the stream, and shaggySilvanus's grove; and the silentriver-bank lacks wandering breezes...........You are concerned for what condition may best suit the state,and on the city's behalf you are anxiouswhat 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 offuture time,and he laughs if a mortal is anxiousbeyond measure.That which is present, remember togovern properly...........The rest in a river's manner is carried along,which at one time peacefully slips down in the midstof its channelto the Etruscan sea,at another time..........rolling along water-smoothed stones and tree-trunksit has scratched away and beasts and houses, notwithout noise (echoed) from the mountainsand the neighbouring woodwhen the wild flood..........excites the great river.That man rules himselfand lives happy who can say each day"I have lived: tomorrow, letthe Father occupy the pole with a black cloud..........or with the bright sun, he will make not make to be in rainwhat lies behind; norwill he undo or render unreal what the fleeting houronce brought along"...........Fortune is happy in her cruel work andpersists 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 swiftwings, I surrender what she gave me, and inmy virtue I wrap myself, and an honestpoverty I seek that has no dowry...........It is not my way, if the mast creaks with Africangales, to fly to wretched prayersand 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. Themanuscript bears the words, "A translation byF.T...v".The sourcehas yettobe located. Tyutchev'slines areearlyevidence of his knack of being able to produce snappy, limerick-like verses,atalent whichstood him ingood stead duringhis years as agovernmentofficial whenever he felt theneedto deliver poetic slaps to the faces ofthosein power who incensed him by their stupidity. In its tongue-in-cheek,colloquial toneit joins a handful of early works such as [10,16,17], whichowe little to the predominantly neo-classical, odic style of these years andare evidence of the poet's sense of humour.7.NLJune 1820.The influencesare too numerous to mention. Itischaracteristicofpoemsofthetimewhich werereadaloudat solemnuniversity gatherings. Most were poeticallyunremarkable. Merzlyakov's Khodi uspekhi izyashchnykh iskusstv/The Progress and Successesof the Fine Artsis agoodexample.Thereare echoesofKaramzin'sPoeziya/Poetry,M.Muravyov's(1796-1866)KhramMarsa/TheTempleofMarsandSchiller's(1759-1805)DieKunstler/The Artists.On theother hand,brieflyricalinterludeslighten the turgidbulk ofthis work, earlyhints of the moreintimate, succinct Tyutchev soon to emerge.Urania: one of thenine Muses, sometimescalled"Pierides". Normallythe muse of astronomy, here she is divine beauty incarnate.Mnemosyne: mother of the nine muses.Charites: The Graces, goddessesof feminine beauty who also bestowed alove of nature upon human and divine hearts.Aquilon: god of the northern wind.Pharos: the lighthouse on the island of Pharosnear Alexandria. Pharoswas also the boatman who brought Helen and Mecenatus back from Troy. He diedof a snakebite on the island of a Nile estuary which bore his name.Persepolis:the ancient capital of Persia. Perseus was theson eitherof Odysseus and Musicaa or of Telemachus and Polycaste, daughter of Nestor.Memnon:son of Eo (Dawn).Through thegiganticstatue, one of thoseraisedby Amenhotep III, Memnon issaid tohavegreeted hismother withharmonious sounds each morning.Pallas:alsoAtheneandvariousothers.The myrtle was, infact,dedicated to Aphrodite, goddess of love, whose other plant was the rose.the blind singer: Homer,Ares: the Greek god of war.theswanofMantua:the Roman poet Vergil (Publius VergiliusMaro,70-19 BC) was born in Mantua.the eagle of Ferrara: theItalian poet Torquato Tasso (1544-1595).Hespent several happy years at the courtof Duke Alfonso II ofFerrara.Hismasterpiece was Gerusalemme liberata/JerusalemLiberated, a heroicepic intwentycantos. Afflictedby a persecution maniawhichresultedin sevenmiserableyears in gaol,heended his days a wreck of aman. In Europeanliteraturehe became a symbol of misunderstood genius.Like other literaryand historical figures of interest to Tyutchev, he bestrode two ages, in hiscasethatofthehigh Italian Renaissance shortly before theCouncil ofTrent (1554-63) convened to combat the Reformation and, in his mature years,the period of the Counter Reformation.Tajo and Guadalquivir: Spanish rivers.theyoungsinger:thePortuguesepoet,LuizVazdeCamoes(1524[?]-1579/80). Camoes wrote Os Lusiadas/The Men of Portugal,aheroic,nationalistic epicextolling the exploits ofthe young Portuguesenation,based on the Aeneid. Portugal was at the time ofthe poem consciousof itsaspirations to taking a substantial share of maritime trade.the two geniuses:John Milton (1608-74)and the German poet FriedrichKlopstock(1724-1803). Klopstock wroteDerMessias/TheMessiah.Hewasinfluenced by Horace, Milton and Edward Young (1683-1765).theRussian Pinder:MikhailLomonosov (see [285]). Lomonosovwasapioneerinthetechniques of analytical chemistryanda founder ofandprofessoratMoscowuniversity. He also wrote onthe subject ofRussiangrammar, contributing tothe simplification of Russian. His Russian grammarappearedin1775. He conducted astronomicalobservationsand,while notofficially credited withthe discovery, which likemuchof his scientificworkwentunnoticed, was the first toannounce, onMay 26th.1761, thatVenushadan atmosphere.He wroteneo-classical poetry andwasoneofRussia'sfirstserious,modernintellectuals.Oneofhisgreatestachievements was his contribution tothe development of anew, more suppleRussian language. He definedthe relationshipbetweenOld Church Slavonicand Russian, rid thelanguage ofmany barbarisms,yetused foreign wordswherethey were useful. In 1739he wrote,"I cannot rejoice enough at thefact that our Russian language is not only notinferiorto the Greek,theLatin and German in vigour and heroic sonority but also like them is capableof 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 majorRussian poettobreakaway fromtheimitative neo-classicaleighteenthcentury and bridge the gap betweenit and the early daysof the golden ageof Russian literature.Lines 172-195: a glorification of AlexanderI. The expression na tronechelovek/(Be) a man on the throne is borrowedfrom Derzhavin's Na rozhdeniev severe porfirorodnogo otroka/On the Birth of a Youth Born in Purple in theNorth (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 inRome. During times ofwar, the doors to histempleremained open,closing in peace time. The reference here isto theNapoleonic invasion of Russiain1812 and tothecampaignswhich Russiasubsequently carried on beyond her borders up till 1814.8.Sept.14th.1820. Addressed to Tyutchev's close friend and tutor,thepoet-translator, Semyon Raich(born Amfiteatrov).This poem refers toRaich's completionofhistranslationofVergil'sGeorgics(VirgilevyGeorgiki. Perevod A.R.,published 1821).For a long time Tyutchevwas theonlyoneallowedto readRaich's workonthe Romanpoet.AnotherofTyutchev's friends, M. Pogodin (1800-75), wrote unkindly of Raich: "Tyutchevpossesses rare and brillianttalents,but sometimes takes a lot on himselfandmakes extremelybadly founded andbiasedjudgements; for example, hesays thatRaich translates Vergil's Eclogues betterthanMerzlyakov does.Every single one of Raich'sversesisconstructedaround the same metre.There is no nuance. They are allidentical.He would be better translatingnot 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.AlexanderPushkin(1799-1837)wroteVol'nost'.Oda/Freedom. An Odein1817shortlyafterleavingschool, a youthfullyuncompromising poemincomparisonwithTyutchev'srather lamepleatowould-berevolutionariestosoftentheirapproach.HereweencounterTyutchev's inabilityto acceptfundamentalupheavalwhendiscussion anddiplomacymightalwayswork.Thereaderwillencountermanyimagessuggesting thatchange in any shapeor form perturbs Tyutchev. Stanza 1 ofPushkin'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.Intheodesof theGreek poet Alcaeus(fl. 600 BC) there aremanyanti-tyranny motifs. Hewas a rebel and terrorist and the source of some ofHorace's political odes.The writer and historian, M.Pogodin,a studentfriend of thepoet,mentions in his diary that heand Tyutchev discussed Pushkin, "... his ode,Freedom,the free, noblespirit of the thought which for some time now hasmade itself known to us". (Nov. 1st. 1820)10. Nov. 1820. Tyutchev was a renowned scribbler and is alleged to haveproducedseveralepigramsduringKachenovsky'slecturesatMoscowUniversity. Gregg pointsoutthat Tyutchev's constantchatter once drew a"baleful stare" from the professor. (A:14) Unfortunatelyonlythis epigramhas survived. The Professorof Archaeology and theTheory of Fine Arts wasan opponent of anything new and sharply criticised Pushkin inthe pagesofVestnik Evropy/The Messengerof Europe,whichhe edited atthe time. Theepigram mayhave been promptedby Kachenovsky'sattack on Pushkin's newlypublished poem, Ruslan i Lyudmila/Ruslan and Lyudmila. It is easy to imagineseveral such epigramsaimed at the lecturer by hisstudents. Pushkin wrotethe following in 1821:Klevetnik bez darovan'ya,Palok ishchet on chut'yom,I dnevnogo propitan'yaEzhemesyachnym vran'yom.***A talentless slanderer,he seeks out the cane by scent,and his daily nourishmentby his monthly lies.The "monthly lies" refers to The Messenger of Europe.Charon:the ferryman responsible for thetransferofsouls from theland of the living to Hades.11. NE1820-NLfirsthalf ofMarch 1822. TR Lamartine(1790-1869):L'Isolement/Solitude,[1]ofMeditationsPoetiques/PoeticMeditations(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 dormantesOu 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 ombresMonte, 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 rustiqueAux derniers bruits du jour mele de saints concerts...........Mais a ces doux tableaux mon ame indifferenteN'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 waterswhere 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 shadowsrises, 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 bellmingles 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 worldis 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 illuminatesI 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!Oneof theleading French Romantic writers of the 1820s, AlphonsedeLamartinebecameaninfluentialpolitician,headingtheProvisionalGovernmentafterthe1848revolution.Thereligiousandsentimentalcharacter of the Poetic Meditationsmade the small group of poems extremelypopular during a period in France whenintuitionwasousting reasonas ameans to self-knowledge. There is a strong pantheistic streak in the work ofmany writers of the time. The first major treatment of Tyutchev's links withFrench literature is (A:32, 111/148-167), inwhichSurina pointsout thatimages 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 arerepeated in later lyrics of genius.Examples are the favouriteobveyat'/towinnow, fan; pri pervom ... svete/at (the) first light; and the child at theend of the poem who also appears, in adolescent guise, in [75].13. Dec. 13th. 1831. Dedicated to A. Muravyov (1806-74). A former pupilof Raich. Muravyov's earlier years were characterised byrationalist views,givingway in later life to an adherence toOrthodoxyand churchritual.(See [345]). Tyutchev'sthoughts echo those ofRaich as expressedinthelatter'sthesisondidactic poetry. Expounding his theory of ancient man,Raich wrote that the ancients "observed nature at adistance which favouredthe imagination and through the veil whichcoveredit; today, people studyit close at handand, asit were, armed with spectacles.Certain of them,describing objects, present us with living, laughing, attractive scenes, andstill more often with statues;otherdraw landscapes which are often dead.The most pleasant location without living beings, especially man, can affordus nolastingpleasure;wewanttoseeourselvesineverythingandeverywhere.Theancientsdidnotlikeasoullessnature,andtheirimaginationoften peoplesit withlivingcreatures. Inbrooks theysawNaiads;beneath the bark of a treebeat the heart of a Dryad;in valleys,Nymphsweavedround-dances. Thisiswhy theancients'descriptions arealwaysshort,living. Theyhadnoneed to seekinnumerable nuancestodescribe an object; all they had to do waspersonify it and thereader sawbefore him breathing imagines, spirantia signa (B:33/250-251).Raichmight wellbedescribing the bestof Tyutchev's nature lyricshere, where an undoubted sense of living nature contains the conviction thatanyrationalistviewof nature, such as Pascal's"Par la pensee,jelecomprehends" is misguided.14. Jun. 1822.TR Schiller: HektorsAbschied/Hector'sFarewellfromGedichte/Poems(pt.1,1804). Anearlieredition was entitledAbschiedAndromachas undHektors/The Farewell of Andromache andHector. Aslightlydifferent version is sung by Amalia in the drama Die Rauber/The Robbers, II,2 (1781).AndromacheWill sich Hektor ewig von mir wenden,Wo Achill mit den unnahbar'n HandenDem Patroklus schrecklich Opfer bringt?Wer wird kunftig deinen Kleinen LehrenSpeere werfen und die Gotter ehren,wenn der finstre Orkus dich verschlingt?HektorTeures Weib gebiete deinen Tranen,Nach der Feldschlacht ist mein feurig Sehnen,Diese Arme schutzen Pergamus.Kampfend fur den heil'gen Herd der GotterFall ich, und des Vaterlandes RetterSteig' ich nieder zu dem styg'schen Flu?.AndromacheNimmer 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.HektorAll 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.***AndromacheDoes Hector want to turn away from me forever,where the unapproachable hands of Achillesmake a terrible sacrifice to Patroclus?Who in the future will teach the little oneto throw the javelin and honour the godsif the dark Orkus devours you?HectorDear wife, control your tears,my fiery longing is for the field of battle.These arms protect Pergamum.Fighting at the hearth of the godsI fall, and, saviour of the fatherland,I will go down to the river Styx.AndromacheNever more shall I hear the sound of your weaponsas 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.HectorAll my longing, all my thoughtswill I drown in the Lethe's still watersbut 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 renownedfor his sense of high seriousness and his beliefthat literature was a civilising force with a capacityto alter the ways ofindividuals and societies. Theabove poem comesfrom a playin which KarlMoor indulges inwhat appears to be indiscriminate brigandage and murder ashe 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 degreeon April 29th. 1822.Thedate of thepoem has been postulated byPigaryovas1822. Korolyovaconsidered1827-28morelikelyasatthistimeRaichpublishedhistranslation of Jerusalem Liberated.Raich's balladicmetre createdheatedargument. Tyutchev's poem imitates this metre and he couldhave been firmlyon his friend's side in thedebate although, equally, he washisownmanwhen he felt like being so.16.Early 1820s.Aquotationfrom aLenten prayerbyEfrem Sirim(Ephraim the Syrian, c. 306-378). Ephraim's mystical and poeticalworks areused in the Syrian liturgy.17. Early 1820s. Tyutchev's hedonistic views of this period are in goodcompany with this and the previous [16] humorous lines of the free-thinking,extremely confident and self-possessed young man whose belief in himself andthe comfortable world around him had yet to be shaken.18.Jan.1823.DedicatedtoTyutchev'sfirstcousin,Aleksei.Sheremetev served as lifeguard in the horseartillery.He proceeded toanappointmentasaide-de-camp toCount P.Tolstoy who commanded theFifthInfantry Corps, billeted in Moscow where Sheremetev's mother and sister werein residence....who has spiritand serfs: Tyutchev employs an untranslatable pun ondusha,oneofhisfavouritewords,whichcanmean"soul","heart","feeling", as well as "serf". Inthisline he uses two difference cases ofthe samenoun to suggest the livelinessand "spirit" ofthe young girl aswellas the "serfs" who would come withher estate. The most famous use ofthenoun inthis senseis,ofcourse,inGogol's(1809-52)Myortvyedushi/Dead Souls. The word dusha takes on a predominantly spiritual sense ina number of later poems.NadezhdaSheremeteva (1775-1850) was Tyutchev's aunt. She correspondedwith GogolandZhukovksy.Her son-in-law, I. Yakushkin, was sentencedtotwentyyearshardlabourforhisopeninvolvementinthe Decembristmovement.The hero-agronomist is Count Pyotr Tolstoi, one of the foremost figuresof the Moscow Agricultural Society.19. Feb.1823. TRSchiller: Andie Freude/To Joy, from Part 2 of thePoems.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.ChorSeid umschlungen, Millionen!Diesen Ku? der ganzen Welt!Bruder - uberm SternenzeltMu? 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 SeeleSein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehleWeinend sich aus diesem Bund!ChorWas den gro?en Ring bewohnetHuldige der Simpathie!Zu de Sternen leitet sie,Wo der Unbekannte thronet...........Freude trinken alle WesenAn den Brusten der Natur,Alle Guten, alle BosenFolgen ihrer Rosenspur.Kusse gab sie uns and Reben,Einen Freund, gepruft im Tod,Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.ChorIhr sturzt nieder, Millionen?Ahndest du den Schopfer, Welt?Such ihn uberm Sternenzelt,Uber Sternen mu? er wohnen...........Freude hei?t die starke FederIn der ewigen Natur.Freude, Freude treibt die RaderIn 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!ChorFroh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen,Durch des Himmels pracht'gen Plan,Laufet Bruder eure Bahn,Freudig wie ein Held zum siegen...........Aus der Wahrheit FeuerspiegelLachelt sie den Forscher an.Zu der Tugend steilem HugelLeitet sie des Dulders Bahn.Auf des Glaubens SonnenbergeSieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,Durch den Ri? gesprengster SargeSie im Chor der Engel stehn.ChorDuldet mutig Millionen!Duldet fur die bess're Welt!Droben uberm SternenzeltWird 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.ChorUnser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet!Ausgesohnt die ganze Welt!Bruder - uberm SternenzeltRichtet Gott, wie wir gerichtet...........Freude sprudelt in Pokalen,In der Traube gold'nem BlutTrinken 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!ChorDen 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.ChorSchlie?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 enteryour shrine, oh heavenly one.Your magic reuniteswhatever convention has divided.Under your soft wings,all men become brothers.ChorusMillions, embrace!I want to kiss the whole world!Brothers, above the firmamenta dear father must dwell...........Let those who have the good fortuneto be a friend,those who have won a lovely woman,join in the exultation!Yes, whoever can call one soulon earth his own!Those who have never managed thisskulk away in tears.ChorusLet all who inhabit the universepay homage to sympathy!It leads to the starswhere the Unknown has his throne...........All brings drink joyfrom 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 lustand cherubs enjoy the presence of God.ChorusAre 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 forcebehind eternal nature.It is joy that moves the cogsof the universe's great clock.It entices the flowers out of their budsand the suns from the firmament.It spins heavenly bodies in spacesnever plumbed by the astronomer's telescope.ChorusIf you want to fly happily like its sunsacross the sky's magnificent plain,brothers, go your way, full of joy,like a hero going to victory...........From the fiery mirror of truthit smiles at the investigatorand it leads those who are patientto the steep hill of virtue.On the sunny mountain of faithits banners are seen billowingThrough the cracks in broken coffins you see itstanding in the choir of angels.ChorusMillions, suffer with courage!Suffer for the better world!Up there above the firmamenta great God will reward you...........One cannot avenge oneself on gods.It's good to be like them.Sorrow and poverty shall comeand rejoice together with gladness.Let's forget grudges and revenge,let's forgive our deadly enemies,so that they may not have to shed tearsand be consumed by remorse.ChorusLet's wipe the slate clean!Let the world be at peace!Brothers, above the firmamentGod will judge the way we've judged...........Joy bubbles in goblets,in the grape's golden bloodcannibals drink gentlenessand despair - heroism.Brothers, fly from your seats,when the full glass is passed aroundlet the foam spray sky-high:raise this glass to the good spirit.ChorusRaise this glass to the good spiritthere above the firmament,who is praised by the swirling starsand 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!ChorusGather closer in the circle,swear on this golden wineto 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 processesIn st. 4, as in Die GotterGriechenlands/The Gods of Greece (1788), weencounter Schiller's themeofimagination being threatened by rationality,animportant notionrecurring through Tyutchev's maturelyricsand giveninformal,ifinplacespedestriantreatment in Neto,chto mnitevy,priroda/Nature is not what you think it is [121].20.Jul.21st.1823. The epigraph is from ThomasGray's (1716-1771)AlcaicFragment:Olachrymarumfons,tenero sacros/Oh fountain of tearswhich have their (1738):O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacrosDucentium ortus ex animo; quaterFelix! in imo qui scatentemPectore te, pia Nympha, sensit!***Oh fountain of tears which have their sacredsources in the sensitive soul! Four timesfortunate is he who has feltthee bubbling up, holy nymph,from the depths of his heart!thePafian queen: Aphrodite, whose temple was in the town of Pafos, onCyprus.21.1823-24. TR Heine [33] of thecollection entitled Tragodien nebsteinem lyrischen Intermedzzo/Tragedies with a Lyrical Intermezzo (Apr. 1823),one of several sections which make up the German poet's Buch der Lieder/Bookof Songs (1827).Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsamIm Norden auf kahler Hoh'.Ihn schlafert; mit wei?er DeckeUmhullen ihn Eis und Schnee...........Er traumt von einer Palme,Die, fern im Morgenland,Einsam und schweigend trauertAuf brennender Felsenwand.***A spruce tree stands alonein the north, on a bare hill.It is sleepy. With a white blanketIce and snow cover it...........It dreams of a palmwhich, far off in the east,grieves, lonely and silenton a burning cliff.Heinrich Heine(1797-1856) was a complex figure whose workabounds inimages of love, nature and revolution. History is of the greatest importancein his work. Heine one claimed that everything he had ever written had takenitsinspirationfromonegreatgottfreudigeFruhlingsidee/Good-joyfulspring-idea.He and Tyutchevwere good friends, although there is little documentedevidence. In a letterof 1828,Heine writes, "Bythe way, you knowCountBothmer's daughtersin Stuttgart,where you haveoftenbeen?One of thesame, nolonger exactly young,but infinitely charming and secretly wed tothe best friendI havehere, a young Russian diplomat called Tyutchev, andthe still very young, wonderfully pretty sister are the two ladies with whomIhavethemostcomfortable,easilyrelations.Thesetwo,my friendTyutchev, and I often make up a foursome to eat together at lunchtime and intheevening,where Ifindafew morebeauties,chatter tomy heart'scontent, mostly ghost stories,and generally believe that I have discovereda beautiful oasis in life's desert".Tyanyanov (C:4iii/16) considers that the poems by Heinewhich Tyutchevtranslated were "not so much those close to Tyutchev in theme, as those thatare characteristic ofHeine'smanner".This is partlytrue, buta closestudy of the translations invariably throws up favourite themes.AllTyutchev's extanttranslationsfrom Heine arefromthe Book ofSongs.22. NE Apr.1822 and NL Dec. 1830. TR Heine: [16] of Tragedieswith aLyrical Intermezzo.Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:Bist du nicht ein Traumgebild,Wie's in schwulen SommertagenAus 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-pictureof the kind which on hot summer dayssprings 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 fableare what the poet's fire produces...........But you and your spiteand your sweet face,and your false sanctimonious look,the poet can't create that.Tyutchev'sendingis lessunkind than Heine's, probablyevidence ofdifferent attachments.23.1823-4,probably shortlyafterhe wentabroad.Thethemeofseparation is now making itself felt, Tyutchev returns to this idea of beingawayfrom friends and family throughout his workandin numerous letters.The first stanza does not, strictly speaking, make sense, but this is not anunusualthing in Tyutchev, whoseemed impatient with grammar onmore thanone occasion.24.Nov. 23rd.1824,thepoet'stwenty-firstbirthday.Addresseeunknown, though Nisa [25] is apossibility.Tyutchev cleverly mixes imagesof a young girl's "gaze" living within him, both physically and spiritually.Itbecomes as essential as the sky, always an important idea of freedom andsecurity, and as breath itself.In a later superb poem, Ya znal eyo eshchyotogda/Iknewhereventhen[257],awomanandtheskybecomeindistinguishable images.25. NL autumn1825. Addressee unknown, but if it is the young woman of[24] it indicates a dramatic change of attitude.26. NL autumn 1825. A variation ona theme of Herder based on the poemMorgengesangimKriege/MorningSonginWarTime,[17]oftheVolkslieder/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!UnverdrossenDer unsern Fuhrer!Des hohen AdilsKampfgenossen,Erwacht, erwacht!..........Har, mit der Faust hart,Rolf, der Schutze,Manner im Blitze,Die nimmer fliehn!Zum Weingelage,Zum WeibsgekoseWeck' ich euch nicht;Zu harter SchlachtErwacht, erwacht!***Day breaks!The cock crows,shaking its feathers.Up, brothers!It's time for battle!Wake up, wake up!..........UntiringOur leader!Comrades in battleof the great aedile,wake up, wake up!Har of the strong fist,Rolf the protector,men in lightning flasheswho never flee!To the wine feast,to women's kissesI do not awake you:to hard battleawake, awake!Thewriterand philosopher JohannGottfriedHerder(1744-1803) wasinfluential inthefieldsof folklore andphilology. He knew Goetheandexerted asignificant influence on his development. Inessays forming partof Von deutscherArt und Kunst/On German Character and Art, he attempted todemonstrate that folk songwas the source of all literature. He believed inthe closerelationship between nature, i.e. man's physical environment, andthe cultural evolution ofthehuman race.Herderwas also convinced thatnation states ought tobeindependent,equal and brotherly. This ideaofself-determination went down well with those Slavstates less powerful thantheirvasteasternneighbour, butthiswarm-heartedman's ideas evokedlittlesympathy inauthoritarianstatessuch as Russia.HisIdeenzurPhilosophie derGeschichtederMenschheit/Ideas on thePhilosophy of theHistory of Mankind and Folk Songs served to convince many Slav patriots thatthey, indeed, carried the future in theirhands. Karamzin introduced Herderinto Russia, as he did so many writers.Thesourceofthe Herder poemis the Heimskringla/The Circle of theWorld, a cycle of sixteen medievalIcelandic sagas. Thispoem concerns thefinal 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.NLautumn 1825. R. Brandt considers thepossibility that Raich'sAeolianharp wasthe poem'sinspiration, though Pigaryov points outthatduringTyutchev'sstay in Russia in 1825Raichwasnot inMoscow.Thepresence orabsence of such an instrument isprobably unimportant,thoughTyutchev did often write on the spur of the moment, so could well have heardsuch a harp or something which reminded him of it.Thetechniquesof using asound or object out of placeis common inTyutchev's work. As here, wherethe harp perturbs the listener, so a lark'svoice at night [104]and the chirruping of swallows[368]when snow stilllies are two examplesof many which makehim question the evidenceof hissenses.28. NL mid-1826. TR Byron Lines Written in anAlbumatMalta. (Sept.14th. 1809); one of his occasional pieces from 1807-24.As o'er the cold, sepulchral stoneSome 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.Despitehugepopularity in Europe, Byron (1788-1824) exercised littleif any direct influence on Tyutchev, although his involvement intheGreekstruggle for independence would certainly have interested Tyutchev, for whomthe Eastern Question became an obsession.29.NLmid-1826.Aloose adaptation of Goethe's quatrain fromNachlese/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 greatestGerman writer. His worksexhibit an incredible varietyof form, theme and style. Throughout his lifehe wrote poetry, prose, drama, scientific essays and autobiography. Even theprofunditiesof hisconversationswere recordedby hisyoung secretary,Eckermann, among others.Popular intheeighteenthcentury,theoriginal was written by theIndianpoet Kalidasa(fl.400 AD?)whose work ischaracterised by long,lyrical, descriptivepassages inbuedwith delicate sentiment. The Sanskritwas translated by the Englishman William Jones in 1789 and into German by G.Forsterin1791.KaramzintranslatedsectionsintoRussianfortheMoskovskii zhurnal/The MoscowJournal. Tyutchev's poemcontains echoesofAct II, in whichtheking,enamoured of thehermit's daughter,Shakuntalaattempts to express his feelings to Vidusaka the clown, who suggests that he"has lost his relish for dates and longs for the (sour) tamarind".KingYou have not seen her; and, therefore, you speak thus.VidusakaThat indeed must be charming, which excites even youradmiration.KingFriend, what need is there of many words?....................This immaculate beauty is like a flower not yet smelt, adelicate shoot not torn by the nails; an unperforateddiamond; or fresh honey whose sweetness is yetuntasted; or the full reward of meritorious deeds.I know notwhom Destiny will approach as the enjoyer here (of this form).Goethe'slyric isbutone of many works ofthe timeon a classicalSanskrit theme, and while similar to Tyutchev's poem in some ways, cannot besaidtobe thedirectsource ofit. ReferringtoGoethe'spoem, C.V.Devadhar was written that he "blends togetherthe young year's blossoms andthe fruits of itsdecline", combining "heaven andearth in one". AccordingtoGoethe,Devadharcontinues,"Shakuntalacontainsthehistoryofdevelopment - the development of flower into fruit, of earth into heaven, ofmatter into spirit". (B: 20/xxiv).30. Second half of 1826. Written aftersentence had been passed on theDecembrists. Thelatterwereagroup ofdisaffected young officerswhoattempteda coup in 1825, primarilyinSt.Petersburg, hoping tosecurevariousreforms. Nicholas I was not a listening tsar. The ringleaderswerehanged and others exiled for long periods.31. NE May 1826 - NL 1830. TR Heine from Die Heimkehr/The HomecomingDas Herz ist mir bedruckt, und sehnlichGedenke 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 longinglyI think about the old days;then the world was still so pleasant to live inand 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 April1827,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 andreArme, 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 seathere 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 riddleover which so many heads have brooded,heads in caps which hieroglyphs,heads in turbans, heads in berets,bewigged heads and a thousand otherpoor, 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 scepticismpermeates the atmospheric NorthSea cycle. InAbenddammerung/Dusk[2], the principal themeis that of nature's power "toliberate the poetic imagination from convention". (B:15ii/118)33. NE April 1827, NL 1830. TR Heine Der Schiffbruchige/The ShipwreckedMan, [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 ZypressengestaltUmschlie?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 oftEntzuckend oft, trank ich aus dirDie wilden Begeistrungsflammen,Und stand und taumelte, feuerberauscht -Dann schwebte ein taubenmildes LachelnUm die hochgeschurzten, stolzen Lippen,Und die hochgeschurzten, stolzen LippenHauchten Worte, su? wie Mondlicht,Und zart wie der Duft der Rose -Und meine Seele erhob sichUnd 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 AntlitzIn 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 griefand above me flee the clouds,the shapeless, gruesome daughters of the air,which from the sea in water-bucketsscoop the sea,and arduously drag and dragand 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 formcovered all around by a sensual, white garmenther dark locks,like a sacred night,poured from her plait-crowned head,sweet as a dream, framingher sweet, pale faceand from her sweet, pale face,and amazing, open look beamedlike a black sun...........Oh, you black sun, how often,excitingly often, have I drunk from youthe wild flame of inspirationand stood, giddily, intoxicatedwhile a dovelike, gentle smile playedon 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 upand 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 faceinto the damp sand.The sea wasan endlesssource of inspirationfor the Romantics. On asea journeytoNantes from Riga in 1769, Herder wasshipwrecked. He wrotethe following about his impressions, which haunted him for sometime after:"Have you ever, myfriend, oncold, dark nights,after a dangerous, grey,awe-filled midnight ... hoped for the first red ray of morning,sensedtheliving spiritof the earlyday, a breath of God! A spirit of Heavensinksdownandmovesacrossthe waters!...And behold! Thisrapture,thisnamelessfeeling of morning,how it seems to thrillallthings!Tolieacross all ofnature!... Woe to thatfeelingless personwho has notseenthese 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 ZeitenMir ein lichtes Bild hervor..........Sa?en all auf dem Verdecke,Fuhren stolz hinab den Rhein,Und die Sommergrunen Ufergluhn im Abendsonnenschein...........Sinnend sa? ich zu den Fu?enEiner Dame, schon und hold;In ihr liebes, bleiches AntlitzSpielt' das rote Sonnengold...........Lauten klangen, Bubeb sangen,Wunderbare Frohlichkeit!Und der Himmel wurde blauer,Und die Seele wurde weit..........Mahrchenhaft voruberzogenBerg' und Burgen,Wald und Au';Und das Alles sah ich glanzenIn dem Aug' der schonen Frau.***We were all sitting on the deck,sailing proudly down the Rhine,and the summer-green banksglowed in the evening sun...........Pensively I sat at the feetof a beautiful, charming lady.The red gold of the sun playedon her dear, pale face...........Lutes were strumming, boys were singing -wonderful joyfulness!And the sky became bluerand the soul opened out...........Passing by as if in a fairytalewere hills and castles, forests and meadows,and I saw it all shiningin the beautiful women's eyes.35.1827-29. TRGoethe:Geistesgruss/The Spirit's Greeting (1774), aballadfromVermischte Gedichte/MiscellaneousPoems fromtheSturmundDrang/Storm and Stress movement.Hoch auf dem alten Turme stehtDes 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 standsthe ghost of a noble warriorwho, 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 eightyears. Itwas characterised by a new way of looking at history and society,new attitudestowards thinking,religion and nature. What was also closelyquestionedby young writers was despotism, political and religious.Poetrywas of the first importance during these years.36.1827-9.TR Goethe: Wilhelm MeistersLehrjahre/WilhelmMeister'sApprenticeship (bk.2, ch.13). The first and second songs of the harpist.1.Wer nie sein Brot mit Tranen a?,Wer nie die kummervollen NachteAuf 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 nightssat 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 einmalRecht einsam sein,Dann bin ich nicht allein...........Es schleicht ein Liebender lauschend sacht,Ob seine Freundin allein?So uberschleicht bei Tag and NachtMich Einsamen die Pein,Mich Einsamen die Qual.Ach, werd' ich erst einmalEinsam 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 oncereally 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 mewhen I'm alone, pain,when I'm alone, misery.Ah, if I could justbe in my grave,then I'd be truly alone!Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship is in the form of the picaresque noveland waspublished in instalments duringthe last decadeof the eighteenthcentury.Many great German novels of lateryears modeltheir depiction oftheintellectualandspiritualdevelopmentofthehero'slife(theBildungsroman) on this important work.37.1827-30.TRGoethe:Hegire/Hegira(1819),withwhichhisWest-Ostlicher Divan/West-East Divan opens.Nord und West und Sud zersplittern,Throne bersten, Reiche zittern,Fluchte du, im reinen OstenPatriarchenluft zu kosten,Unter Lieben, Trinken, Singen,Soll ich Chisers Quell verjungen...........Dort, im Reinen und im Rechten,Will ich menschlichen GeschlechtenIn des Ursprungs Tiefe dringen,Wo sie noch von Gott empfingenHimmelslehr' 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 betretenVon der Wuste zu den Stadten...........Bosen Felsweg auf und niederTrosten 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 luftetSchuttlend Ambralocken duftet.Ja des Dichters LieberflusternMache selbst die Huris lustern...........Wolltet ihr ihm dies beneiden,Oder etwa gar verleiden;Wisset nur, da? DichterworteUm des Paradieses PforteImmer leise klopfend schweben,Sich erbittend ew'ges Leben.***North, South and East shattered,thrones cracking, empires tremblingescape to the pure eastto taste the air of the patriarchs,in love, drinking, singingshall I return your youth at Chizr's spring...........There, where it is pure and right,I want to penetrate to the sourceof the human race.where from God they still receivedheavenly 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 therebecause it was a spoken word...........I want to mix with the herdsmen,refresh myself at oases,stroll with caravanstrade in shawls, coffee and musk,I'll tread every pathfrom the deserts to the towns...........Up and down steep rocksyour songs, Hafiz, comfort me,when the leader with delightfrom 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 poetmake the huris desire...........If you were to begrudge him thisor even try to spoil his whim,know only that the poet's wordknocks at Paradise's door,softly hovering,beseeching eternal life for itself.ThePersianpoet Hafiz (c.1320-1390)producedbrilliant ghazels anddivans, the formera series of coupletslinked symbolically rather than byany strictlogicofideas.The divan is often characterised by a specialrhymeschemerunningthroughthealphabet."Hegira"means"flight",originally the flight of Mohammedfrom Mecca in622 A.D.,fromwhichisdated the Mohammedan era.Goethe was approachingseventy when hewrotetheseexuberant poems,many in the Persian style.Khizr: an Islamic deity associated with water.38. NL spring 1828. Hebe, goddess of eternalyouth, appears throughoutnineteenth-century artand literature. Tyutchev replaces her cup of nectar,with which she is often seen feeding Zeus's eagle, with one overflowing withthunder, as if "she had transferred to herself thefunctions ofthe eagle,oftenrepresentedwithlighteninggraspedonitstalons".(A:33/ii,vol.1/338).Tyutchev's poem is fresh and joyful, alongthe samelines as Vesennievody/Vernal Waters [82], one of his favourite techniques, that of an up-downmovement between nature and the observer, finding its first expression.39. NL 1828 and reworkedin the 1850s. In 1840 Napoleon's remains weretransferred to Paris from their originalrestingplace, the islandof St.Helena, where he died on May 5th. 1821.40. NL1828.Possiblywrittenin1826 inMunich andaddressed toEleonore during the first year of their marriage in Munich.Nahe/Nearness (1809), bytheRomanticpoetandphilologistLudwigUhland (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 flatternDurch diese Einsamkeit...........Doch wie in bunter FulleHier deine Beete stehn!Und mit denn BlumenduftenDie Weste mich umwehn!..........Ich fuhle dich mich nahe,Die Einsamkeit belebt;Wie uber seinen WeltenDer unsichbare schwebt.***I step into your garden.Where are you today, sweetheart?Only butterflies flutterthrough this solitude...........How colourfully fullare your flowerbeds.How the zephyrs waftcolourful aromas around me!..........I feel you near to me,feel the solitude come to life.It's like the Invisible Onehovers over his worlds.Sylph: abeingmadeofair, thecreationofthe eccentricSwissalchemist-physician Paracelsus(1493-1541) who exercised some influenceonBohme. (See [247].)41.NL 1828. Theimage of the setting sun swallowedby the oceanorrollingfrom theearthis one of the commonplaces ofRomantic poetry. InHeine's Sonnenuntergang/Sunset, [3] of North Sea, we read:Die gluhend rote Sonne steigtHinab ins weitaufschauernde,Silbergraue Weltmeer.***The glowing, red sun setsinto the far-heaving,silver-grey ocean.Without detracting from Heine's lyric. Tyutchev's shorter, more intensepoem makes the reader actually sense the natural repleteness ofthe moment.Tyutchev's work is a marvel of sensation and physical wellbeing.42.NL first half of1829 in connection with the Russo-Turkish war of1828-9. Insupport of the Greek strugglefor independence, Russia declaredwar on the OttomanEmpirein April of thisyear. In June the Russian armycrossed the Danube, in October it took Varna and inJune the following yearopened aroute tothe Balkan mountains after the victory at Kulevcha.TheTreaty of Adrianople (Sept. 14th. 1829) assuredRussian domination over theentire Black Sea coast,asituation making the western powersuneasyandreversed by the Paris Peace Accord after Russia's defeat in the Crimean War.The legendary shield ofthe title is describedin thechroniclesashaving beenposted byPrince Oleg of Kievat thegates of Constantinopleafter his successful campaign against the Byzantine city in 907.43.NL first halfof 1829. Oneof thefirstovert"chaos"/"night"poems, itnonetheless contains little more than ahint of that frissonofexcitement which characterises such lyrics as Bessonnitsa/Insomnia [47], andKak 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 fortheDead.So wie die grausen Lieder der DamonenZum Wahnsinn trieben, durch die wilden Klange,So fuhlen wir das tiefste Mark erbeben,Vernimmt das Ohr die furchtbaren Gesange;Und wie in den verdunnten RegionenDes 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 entrinnenDem 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 AuenHinschwebt, und grune, lachende Gesilde,Seh'n wir durch heit're Lufte dich getragen;Gleich dem einsamen Aar bist due zu schauenIn oder Wuste Grauen,Der sich vom Fels, auf dem er horstet, schwinget,Und hoch und hoher steigt, bis unser'n BlickenDie 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 SpiegelSo 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 GebrauseDas Sturm's den Schaum abstreifet von den Wogen!Wie Ahasverus ward er fortgetriebenVom 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 BaskentaleDer Felsensteg, der unwegsame, schmale,Hinauf sich schlingt, dort, wo die jungen WellenAusstromet 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 TreueBerhaucht die Seelen, sehen wir ihn wandern! -Ein Weh'n der Geister sauselt mir entgegen!O teure Erde, Platz der Todesweihe,Mit frommer, heil'ger ScheueTritt dich der Fu?! Dich, mit dem edlen StaubeGemischt, 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 BrausenDes Strom's vernimmt, dem engen Tahl entrinnend! -So seh'n von Land zu Land wir ihn entweichen,Bis wo das bleiche ZeichenDes Halbmond's schimmert von den Minaretten;Jetzt in des Bosphorus treulose WellenSturzt er, durchschwimmt den Pa? der DardanellenZu Asiens Kuste - sucht die alten StattenVerschwund'ner Gro?' - und sieht aus edlen TrummernAthen, 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 GeisterscharenGefall'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 niederIn trotz'ger Bildheit, die mit kaltem hohneRuchlos die Herzen qualen und zerspalten!Die seligen Gewalten,Die durch die Schmerzen reinen und belohnen,Sind fremd dem Manne, dessen ZauberworteDen 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 GrundeSo lebentotende Gebilde gohren?Wann gab, getrankt von milder Sehnsucht Fluten,Es je von Lieb' und Vaterfreuden Kunde,Von segenvollem BundeBegluckter 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 beschiedenWar jenem Mann der Kranz! Wohlan, bekenne,Ob man in Wahrheit wohl ihn glucklich nenne? -***As the wild sounds of the cruel songsof demons drove men crazy, so we feelshaken to the marrow of our bones whenwe hear the horrible chants. And asthose who hover in rarified regions ofthe highest space often run out ofbreath and die, with their blooddraining from compressed lungs, so thesoul strives, full of fear, to get awayin a daze from the magic song, untilthe magician who cast the magic circlelaughing with derision, raises his wand...........When we look at such a picture ourpain will find release in justifiedcomplaints. We do not see you carriedthrough the clear air as a swan full ofsong that hovers above the meadows andgreen, laughing fields. You can be seenin the horror of the bleak desert likea lonely eagle soaring from the rock onwhich he has his nest and rising higherand higher until his wings spread outwide, carry him out of our sight, away,where he can no long be reached bythe eye that follows him. Yet he is nottrying to reach the sun. His keen eyesearches around - for corpses!..........Unhappy soul whose clouded mirror sohorribly distorts the pictures itreflects that were painted by life andnature, with love, in bright coloursand beautiful symbols. Although uponyour forehead may glitter the seal ofthe master granted the power in thekingdom of the spirits, yet it givesyou pleasure to confuse the soul in thepale, uncertain gloom. I can no longerrecognise you yourself. The picture ofPrometheus seems to be glowing in myeyes, yet I see it changing strangelyand becoming confused. Are you thePrometheus who feels the wounds, or areyou the vulture burrowing in his heart?..........He went from Newstead Abbey, the old,quiet house of his ancestors where heleft dear pledges, like the seagullthat, unsteady in the roaring storm,skims the foam from thecrests of the waves. He was driven awaylike Ahasuerus from the home of thosehe loved. Like Ahasuerus, he was not torest! He is straying aimlessly all overthe globe, looking for good fortune anddanger in a battle. The dark spellweighs upon his soul, even if he climbsthe rock closely to the abyss or swimsacross the cold waters of the Hellespont...........And one can see him rove and, so itseems, run away from himself. How he ison the banks of the Tagus, rinsed withgold, now on the tip of the shoresurrounded by rocks, where the Atlanticas a border between continents joinsthe Mediterranean as a narrow ribbondividing Europe from the land of theMoors, whence then the neighbouringwaters mingle and dash away proudlyand full of joy, now in the Pyreneeslit up by the sun, the peaks of whichare reached from the valley of theBasques by an impassable, narrow,winding, rocky path, where the Adour springs from...........And now we see him wandering with thedead who fell on that battlefield inFlanders for golden ideals and forhonour and loyalty. I feel the breathof spirits moving towards me. Ohprecious soil, the place of doom! Myfoot treads upon you with devotion andawe; upon you that was mixed with thenoble dust of those thousands uponthousands of hearts who bled to deathhere in searing pain and, intoxicatedby noble enthusiasm, fell happy intheir beliefs, victims of the sword and the bullet...........Now he is standing immersed in thoughtupon the crest of the glaciers, whereturbulent waterfalls dash down intothe abyss, reached only by the eye,while the ear can only hear the distantroaring of the stream escaping from thenarrow valley. Thus we can see himescaping from country to country untilhe reaches the pale sign of thecrescent glittering on top of theminarets. Now he throws himself intothe treacherous waters of theBosphorous, swims across theDardanelles over to the coast of Asia -looks for the old places of vanishedglory and sees Athens, Acrocorinth andMycenae glimmering from noble ruins...........Then he reaches the castle surroundedby walls, far away on the doorstep ofthe land of the Hellenes, rising froma sea of islands. Oh, the noble city,attacked a hundred times, is nowdestroyed by murder and fire. It isnow reduced to rubble and it lowers itsnoble head to the ground. Pale crowdsof spirits of falled heroes with griefon their faces hover earnestly andsilently in the gloomy twilight aroundthe hallowed ruins, with the eternallaurel in their hair, covered withblood. Here the life of the noble poetfound its destiny. Fate could not givehim a more worthy grave...........And everywhere the gloomy feelings pourthemselves out in wild poetry. Themagic wand endows the shapes with life,and yet only the demons descend, fullof horror, defiant and wild. With theircold derision they wickedly torment andbreak hearts. The blessed powers thatlead to salvation through suffering arealien to the man whose magic wordsreveal the inside of the terrible placewhere the curse and the sin live. Andnowhere is there a glimmer of the lightof peace, and the poetry is full ofhell and not of heaven...........And was that reflection of torment andpassion born from the breast of ahappy man? Was it a blissful heart atthe bottom of which such deadly imageswere seething? When did it, steeped inthe waters of mild longing, sing oflove and the joys of fatherhood? Ofthe blissful union of happy familylife? Of God and peace? When did itsing of comfort, when of noble pain?It has destroyed other hearts, butwhen did it give them an uplift? Envyit if you can. And yet it wasthe fate of this man to wear a poet'sgarland. Well, admit it: can hetruthfully be called happy?Joseph Zedlitz was an Austrianwho wrote Die NachtlicheHeerschau/TheNocturnalReview,a poemdealing with theNapoleoniclegend (adapted byZhukovsky in 1836: nochnoi smotr). His Totenkranze isa cycle of134 poemsin canzone form (the canzone being songs or airs of a madrigal type, as wellas, more generally, stanzas of poetry) reviewing someof the famous dead ofhistory. Hepublished Poems in 1832and translatedByron'sChilde Harold(RitterHarolds Pilgerfahrt).Tyutchev translated Cantos 80-93 of Garlandsfor the Dead.Ahasuerus:anOldTestamentkingofPersia(historically Xerxes,488-465 BC).Newstead Abbey: the estate on which Byron wasborn. In 1816 Byron leftEngland for good.45. NL first halfof 1829.Tyutchev could be seen as the traveller inthe airballoon, mostcertainlytakingadvantage ofsituations astheyoccurred.His tragedy, or perhaps that of both his wives and hismistress,was preciselythat he did tend to"float", not always with any clear senseof direction.46. Early October, 1829. TR King Ludwig I of Bavaria: Nicolaus, das istder Volksbesieger/Nicholas is the Defeater of Peoples.Ludwigwas unable toworkwith the new liberalpowers gainingmoreinfluence in Germanyin thefirst half of the nineteenth centuryandwaseventually forced to abdicate in favour of his son. He was in his own mind aliberalenough monarch and oneof the first to establishanarts policy,amountingin real terms to subsidies to arts venturesin Bavaria. Tyutchevwould have been acting in characterby translating such verses inorder tobring to himself the attention ofthe Russian authorities as employers. Theworld "Nicholas" is written in italics by both Tyutchev and Ludwig.I have yet to read Ludwig's poem.47.NL1829. Thisis one of Tyutchev'smost disturbingvisionsofnocturnaland universalloneliness. His best poemsgive an impressionofhavingbeingeffortlesslycomposed.Thereis nothing contrived, nothingovertly "poetic".It is a profoundlyaching, very personal vision to whichhe returnedin a poemofthe same title [391]on his deathbed in 1873.Already, still inhis twenties, the comforting warmthandsecurity of theexistencehe hadknown is showing cracks. Inlater years,hefrequentlycomplainsof sleeplessnessforadifferent reason.Rheumatismand goutplagued him.48. NL1829. Such a light,magically vernal poem indicates Tyutchev'sability to treat the diurnal side of existence at the sametime and just asskilfullyasitsblacker sidewithnoapparent inconsistency.Fromabird's-eye view in stanza1, the poet returns us tothe groundwhenceweobserve mountain peaks swathed in mist asif theyweremagic castles. Theimages themselves are not unusual for the time, but thesense of motion, offloatingabove the scene then lookingup at a different part of it is veryTyutchevian.49. NL 1829.Oppressiveheat andthe feel ofperspirationoppositecoolness and light make of this lyric aplayfuland sensual wonder. One isreminded of Baudelaire's La Geante/The Giantess, ifnotthematically, thenin the languishing feeling ofsuccumbing toheat.(B:3/97)Gregg's pointthat in this period Nature is before it starts to mean may simply be lookingatthesamenaturefromtwo differentangles.In vecher/Evening [53],Tyutchev effectively scraps the "meaning" aspect of Solitude [11] to produceasimple,very much condensedversion, a scene which saysnothing, whichdoes not need man to try to interpret it. In [53], Nature most certainly is.However, thepoemparexcellence whichseemsto presentaTyutchevianphilosophyof Nature. Ne to, chto mnite vy, priroda/Natureis not what youthinkitis [121],actually states the opposite ofGregg's point: Naturecannotbe theobject of empiricalinvestigation and, therefore, cannot besaid to mean anything. In this andthe many nature poems oflater periods,Nature remains a thing which is. While Tyutchev, like any poet, will exploita given scene in order to make a poetic point, fundamentally he does not useNatureas anentityor a concept on whichto build any philosophical, oreven personal, ordered system of "meaning".50. NL1829.Thesephilosophical lines reverse the biblical creationmyth, the universe collapsing after waters have once more covered it and theoriginal divine breath/image has appeared. "In equating the Divine Will withthedissolutionoftheladder (Schelling'sevolutionarystepstowardsperfection- FJ) and a regression toward unconsciousness, the poethas (ifwe insist on looking at thingsfrom Schelling'sviewpoint) "perverted" thephilosopher's thought; which isaroundabout wayofsayingthat hehaspreserved his own". (A:14)I have to agreethat Schelling, togetherwithsomany thinkersandwriters, was a sounding board for Tyutchev. Once assimilated, he became moreor less irrelevant.51. NL 1829.Tyutchevrevels in the idea of adulterous sex, his finalvineimage leaving little tothe imagination. Thepoem is imbuedwith anutterly amoral sense of delight in the forbidden. It is oneof several suchimages, although few of the others are quite so suggestive.52. Thefirsttwodrafts,entitled Probuzhdenie/TheAwakening, canprobably be dated NL 1829. The final version is from the late forties to thefirst half of 1851. As in Son na more/A Dream at Sea [92], the lyric-hero isseen asleepor, atleast,supine andinastate of half-sleep, while amixture of real and hallucinatory "events" takes place around him.53.NLlate1820s.Tyutchev'sshort lyricis reminiscentofhistranslation of Lamartine[11],takingthe essenceof a simpletheme anddealingwithitin simplelanguage.Having readthelongerLamartineadaptation,thereaderisstruck byTyutchev's decision torepeattheexperience and the inspiration of the French post while omitting anything nolongernecessary to him, as wellasretaining what the French poet writesand 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-heartedprecursorof Kakni dyshitpolden'znoinyi/Middaybreathesits hottest[173].55. Late 1820s. The symbolism of the confrontational roles of the eagleandtheswan(the latteralsopartof theBavarian emblem)"was muchfavoured inEuropeanpoetry, for in thissymboliccontest, the eagleisvictor". (C:4ii/363-364)InTyutchev's poem,the swanisvictorious. Inverse byLamartine, Hugo, Schlegel and Zedlitz, the eagle represents battleand 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 demSchlachtfelde von Marengo, und stieg fur einigeMinuten aus dem Wagen, um meine Morgenandacht zu halten.Wie unter einem Triumphbogen von kolossalenWolkenmassen zog die Sonne herauf, siegreich, heiter,sicher, einen schonen Tag verhei?end. Mir aber warzumute wie dem armen Monde, der verbleichend noch amHimmel stand. Er hatte seine einsame Laufbahndurchwandelt, in oder Nachtzeit, wo das Gluck schliefund nur Gespenster, Eulen und Sunder ihr Wesentrieben; und jetzt, wo der junge Tag hervorstieg, mitjubelnden Strahlen und flatterndem Morgenrot, jetztmu?te er von dannen - noch ein wehmuhtiger Blicknach dem gro?en Weltlicht, und er verschwand wieduftiger Neble."Es wird ein schoner Tag werden!" reif meinReisegefahrte aus dem Wagen mir zu. Ja, es wird einschoner Tag werden, wiederholte leise mein betendesHerz, und zitterte vor Wehmut und Freude. Ja, es wirdein schoner Tag werden, die Freiheitssonne wird dieErde glucklicher warmen, als die Aristokratiesammtlicher Sterne; emporbluhen wird ein neuesGeschlecht, das erzeugt worden in freierWahlumarmung, nicht in Zwangsbette und unter derKontrolle geistlicher Zollner; mit der freien Geburtwerden auch in den Menschen freie Gedanken undGefuhle zur Welt kommen, wovon wir geborenen Knechtekeine Ahnung haben - O! sie werden ebensowenig ahnen,wie entsetzlich die Nacht war, in deren Dunkel wirleben mu?ten, und wie grauenhaft wir zu kampfenhatten, mit ha?lichen Gespenstern, dumpfen Eulen undscheinheiligen Sundern! O wir armen Kampfer! die wirunsre Lebenszeit in solchem Kampfer vergeuden mu?ten,und mude und bleich sind, wenn der Siegestaghervorstrahlt! Die Glut des Sonnenaufgangs wird unsreWangen nicht mehr roten und unsre Herzen nicht mehrwarmen konnen, wir sterben dahin wie der scheidendeMond - allzu kurz gemessen ist des MenschenWanderbahn, an deren Ende das unerbittliche Grab.Ich wei? wirklich nicht, ob ich es verdiene, da? manmir einst mit einem Lorbeerkranze den Sarg verziere.Die Poesie, wie sehr ich sie auch liebte, war immernur heiliges Spielzeug, oder geweihtes Mittel furhimmlische Zwecke. Ich habe nie gro?en Wert gelegtauf Dichterruhm, und ob man meiner Lieder preisetoder tadelt, es kummert mich wenig. Aber ein Schwertsollt ihr mir auf den Sarg legen; denn ich war einbraver Soldat in Befreiungskriege der Menscheit.***"I am a good Russian", I said on the battlefield ofMarengo, and stepped out of my carriage for a fewminutes to say my morning prayers.As through a triumphal arch of colossal cloud-masses, the sun rose, victoriously, cheerfully, incertainty, promising a fine day. But I felt sad, asdoes the poor moon which, faded, still hangs in thesky. It has travelled its lonely journey in the drearynight time where happiness sleeps and only spectres,owls and sinners revel; and now, where the young dayis about to rise, with jubilant rays and flappingmorning red, now it has to leave - sending a wistfulglance at the great world-light, and it hasdisappeared like a gossamer cloud."It's going to be a nice day", my travellingcompanion called to me from the carriage. Yes, it willbe a nice day, my praying heart repeated softly, andtrembled with melancholy and joy. Yes, it will be anice day, on which the suns of freedom will happilywarm the earth, more gladly than the aristocracy ofall the stars; A new race will rise, born in a freeembrace and not constrained to marriage, not watchedby 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 noconception. Ah, they will not understand how horriblewas the night in whose darkness we were compelled tolive, how bitterly we had to fight with frightfulghosts, stupid owls and sanctimonious sinners! Alas,we poor warriors who have had to squander our livesin such combat, and are weary and spent, now that thevictory is at hand! The sunrise glow can no longerflush our checks and warm our hearts. We perish likethe waning moon. All too brief is man's allottedcourse, and his end is the implacable grave!Truly, I do not know whether I deserve that a laurelwreath be placed on my bier: Poetry, much as I lovedit, has always been to me only a sacred plaything, or,at best, a consecrated means to a heavenly end. Ihave never laid great store by poetic glory, andwhether my songs are praised or blamed matterslittle to me. But lay a sword on my bier, for I havebeen a good soldier in the wars of human liberation.Tyutchev chooses blankverse for his relativelyfaithful translation,although he does changethe orderof the sections, beginningwith Heine'sthird paragraph ("It's going to bea nice day"), continuing with his first,though omitting "I am a goodRussian" and simply beginning, "Thus I thought....", and retaining the final third initsright place"("Truly I do notknow....").Heine wrote his Travel Sketches over the years 1824-1830. In late 1824,hesetoff on a walking tour of thenorth German mountains and climbed intheHarz. The sketchesare acolourful depiction of bodilyand spiritualfreedom after the stuffy academicism of Gottingen.Erebus: the dark cavern between Earth and Hades.57. Late 1829-early 1830. Addressee unknown. The Romanticimage of thepoetinthefirst fewlines is widespread and appears more thanonce inPushkin. Here, as in [58], it is likely to be autobiographical.58.Late1829-early 1850. Addressee unknown. Tyutchevuses thenoundushaambiguously. Onone level he couldbeaddressinga woman.On theother, it could be an early indication of dusha usedin the morespiritualsense of "soul".59.Probably late 1820s. TR Goethe,fromFaust (pt.1). ThissectionimmediatelyfollowstheZueignung/Dedication andtheVorspielaufdemTheater/PrologueintheTheatre.TheLord,theheavenlyhosts,thenMephistopheles arepresent.Theopeninglinesarespokenby the threearchangels as they step forward.1. (Prolog im Himmel)RaphaelDie Sonne tont, nach alter Weise,In Bruderspharen Wettgesang,Und ihre vorgeschriebne ReiseVollendet sie mit Donnergang.Ihr Anblick gibt den Engeln Starke,Wenn keiner sie ergrunden mag.Die unbegreiflich hohen WerkeSind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.GabrielUnd schnell und unbegreiflich schnelleDreht sich umher der Erde Pracht;Es wechselt Paradieses-HelleMit tiefer, schauervoller Nacht;Es schaumt das Meer im breiten FlussenAm tiefen Grund der Felsen auf,Und Fels und Meer wird fortgerissenIn ewig schnellem Spharenlauf.MichaelUnd Sturme brausen um die WetteVom Meer aufs Land, vom Land aufs Meer,Und bilden wutend eine KetteDer tiefsten Wirkung rings umher.Da flammt ein blitzendes VerheerenDem Pfade vor des Donnerschlags.Doch deine Boten, Herr, verehrenDas sanfte Wandeln deines Tags.Zu DreiDer Anblick gibt den Engein StarkeDa keiner dich ergrunden mag,Und alle deine hohen WerkeSind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.2. In his study, Faust has been perusing a book written by Nostradamus.As hepronouncesthe symbol ofthe earth spirit, the spiritappears in areddish 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 GrauenFa?t Ubermenschen dich! Wo ist der Seele Ruf?Wo ist die Brust? die eine Welt in sich erschuf,Und trug und hegte; die mit FreudebebenErschwoll, 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 TatensturmWall' 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 SehnenTrieb 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 AbendsonneglutDie 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 AbendstrahlDie stille Welt zu meinen Fu?en,Entzundet alle Hohn, beruhigt jedes Tal,Den Silberbach in goldne Strome flie?en.Nicht hemmte dann den gottergleichen LaufDer wilde Berg mit allen seinen Schluchten;Schon tut das Meer sich mit erwarmten BuchtenVor 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 leichtKein 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 FichtenhohenDer 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 songwas also published separately in Balladen/Ballads.(Abend)Es war ein Konig in ThuleGar treu bis und das grab,Dem sterbend seine BuhleEinen 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 BecherHinunter in die Flut...........Er sah ihn sturzen, trinkenUnd 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 ashe begins this monologue.(Wald and Hohle)Faust (allein).Erhabner Geist, du gabst mir, gabst mir alles,Warum ich bat. Du hast mir nicht umsonstDein Angesicht im Feuer zugewendet.Gabst mir die herrliche Natur zum Konigreich,Kraft, sie zu fuhlen, zu genie?en. NichtKalt staunenden Besuch erlaubst du nur,Vergonnest mir in ihre tiefe Brust,Wie in den Busen eines Freunds, zu schauen.Du fuhrst die Reihe der LebendigenVor mir vorbei, und lehrst mich meine BruderIm stillen Busch, in Luft und Wasser kennen.Und wenn der Sturm im Walde braust und knarrt,Die Riesenfichte, sturzend, NachbarasteUnd Nachbarstamme, quetschend, niederstreift,Und ihrem Fall dumpf hohl der Hugel donnert,Dann fuhrst du mich zur sichern Hohle, zeigstMich dann mir selbst, und meiner eignen BrustGeheime tiefe Wunder offnen sich.Und steigt vor meinem Blick der reine MondBesanftigend heruber, schweben mirVon Felsenwanden, aus dem feuchten Busch,Der Vorwelt silberne Gestalten auf,Und lindern der Betrachtung strenge Lust.***1.RaphaelThe sun rings out in the ancient way,competing in song with its brother's spheres,thunderously completingits predestined journey.The sight of it gives strength to the angels,though none can fathom it;the inexplicably lofty worksare as magnificent as on the first day.GabrielSwiftly, incomprehensibly swiftlyearth revolves in its magnificence.Paradise which had embraced the skyis replaced by deep, horror-filled night.The sea's broad waters foamagainst the cliff's deep base,the sea and cliffs are carried offby the eternally swift race of the spheres.MichaelAnd storms roar in competitionfrom sea to land, from land to sea,and in rage they chaineverything over which they had any influence.Flaming, devastating lightningseers the path of the thunder claps;yet thy heralds still worship, o Lord,the gentle progress of thy day.All ThreeThe sight of it gives strength to the angels,sine none can fathom you,and all your lofty worksare 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 beforeyou,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 worldwithin itand bore and cared for it, which in joyful tremblingrose to be the equal of us spirits?Where are you, Faust, whose voice summoned mewith such mad power?Are you the one who, wafted by my breath,tremble at the edge of life's abysslike a worm writhing in life's abysslike 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 energyI 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, gentlesounds of heaven, in the dust?Ring there, where men are milder.I hear your message, all thatlacks in me is beliefMiracles are the fondest child of faith.I dare not strive towards those sphereswhere 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 mein the grave stillness of the Sabbath.The bells, full of premonition, rang outand a prayer was a sensual pleasure.A sacred longing I could not comprehendimpelled me through wood and meadowand beneath a thousand hot tearsI sensed a world come into being.This song announced to lively youththe free joy of the festival of spring.That memory fills me with a child's sensationand pulls me back from that final, grave step.Ring out strong, you songs of heaven!Tears pour, I belong to Earth once more.4.FaustYet let us not destroy the beautyof this hour with such gloom.Look closer, see in the heat of the evening sunthe 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 groundto strive and ever follow it!I would see in the eternal rays of eveningthe 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 upby wild mountains with their gorges;already the glistening bays of the oceanspread 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 joinonto those incorporeal wings.Yet it comes naturally to us allto press onwards and everywhere,when above us, lost in the blue expanseithe lark trills its song,when above the spruce's sharp topsthe eagle soars wide-winged,the cranes point homewards.5.There was a king in Thule,true till the day he died.His dying mistressgave him a golden goblet...........He kept it in safe keepingto use when he wanted a drink.He was close to tearswhenever he drank from it...........And when he was on his deathbed,he counted up the towns in his kingdom,left everything to his heirbut kept the cup...........He sat at the royal feast,his knights all around himin 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 gobletdown into the waves...........He watched it falland sink deep into the sea.His eyes lost their energy,He never drank again.6.Faust. (alone)Powerful spirit, you have given meeverything I asked for. Not in vainyou 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 breastas in the bosom of a dear friend.You paraded rows of living thingsbefore me, teaching me to recognisemy brothers in the quiet bush, the air, the water.And when the storm roared through the creakingforest,hurling down the giant spruce's neighbouring boughs,bruising the trunks standing close togetheruntil 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 souland let the pure moon rise before my eyes,sailing soothingly, and there appeared to mefrom cliff walls, from the damp bushthe silver forms of a prehistoric timeto ease the severe desire of contemplation.Goethe beganFaust as a youngmanand completed it in 1831, just oneyear before he died.60. Late1820s. TR Alessandro Manzoni(1785-1873): Il cinquemaggio.Ode/The Fifth of May. AnOdefrom Odi e Frammento di Canzone/Odes and SongFragments.La procellosa e trepidaGioia d'un gran disegno,L'ansia d'un cor che indocileServe, pensando al regno;E il giunge, e tiene un premioCh'era follia sperar;..........Tutto ei provo: la gloriaMaggior 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 arbitroS'assise in mezzo a lor...........E sparve, e i di nell'ozioChiuse in si breve sponda,Segno d'immensa invidiaE di pieta profonda,D'inestiguibil odioE d'indomato amor...........Come sul capo al naufragoL'onda s'avvolve e pesa,L'onda su cui del misero,Alta pur dianzi e tesa,Scorrea la vista a scernereProde remote invan;..........Tal su quell'alma il cumuloDelle memorie scese!Oh quante volte ai posteriNarrar se stesso imprese,E sull'eterne pagineCadde la stanca man!..........Oh quante volte, al tacitoMorir d'un giorno inerte,Chianti i rai fulminei,Le braccia al sen conserte,Stette, e dei di che furonoL'assalse il sovvenir!..........E ripenso le mobiliTende, 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 strazioCadde lo spirto anelo,E dispero; ma validaVenne una man dal cieloE in piu spirabil aerePietosa il trasporto;..........E l'avvio, pei floridiSentier della speranza,Ai campi eterni, al premioChe i desideri avanza,Dov'e silenzio e tenebreLa gloria che passo...........Bella Immortal! beneficaFede ai trionfi avvezza!Scrivi ancor questo, allegrati;Che piu superba altezzaAl disonor de GolgotaGiammai non si chino...........Tu dalle stanche ceneriSperdi ogni ria parola;Il Dio che atterra e suscita,Che affanna e che consola,Sulla deserta coltriceAccanto a lui poso.***The impetuous and fearfuljoy of a great design,the anxiety of a heart that unsubservientlyserves, aspiring to the crown,and attains the design and receives a prizethat it was madness to hope for...........Everything he experienced; the greatestglory, 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 idlenessclosed on such a small shore,a symbol of great envyand of deep pity,of inextinguishable hateand indomitable love...........As over the head of the shipwrecked mana wave arches over and hangs,the wave from whicha moment before the wretch'ssight, as he was borne high on it,in vain sought the remote shore,..........it was upon that soul the heapof accumulated memories fall!Oh, how often to posterityhe tried to tell his tale,and upon the eternal pages, tired,this weary hand fell...........How often at the silent fallof 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 bybesieged him...........And he recalled the mobiletents, the resounding valley,the flashes of the infantry,the waves of horses,the excited command,and the quick obedience...........Oh, perhaps after such toilhis breathless spirit felland despaired; but steadfastcame a hand from heavenand full of pitybore him to more breathable air...........And bore him away along the flowerypaths of hopeto the eternal field, to the prizethat excels all desire,when the glory that wasis but silence and darkness.Theodewasdedicated toNapoleon.Asfaras weknow,Tyutchevtranslated only stanzas 7-18.On the appearance of this poem in 1821, Goethe immediately publishedaGermantranslationinhisreviewUber KunstundAltertum/OnArtandAntiquity. Manzoni was a Christianfor whom Providence hadmuch to do withhistory, whose great protagonists are guided by it. A theme of his poetry istheephemeralness ofhuman activity.He wasfascinatedby Napoleonandcertain images in the above work are reminiscent of Tyutchev's poem Napoleon[162]. The idea ofa colossus suchas Napoleonstraddlingtwo centuries,"like a symbol of a superior Will, though self-appointed, tosettle chaoticturmoils" (B:25i/52) was the intellectual commonplace of the day andis notunknown inTyutchev.In aletter written in 1865 to E. De Amicis, Manzoniwrote: "Religion andFatherlandare two great truths, in fact, invaryingdegrees,twoholytruths".(ibid.). SuchwordssmackofTyutchev thepolitical 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 affligesImitaient 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 formidableRepond 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 mainsure,Il lui fait dans le flanc une large blessure.De rage et de douleur le monstre bondissantVient aux pieds des chevaux tomber en mugissant,Se roule, et leur presente une gueule enflammeeQui 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 HippolyteVoit voler en eclats tout son char fracasse;Dans les renes lui-meme, il tombe embarrasse.Excusez ma douleur: cette image cruelleSera pour moi de pleurs une source eternelle;J'ai vu, seigneur, j'ai vu votre malheureux filsTraine 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 antiquesOu 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 degouttantesPortent 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 expireN'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 guardsall 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 proudand eager to obey his command,now with heads lowered and mournful eyeappearing to match their gait to his own reverie.All of a sudden a horrible roarfrom the depths of the sea shocked the airand a loud voice from the earth's breastgroaning 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 outbefore our eyesa 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 shotopened a large wound in the monster's side.In pain and rage, the leaping monsterfell howling at the horses' feet,rolled over, showed them its fiery mouthand enveloped them in flame, blood and smoke.They fled in panic, deafened,heeding neither reins nor voice,while their master vainly struggled to stop themand they reddened their bits with bloody froth.Some say they saw in all the dreadful chaosa god goading their dusty backs.Their terror drove them across rocks.The axle screamed and broke. The bold Hyppolytussaw his chariot explode in bright slivers.The unfortunate prince fell tangled in the reins.Forgive my grief. This cruel picturewill be a constant source of tears.I saw your son, Lord, your unfortunate sondragged by the horses he had fed and trained.He tried to stop them but his voice scared them evenmore.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 shrineswhere 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 drippingand bearing the bloody scraps of his scalp.I get to him, calling his name. Giving me his handhe 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 plaintiveghostby treating his captive with gentlenessand by restoring ...." With these words the dead heroleft only a disfigured corpse in my arms,a sad victim of the gods' angry triumphwhom not even his father would recognise.Phedre ischaracterised byasense offatalitywhich oppresses itsplayers, who are surrounded byhorror andcruelty as well asmotivated bytheir own guilty feelingsand instincts.(B:34/91) In Phedre the gods playwithman, as they doin alater poemby Tyutchev,Dva golosa/Two Voices[179]. Inaddressinghimself to this work,Tyutchevmight well have beenfacingthecosmic fearwhichhaunts somanyofhislyrics, makingaPascalian choice by translatingthe deathscene. It is interesting to notethat Tyutchev, who may, of course, have translated more than the one extractof Racine's Phedre, chose from the French play a scene about the sea and thechaos whichthatparticularelementproduced inhismind.It is clearthroughouthisoeuvrethattheconstant,turbulentunpredictabilityassociated with the sea was an extremely potent poetic force.The notion of Fate is very Tyutchevian and recursthroughout the poemsand letters.62. Late1820s-NEfirst third1832.TR Goethe: Nachtgendanken/NightThoughts (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 StundenEure Reihen durch den weiten Himmel.Welche Reise habt ihr schon vollendetSeit ich weilend in den Arm der LiebstenEuer 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 traveltheir ways across the wide heavens.What journeys you have already completedsince in the arms of my belovedI have forgotten you and midnight.63.Late1820s-early 1830s. TRShakespeare (1564-1616): AMidsummerNight's Dream. Theseus's words and Puck's song fromAct V, ScenesI and IIrespectively. Bothtranslations are faithful tothe sense, rhyme and metreof the originals.1.The lunatic, the lover, and the poetAre 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 toheaven,And, as imagination bodies forthThe forms of things unknown, the poet's penTurns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothingA 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 loudPuts the wretch that lies in woeIn remembrance of a shroud.Now it is the time of nightThat the graves all gaping wide,Every one lets forth its sprite,In the church-way paths to glide.64. Nolaterthan early 1830. Quoting this work inan articleaboutTyutchev, thepoetand editorNekrasov (1821-78) wrote: "The final versesareamazing:readingthem, yousenseaninvoluntaryshudder".(B:29,vol.9/212)65. 1830.TR VictorHugo (1802-85): Hernani,written from AugusttoSeptember, 1829, and set in the Spain of 1519. Don Carlos's monologue beforethetomboftheHolyRomanemperor,CharlestheGreat(IV,2).AtAix-la-Chapelle, DonCarlos (Charles V) awaits news of the electionof thenew Emperor.Don Carlos, seul.Charlemagne, pardon! ces voutes solitairesNe devraient repeter que paroles austeres.Tu t'indignes sans doute a ce bordonnementQue 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 penseeQue 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 terreQue pour eux et par eux. Un supreme mystereVit 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 laporte,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 ontLeur 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 blancsuaire,L'univers ebloui contemple avec terreurCes 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-meleRoyaumes, pour en faire une Europe nouvelle,Et tous deux remettant au moule de leur mainLe 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 poussiereQue fait un empereur! Couvrez la terre entiereDe bruit et de tumulte; elevez, batissezVotre 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 etagesEtre la clef de voute, et voir sous soi rangesLes 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 noussommes,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 epaulesLa 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 refluxRoule, 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 vaultsshould echo only austere words.You must be annoyed at this buzzingthat 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 fiefskingdoms, 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 earthtrembles,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 theConclave,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 existson earthbut for them and by them. A supreme mysterylives in them, and heaven, whence they take all theirrights,spreads a great feast for them of peoples and ofkings,and holds them under its skies where the thunderrumbles,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 atthe door,breathing in the aromas of the foodstuffs broughtthere,looking through the window, attentive, bored,straining up to see from tiptoe.The world beneath them is layered and in order ofmerit.They make and unmake. One unties, the other cuts.One is truth, the other is power. They are rightin themselves, they are because they are.When, both equal, they leave the altar,one in his purple, the other in the white of theshroud,the blinded universe observes with terrorthese two halves of God, the pope and the emperor.- The emperor! The emperor! To be emperor! Oh, themadnessnot 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 waykingdoms, in order to make of it all a new Europe,and both redoing in the mould of their handsthe 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 endshis 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 dustthat an emperor becomes! Cover the entire earthwith noise and commotion; raise up, buildyour 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 mekings, 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, theenormous 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 youare but a man!To have the abyss there! ...................Hernani openedonFebruary25th., 1830. Thethemeof fatality runsthrough theplay. In Tyutchev it is rarely far away, from the jocular linesof an early verse[6] tothe hauntingpoemon the deathof hisbrother[365].One commentator says of Hernani: "... the way to light is blocked bysome fatality, crouched and lying wait."(B:19/ii/81).Tyutchevcertainlyberates Destinymore than once and,indeed, must often have considered hislifetobe oneof pitfalls. Writing to Ernestine, aboutto travel duringDecember (1853), he works himself up into a stateofnearpanicthat shewill not take care of herself: "And if you were to fall ill on thejourney?And what ifthat wereto bethetrapwhichFate had chosenfor measpunishment for my dissipations?" Ina letter tothewidow Elena Bogdanova(1822-1900), with whomhe enjoyed a probablyPlatonic affairin the finalhalf dozen years of his life,he writes: "Thereare thingsinlife whichseem not to be themaking of man... fate itself, avery obvious fate ...With one blow a single word can killthe Pastand the Present and you needsometime torecover from such a shock". A numberof imagesfrom Hernanirecur inlater poems,one ofthemost frequentbeing that of a sense offloating,or insome way being abovethe world ofman.Inaletter toErnestine (Oct. 13th.,1842), we read: "The youngprincess made herentrythedaybefore yesterday.Iwatchedfrom Bouvreuil'swindow. Itwas amagnificentsight, LudwigStreet pavedfrom oneend totheotherwithpeople's heads, pressed soclose togetherthat they seemed motionless, andthen, when the princess's carriage approached, they wereset in motion, andthere was somethingso strong andsostormy inthis oscillating movementstamped upon the crowd, that I could not observe it without feeling giddy. Ihave never seen anything likeit". Son na more/ADream at Sea [92] remainsthe most famous example of this.66. 1830.Therepetitive, gallopingrhythm,suggestingthe awesomepowerof thestormy waters,is employedin suchhypnoticsea-lyrics as[87,92,281].67.1830.TRGoethe:DerSanger/TheSinger,fromBalladenundRomanzen/Ballads and Romances (1800). An earlier edition appeared in WilhelmMeister's Apprenticeship."Was hor' ich drau?en vor dem Tor,Was auf der Brucke schallen?La? den Gesang vor unserm OhrIm 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 HerrlichkeitSchlie?t, Augen, euch; hier ist nicht Zeit,Sich staunend zu ergotzen."..........Der Sanger druckt' die Augen einUnd schlung in vollen Tonen;Die Ritter schauten mutig dreinUnd 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 AngesichtDer Feinde Lanzen splittern!Gib sie dem Kanzier, den du hast,Und la? ihn noch die goldne LastZu 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 WeinsIn 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 ichFur diesen Trunk euch danke."***"What do I hear outside the gates,what sounds on the bridge?Let the song before our earsresound 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 timeto stand in amazed delight."..........The singer lowers his eyesand 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 knightsfor their bravery,for splitting lances with the enemy!Give it to your clerks,add it to their other burdens...........I sing as the bird singsliving in the trees;the song which leaves my throatis reward enough for me.Well, if I must ask, so be it:Tell them to pass me your best winein a pure, gold goblet!"..........He raises it, he drank it down:"Oh, what sweet refreshment!Oh let this house be highly blessedwhere this counts as a meagre gift!Stay healthy and remember me,and thank God as warmlyas I thank you for this drink."68. Late May, 1830. The poem reflects Tyutchev's impressions of part ofa return journey home.He leftMunich on May 16th. Writing to Ernestine in1847,he says, "...it'sagreat consolation, afterthreelong yearsofplains and bogs ... tosee lovely, big,real mountainswhich don't becomeclouds onthe horizon when you look more closely at them." Nonetheless, theRussian poems are brilliant examples of negative nature description.69.1830.The naturalelementsinmany of Tyutchev's shortnaturelyricscan beactors, each having a small, clearly defined role in a poem.In this lyric, the storm, the oak, the smoke "running"(bezhal), as it doesthrough Hus's pyre [356]), then the "fuller", "more resonant" singing of thebirdsand finally the rainbow restfully leaning itsarc in the heightsofthe trees constitutea marvellous, simplepictureofpeace,a preciselychosen title.70.1830.Addresseesunknown.PossiblyinspiredbyrenewingoldPetersburg acquaintanceships during the summer of 1830,it could equally beaddressedto hiswife'ssister,Klothilde.KlothildewaslivingwithTyutchev and Eleonore at about the time the poem was written and by then, asGregg rightly points out, "Nelly, four years her husband's senior and motherof three (and perhaps four), was crowding thirty, whereas, Clothilde, a fullten yearsyounger than her sister, was a lovely girl in her late teens.AsforTyutchev,hisconjugalardourhad alreadycooledenough toallowextramarital attachments." (A:14)71. 1830. Addressee unknown. Tyutchev may well have in mind ayouthful"crush". Icannotaccept Gregg's"erotic attachmenttotheprospect offemale suffering"(A:14/64) While Tyutchev was in some ways avery selfishman, Gregg's psychoanalytical statement is too sweeping.72. NL 1830. A possible inspiration is the July revolution in France in1830, with its tragic Polish repercussions. Poland suffered three partitions(1772, 1793 and 1795), effectively ceasingto exist as a nation-state until1918 as Russia, Austria and Prussia split her up among themselves. Followingthe French example, the Poles governed by Russia rebelled in 1830 and Russiareacted with brutality.Tyutchev wasinterestedinCicero(106-43BC).The Romanorator,philosopher and statesman took culturaland intellectual values to the restofEurope. In Tyutchev'sbook collection wasanedition oftheRoman'sletters ina Germantranslation.Lines 3-4 are a paraphrase from Cicero'sBrutus,sive dialogusdeclarisoratoribus/Brutus,ora Dialogue aboutFamous Orators, XCVI/330): "I'm sad that, stepping forthefirst time ontolife's road, somewhat late, I was plunged into this republican night."73. 1830. This depiction of the Russian countryside, while replete withwarm,almostcomfortingimages,isnonethelessaboutdeath.Lane hasindicatedTyutchev's progressionfrom the religion of Horace (hedonism) toan acceptance that suffering can be a fine thing. (A:18viii).74. 1830. The image of autumnal leaves is repeated in a later poem, theemphasis reversed. Here,as autumn closes, leaves flee it in an imageof alight-hearted and youthfuldesiretofleedeath. In [194]summer stormsrepeat thehappinessofearlierlyrics yet,even thoughsummer 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 andEstonia.....The bloody time: the period when the German Order of the Knights ofthe Sword governed (1202-1562).76.October, 1830, returningtoMunich.Thelast two linesareavariation of lines 7-8, st. 1, from Goethe's Willkomm und Abschied/A Welcomeand 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 GestraucheMit hundert schwarzen Augen sah.***My heart beat, the horse sped me on,it was done faster than thought.Already evening weighed down upon the earthand night hung in the mountains;the oak already stood dressed in cloud,a towering giant standing there,where darkness looked from the busheslooked out with a hundred black eyes.Describing such aride,involvingseveral dark, eerie elementsof anocturnal landscape, Goethe wrote, "what fortune it is to have a light, freeheart!" (Letterof June 27th. 1770). (B:13v,vol.1/14) Tyutchev's attitudeto the darkside ofnature,especiallywhen associated withRussia, wasquite the opposite.77. 1830. The beneficentgodsof this deceptively simple poem andofTsitseron/Cicero [72] offer man a share in natureand history.They do notalways act so, as in Dva golosa/Two Voices [179].78. 1830. N. Berkovsky considers the poem to be aimed at Schellingandhis followers,for whomdowsers were "sacred people,entrustedby natureherself". (A:3/37-39)79.1830. The imagery reflectsthat of thelyric on theDecembrists[30], its slightlysingsong rhythm setting it apart as a political poem under the guise ofa nonetheless accurate description of dawn breaking over the Alps.80. 1830. Influenced by the description of the environs of Rome in Mme.deStael'snovel,Corinne,oul'Italie/Corinna,orItaly(B:38,pt.V,ch.3/124).Shewrites, "Ina mannerofspeaking, this bad air layssiege to Rome; each year it advances by a few steps and people are forced toabandon the most charming placesto its empire; undoubtedly the absenceoftrees inthe countryside surroundingthe town is one of the causesof thepollution of the air, and it may be due to that that the ancient Romanshaddedicatedthewoodstogoddesses, sothat thepeople should be made torespect them. The bad air is ascourgeof Rome'sinhabitants, threateningthetownwith completedepopulation...The maleficentinfluence isnotobservable through any externalsign; you breathan air which appears verypleasant;thelandlaughsinits fertility;duringevenings, asweetfreshness offers you repose from the burning day, and all of this is death!"Mme. de Stael was theinfluentialSwiss writer credited withcoiningthe term "Romanticism".81. NL1830. Creusa, thewifeof Aeneas,was not destined toleaveTroy.Fallingeverfartherbehind herhusband,she wastakenback byAphrodite, Aeneas's mother. When Aeneas returned to find her, he was metbyher ghost.82. NL 1830. This lyric,so imbued with rapture atspring's approach,wasdescribed byNekrasov as "one of the best pictures" ever to comefromTyutchev'spen.(B:29/208) Itcertainly showsTyutchev abletotake anincrediblyjoyfulscene anddepict itinextremely simpleterms. Elzon(A:10/198) considers that Turgenev's (1818-83) epigraph to his story Veshnievody/Vernal Waters (B:40ii, vol.11/7) is influenced by lines from Tyutchev'spoem. The epigraph is as follows:Vesyolye vody, Cheerful waters,Schastlivye dni- happy days -Kak veshnie vody like vernal watersPromchalis' oni. they have flashed by.83.Probably no later than 1830. Oneof Tyutchev'sbest-knownpoems(the Latin titlehis own) and Tolstoy'sfavourite. While tending to adheretotraditionalmetricalpatterns,Tyutchevoccasionallybrokewithtradition, in this case displeasing Turgenev (the editor).Thefirststanza isasfollows(theacute accentindicatingthestressed 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.- ? - ? - ? - ?Dislikingthe change from iambs in lines4 and 5, Turgenev amended asfollows:I vskhodyat i zaydut one, - ? - ? - ? - ?kak zvyozdy yasnye v nochi. - ? - ? - ? - ?Tyutchev's rhythm is wonderfully unexpected. While he began his writingcareer as a poet,Turgenev did notpossess a natural talent in this field,althoughhewasready nonethelesstotakea similar libertywithKakptichka, ranneyu zaryoyu/Thewholeworld starts as sunlight streams [110],replacing Tyutchev's strikingO noch', noch', gde tvoi pokrovy- ? ? ? - ? - ? -with the bland iambic pentameters ofNoch', noch', o gde tvoi pokrovy?- ? - ? - ? - ? -84. NL 1830. This fine precursor of his later work shares images commonto two such different lyrics as Dym/Smoke [320] and Gus na kostre/Hus at theStake [356] as well as the contemporary Sizhu zadumchiv i odin/I sit deep inthought and alone [115]. At the age of 27, the awareness of the ephemeralityoflifeandthe speedingupoftimeisappearing inhisworkmorefrequently.85. NE 1830-NL early 1833.Addressee unknown. Thepoem's beginning issimilar to lines from Priznanie/A Declaration by A. Khomyakov (1804-60):Usta s privetnoyu ulybkoiRumyanets barkhatnykh lanit***Lips with a smile of greeting,the red of velvet lashes.Khomyakov was the bestknown Slavophil, a poet, philosopher of historyand theologian.86.Possibly September,1831.OnAugust 26th., 1831, Russian troopstookWarsaw. Inconnectionwiththis, an anti-Russiancampaign had beenconducted in the Bavarian press. The Polish seim (the diet) had declared itsRevolution on December 20th., 1830.In the Aeneid, having angered the goddess Artemides, Agamemnon was toldtosacrifice hisdaughter, Iphigenia. His readinesstoproceed with thissacrifice earned him fair windsforTroyandplacatedthe goddess,whospared the daughter and took heraway to bea priestess in the land of theTaurians (present-day Crimea).The janissaries were elite Turkish soldiers, originally renegade slavesand Christian children taken in tribute.87. Date unknown. Tyutchev undertook a sea voyage in the second half of1833 when he wasdespatched from Munich to Greeceondiplomatic business.This very effective poem,one ofseveral which are never anthologised withmore famous works yet which show his talents as a master of metre, rhyme andhumour (see [346, 350]), may reflect his impressionsof an enforced stop onthe Dalmatian coast. Son na more/A Dream atSea[92]deals with a similarsubject,sharingthe storm settingandunexpected metricalchanges, thelatterin [87]first notedby Lane(A:18viii). Tyutchev was conventionalwhen itcametoapoem's layout and generallynarrow in hischoiceofthemes, so these similarities are too much ofa coincidence. Couldhe havemade this up, ordid he havean old story inhismind duringthe storm?Perhaps he heard or half-heard a tale. He was, after all, forever dozing offor daydreaming andwakingto half-hear something. Lane feels instinctivelythatit is a translation or a poem on a theme of another poet and I tend toagree.A:18x/275 is adiscussion of this missiontoGreece which, whileitproduced one of the most famous poems,[92], did his career no good at all.Indeed, Tyutchev the diplomat "acquired and retained the reputation of beinga failure - a judgement with which he heartily agreed".The Bavarian PrinceOtto was the firstking of the newlyindependentGreece (reigned 1833-62). Persistently inept, hewas finally ejectedafteran insurrection in 1862.88. NL early 1832. TR Uhland: Fruhlingsruhe/Peace in Springtime, [3] ofthe 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 obenhinDie 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 floatingthe 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'scharacterisationoftheemperor inthesecondarticle ofFranzosischeZustande/French Affairs in which Heine wrote: "Lafayette ... is not a geniusas Napoleon was, in whosehead the eagles ofinspiration had nested, whilein his heart the snakes of calculation writhed". (B:15iii, vol.3/95).ConsideringNapoleonamonstrouschildoftheFrench revolution,Chateaubriand(1768-1848) went furtherand played on the non-Frenchness oftheemperor: "Eachnationhasitsvices. Those oftheFrenchare nottreason, blackheartedness, ingratitude. The murder of the Duke of Enghien...the war inSpain... revealin BuonaparteanatureforeigntothatofFrance". (B:8/70)TheFrenchauthor,secretaryof theFrench embassyinRome underNapoleon resigned on the executionof the Dukeof Enghien. This "father ofRomanticism" in Frenchliterature served thecause of theBourbonsin DeBuonaparte, des Bourbons/About Bonaparteand theBourbons(B:8)just oneyear before Napoleon's final defeat.PushkinfailedtohavethepoempublishedinSovremennik/TheContemporary. Banningit,the censor concludedthat "the author's thoughtwas unclear and might well lead to a rather vagueunderstanding". In1849,Tyutchev included another partofthe poem, Onsam na rubezheRossii/Andthere youstood,andRussiastood beforeyou [162], inthe synopsis ofChapter 7(Rossiya iNapoleon/Russia andNapoleon) of a treatise he wouldhave entitledRossiya iZapad/Russia and the West, hadhecompletedit.Akskov believes thissection ofthe poem to have been written in 1840. Thefinished versioncan be datedNL March, 1850.Napoleon's influenceasasymbol of change, ofa titanbestriding two ages, cannot be underestimatedinthe worksof morethan one major author ofthe time. Tyutchev's finalversion owes more than a little to Manzoni [60].ChateaubriandwroteofNapoleon: "Childof ourrevolution,heisstrikinglysimilartoitsmother ...Born largely inorder to destroy,Buonaparte carries evil in his breastasa mother bears her fruit with joyand a kind of pride". (ibid./88-89)In the notesto Russia and the West, Tyutchev wrote: "All the rhetoricconcerning Napoleon haspushed intothe background what actually happened,the meaning of which has not beencomprehendedby poetry. It is a centaur,onehalfofwhose bodyisRevolution".(A:1/220)Thelast wordsareinterestinginthat Tyutchev names poeticperceptionand nothistoricalstudyasthe means of comprehendingthe significance of Napoleon. InhisDnevnikpisatelya/Diary of a Writer (B:11iii,vol.24/312), Dostoevsky echoedTyutchev's belief that politics is too important to be left topoliticians:"Faithfulness to poetic truth cancommunicateincomparablymore about ourhistory than faithfulness to history alone".What fate has in storefor her, let it come to pass:a quotation fromNapoleon'scommand to hisarmyat the crossing oftheriver Neman, June22nd. 1812: "Russia is obsessed by fate: so, let it come to pass".another riddle: Tyutchev has inmind words uttered byNapoleon on St.Helena: "In fifty years, Europe will be either in the grip of revolution, orin the hands of the cossacks".at the East: by "East", Tyutchev means Russia.The Contemporary was for some time thefavouredoutlet of the radicalintelligentsia, eventually losing many of its subscribers asmore left-wingpeople, such asChernyshevsky (1828-89) andDobrolyubov (1836-61),becameinvolved.After1862itbecameincreasinglyintolerant ofanyonenotrepresenting extreme radicalviews. After Karakozov's attempt on the tsar'slife in 1862, it was suspended.91. Mid-January, 1833. This mildlyironic piece may have been inspiredbythestatement of athinker forwhomTyutchev hadscant respect. Theitalicised words support this. Thenotionof man eternally wondering how astone falls down a mountain side wouldhave amused Tyutchev, as the idea oftheyoungmanquestioning the wavesentertained Heine[32]. Before longTyutchev was tostatethatspring"obeysher own laws"and isutterlyunaware of man's thoughts or actions: Spring does not know us/us, our grief,our malice... Vesna/Spring [132]).92. 1833. In this incrediblelyric, thepoet is liftedabove realityand allowed avision, divine or otherwise, butwhatever thehallucinatoryvisionrepresents,realityfightsback.Tyutchevwasnotagoodsea-travellerandmightwellhave hadrecoursetodrugs toeasethediscomforthe musthaveexperienced during the storm, although as late asJuly 1847, on arriving in Berlin, he wrote to Ernestine: "... I was ... preyfor the first time in my life to the distress of sea-sickness".The metre untypical, inTyutchev, as well as someof the imagery, aretoo similarto lines from Schiller's William Tell to be coincidence and maysuggesta sourceof this nonetheless truly striking poem. The German linesfollows.Es donnern die Hohen, es zittert der Steg,Nicht grauet dem Schutzen auf schwindlichtem Weg,Er schreitet verwegenAuf 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 WolkenErblickt er die Welt,Tief unter den WassernDas grunende Feld...........The heights are thundering,the bridge is trembling.Nothing terrifies the hunteron this giddy path.He paces unafraidover mountains of ice.Spring never blossoms there.No twig is ever green;and beneath his feet a foggy sea;and he does not recognisethe cities of men.Only through tears in the clouddoes he glimpse the world.Deep through the waters -the greening field."The closenessof man and nature in every aspect of thisplay must beapparent to every reader. It is manifest throughout in two modes; equally inthe way men are seentobelong to a natural environment, andin the humancharacter of external nature itself." (B:36i/196)Whateverthe inspirationbehindTyutchev'swork, itis a wonder ofrhythm and image.93.NE 1833-NL April 1836. TR Beranger (1780-1857): Le Vieux Vagabond.Air: "Guide mespas,OProvidence!" Des "DeuxJournees"/The OldBeggar.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 vieillesseParce qu'on ne meurt pas de faim.J'esperais voir de ma detresseL'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 pommeQui murit au bord du chemin.Vingt fois pourtant on me verrouilleDans 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'instruireA 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 agebecause no-one dies of hunger.I'd like to see my distressfinally 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 askedcraftsmen 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 treeof the ripening apple by the roadside.Twenty times I've been locked upin 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 himselfwithin 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.Afervent admirer of Napoleon, Beranger's influence was significant in1830 asthe revolution of that year got underway. Onhis death, NapoleonIIIdid notallowpeopletoattendhisfuneral.His songsmadehimthroughouthislife an extremely popular,liberalman of the people,indirect contrast to the authoritarian emperor. An extractfrom his poem,Lecinq mai/The Fifth ofMay (1821),highlights the very elements encounteredin 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 terreIl apparait brillant sur cet eceuilSa gloire est le comme le phare immenseD'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 earthhe appeared brilliant on this reef, his glory is therelike 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) canalsobeastumbling blockandin this senseisreminiscentofTyutchev's podvodnyikamen' very/thehidden reef of faithfrom 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 thereis none,really, thestrings havingbeen "brushed" bythe moon's rays, adoor into the past appears. Sucha technique,beganin Problesk/The Gleam[27]and employedaslate asapoemto E.Annenkov [246]isoneofTyutchev's favourites.Skald: a Scandinavian bard.95. September, 1834.Inthiselegaicpoem, theTyutchev whowouldperhaps like to believedescribes the trappings of belief sceptically. Likethe scene it describes, the poem is simple, almost bleak.96. NE 1834,NL April, 1836. TR Heine from New Poems. In der Fremde/InForeign 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 HeuNachsinnlich grubelt, welch von beidenDas allerbeste Futter sei.***Which one should I fall in love with?They're both very fanciable.The mother is still a pretty womanand the daughter is a lovely girl...........These white inexperienced limbswhich look so touching!Charming, brilliant eyescomprehend affection!..........My heart is like our grey friendwhich, standing between two bundles of hay,ponders deeply about which of the twowill make the best meal.The French philosopher andscientist, JeanBuridan (1300-58), decidedthat, quantities and distancesbeing equal, adog placed between two bowlsof meat would choose which to eat at random. In later years, the dogbecame"Buridan's ass". It is unlikely that Tyutchev would have copied the dog. Theyounger, fresher Klothilde would most assuredly have exerted a stronger pullon him than his wife.97. NE 1834, NL April 1836. A variation on a theme fromHeine from NewPoems: 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 hastSollst du nicht wiedersehn.***From place to place you're rushed away,not knowing the reason why;a gentle word rings out in the windand astonished you look around...........That love which you left over theretenderly 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 muchyou will never see again.98. NE 1834, NL April, 1836. Addressedto Baroness Amalia von Krudner,neeCountessvonLerchenfeld(1808-88). Meeting herin1822,Tyutchevretainedalifelong amitie amoureuse/lovingfriendship for thisBavariangirl descendedfrom the aristocratic Lerchenfeld-Kofferings. Amalia's firsthusband, A. Krudner, wasFirst Secretary in theRussian Missionin Munichwhence inthe spring of 1836he was transferred to St.Petersburg. Duringthe years 1836-44Amalia is saidto havehadan affair of some sort withNicholasI.Tyutchev writesin a lettertoGagarin(July 22nd.1836):"Goodness, why did she have to become a constellation ... shewas so lovelyon this earth". (See [257])99.Mid-1830s. Such memoriesas expressedin this poem encompass hisearly love for Eleonore, the heady days of the first visit to the West, thatsense of the world being perfect before, as Heine put it in [31], everythingseemed to fall apart. From this point on Tyutchev is more than ever aware ofgrowing up, in a sense, and hismemories are there to haunt him in at timesself-pitying, at times quietly regretful lines.Elysium: the abode of blissful souls in the after life.100. 1830s. Writtenabout thesametimeas hetranslatedthetwoextracts from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Tyutchev may well have been spurredby some of the lyrical lines of The Merchantof Venice (V,i) to produce thelushly lyrical poem:Lorenzo.............How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!Here will we sit and let the sounds of musicCreep in our ears: soft stillness and the nightBecome the touches of sweet harmony.101.1830s.Tyutchev sees Spring intheguiseof the Earth-Mother,Spring as representedin[132], detached even from the transient joy whichmanfinds in religion's consolations, love, May's bliss, golden dreams, allterms used superficially, bearing none of the sense of theprofound, almostpagan sense of well-being the lyric hero finds in this moment.102. 1830s. The sensuality of the moment is weakened in the second halfof the poem by a transparent nature- woman comparison. Up till that point,Tyutchevhasproducedacharacteristicallycondensedpictureofalightning-teased sky, nature's scents and soundsintensified in the silencebefore a storm.103. 1830s. The debt owed to one of Horace's odes ([3], bk. 2) has beennoted more than once.quo pinus ingens algaque populusumbram hospitalem consociare amantramis? quid obliquo laboratlympha fugax trepidare rivo?***Wherefore do the tall pine and the white poplarlike to mingle their branches to give a hospitable shade?Why does the water flowing byseek to bicker against the curved bank?104.1830s. Tyutchevfrequently depicts the moment just beforedawn,themoonstill supremeduringthoseminutesbeforesunrise.Inthisrhythmic,hypnoticmasterpiece,heholdsnight inplace, asifinafreeze-frame, allowing the lark'ssongto reverberatelike the voice of alost soul, threatening madness to him who hears it at this time.105. 1830s. As in [104]bird song representsNature, here indifferenttothenegativelydescribedman-madescenebelow.Formalreligion isdepicted in termsof a bodybeinglowered into oneabyss (a hole intheground) while the religion of nature, ifreligion it can be called, is seenin terms of the endless "abyss" (bezdna) of the sky.106.1830s.Tyutchevdemonstrateshissuperbabilitytoemployrepetition andassonanceinthis lyric inwhich oneofthisfavouritedevices comes intoplay,that of a woman's and the sky's changing moods interms of each other.107.1830s.Theageing Tolstoy couldnot readthiswithout tears,considering that it was oneofthe few true worksof art which is of suchquality that there is no yardstick with which to measure it. This wondrouslymuted, musical poem does, indeed, deserve such high praise.108.1830s.Asimilar,lessinspiredpoembyA.Illichevsky(1798-1837), Oryol ichelovek/The Eagle and the Man, 1827) suggests a common source.109. 1830s. The fast stream hurrying off to a house-warming conjures upnoisebelow theobserver while the latter climbsever upward to seekthesolitude of the peaks. In a laterpoem[234], the poet sits "above"rootsand, even though he is at ground level, the same up-down movement is sensed.There isa similar sense of being alone, looking down on the world as waterpours towards it in sweltering heat.110. 1830s. Young ashewas, Tyutchevwas already becomingobsessedwith 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 whichold ageis said to bring.In a letter toErnestine (Aug. 14th.1846), hewrote:"Alas, isit reallyworth the trouble ageing if, with increasinglydebilitating forces, you remain a prey to the same agitations".Writing to NikolaySushkov (1796-1871) with best wishes for the futurewith his newwife, Tyutchev's sister, Darya, the poet could not, itseems,resist the temptation tobroachthis subject: "For myselfespecially thisthoughtwould be a torment, as tormenting as a reproach". (July3rd. 1836)He isreferring tothefactthat, thetwobrothershaving lefttheirparents, the latterwould now haveto see out their last years without anyof their children. Such comments abound in Tyutchev's letters.111. 1830s. A light-hearted comparisonof an increasingly busyDanubewiththeriverfrom timesgoneby,when mythical creatures reigned, isinterestingly donefrom thevantagepointof an observerfarabove it,althoughthenarrator'sposition is not described assuch. As in Utrovgorakh/Morning in the Mountains [48],the poet is almost airborne while theriver snakes away below him, an interesting counterpoint toPoravnine vodlazurnoi/Across ablue plainof water [157] in whichhe is on the deck ofthe ship being observed from above.112. 1830s. Thepoem could be seen asa microcosmof Heine'sTravelScenes,theGermandescribinghisshortescapefrom the unimaginativeacademic life of Gottingen to wander through the Harz mountains in a lengthypiece ofprose,Tyutchevencapsulatingtheentiretravel motifin twostanzas.As in Tyutchev,instanza3ofthe introductorypoemto theHarzreise/HarzJourney, Heine depictsthe mountains as allowing thehumanspirit 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 mountainswhere the huts of the pious stand,where one's breast opens upand the free air wafts.113. 1830s. Suchpoems have given rise to a kind of Tyutchevianchaostheory.As poetry they areoften farless effective than those containingthe condensed images inwhich the poet presents the reader with a scene andmakes no overt comment.114.1830s.Thiswinter lyricisaneffective descriptionofanice-bound stream, the parallel between it and human experience in stanza twoskilfullyretaining naturalimages, culminatingin a faint hintoflifeexisting still beneaththe ice of Nature and life. It is paralleled inthelastcouplet heeverwrote[393]),evidencethat thesame fewpoeticpreoccupations remained with him throughout hislife. Writing toBogdanovaearlyin 1867, he says: "The cold isan abyss where our poor individualityis swallowedandobliterated". He finishes this short letterby wonderingwhat it would be like to"swell out"(se dilater) inthe sun, "perhaps inHavana".115. 1830s.The addressee is not known,although she could be oneofTyutchev's conquests. The eternalityand indifference ofNature are calledin defence of his misdemeanour since, no matterhow he behaves, Nature willgo her own way inany case. One is reminded ofDmitry Karamazov's interestin learning that if there were no God anything would be allowed.116.NL April, 1836. A hint of thelater "Russian"naturepoemsisimparted by the simpleimageofthemyortvyi stebl'/dead stalk among twoeight-line stanzas more or less entirely devoted to vague, "European" natureimages.117. 1830s. Thereis afairytalefeel tothis poemwhichcould beRussianor western,although the"washing in snow" (umylasya v snegu)isdefinitely Russian.118. NL April,1836. This interesting poem mixes time-space imagery inthe secondstanza,the poet-observer askingwhich "age" is white upon thesummits, noting that dawn sows red roses on them.119. NL April, 1836. One of Tyutchev's less effective nature poems, theformal two-stanza formcontributing toa lackof spontaneity. In Nochnoyenebo tak ugryumo/Sad night creeps [298] the same structure produces a wonderof uncontrived magic.120. NL April, 1836. The idea of hiding in the light of day, in naturalterms in the sky, is not unusual in Tyutchev. Here we have a versionof twopoems [57, 58] with the basicidea reversed yet the basic concept remainingthe same.121.NLApril,1836.PerhapsTyutchev'spantheisticideaswereconsidered not in keeping with the Orthodoxview ofnature as an entity inwhicheverythingis subservienttothe willof God,resultinginthecensored sections.122. NL April, 1836.Tyutchev was a master of the short poem and had agreat command of theepigrammatic form. Thisnotonly cleverly brief, butprofound, lacking only that flippancy we saw in the earlier [16].123. NL April, 1836. Nature is here called uponto reinforce an openlysexual poem. Masculine physical desire is described, framed by a quick flashof lightningaround the skies. Thedownward-movementand sultry images ofstanza 2 make of this a marvel of brief sexual exultation.124.Early 1836.Tyutchev's poem has somethingin common withaV.Benediktov(1807-73)verse,Prekrasnadevamolodaya/Theyoung girlisbeautiful. In comparison with Benediktov's lesssubtle offering (considered"vulgar" and"cliche-ridden"by Terras, C:1/233),Tyutchev'sis cleverlyvisual and erotic.125.May-July,1837. On the death ofPushkinandinfluenced by thegossip which the poet's misfortunes aroused in polite society.126. Dec. 1st. 1837. Inspiredby a meeting in Genoa with Ernestine vonDornberg,who became his second wife on July17th. 1839. She hadbeen hismistress since early 1833.127. December 1837. Probably linked with meeting Ernestine in Genoa.128. December,1837. On returningfrom Genoato Turin where Tyutchevwas serving in the Russian diplomaticmission. the poem is an early exampleofthenorth-southcontrast.Here the Russianwinteris an "omnipotentsorceror"andlives "beyond this blizzard-kingdom". As a rule Tyutchevisless kind and there is generallyno hint of a pleasantfairytale in"thisinterminable tunnel of a Russian winter". (LET.ERN. Aug. 16th. 1852)129.Late 1837.Probably connected with his departurefrom Genoa andErnestine,whom hethoughthe wouldnever see again. However, in October1837 Tyutchev arrived in Turin to take uphispostas First Secretary. Heserved asCharged'Affaires from August 1838to July1839 before leavingwithout permission in order to marry Ernestine (A:18v).130. April 4th. 1838. Addressed to the minor German poet, Baron Apollonvon Maltitz (1795-1870),marriedtoEleonore's sister, Klothilde. Maltitzreplaced Tyutchev as First Secretary in the Munichmission in 1837. Maltitzwas Tyutchev'sfirst translator. The poem is thefirst evidencethattheFrench verse, while not as inspired as his greatest lines in Russian, can bereadable,occasionally containing some of that profundity we associate withthe Russian poems.131. Early 1838. The political subtext may be too strong to resist. Thecontrast between eastern andwestern Europe certainly emerges more stronglyfrom now on.132.NL 1838.Tyutchev'swife haddied,partly asaresultof adisasteratsea, in the summerof this year. With her daughters and nannyshe had been on her way tomeet him in Munich. While he is reported to havebeen grief-stricken,there appearsto be no clearlydiscernible change inthe "feel" of hispoetry from here on, although it might be considered thata certain lightheartedness disappears. Considering Tyutchev's obsession withageing, however, this would beunderstandable. He continues to write in hisuniquely 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 losthis job.The novelist Turgenev published an essayin1883 entitled Un Incendieen Mer/AFireat Sea,inwhichhementionshis acquaintance, EleonoreTyutcheva. Having describedin graphicdetailthe fire on board,baring,after manyyears, his own panic, he wrote:"Among those ladies who escapedthe wreck, there was one, a Mrs. T..., extremely prettyand extremely nice,but burdened by her four little girls and their maids".(There was only onemaid - FJ).Turgenev describesheronthe beach,barefoot, withhershouldersbarely covered (B:40,vol.14/201;509) Schapiroclaims thatwhile on boardTurgenev formed a romantic attachment to Nelly and goes on to point out thatthe novelist's correspondence with his mother "suggests thathe was in lovewith her, or fancied himself to be so". (B:40i/18)Nicholas I sentmoney to allthe survivors of thetragedy.Eleonoredied only four months after receiving her money from the tsar.133. NLearly 1839.Itisasif between theimpulsionto producespontaneousandbrilliantnaturepoemsTyutchevfelttheneedtodeliberately contrive a poem based quite clearly on some woolly Schellingianpremise. It is unfortunate that in doing so, a school of thoughtmaking himcelebrated for a "cycle" of "Holy Night" poems should have sprung up.134. NLearly 1839. Whatever the motivation and whoever the addressee,there can be no doubting the reality of the physical feeling.135.October,1840. AddressedtoGrandPrincessMaria(1819-76),daughter ofNicholasI. Tyutchevmether during theautumn of1840atTegernsee, near Munich.136.September6th. 1841.Prague.Dedicated tothe Czechpatriot,scholar and teacher,Vaclav Hanka (1791-1861),whom Tyutchev met in Praguein1841.Hankabelievedincloserlinksbetween Czechoslovakia(thenBohemia) and Russia and went a long way to acquainting hiscompatriots withRussianliterature.In1819hepublishedtheso-calledKraledvorskymanuscript, presentingit as a collection of the epic andlyrical songs ofthe Czech people. It turned out that he hadwrittenthemhimself,havingstudied legends and chronicles. Nonetheless, the book played its part in thedevelopment of Czech national consciousness.In 1867, Tyutchev wrote a postscript to the poem [323].137.July 7th.1842. Dedicated to the Germanwriter andpamphleteerKarl-August Varnhagen von Ense (1775-1858). Von Enseserved in theRussianarmy during the Napoleonicwars. He contributed through his translations toa greater awarenessof Russian literature inGermany. Tyutchev visited himin Berlin en route to Munich. He hadknown the German since the late 1820s.Von Ense was probably the most knowledgeable German of the time when it cameto Russian culture.138. September, 1842. The Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), wasthe first professor of Slavic literature atthe College de France, where hegave a series of lectures on the history and literature of the Slav peoples.Onreceiving copies ofextracts of thelecturesfromTurgenev, Tyutchevwroteandsent thispoemto him. Mickiewiczmeant asmuch toPoles asPushkindidto Russians. ExiledtoRussiain1824 for Polish patrioticagitation, hereachedpoeticmaturity there, laterbecomingaCatholicmysticand spending much of his life in Paris.It isironic that Tyutchevshouldhave senthispoemto a man whobelieved that amongall nationsPoland had a messianicrole to play, and who wished to lead a Polish legionagainst Russia during the Crimean war.139.October,1842.InletterstoErnestine,Tyutchevreturnsconstantly to the theme ofseparation. Images ofabsence and space abound,whether asreferences to his separationfrom those close to him, somethinghe always found hard to cope with, or as images of the geographical vastnessand emptiness of his native land. In 1843 he wrote to her of "the tremendousplain,theScythian plain, which sooften shocked youon myrelief map,where it forms an enormous sheet, no nicer there than it is in reality".In July1847 he had technology tothankfor protectinghim insomemeasure fromthe emptinessofRussia's plains:"Ah,let's not curse therailway, especially now that the network is joining up and closing in on allsides. What isparticularlybeneficent for meisthatitreassuresmyimagination againstmy mostterribleenemy - space-thisodious spacewhich, on ordinary roads, drowns and annihilates you, body and soul".Absenceis geographicalemptiness and distance between him andlovedones.He begins and ends one virulentletterof 1851 thus: "To be sure, Iprotest against your absence. I neither want to nor can tolerate it ... Withyour company there disappears all... continuity in my life ..."Is thereanythingin theworld more ridiculous, more irritatingandlesssatisfying than writing? It'sofuse onlyto people who get used toabsence and resign themselves to this abyss.Ah, Ijust can't putup withany of that!"140. Late September, 1844, whenTyutchev resettled in St.Petersburg.There is undoubtedly a culture shock here. Still, the first two stanzas showthepoetofRussiamalgre luibeginningto producesome ofhismostbrilliantwork.The remainder ofthe poemis asinsipidas hisfeeblehearkeningbacktothe west inthesuperb Na vozvratnom puti/The ReturnJourney [241].141.1844.AvariationontheconcludinglinesofSchiller'sKolumbus/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 youand 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 linesareher words.In a fairlypaltryFrench poem, theoppositeof thedead leaf/myortvogolista [186] appears, deadflowers, in a possible burst ofwish-fulfilment,coming back to life.143.1848,the Year of Revolutions. Tyutchev was not the only Russianwriter to see Russia as a monolithic entity, unshakeable despitethe West'sconstant, subversive attempts tobreach its defences. Zhukovsky'sRusskomuvelikanu/To the Russian Giant waspublished shortly before. Tyutchev's poemis 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.Tyutchevyetagain shows that he candescribewithraregenius what hereally does not like in the least, that is his own native land in winter. Heuses thesame Frenchverb(assieger/to besiege) ina letter to Ernestine(Oct.15th. 1852), describing Ovstug, where she was stayingwith hertheedaughters, as a "horrible hole to which rain and snow lay siege".145.Early January, 1849.Dedicated to Eleonore, whosedeath in 1838had devastated him. In aletter to Zhukovksy, he wrote: "There are horribleperiodsinhuman existence...To survive everythingby which welived -lived for a whole twelve years... What is more normal than such a fate - andwhat is more horrible? To survive and, all the same, to live!".146. 1848. Concerning the revolutions of that year.147. 1848-9. Theinvisible interlocutorpointing to life's shade, andthe poet-observer positioned between theshades of earth, here equated withdeath, makeofthischaracteristically short lyric,with itsunderlyingimagery of distance, a masterpiece of personal profundity.148. 1848-9.Dobrolyubov quoted this poem in his article Kogda pridyotnastoyashchiiden'?/Whenwilltherealdaycome?(B:10,vol.6/137),describing it as the "hopelessly sad,soul-tearing premonition of a poet soconstantlyandmercilessly justifyingitselfoverthebest,the elitenatures of Russia".The social-critical natureofthe poem may have causedachangeoftitle to Moei zemlyachke/To My Countrywoman in the first edition.Dobrolyubov had no time for anything poetic forits own sake. He was acritic in the worst sense, once commenting that Tyuchev "is far from being afirst-rank poet, but I like his descriptions of nature very much, that is ofcertain moments of its life". (ibid., vol.9/17)149. 1848 or1849. Similar in content to his unfinished Russia and theWest, on which he was working at this time.Peter's town: Rome.ll.9-10: A hint at the biblical prophecy aboutthe kingdom which "willnever fall". (The Book of Daniel, II, 44)150.1848-9(final draft, 1850). In the faceof night(aboutwhichthere is nothing "holy", Tyutchev's Svyataya/holy being aRomantic cliche),"thought" itselfhasbeen "abolished", a straightforward repetition of hisearlier feelings about the universe as expressed in A. N. M. [13].151. June 6th. 1849. Enroute fromMoscowto his birthplace, Ovstug.Thissuperb "Russian" nature poem employsthe best-known techniques of the"western" naturelyrics. The "crumpled", "frowning" earth, like thatofanew-born baby's face, under thethreat of storm is a striking scene,as isthatcontaining the colour-intensifier, the greening field becoming greenerstillasthethunderstormgathers.Itis, in thisreader's opinion,impossibleto findanything inasingle "western"naturepoembetter,lighter, more joyful in any way than the picture portrayed in this lyric.152. June 13,1849.Written duringhissecond stayin Ovstug afterreturning to Russia. In a letter to his wife (Aug. 31st. 1846), on his firstvisit tohis birthplace,he writes: "...during those first moments afterarriving, the enchanted world of childhood came vividly back to me, as if ithad beenrevealed,this worldwhichhaddisintegrated and vanished longago... In a word, for several moments I experienced what thousands before mehadexperienced in those very circumstances, whatmany who follow mewillexperience and what, in the final analysis, is of value only for whoever haslived through it all and then only as long as he is under its spell".In anotherletterto Ernestine in 1846, sentshortly before visitingOvstug, he writes: "My life began later,and everything which preceded thatlife is as foreign to me as the daybefore I was born. The reference to thelater life is the period after he left his birthplace for the West (1822).153. July23rd.1849. Ovstug. The incredibly warm, comforting feel ofthis superb lyric isshared by others depicting nocturnal scenes. (See, forexample, [167,176]). I cannotacceptGregg's translation.He interpretskak/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 stillnesstheir gilded waves shine,whitened by the moon.It seems to me that the kak simply moves the action on, as is often thecase infolkpoetry,the ideabeingthat on a quiet night, something ishappening, with no emphasis, no full stop, not even a full sentence.154.October22nd.1849.Suchasenseofdepressioncannotbealleviated,despite the poet's attempts, by a senseof spring being waftedover his soul, for the ubiquitous dead leaf, like the pied piper,mockinglyruns before him all the way.155.Autumn1849.Aksakovrecallsthecircumstancesofthiscomposition. Noting that it was only after Tyutchev'sdaughterswere grownupand Ernestinehadlearned some Russian, he quotesan example of theirneed to writedown what Tyutchev sometimesdictated:"...once, one rainy,autumn evening, being driven home by cab, almost soaked to the skin, he saidto his daughter who had come to meet him, 'I've made up a few verses'. Whiletheyhelpedhim out ofhis clothes,hedictated thefollowing charmingpoem". (A:1/84-5)156. 1849. Addressed to F. Vigel(1786-1856),the authorof the wellknownZapiski/Noteswrittenas if by Pyotr Chaadaev (1794 [?]-1856).Thelatterwasthe strange,neuroticwriteroftheLettres philosophiquesaddresseesaunedame/PhilosophicalLetters Addressed to aLadywhich,criticised Russia from a Roman Catholicpoint of view. In Chaadaev's bitterdenunciation of Russia, he accused the country, among other things, of beingsomewhere between the westand the east, sharing neither theideas nor theeducationofeither.Hisworkbroughtuponhimsociety'svitrioliccondemnation.He was not theonly writerofhisage tocondemnthingsRussian, but unlike Gogol,who got awaywith itbecause he wasseen as acomic writer, his attacks were all too openly serious.In 1847 Chaadaev had lithographed portraits of himself commissionedinParis and sentto various people. Receiving a dozen to distribute, Tyutchevwrote these verses on one and sent it to Vigel, astranger to both of them.Vigel wrote a puzzled, grateful letter to Chaadaevwho wrote tothe writerand music critic V. Odoevsky (Jan. 15th. 1850):"Some stupid pranksterhasthought to send him my lithographed portrait onhisname-day, accompanyingit with Russian verses which he attributes to me... It's a matter of urgencyto make sure there are absolutely no consequences".The prankster wasneveruncovered,so Tyutchev andChaadaev did notfall out. In a letter of the same year tohis sister, Tyutchev quipped: "Bytheway,tell Chaadaev to get somemore copies of his lithograph ordered.All the print shops are besieged by crowds,and I can only guess that theirhavingto wait so long might be thecause ofsome agitation in this mass,and we could do with avoiding that".157. 1849. There are times when it appears that Tyutchevforgets he isanoriginalpoetandreproduces,ifnotverbatim,thensubtlyplagiaristically someone else's poem. Here, of course, it ishis version ofHeine, [34].158. November, 1849. On thefirst manuscript thereis in brackets thededication "toFuad-Efendi",thelattera Turkishadministratorin theDanuberegion, poetand pamphleteer, Mehmed Fuad-Pasha (1815-1869).Whilethereareno hard facts relating to the reasonTyutchevwrote this,thepoliticaleventsofthetimemakehismotivation fairlyclear.Thisenlightened, liberal doctor of medicine,grammarian, interpreter, diplomat,commander and minister wasdispatched as aspecial envoy totheTsarinOctober 1849asaresultof Russia'sinsistence on theextraditionofHungarian and Polish nationalists and Turkey's refusal to acquiesce. War wasimminent.Fuad-Pashawas instrumental in reachinga peacefulsettlement.Tyutchevmay well have met him, for the Turk had talks with various Russianofficialsduringhisvisittothecapital.BothmenwerefluentFrench-speakers, the Turk a supporter of the Europeanisation ofhis countryand a civilising influence in many ways in his circle, one ofhis ambitionsbeing the emancipationof women. Had it not been for their mutual paranoia,Russia's on account ofwhat she saw as an aggressivewestern Europe sidingwith the infidel againstOrthodox Christianity, Turkey's resulting from herequallyparanoidperception of Europeasamilitary and political powerexpanding ather own expense, the two educated, intelligent diplomats couldwell have beenfriends. While as liberal as one inhis position couldbe,Fuad Pasha was a foreign minister who, when sent to the Lebanon to deal withinternecine fighting betweenMaronites and Druzes, employed savagemethodsto restore order. (See [326] and C:28.)159. 1849. Addressee unknown. The "southern glance" could referto oneofmanywomenhewillhaveknown on histrips to SouthernEurope, inadditiontobeing used insymbolic contrast tothe "uglydream"of the"fateful north" of the final stanza.Cimmeriannight:the joylessnight ofHomer's Odyssey. The Cimmeriiwere a tribe fabled to have lived in perpetual darkness.A different land....: Italy.160. 1848 or 1849. Korolyova was the firstto establish that this poemwasinfluencedbyLamartine'sLesconfidences/Confidences.(B:22)Larmartine's description of his home was echoed byTyutchev.The Frenchmanwrote: "As for the gardenitself,almostall that'sleft is the name. Itcould countonly as a garden in thoseprimitive dayswhen Homer describedthe modest holding of Laertes and the seven fields belonging to the old man.Eight squares of vegetables lined byfruittreesat rightangles to eachother and separatedby rows of fodder grass and yellow sand; atthe end oftheserows, to the north, eight tortuous-trunkedold arbours on a bench ofwood".WritingtoErnestine(Aug.31st.1846),Tyutchevproducedanunidealised,thoughfundamentallyfond description ofhis own home.Hisobsession with his own ageing comes through:"Theroom I'm writingto youfrom is my father'sstudy, the very room he died in. To oneside thereishis bedroom, where he no longer went. Behind me is the settee, making up thecorner where he laid down neverto rise again. All around the room are old,well-known portraits from my childhoodand which,indeed, haveagedlessthan I. Opposite me is that old relicof a house which we once lived in andofwhichthereremainsthe bodyofthedwellingwhich myfather hadmaintained religiouslyso that one day, onreturning to the country, therewould besome trace, some scrap ofour former existence for meto find...Indeed, that first moment I arrived, I had a very vivid memory as if it werea revelation of that enchanted world of childhood, destroyed and annihilatedfor such a long time now. The former garden, 4 large limes, very wellknownin those parts, afairly punyalley about a hundred paces long which to meseemed immeasurable, allthis magnificent universe of my childhood, so fulloflife, so varied- all ofthat isenclosedwithinan area of severalsquare feet".Lamartine was born in Savoy.161. Possibly 1849. In suchaninsignificant poemwritten in French,theTyutchevianideaofsomething significant being pouredinto the aircomes across.162. Final version NL early 1850. See note [90].163. Late 1840s-early 1850s. Lane was the first to deal indetail withthePascalian character of someof Tyutchev's French poems, (A:18vii/321),mentioning in particular[130, 139, 163, 176]. Hebegins histreatment ofthese poems with[130], pointingout that "thefirstsevenlines of thefollowing piece communicate anxiety and terror of the abyss of time".164. NL early 1850. this rather stilted poem is reminiscent of parts ofUraniya [7].165. NL early 1850. The coldness of themoonlight, the desertedness ofthe scene,the absolute senseof man's being aloneand in anunwelcomingenvironment all come across forcefully in this "western" poem.166. NL early 1850.The first twostanzasrefer to the annualsymbolicbetrothal of thedoges of Venice with the Adriatic sea, a traditionlasting up till the lateeighteenth century.Three centuries, perhaps four: the republic of Venice blossomed betweenthe 12th. and 15th. centuries.Theshadow of the lion's wing:a reference to the emblem of St. Mark,the protector of Venice.Thelinksof heavychains:From 1814upto 1866Venice was underAustrian rule.167.NL early1850. Thisis untypical ofTyutchev. Nonetheless,itshares with Vous, dont onvoit briller, danslesnuitsazurees/Unsulliedgods oflight [176]a sense of warmth, even security. Night, in so many ofTyutchev'sspontaneouspoems,isacomfortingthing.Only in the moreformal, so-called"Holy Night" lyricsis night perceivedto be a fearsomeentity.168. March 1st. 1850. The tsar considered this poem, unpublisheduntilthe Crimean War had broken out, "untimely" and censored it himself.the fourth age: a reference tothe400th. anniversaryof the fall ofthe Byzantine empire (1453-1853).The ancient vaults of Sofia: Aia-Sofia is now a mosque in Istanbul.169. March1st.-6th.1850.The wordsin italics are takenfromanimperialmanifestoofMarch 14th. 1848, ontherevolutionary eventsinAustria 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,dealingwith the samethemeas his translation of Beranger's cynical work [93], shows, perhaps, aTyutchevpining for security, despite being in Russiawith his family, andequally expressing a conservative attitude to the beggar, asking god to helphim through life while accepting from the outsider's point of view thathisunenviable lot is a holy one.172.July,1850.Theup-downmovementoftheriver and apparentsky-movement is typical of Tyutchev's poetic refusal to separate phenomena.173.July, 1850.Thisis the first poemabouthismistress, ElenaDeniseva. Elena inspired some of the sharpest,most touching love poetry innineteenth-century Russian literature.174.July, 1850. Hisepigrammatic style comes across yet again. As in[16]and [122], there are times when Tyutchev seemsto sit back and simplylet God get on with it, provided he, the poet, is not pestered.175. August, 1850.In this incredible poem, as in [118], nature isanentity in which space and time merge.176. August 23rd. 1850. A nocturnal walk with Ernestine is the subject.Thisexcellent work isyetanother example ofthewarmth ofaRussiannight-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 (neeSushkova, 1811-1858), someof whosepopular love lyrics were set to music. She also wrote about the emptiness ofupper-class life. Tyutchev is said to have had a low opinion of her work.179.1850.OneofthefavouritesofthepoetAlexanderBlok(1880-1921), withwhat he referred to as its "Hellenic, pre-Christian senseof Fate", this enigmatic poem seems relatively mediocre, far from possessingany of the pre-Christian, Hellenic freshness Blokand hispeers were oftenlookingout forinthe poetryofpreviousyears. Itisuntypical anddifficult to date. It could well have been written considerably earlier thanthefifties, though there is no hard evidence. Any reference to theGreeksimmediatelysuggests politicalundertones.ThethemeofFateandtheindifference of the godsto man is Tyutchevian, but thegenerallayout ofthepoemmostcertainlyisnot.Itcouldwellbe atranslationoradaptation.Indeed,Kozyrev(A:20,vol.1/88)considersGoethe'sSymbolum/Symbol to be the undisputedsource although, despite his claim, hewas notthe first to notice the link. (ibid.,vol. 2, 47/129) The relevantlines from Goethe (taken from stanza 3) are as follows:....................StilleRuhn oben die SterneUnd unten die Graber.***....................Peacefullythe stars rest aboveand the graves below.Thereareotherreferences in Goethe's poemto the basicthemeoftoiling man and carefree gods.Noself-respectingSovietcommentatorcouldhaveresistedthetemptation to dealwith this poem. Tvardovskaya (ibid., vol. 1/163)writesas follows about the firststanza: "The lines... seem tohave been writtenabout thoseandfor thosewho,at a time whenthere wasno widespread,national movement, began single-handed their struggle with autocracy".Atheisticexistentialismisbrought into the picturebyKozyrev. Icannotagreewithhisfindingthatthereare two creative periodsinTyutchev's work, a point he makes more than once forcefully, any more than Iaccepthis philosophical links with Sartre and Heidegger inhis discussionof TwoVoices: "The crucial moment between Tyutchev's twocreative periodsand, froma certain point of view, perhaps, theheightof his poetry,isrepresented by 'Two Voices'. Here you have the break withthe'beneficent'gods ofnature,there- amajestic attempttoconfirm man's dignity inhimself,as in the highest being inthe Universe, butin a solitary beingthrownintotheUniverse,whereFateconquers,whereeverythingissubservient to death. The spiritof thispoem isakin, in all likelihood,not only - and notso much - to the tragic feel of the ancients, as much astotheethicalconceptsoftheatheisticexistentialism ofSartre orHeidegger". (ibid., vol. 1/92)An echo of likeminds (pereklichkagolosov/an exchangeof voices) ispostulated by A.Neusykhin (ibid. vol.2/542-547) in an unfinished report inwhichalinkisseenbetweenthispoemandHolderlin'sHyperionsSchicksalslied/Hyperion'sSongofFate. Theidea thatthe godslive ineternalserenity and bliss, far from humantoil and sorrow is,of course,ancientandinhis study of the Classics,theyoung Tyutchev willhaveencountereditinHomer.Ido,however,feelthatNeusykhinwasover-cautious in statingthatHolderlin's poem exerted no direct influenceon Tyutchev. Thesong is from thenovelHyperion,which dealswiththeon-going Russo-Turkish conflict and wasoneof the few works byHolderlinrelatively well known in his lifetime. The German text follows:Ihr wandelt droben im LichtAuf weichem Boden, seelige Genien!Glanzende GotterlufteRuhren euch leicht,Wie die Finger der KunstlerinHeilige Saiten...........Schiksaallos, wie der schlafendeSaugling, atmen die Himmlischen;Keusch bewahrtIn bescheidener Knospe,Bluhet ewigIhnen der Geist,Und die seeligen AugenBliken in stillerEwiger Klarheit...........Doch uns ist gegeben,Auf keiner Statte zu ruhn,Es schwinden, es fallenDie leidenden MenschenBlindlings von einerStunde zur andern,Wie Wasser von KlippeZu Klippe geworfen,Jahr lang ins Ungewisse hinab.***You wander above in the lighton soft ground, blessed spirits!Gleaming, divine breezestouch you gentlylike the artist's fingerson sacred strings...........Without Fate, like the sleepinginfant, the heavenly ones breathe.Chastly preservedin the modest budbloom eternallytheir minds,and their blessed eyesgaze in calm,eternal clarity...........But to us it is givennowhere to rest.Dizzy and fallingis suffering mankindblindly from onehour to the next,like water from one ledgeto another ledge drops,year after year into uncertainty.FriedrichHolderlin(1770-1843) merged Christian and Classical themesin German verse which attempted to naturalise Classical Greek poetry. He sawthegods ofGreece as real, living forcesin natural manifestations.Thenovel Hyperion is the story of a disillusioned Greek freedom-fighter. In hispoemDie Heimat/Home,Holderlin wrote: "For they who lend us theheavenlyfire, the Gods,give us sacred sorrow too. Let itbe so. Ason of earth Iseem; born to love and to suffer".Fundamentally,Tyutchev'spoemis probablyanother exampleofhiseclecticism. All greatliterature owes much to what has gone before and thetruly great writer is capable of using, borrowing as opposed to stealing, inT.S. Elliot'swords, other people's work to his own original ends.As withhis choice of Schiller'sDasSiegesfest/The Victory Celebration[181],aconnection with the Eastern Question can never be ruled out.180. 1850. The two major political problems facingTyutchevtended tobethe relationshipbetweenthe SlavonicworldfriendlytoRussia andPoland, and the age-old question of the position of Constantinople, occupiedby the Turks.181. Probably1850-early 1851. TR Schiller: Das Siegesfest/The VictoryCelebration (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 SchiffenLangs des Hellespontos Strand,Auf der frohen Fahrt begriffenNach dem schonen Griechenland.Stimmet an die frohen Lieder,Denn dem vaterlichen HerdSind 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 FreudenMischten sie den Wehgesang,Weinend um das eigne LeidenIn des Reiches Untergang.Lebe wohl geliebter Boden!Von der su?en Heimat fernFolgen wir dem fremden Herrn,Ach wie glucklich sind die Toten!..........Und den hohen Gottern zundetKalchas jetzt das Opfer an.Pallas, die die Stadte grundetUnd zertrummert, ruft er an,Und Neptun, der um die LanderSeinen Wogengurtel schlingt,Und den Zeus, den Schreckensender,Der die Aegis grausend schwingt.Ausgestritten, ausgerungenIst 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 warenEinst in des Scamanders Tal.Und des Kummers finstre WolkeZog sich um des Konigs Blick,Von dem hergefuhrten VolkeBracht' er wen'ge nur zuruck.Drum erhebe frohe LiederWer 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 AltarenKann 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 TreueRein und keusch das Haus bewahrt,Denn das Weib ist falscher Art,Und die Arge liebt das Neue!..........Und des frisch erkampften WeibesFreut sich der Atrid und stricktUm den Reiz des schonen LeibesSeine Arme hoch begluckt.Boses Werk mu? untergehen,Rache folgt der Freveltat,Denn gerecht in Himmels HohenWaltet des Chroniden Rat!Boses mu? mit Bosem enden,An dem frevelnden GeschlechtRachet Zeus das Gastesrecht,Wagend mit gerechten Handen...........Wohl dem Glucklichen mags ziemen,Ruft Oileus tapfrer Sohn,Die Regierenden zu ruhmenAuf 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 TonnenDie 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 FestenDer ein Turm war in der Schlacht.Da der Griechen Schiffe brannten,War in deinem Arm das Heil,Doch dem Schlauen, VielgewandtenWard 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 LosenHoher Vater, preis'ich deins.von des Lebens Gutern allenIst der Ruhm das hochste doch,Wenn der Leib in Staub zerfallen,Lebt der gro?e Name noch.Tapfrer, deines Ruhmes SchimmerWird unsterblich sein im Lied;Denn das ird'sche Leben flieht,Und die Toten dauern immer...........Weil des Liedes Stimmen schweigenVon dem uberwundnen Mann,So will ich fur Hektorn zeugen,Hub der Sohn des Tydeus an; -Der fur seine HausaltareKampfend ein Beschirmer fiel -Kront den Sieger gro?e Ehre,Ehret ihn das schonre Ziel!Der fur sein HausaltareKampfend sank, ein Schirm und Hort,Auch in Feindes Munde fortLebt ihm seines Namens Ehre...........Nestor jetzt, der alte Zecher,Der drei Menschenalter sah,Reicht den laubumkranzten BecherDer 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 LabeUnd vergi? den gro?en Schmerz,Balsam furs zerri?ne Herz,Wundervoll ist Bacchus Gabe...........Denn auch Niobe, dem schwerenZorn der Himmlischen ein Ziel,Kostete die Frucht der Ahren,Und bezwang das Schmerzgefuhl.Denn so lang die LebensquelleSchaumet an der Lippen Rand,Tief versenkt und festgebannt!Denn so lang die LebensquelleAn der Lippen Rande schaumt,Ist der Jammer weggetraumt,Fortgespult in Lethes Welle...........Und von ihrem Gott ergriffenHub sich jetzt die Seherin,Blickte von den hohen SchiffenNach 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 dustand the Greeks, drunk with victory,richly loaded with their spoils,sat on their high boats,travelling happily alongthe coast of Hellespontto beautiful Greece."Let us sing joyful songsfor the ships are makingfor 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 wailingwith the wild celebration full of joy,bemoaning their own sufferingcaused by the fall of the empire."Goodbye, our cherished land!We are following the foreign masterfar away from our sweet homeland,oh, how lucky are those who are dead!"..........And now Calchas is lighting a sacrificeto the gods above.He addresses Pallas, who foundsand destroys cities,and Neptune, who casts his girdleof waves around lands,and Zeus, who induces fearand wields the aegis."The long, hard war is nowfought out and over.The circle of time has been completedand the great city has been conquered"...........The son of Atreus, warlord of the troops,looked at the numbers of peoplewho once upon a time went with himto the valley of Scamander,and the dark cloud of sorrowgathered upon his brow.He was bringing back only a fewof those who had followed him here."Therefore let those who are going to seetheir native land again and whose livesare still in bloom, singa happy song, for not all are going back"..........."Not all of those who are on their way homemay rejoice about their homecoming,because even his own homecould be stalked by murder.Many survivors of bloody battles fellthrough friends' treachery", Ulysses saidwith a warning look, inspired by Athena."Happy are those whose homes are pure andchaste, protected by their wives' loyalty,for a woman's nature is treacherousand the bad ones like novelty"...........And the son of Atreus rejoicesabout the woman he has only just won in the warand, full of happiness, he puts his armsaround her beautiful body's charms."Evil doings must perishand any outrage is followed by revenge,because the council of Zeusrules with justice in the high heavens"."Evil begets evil and those who offendagainst the law of hospitalityare punishedby 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 destiniesblindly from its barrel.Let those who won their livesin the lottery be glad and shout for joy...........Yes, war devours the best.You, brother, who were a towerin the battle, will be forever rememberedby the Greeks on festive occasions.It was your arm that offered salvationwhen the ships of the Greeks were burning,and yet the beautiful prize went to himwho was cunning and smart.May your sacred ashes rest in peace!You were not snatched away by the enemy.Ajax fell through his own strengthOh, anger destroys the best of men!"..........Now Neoptolem pours out winefor his great father:"Of all human destinies,exalted father, I consider yoursto be best.After all, glory isthe greatest thing one can possessand the great name lives onafter the body has turned to ash."Brave man, the brilliance of your glorywill be immortal in song,because earthly life fleesand the dead last forever.".........."Since the vanquished are not mentionedin the song, I shall testify on Hector's behalf",the son of Tydeus began,"he who fell protecting his country and homewhile the victor has gained greatest honour,he is honoured,because he fell for a worthier cause.The honour of the names of the fallenprotecting their home will live foreverin the memory of their enemies,who will pay tribute to them."..........Now Nestor, the old reveller,who saw three generations, passesthe garlanded cupto the tearful Hecuba:"Drink this refreshing drinkand forget the great pain.The gift of Bacchus is wonderful,a balm for the torn heart.Drink up this refreshing drinkand forget the great pain.The gift of Bacchus is wonderful,a balm for a torn heart!..........For Niobe, who was the objectof the gods' heavy anger,also tasted the fruit of the vineand overcame the feeling of pain.For as long as the source of lifeis bubbling at the lips, the painis submerged deeply in Lethe's watersand held there.For as long as the spring of lifeis bubbling at the lips, woesare dreamt away, washed awayin Lethe's water."..........And now the prophetess rose,inspired by her god,and looked from the tall shipstowards the smoke of her native land:"All that is earthly is smoke;all that is great on earth,vanishes like a column of smokeand only the gods are permanent.The horse of the rider, the shipare surrounded by cares, thereforelet us live today, becausetomorrow we'll not be able to."182.NL Spring, 1851. From the point of viewof man's thought being atransient insignificance, as expressed in Vesna/Spring [132], this is one ofseveral very un-Pascalian poems.183.NL first months of1851. Tyutchevironically compares a woman'sbeauty with the brief northern summer, clearly borrowed from Pushkin's linesfrom 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, thepoet exclaiming that as we age,we love "moremurderously", moresurely "ruining" what isdear to us, yetalreadyin thesecondstanza,thenrapidlyasthe poemprogresses, alighter,no less regretful tone appears, reminiscent of some of the earlierpoems with their "cheeks'...roses", "magicalvoice" and"youthfully livelylaughter".184. April 12th. 1851. AddressedtoErnestine. Less inspired than theprevious poem, in these lines Tyutchev allows himself to float as it were onthe memory of childhood as recounted by his wife. (See A:20, vol.2/99-103.)185. 1851. AddressedtoErnestine. Written during thesecond year ofhislovefor Elena (she had been pregnant since September 1850), thepoemstayed inaherbarium album, undiscovered byhis wife until May1875. Onfirst reading this poem, Aksakov wrote to Tyutchev's daughter, Ekaterina, in1875: "These versesareremarkablenot so much as poetry, as for the factthat they throw some light on the most treasured, intimate ferment his heartsensedforhis wife... But what is especially striking and whatgrips theheartso is thecircumstance... that she had notthefaintest ideathatthese Russian verses existed... In1851... she did notknow enough Russianto be able to understand Russian verse nor todecipher theRussian writingof F.(yodor)I. (vanovich)... What must have been her surprise, her joy andher grief on reading thisgreeting from beyondthe grave, such a greeting,such an act of gratitudefor her work asa wife, heracts of love!"(SeeA:33ii/149-150)186. May, 1851. Trees dream, even hallucinate about springin an imagewhich recurs throughout the poetry.187. 1851. Addressed to Elenashortly after the birth oftheir eldestdaughter, Elena (May 20th. 1851-May 2nd. 1865).Your unnamed cherub:could refer either to the fact thatthe poem waswritten beforethe child's christening(the opinion ofE. Kazanovich)orthat the baby was illegitimate (G. Chulkov), a fact that the poem was writenbefore the child'schristening(the opinion ofE. Kazanovich) or that thebaby 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. Theimage of ebb and flow is common in Tyutchev,whether it be the literal forward-retreating movement of thesea ([143]) orthefigurative incursion-exitingmovement of different levelsofrealityconstructed around a sea-image [92].190. July 14th. 1851. En route from Moscow to St. Petersburg. This poemis cleverly constructed to allow a superb image of a Jly, star-filled sky tomerge with a sense of threat, hinting back at a poem about a woman's eyes asshe is kissed ([123]).191.August 6th. 1851. In this cynical comparison of love with a briefdream, Tyutchev employs his epigrammatic style to great effect. There is, ofcourse, more to any poem employingany form or interpretation of thenodalson/sleep,dream,astheopeningofalettertohiswife(1852)demonstrates: "... I hadexpected aletter from you todayto givemyselfjusta tiny bit of a sense of reality. For it often happens that I perceivemy real life as a dream".192. NLOctober 27th. 1851. TR Goethe:Mignon from WilhelmMeister'sApprenticeship(bk.3). First edition 1795, publishedseparately in Balladsand Romances (1800).MignonKennst 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! DahinMocht' 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! DahinMocht' 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! DahinGeht 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, therewould I go with you, my darling...........Do you know that house?Its roof rests oncolumns,its hall gleams, its chamber shimmersand mosaics look down upon me:poor child, what have they done to you?Perhaps you know it?There, therewould 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, therelies our path!Oh father, let us go!Tyutchev altersGoethe's stanza order for some reason, interchanging 2and 3.193. November 1st. 1851. The third stanza was quoted by Turgenev in hisstory entitled Faust/Faust (1856) as well as by Chernyshevsky in his PovestivPovesti/Tales withinin a Tale,which he wrotein the PeterandPaulFortress in 1863.194.1851.There aremanyechoes of theearlierVesenyaya groza/ASpring Storm [38],the chief difference being the yellow(i.e. dying) leafimage.195. 1851. TRSchiller: Wilhelm Tell/William Tell (1805). Thesong ofthe 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 ringingfloating so sweetly,like the voices of angelsin 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.WilliamTellcontains scenes ofthenatural beautyof Switzerland,rebellion and two lake storms which help the fugitives to escape. There is astrongly expressed "bondbetween man and nature, nature both within him andaroundhim". (B:36i/196) 196. 1851. Addressed to oneofhis daughters whohad accidentallycrushed a canary. Tyutchev cannot resista certainblackhumour at the arbitrariness of Fate.197. 1851 early 1852. His love for Elena is once again seen as a duel.198.1851-early1852.WrittenfromElena'spointofview.Aninteresting treatment of this and the followingpoemdeals with Tyutchev'sadoption of Elena's persona,a"gender shift". Pratt seesthe lyric as "astrugglebetweenentropy-theterrifyingtendencytowardsemotionalinertnesscaused bythe impendingloss of the beloved- and energy,thecohering force supplied by the person'ssingle-mindeddevotion to the loverelationship". (C:21/228)Discussing[199],shecontinues:"Asopposedtothesenseoffragmentation created by the alternately haltingand rushingspeech of hisfemale counterpart. Tyutchev's male persona exudes a sense ofcoherence andcontrol asheuses each line to expressa completethought smoothlyandrationally. His isthe rhetoric oflogic; hersthe rhetoric ofpassion".(ibid./231)Irrespectiveof one's reaction to psychoanalyticalinterpretations ofTyutchev's work, Pratt's treatment of the dramatic qualities of this and thefollowing 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 itconveys adequately thesense of angerand frustration experienced byhim at society's shunning ofhis mistress.201. NL early1852.Chulkovconsiderstheuse ofthepasttensethroughout to suggest that the poem might not beaddressedto Elena. Thereis indeed a hint of light-heartedness, almost flippancy, which characterisesnone of Tyuchev's poems tohis mistress. This poem is far more likely to beaddressed to an old flame or possibly his wife or former wife.202. NL early 1852. Various interpretations could easily flow from thispoem where Death is equated with Sleep and Suicide with Love,though in thecase of the latter pair, while Tyutchev himself wouldexperiencethe love,the idea of suicide would mostlikely be transferredto Elena, most of thesuffering having been hers.203. April, 1852. The imageof something precious being buried onthebed 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, chtobydusha 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 livedthere fromearly Junetothe end ofSeptember. Allhisletters of thisperiod are franked "Stone Island". It was renamed "Workers Island" after theRevolution and isoneof the island areas of St. Petersburg. In Tyutchev'sday, the wealthy had country homes there.206. December 31st. 1852. Ovstug.Oneof many superb "Russian" naturepoems,thefavouritesleep-dreamformula appearsin the central stanza,Tyutchev's preoccupation with the limboworldbetween external reality andhis own inner reality never being far from the surface.Itisinteresting thatinproportionas her husbanddislikedtheRussian countryside, or often had people believehe disliked it, in July ofthisyearErnestinecouldwritethefollowing:"IlovetheRussiancountryside;thesevastplainsswelling likewideseas, this limitlessexpanse which the glance cannot take in, all thisis fullofgrandeur andendless sadness. My husband drowns in melancholy when he's here. I, however,feelat peace and trouble-free right outhere.I always have something tothink aboutor, rather,something toremember(...)I'd willingly spendwinter in thecountry, but my husbandhas announcedcategorically that hewill never agree to this, and I still don't know what we'll decide".207.NE firsthalf 1852-NLearly 1854.Connected with his loveforElena. In such a nostalgic and tender love poem, an imageof the lastglowappearinginthe western sky cannot fail to be interpretedas a symbol ofhis equally strong love forwestern Europe. Lane describes thereasonforthis journey abroad. (A:18, vol.2/464-470) Acting almostas a secret agent,Tyutchev is described thusby the French ambassador to St. Petersburg: "TheRussian Cabinetsenses the needtocombatthe English, French and Germanpress, which have crushed her with unanimous reprobation. As a result ... ithas sent to Paris one Mr. Tyutchev... so thathemay meddlein the Frenchpress! He's some poordiplomat, though attached to the Russian Chancellery,anda pedantic andRomantic literary type ... Keep an eye on Mr. Tyutchev,no matter how harmless his empty dreams may be!"Inalatercommunication,itwasdecidedthatTyutchev wasnotparticularly hostile to Franceand was "as un-Russian as hecould possiblybe".208.Sept.5th.-7th. 1853. Crossingat Kovno(present-dayKaunas).Written en route from the westto Petersburg. Onthe eveningof September2nd. Tyutchev left Warsaw. The "fatigue and horrible boredom" experienced byhim during forty eight house in a stage-coach forcedhim to spend two and ahalfdays in Kaunas.Sending the poem to his wife, Tyutchevwrote: "TheseversesI toldyou about are entirely imbued withtheNeman. In ordertounderstand them, you would haveto re-read Segur's page from his history of1812 wherehe talks about the crossing of theriver by Napoleon's army, oratleastremember thepicturesdepictingthiseventso often seenincoaching inns".southern demon: a reference to Napoleon's Corsican origins.PhilippePaul Segur(1780-1873) was one of Napoleon's generals andawriter on militarymatters. His Histoire deNapoleon et de la Grande Armeependant l'annee 1812/History of Napoleon and the GreatArmy during the Yearof 1812 (vols. 1-2) is referred to in Tyutchev's letter.209.Autumn 1852-Spring 1854. Tyutchevhopes for a speedy, victoriousoutcome to the CrimeanWar. Russia declared waron Turkey on November 1st.1853, Turkeyreciprocatingon October 4th.NicholasItookwar totheBritish-French-Turkishalliance onApril 23rd. 1854. The warmanifesto ofNicholas I reads like one of Tyutchev's political poems: "Is Orthodox Russiato fear such threats? Ready to confound the audacity of the enemy, shall shedeviatefrom the sacredaimassigned toher by almighty Providence?No!Russia has not forgottenGod! It isnot for worldly interests that she hastakenup arms; shefights for the Christian faith, and for the defenceofher co-religionists oppressed by implacable enemies". (C:5/539)210.Early1854. On February13th. 1854 Darya Tyutcheva wrote to herfriend,O. Smirnova:"If Ihadanypoetic talent, I'dhave written yousomething in the spirit of this charming verse my father sent to Alex(andra)Dolg(orukaya)".Darya then quotedthis.Alexandra Dolgorukaya was eighteen, and, likeDarya, was a maid of honourtothe heir to the throne, Maria Alexandrovna.Tyutchevfrequently metAlexandraat hisdaughter's house. In his diary,Tyutchev described Alexandra as being "irresistibly fascinating", mentioningher"intelligenceandgrace" and, aboveall, the surprising"enigmatic"quality of her nature. Years later, Anna wrote: "At first glance, this tall,thin girl, with herawkward gait and somewhat rounded shoulders, whose facewas leaden-pale, with colourless, glassy eyes which looked at you from heavylids,producedan impression ofrepellentugliness. But as soonasshebecame animatedbyconversation,dancing oragame, themostcompletetransformationwasaffectedthroughoutherbeing.Herslenderbuildstraightenedup,hermovementsbecamemoreroundedandacquiredthemagnificent, almost feline grace ofthe youngtiger, her face glowing withtenderrosiness, her glances andsmile taking on a thousand tender charms,crafty andinsinulating. Her entire being wasimbuedwithelusive, trulymysterious charm".Alexandra was, in addition, extremely intelligent, sharply witty with afine senseof irony. AnnaTyutcheva,however, concludesbyaddingthatbeneath this trenchant charm there wassometimes something "predatory". Shedescribes her friendas going out of herway to attract the tsar (C:19/83)and clearly a liaison of some sort did take place.Having metthe novelistTurgenev, Alexandra servedas theprototype forthe heroinof Dym/Smoke,Irina Ratmirova.211.About August 11th.1854. OnAugust 5th.he wrote tohis wife:"What days! What nights! What awondrous summer! Youfeelit, breathe it,are penetratedby it and can scarcely believe it yourself. Whatstrikes meas being particularly wonderfulis the way these lovely days are just goingon and on, inspiringa 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. Anepigrammatic profundity, the simpleactof saying good bye becomes an "abyss" (bezdna).213.December,1854.Thepoem fell foul ofcensorforits "vaguethought"and "a certain sharpness oftone". Addressed to G. Popova, one ofTyutchev's acquaintances.214. 1855-59.Late 1850s. The Jeude secretaire/Secretary'sGame wasfashionable intheSt. Petersburg salons.This quatrain was written inabook of questions and answers used in the game and might be a quotation fromsomething else.It seems tobe a reply to the questionput to Tyutchev: Aquoi bon un crayon?/What's a pencil for?215.March1st. 1855. The Austrian archdukewas in St. Petersburg onFebruary27th.1855. Austria hadrefused to declare its neutrality duringthe Crimean War.216.July10th. 1855. Addressed toElena.There are echoes ofmanypoems here: billow after billow flow on as do thoughts and waves in Volnaiduma/TheWaveand theThought [189];inTenisizye smesilis'/Blue-greymingling [107], sounds, shapes, colours and aromas merge synaesthetically toproduce a dreamlike existence in which the poet can pour himself, as happenswhen smoke from the fire engulfshim and hismistress; moreominously, inGusnakostre/Hus at the Stake [356],flamecrackles and spreads like ananimal through the kindling.217.ProbablyJuly,1855.Tyutchevforgetshimselfandwhateverproblems lifehas created forhim, or that he has created for himself, theexhortationtotime to wait containing a hint ofpathos made all the morepowerfulbythereference to thatwhich is vile andfalse, for the lesspleasant aspects of lifein St. Petersburg highsociety were Elena's dailysocial lot and, while after this moment Tyutchev must return to them, he wasnever shunned for his partin theillicitromance. Unlike Elena hecouldescape the vile and false at any time.218. August13th.1855.Roslavl intheSmolensk province.OneofTyutchev's mostoft-quoted poems, it lends itself to easy interpretation bycommentatorsof variouspersuasions. Frombeing a spontaneous reaction tothe sight ofthe down-trodden serfs, observed by Tyutchev more than once onhisownestate, to a reflection on the courage of the ordinary privates oftheserf-armydefending Sevastopol, it was notably quoted by Dostoevsky inTheBrothersKaramazov,thesectioncalledTheLegendoftheGrandInquisitor. (B:11iii, vol.14/226).IvanKaramazov'sstrangeprose poemconcerns there-appearanceofChrist during the Inquisition, a Christ who had finally heeded man's prayersandin his immeasurable compassion oncemore come down to offer succour tosuffering humankind. Theinquisitor informs Christ that heis to be burnedthenextday,althoughafteralengthy justification of hisdecision,relents and finally releases him, warning him that he must never return. Thecontradictioninherent in the existenceof a Church which is Christian butwhich,like any ruling political party, needsto stay in power to survive,is oneof many aspectsofthe problem offaithand religion brilliantlyexploited by Dostoevsky. Tyutchev's meaning may be more ambiguous.219.August13th.1855.Roslavl.Inspiredbythepoet'sgloomypresentimentsduringthesiegeofSevastopol.Thefallofthetownoverwhelmedand stunned Tyutchev. In herdiary Annawrote: "My father hadjustreturned fromthe country, notsuspecting anything ofthefallofSevastopol. Knowinghispassionate patrioticfeelings,Iwas verymuchafraid of the first explosion of his anger, and it was a great relief to seehim not irritated; only, fromhis eyes, quietly, great tears rolled; he wasdeeplymoved, when I told him that only the second day after receivingthedreadful news of this blow which had befallen us,the tsar and thetsarinahad wanted to go out to the people to raise their spirits". (C:19/49-50)The Crimean defeat had morethan the straightforward effect of woundednational pride on Tyutchev. "The deafening collapse of the imaginary granitestructure made the poet glance around him, look at Russia not onlyfrom thewindowof the high-society salon". (A:20, vol.1,fn.9/166) While it did not,as Soviet commentators have sometimes tried to demonstrate, make himin anyway anti-monarchist,itreinforcedthat contempt he hadalwaysfelt forinefficiency among those whose role was to rule.220. October 16th. 1855. The poetess Rostopchina, about whose return toPetersburg thepoemis written, publishedher balladNasil'nyibrak/TheForcedMarriage,aportrayal of Russo-Polish relations.Itincurred thedispleasure of Nicholas,who forbadeher to appear in St.Petersburg. Shereturned to thecity onlyafter thetsar's death. Tyutchev was constantlyinvolved in the works of other poets. Two days after writingthis verse, hewas appointedto acommitteewhosebrief was an examination ofthose ofZhukovsky's works unpublished during his lifetime.221. December31st. 1855. St. Petersburg.Concerning the war andthethenfashionablespiritualism,ironicallyreferredtoasStoloverchenie/table-turning,Anna wrote(ibid./147-8): "July 10.Yum thetable-turner has arrived. Seance in the great hall in the company oftwelveofthe emperor's entourage.... We wereall sittingaround a largetable,handson the table; the magiciansatbetweenthe empress and GrandDukeKonstantin.Suddenlyfrom various corners of the roomthere cameknocks,produced by spirits and corresponding to the letters of the alphabet".Thespiritsdecided they didnot likeAnnaand asked for her to bebanished to the neighbouring room, fromwhich she heardall the goings on,including the table being raised into the air.222. 1855. Tyutchev beingthe literary magpie he was,line 1 is takenstraight 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'sdestiny,thatofabrilliantartistdependentonpowerful masters, might well have struck sympatheticchords in Tyutchev. Inwriting this quatrain, the Italian probably had in mind theloss of freedomofFlorence, in the designingofwhosedefences heplayed a part.In aletterof1870,Tyutchev, incensedatthe stupidity of Russia's rulers,quoted lines 2-3 of Michelangelo's poem.Thequatrain is a reply tosome verses byStrozzi, inspiredbythefamoussculptureofNighton thesarcophagusofJulian deMediciinFlorence. Enraptured by Michelangelo's work of genius, Strozzi wrote that ifNight could be awoken she would begin to speak:La Note che tu vedi in si dolci attidormir, fu da un Angelo scolpitain questo sasso e, perche dorme, ha vita:destala, se nol credi, e parleratti.***The Night that you see sleeping in such agraceful attitude, was sculpted by an Angelin this stone, and since she sleeps, she must have life;wakeher,ifyoudon'tbelieveit,andshe'llspeaktoyou.(B:27ii/419)Filippo Strozzi (1489-1538) wasa merchant bankerandspeculator whobasked in the glow of the favours abounding at the court of the De Medicis.224.1855.ThisFrench version of[223]is morefaithfultotheoriginal.225. 1855. An epigrammatic epitaph for Nicholas I, who died on February18th. of this year, undoubtedly inspired by the fall of Sevastopol. Tyutchevwrote to Ernestine:"in orderto createsuch a desperate position,you'dneed the monstrous stupidity of this ill-starred man". (Sept. 17th. 1855)226.January4th.1856.St.Petersburg.SenttoAbramNorov(1795-1869), an education minister from 1854 up till 1858. Norov was woundedduring 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 beenpersuaded totakepartinan amateurproductionof Alfred deMusset's(1810-1857)comedie-proverbe/proverb-comedy,Ilfautqu'uneportesoitouverte ou fermee/A doorshouldbe open or closed. De Musset was extremelygood atwhat hecalled le spectacledufauteuil/armchairtheatre. Thesepopular comedies were written to be read. They tended to involve a couple ofpeople, no external events, sentimental dialogue and the kind of theme whichwould go down well at soirees,"ascene with people of wit, in a real-lifesituation,andpresentedas faithfullyastosuggestnatureitself".(B:28/1127)This particular comedie-proverbe wasfirst publishedinLa Revue desDeux Mondes/The Journal of Two Worlds, November 1st. 1845.229. February 04th1857. St. Petersburg. NikolayShcherbina (1821-69)was a talentedpoetwhogrew up in Taganrogon the Black Sea ina Greekcommunity of a Greek mother. Nature and classicalthemes are predominant inhisimagistwork.Thereareafewparallelsbetweenhispoeticpreoccupations andTyutchev's.Hewrote contrasting versesabout westernbluenessand eastern European bleakness, some fairly mediocre philosophicaland some poor civicpoetry. He was anultra-conservativeminister withoutportfoliototheAssociateMinisterofEducationand Tyutchev's greatfriend, the poetP.Vyazemsky. Inthe1860s, aperiodofdemandsforsocially relevant literature, he unashamedly proclaimed the lofty mission ofthe poet. He died of a throat tumour.E.Petrova(A:20,vol.1/33)considersthistobea"verycharacteristic,very 'Tyutchevian' poem".Shegoes onto saythat"thepoetic worldof Shcherbina, this talentedpoet who tried to feel, to thinklike theharmonious personof Hellas, is seen by Tyutchev as an attempt toescapetheover-burdensomeimpressionsofexistence,the'Scythianblizzard', to see refugeina countrywhere 'golden freedom' reigns inaland of reverie. But it's a "sickly" "dream".Petrovarightly, Ibelieve,takes Freiburgto task. Tyutchev is notrebuking Shcherbina's "honeyed antiquity" (ibid.), rather showingawarenessof a need to escape in fantasy.230.NLApril2nd.1857.TRSchiller:DasGluckunddieWeisheit/Fortune and Wisdom (Poems, 1805).Entzweit mit einem FavoritenFlog einst Fortun' der Weisheit zu:"Ich will dir meine Schatze bieten,Sei meine Freundin du!..........Mit meinen reichsten schonsten GabenBeschenkt' 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 favouriteonce 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 greedyand 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 wordsand 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.Writtenon thefly-leafofVolume10ofZhukovsky's works and presented to Darya.232.August,15th.1857.Ovstug.WrittenontheFeastoftheAssumption. Tyutchev also hadin mind the impending reformofserfdom. Heexpressed a reservation about Alexander II's reform programme in a letter ofSeptember 28th. 1857, to A. Bludova, considering the system of serfdom readytobe taken over byanothersystem in reality evenmore despotic, for itwill be invested with the outward form of Law".233. August 22nd. 1857. En route from Ovstug to Moscow. One of the mostanthologisedpoems,belovedofTolstoy, thiswonderfulscenesuggestsrestfulness after a day of hard labour.234. End of August, 1857. On leaving Ovstugfor Moscow. This is a lessfrivolous,equallyhappyandsensation-repleteversionofthe earlierPolden'/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 memoryof Eleonore.Despite hisphilandering,Tyutchevwas capable on morethan oneoccasionof writingpoems to Eleonore and Ernestine which demonstratehis genuine affection. Itshould not, of course, be forgotten that in so many, if notall of his lovepoems, he thinks primarily about himself. He does not say anything about thepositive effect ofhis love on a woman,rather of the way the relationshipmade him feel.238.NLApril,1858.PossiblyinmemoryofEleonore.Gregg'smistranslation is unfortunate. The souls in question look down on the corpsetheyhave abandoned,not"from a heightat a body theythemselveshavehurleddown".(A:14/171)DiscussingtheRussianeschatological sermon,Fedotov points out that "The last striking image, familiar in Russian poetryfrom the religiousfolksongstoTyutchev,originates inPlato".Heisreferring tothe following: "..... with a terrible pain the soul will issuefrom the body, as someone who has taken off his vestmentand stands lookingat it". (C:31) The poem contains echoes of Heine's Wiedersehen/Meeting Again[13] ofthe Lazarus poems,whichTyutchev will have read as Heine died in1856 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 beisammenZum letzten Male hier gesessen;Die zartlichen Gluten, die gro?en Flamme,Sie waren erloschen unterdessen...........Einsilbig sa? ich.Die Plaudertasche,Das Weib hingegen schurte bestandigHerum in der alten Liebesasche.Jedoch kein Funkchen ward wider lebendig...........Und sie erzahlte: wie sie die bosenGedanken bekampft, eine lange Geschichte,Wie wackelig schon ihre Tugend gewesen -Ich machte dazu ein dummes Gesichte...........Als ich nach Hause ritt, da liefenDie 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 aboutPersistently in the old love's ashes.But not a spark was still alight...........She told a long tale - how she's wonHer 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 treesSeemed in the brilliance to run pastLike spirits - a sense of mournful cries -But we, the dead and I, ride fast.239.August 15th.1858. A variation ona theme from Lenau's Blick indenStrom/A Glanceinto 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 VergessenheitDes Herzens Wunde schlie?en;Die Seele sieht mit ihrem LeidSich selbst voruberflie?en.***If fortune passes you byit will never return.It's good, then, to glance into the riverwhere 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 streamtill your tears becomea warm downpourpouring into a flood...........Oblivion, dreaming, will close upthe heart's wound;with your grief, the soul seesitself fly by.240.October22nd. 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.Thissuperblydescriptive,lyricworkissotypicalofthebrilliantRussian-nature poems ofthis period which go hand in hand with his constantdislike of the bleaker aspects of eastern Europe, that "sad thing" whichis"a country where thereareonly clouds tosimulate mountains".(LET.ERN.Sept. 14th. 1853)One commentator considersit to bea political poem andwritesof Tyutchev's "totalinability tocreate in his politicalverse alivingimage of his 'chere patrie' - except in the most superficialsense,i.e. the externals of Russian imperial power". (A:9/64) To consider a naturepoem to be political because it was written inRussia as Conant appearstodo,isstrangeenough. To miss thewondrousqualities of thispoemisunforgivable.Tyutchev began a short letter to Darya with the poem, concluding: "Hereare a fewpoor verses, my dear daughter, which helpedme pass thetime onthisdreadfully boring journey... To be fair, however, Iought to tell youthat right now there's a lovely sun shining,not on rose bushesand orangeblossom, true, but on fresh, newly blossoming icicles".242. December20th. 1859. On December20th 1859, Tyutchev receivedapacket containingsome spectacles and bearing the words, "To His ExcellencyFyodor IvanovichTyutchevfrom Grand Princethe Admiral-Generalforthecomingball". Puzzled, Tyutchev finally assumedthat this was by way ofareproach for not havingpaidhiscomplimentsto GrandPrince KonstantinNikolaevich at the Annenkovs'balltwo days previously. Irritated, he sentthe verses to theprince,his daughter Maria hoping nothing wouldcome ofthis.Tyutchevdiscoveredthatat a forthcoming fancy-dress ball intheMikhailovsky Palace, he and the prince were to appear in identical costumes,a domino (a longcloak of silkwith a hood).Being short-sighted andnotwanting to be immediately recognised by his spectacles, the princehad sentawhole variety ofguests spectacles towearatthe ball.The poem wasinterpreted positively by the prince,clearly considering that stanza 1 didnot refer to him, but that lines 18-19 were obviously directed at him.243.Late1850s.Addressed to the wife of AlexanderII, the EmpressMariaAlexandrovna(1824-80). Aksakov wrote,"It ishard toimagine anycourtiersmackinglessofthecourtthanTyutchev".(A:1/261)Asachamberlain, itfellwithin Tyutchev'sdutiestoattend court and othersocial gatherings. As aresult of his dreadful writing,something to whichhe referred frequently, he was once mistaken by "some stupid Englishmen" whosaw his entry in ahotel register as the tsar himself,on the strengthof"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 Mikhailovskypalaces, arecharacterised by the refined courtesy and courtly gallantry ofthe French madrigal. "Living pictures" (Zhivye kartiny)wereminor amateurtheatricals. (See [255].)244. Late 1850s. See previousnote. Addressed toGrandDuchess ElenaPavlovna (1806-73),wife ofGrand Duke MikhailPavlovich,theuncleofAlexanderII. ElenaPavlovna,nee PrincessFrederika-Charlotta-Maria vonWurttemberg, was oneof the founders of theExaltationofthe Holy Crosscommunityof the Sisters ofMercy and the Russian Musical Society. She waspatronofa varietyofeducational and medical institutions, usedgreatinitiative to put into practicethe Reformson her own estate and extendedher patronage to many liberal thinkers and writers.In a letter tohis wife (July 25th. 1851), Tyutchev describes spending"a good hour tete-a-tete with her on her balcony on Stone Island". He referstoher as a woman of graceand "imperishable charm" with an open, flexiblenature and inner joy and serenity. He dined withher more than once on this"poetic balcony" and the two clearly had a good, friendly relationship.245.December,1859.Anoteon the manuscript reads: "December.8a.m.". The image of the moon, unaware of the early sun, and the spider-like,timidgropingover thehorizonof the sun's first raysimpart a hint ofapprehension 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 EwigkeitUnd Ewigkeit wie Zeit,Der ist befreitVon allem Streit.***He for whom Time is like Eternityand Eternity like Timeis freeof 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, totranslate this verse of the great, self-taught Germanphilosopher. TyutchevheldBohme inhigh esteem, considering him "one of the greatest minds everto crossourworld ... standingat an intersection point between thetwoopposed doctrinesofChristianity andPantheism. You could callhimtheChristianPantheist,ifthesetwo words didnotshriekatbeingputtogether. To reproduce his ideas in Russian, in trueRussian, you'd have toacquire that language, so idiomatic and so profoundly expressive, of certainmembers of our sects".Bohme's viewof God's waysis often considered idiosyncraticand hiswritingscanbe considered confused, even chaotic.There is a striving inhis work to reconcilethe dualities of Good and Evil to produce harmony. Hebelievedthat they wereequally important in God's universe. Hisworkisalsopantheistic.Interestinthe philosopher,which flaggedafter hisdeath, was revived during the Romantic movement. This poem served as Bohme'smotto and the theosophist would write it in friends' albums. (B:5/10)Bludov(1785-1864)wasanimportantstateandliteraryfigure,President of the Academy of Sciences, Chairman ofthe State Council and theCommittee of Ministers. He and the Tyutchevs were very close.248. Possibly 1850s, possibly early sixties. Pigaryov does not considerthatit waswritten duringthisperiod, althoughTyutchevhadseriousmisgivings about these reforms (A:33ii, vol.2/370). The latterwere complexin structure and, far fromrevolutionary, the result ofa long thought-outprocess.Indeed, Nicholas I had set up secret committees to lookintothewhole matterofserfdom well before it wasfinally abolished. The Crimeandisaster playedasignificant part,highlightingRussia'seconomicandtechnological backwardness, related to her military ineptitude.249.1860s. There issomesmall doubt as to theauthorship ofthispoem, but thereareenough indicators tosuggest that itwaswritten byTyutchev,possibly to Gorchakov's niece, N.Akinfeva. The manuscript bearstheinitials"O.T."Pigaryov pointsout thatinthepre-revolutionaryorthography, the Russian "F" was "("and, this being very similar to "O", acopyingerror couldwell be possible. He further considers that the poem's"rhythmic-stylistic characteristics allow one to attribute itto 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 recallsmeeting her in Vevey onLake Lemanin September of the previous year.252.Possibly October1860in Geneva.Pigaryov casts doubt on 1861,postulatedearlier, as TyutchevwasinSt.Petersburg then. Itis,ofcourse,perfectly possiblethathaving visited Switzerlandthepreviousyear, Tyutchev was reliving a favouriteexperience in imagination, thatofbeing among his beloved mountains and lakes.253. Feb. 23rd. 1861. Addressed to Maria,whose dog,Hecuba, seems tohave enjoyed a special wash and brush-up.254. About February25th.(re-worked earlyMarch1861).PrinceP.Vyazemsky(1792-1878)andTyuchev were old friends.P.Pletnyov, havingre-read Vyazemsky's work withTyutchevone day, wrote to Vyazemsky that heand Tyutchev agreedthat inproportion asthe burdenofhis days becameheavier, so his versebecame younger andmore playful. WhileTyutchev didnot alwayssee eye toeyewith Vyazemsky, he placedgreat value on theirfriendship.Whether ornot, asMirskysuggests, Vyazemsky "grewinto anirritatingreactionarywhoheartily detestedanyonebornafter1810",(C:2/82) Vyazemsky was hisown man and unafraid to speak out. His verse wassomewhat alongthelines of Batyushkov's, sometimesconvoluted.In laterlife, he produced some very mature poetry.255. Early March,1861.Tyuchev's son, Ivan,confirmsthat this waswrittenas if by Maria, in connection with Vyazemsky's fiftieth jubilee. InDecember 1853 Maria played the role ofa major inan amateur production ofthe sort known as"livingpictures". A propos of this,Vyazemsky wroteaverse for her:Lyubezneishii maior, teper' ty chinommal /My verydearestmajor, right nowyou'reof lowly rank. Later onMaria's engagementto N.Birilev (February 05. 1865), Vyazemsky recalled the event in Ya znal maioromvas 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'eChto budesh' ty, v stroyu krasavits, general,A v ozhidanii pobed svoikh i balovUchis', 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 rankbut, if you're patient, promotion will come along.I see in your eyes that confidencethat, 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 unexpectedlyamong the ranks of illiterate, though conspicuous generals.256. March 25th. 1861. In connection with the abolition of serfdom.257.March27th.1861. Addresseeunknown. Thisworkisagentlemasterpiece.Thefinalstanzacould be no more thana belatedRomanticcliche were it notfor the remarkable music of the entire poem(as Kozyrevpoints out in A:20, vol.1/122). Tyutchevalternates on "a" rhyme with otherrhymes in the first two stanzas, the final stanza's five lines all ending ina stressed "a". There is throughout the poem an almost imperceptible mergingof the woman with the sky making of the twoentities one being,therhymereinforcing this. Kozyrevrightlyseesa trulysuperb effect, Tyutchev's"linguistic freshness"playing anequallyimportantrole.HeindicatesTyutchev's usesof dorassvetnyi in place of the moreusual predrassvetnyi,bothmeaning "occurring before dawn". (ibid.) The nuance is not possible totranslate into English.Tyutchev knew many women, the exact degree of intimacy not always knownto us. Kozyrev claims thatthe poemis writtenin memory of"some prettygirlwhodiedyoung".(ibid.)Pigaryov considerstheaddresseeto beunknown.(A:33ii, vol.1/416)However,ina letter to Gagarin (July 22nd.1836)Tyutchevrefers to Amalia Krudner as having become a "constellation"when she used to be "so beautiful onearth", a reference to her affair withNicholasI, imagerysuggestive of this poem. Itis impossible to besureaboutthe identity of the woman inquestion, but I feel Amalia is a strongcontender.258. March, 1861. Addressed to theGerman journalist, Wilhelm Wolfson,invitedbytheAcademyofSciencestoattendVyazemsky'sjubileecelebrations. Wolfson was a Jew from Odessa who went some way to acquaintingthe western European reader with Russian literature.259.1861.Thefirsttwolinesrelate to the celebrationofthefiftieth anniversary of Vyazemsky's literary career. Thecelebrationstookplace on March 2nd. 1861.260. July25th.1861.Addressee unknown.The poemis repletewithdream-forgetfulnessimagery and the addressee would certainly seem tobe awoman who has appeared in more than one lyric up till now.261.1861.Addressedto his eldest daughter,Anna,whoseworkaslady-in-waiting and tutor in the royal household is described,strippedofany idealisation, in her diary and notes, Pri dvore dvukh imperatorov/At theCourtof TwoEmperors (C:19). Anna was an honest, devout womanofstrongmind and her own opinions. In her diary entry for May 19th. 1855 she writes:"Thecourtier's profession is not at all as easy as people think, and to doit properly one needs a talent notpossessed by everyone. You need toknowhow to find the point of departure of support,so that you actually want toplay with dignity the role of friend and lackey, so that you caneasily andgaily go from the living room to theservants' area, always ready to listentothe mostintimate confidences of the lordand carry his coat and bootsfor him. Pascal's words,applied to manin general, are applicable tothecourtier". She then quotes Pascal's pensee [163]:S'il se vante, je l'abaisseS'il s'abaisse, je le vanteEt je contredis toujoursJusqu'a ce qu'il comprenneQu'il est un monstre incomprehensible.***If he boasts, I put him down,if he puts himself down, I build him up,and I always contradictuntil he understandsthat he is an incomprehensible monster.262. December 6th. 1861. A telegram sent tohis brother, Nikolay,andbrother-in-law, Nikolay Sushkov (1796-1871), on their name day.263. 1861. Aimed at Grigory Fillipson (1809-1883), the administrator oftheSt.Petersburgeducationauthority and writtenonaccountofhismeasures against studentsduring theunrest of 1861.Filippson had been acossack chieftain.Apun on the literal translationof theGerman name, Fillipson, intoRussianSyn Filippa/Sonof Phillip. Alexanderthe Great wasthesonofPhillip of Macedonia.264. April 14th. 1862. This and the following poem were sent to Fetonthe latter'srequestthatTyutchevsendhimaportrait.AfanasyFet(1820-92)had a great deal ofrespect for Tyutchevandthe two were goodfriends. Of this championof the rights of pure poetry whose melodic naturelyrics and imagist style and classical themesgave way, in his later years,tomorephilosophical and metaphysical verse, Mirsky writes:"The highestsummitsof Fet's later poetry are reachedin his love poems, certainly themost extraordinary and concentratedly passionate love poemsever written bya man of seventy (not excepting Goethe)". (C:2/236)265.April 14th.1862.See previous note. Thepoem would bebetterunderstoodif directed atTyutchev himself.Fet's talent notwithstanding,this should be seen as a polite, certainly sincere compliment, but one whichperhaps over-states Fet's abilities as poet of nature.266. May,1862. Tyutchevre-worksversesby his daughter, Anna. TheHolyMountains are a monastery on thenorthern Donets in the Izyumsky uezd(an administrativeregion) of the Kharkov province. Anna was rather unhappywithherfather's meddling inherown poeticattempts.Writingto hersister, Ekaterina, she says, "I'msending you some new verses which I wroteabout the HolyMountains and which dad has re-workedin hisown style. Itgoes withoutsaying that his are incomparably better than mine; however, hehasnotputacrossmythoughts exactlyas I understood them". Her poemfollows.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 stenoiPsalmopen'e, zvon svyatoiDo zautreni molchatPod ogradoyu tolpoi,Osvyashchyonnye lunoi,Bogomol'tsy mirno spyat...........I s krestom tam na cheleBelym prizrakom vo t'meNad Dontsom utyos stoit.I, kak dukh minuvshikh dnei,On molitvoyu svoyeiBogomol'tsev storozhit...........Vo skale toi svyashchenoiIskoni chernets smirennyiPodvig very sovershal,I v dukhovnom sozertsan'eSkol'ko slyoz i vozdykhaniiPered Bogom izlival...........Ottogo, kak dukh blazhennyi,Velichavyi i smirennyiNad Dontsom ytyos stoit,I v tishi poroi nochnoiOn molitvoi vekovoiSpyashchii 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 dwellingpsalm-singing and sacred ringingare silent until prime.Crowding together behind their enclosure,illuminated by the moon,the holy monks sleep peacefully...........And there with the cross on its browlike a poor spectre in the mistabove the Donets the cliff stands.And, like a spirit of bygone days,with its prayerit stands guard over the monks...........In this sacred mountainsince time immemorial a humble monkcarried out his task,and in spiritual contemplationso many tears and lamentationsdid he pour out before God...........This is why, like a sacred spirit,majestic and humblethe cliff stands above the Donetsand in the still of the nightwith its eternal prayerrevives the sleeping world.267.February,1863.TheepigramisaimedatTolstoy'sstory,Kazaki/TheCossacks.Thewriter,EvgeniyaTur, whileacknowledging thestory'sartisticmertis,nonethelesssawinitapoeticisationof"drunkenness, brigandage,thieving, blood lust". Tyutchev's epigram appearsto echo her feelings.Tur was a writer of prose and literary criticism, ajournalist and wasbestknown as awriter of children's stories. Her workis very much alongChristian moralistic lines. Among her many tutors was Raich.268.August,1863. Moscow.The verse isa reaction to thecombineddiplomaticmove on thepartof England, France andAustria in connectionwith the Polish uprising.Stanza 3 contains a hint at the part playedby the Catholicclergy inthe uprising.269.November12th.1863.DedicatedtotheSt.PetersburgGovernor-General,Prince A. Suvorov(1804-1882),grandson ofthefamouscommander. Suvorov was a relatively liberal administrator. While this earnedhimthesympathiesof the St. Petersburgpopulation,it gained himtheanimosity of the more conservative elements in society. The poem was writtenonaccountofSuvorov'srefusal tosign the welcomingaddresstotheGovernor-General of the north-western region, M.Muravyov, renowned for hissavage reprisalsagainst PolishandLithuanian insurgents.His Draconiantactics earnedhimthesobriquetVeshatel'/Hangman. TyutchevandotherPan-Slavists supported Muravyov's measures.270. Possibly 1863 and probably written to N. Akinfeva. Thepoem hintsat A. Gorchakov's feelings for N. Akinfeva.271. Possibly some time after 1863. Nikolay Krol' (1823-71) was a minorpoet and dramatist and, with Polonsky, one of the few people who were linkedwith democratic cricles with whom Tyutchev had any dealings.272. February, 19th.-21st. 1864. On the death of CountDmitryBludov,February 19th. the third anniversary of the publication of the manifestoonthe reform of serfdom.273. April 12th. 1864. Sent to Darya on her birthday.274. October, 1864. Geneva. As so often, Tyutchevencompasses manyofhispoeticthemesinoneveryshort poem.Here,withinthenaturalframework, there is the sea-movement of Na Neve/On the Neva [172], the lush,leaf-rustling,sunny feel ofso many,andthe anguish of thememoryofElena's death..... one grave less: a reference to Elena.275. Late 1864. Nice. Dedicated to the memory of Elena's final hours.276.November3rd.1864.Nice.DedicatedtotheEmpress,MariaAlexandrovna.277. November21st. 1864. Tyutchev lived in Nice from October 18th. ofthisyearto March 4th.1865.Leavingthe towninthe spring of 1865,Tyutchev wrote to Anna: "Italy has played a strange role in my life... Twiceit has appeared before me like some fateful vision, afterthetwo greatestsorrowsI have ever been fated to experience... Therearecountries wherethey wear the mourning of bright flowers. Obviously, this is my lot ...."ThetwosorrowswerethedeathsofEleonoreandElena.Hischaracteristic impatience with anything which prevented him from being amongpeopleis describedin a letter Anna wroteto her sister, Ekaterina (Dec.4th.1864):"Just imagine what poor dadis like when theweather'slikethis. When it'sraining in Nice, no-onegoesout, sociallife comes to ahalt, the cabs vanish, the streets become impassable. Poor dad is thoroughlydown-hearted".278. November, 1864. Nice. Inspired by his meeting with the Empress.279. November, 1864. Written in connection with the promulgation of theencyclicalofPiusIX, condemning, among other"aberrations of the age",freedom of conscience.Stanza 1containsa referenceto the destructionof thetempleofJerusalem by the Romans in 70 A.D.280.1864.AddressedtoPrinceAlexanderGorchakov (1798-1883), aconspicuous figure in government, from 1856 occupying thepostof MinisterofForeignAffairs.HereplacedtheAustrophil,CountK.Nesselrode(1780-1862).WhileTyutchevconsideredithisdutytosupportthenationalistmotives behind Gorchakov's policies, towhich numerous lettersand versesbearwitness,nonethelesshecausticallymockedtheman'sambition andself-love,calling him "thenarcissusofhis own inkwell".Gorchakov was inordinately proud of his prose style. His vanity even came tothe attention of Bismarck, whoonce remarkedthat Gorchakov was "incapableof steppingoverapuddle withoutexamining his own reflectioninit".(C:7/43)There is an allusion here to Gorchakov's diplomatic activity during thePolish uprising and to the rebuff thrown him by the foreign powers.Aksakovpoints tothe veiledsuggestionthat"newconstraints arethreatening the Russian press". (A:1/281)281. January,1865. The poem was distorted when Darya copied it and itappeared inprint in suchamanner thatTyutchev was extremelyannoyed,claiming they had published without informing him and presented the poem "inits ugliest form". He further complained to the editorial board in February:"God knows, I place very little value on myverses, even less now than everbefore, but I see no reason to take responsibility for poetry which does notbelong to me".282.January12th. 1865.Dedicated to Darya. Thetext ends with thefollowingwords:"Mydear daughter, keepthis inmemoryof yesterday'sstrolland ourconversation,butdon't showit toanyone.Letitbemeaningfulonly tous two.... I embrace and bless youwith allmy heart.F.T."We donot know what they talked about, although the firststanza doesappear to have something in common with the following lines from a letter hewrote to Darya in September, 1864: " .... if there were anything which couldlift my spirits,could create at least an outward appearance oflife, thenit is topreserve myself for you, to dedicate myself to you, my poor, sweetchild, you, so loving and so alone, outwardly so apparently lacking in senseandsodeeplysincere,to you I have, perhaps, bequeathed this frightfulcapacity which hasnoname, whichdestroys allequilibrium in life, thisthirst for love which in you, my poor child, has remained unassuaged".283. January, 1865.Written on account of the address toAlexander IIby the Moscownobilityconcerning the convocation of the Zemskaya duma(arepresentative district council in Russia in the last half of the century uptillthe Revolution).Tyutchev'sfrequent reactionary outbursts must haveirritatedmany less capable of expressing their feelings than he.However,on thisoccasion, he appears to have got almost as goodas he gave, as thefollowing anonymous reply to his epigram demonstrates:Vy oshibaetesya grubo,I v vashei Nitstse dorogoiSlozhili, vidno, vmeste s shuboiVy 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 KonstantinI gdye slilis' v odno svetilo,Valuev, Reitern, Golovnin?Net, nam parlamenta ne nuzhno,No pochemu zh nas proklinat'Za to, chto my derznuli druzhnoI gromko karaul krichat'?***You made a coarse mistake,and in your dear Niceyou'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 landwhere right now Constantine rulesand where, into one luminary, there have mergedValuev, Reitern and Golovnin?No, we don't need a parliament,but why curse usfor daring in a friendly mannerto loudly sound the alarm?The references are to Grand Duke Konstantin, from 1865 Chairmanof theStateCouncil; PyotrValuev (1816-1890),homeaffairs minister;financeminister,MikhailReytern (1826-1886)andeducation minister,AlexanderGolovnin (1821-1886).In the exclusiveEnglishclub, high-ranking civil servantsand thosewithwhomit wasimportanttobe seen wouldgather to playcardsandbilliards, converse andtake part inreadings. Tyutchev's brother, Nikolaywasin the club when he diedsuddenlyonDecember 8th. 1870. He sufferedfrom a heart condition.284. Late March, 1865. Petersburg.Dedicated tothe memoryof Elena.Lines fromTyutchev'sletterofOctober 1864to her brother-in-law,A.Georgievsky (1830-1911), arehis epistolaryvariant of this poem:"I justcan't geton with life.... I can't geton... Thewound isfesteringandwon't heal. Call it faint-heartedness, call it impotence, I don't care. Onlyin hercompany andfor her wasI an individual, only in herlove, in herlimitlessloveforme was Iawareofmyself...Now I'm somesortofunthinking living thing, some living, tormented nothing...".285.EarlyApril,1865.Writtenontheoccasionofthe100th.anniversary of the death ofLomonosov,marked on April 4th. ofthat year.Sending the first draft of hispoem to A. Maykov, Tyutchev wrote: "Here, myfriend...are afew poor rhymes for our festival.Ican manage nothingbetterthanks tomypresent disposition". WhileMaykov took part intheproceedings, Tyutchev's verses were not read out for some reason.Onhisdeathbed, 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 atdawnthathis night-longstrugglehad beenwithGod. (Genesis,XXXII,24-32).286. April 8th. 1865. St.Petersburg. The eldest son ofAlexander II,Nikolay (1843-1865), died on April 12th.287. April 12th. 1865. On the death of Grand Duke Nikolay.288. April30th.1865.TheepigramisdirectedatCountSergeiStroganov, entrusted with the care of the heir tothe throne, and refers torumours thatthe count'sukhod/care might havebeen the ukhod/ruin of theyoung man. The verb ukhodit' can mean"to wear out" and colloquially "to doin".Inadiaryentry (April17th. 1865),A. Nikitenko tellsusthatTyutchev was convinced thatthe heirhad been "worn out by theridiculouseducation he had received, especially by the kind that Stroganov had imposedonhim in recent years. His physical condition was completely ignored; theyexhausted himdreadfully by forcing him tostudyandperformbeyond hiscapacityandby ignoring thesalutarywarnings ofcertainlevel-headeddoctors.... The Emperor was kept in complete ignoranceof his condition. Sonotuntilseveral daysbeforetheheir's deathdidthe Emperorlearnaccidentally from a state messenger about the imminent tragedy". (C:24/297)289. May11th. 1865.WhenAksakovwrotethathe did notlike thebarbarism protest in the final stanza,Tyutchev deletedthe entire stanza.Tyutchev,as iswell known, tended tolose sight all together of his bestlyrics once he had writtenthem. Since the immediate inspiration was of thefirstimportance in the composition of so many ofhis poems, I have chosentoreinstatethefinal stanza. Theepigraphcomes fromthe Epistolarumliber/BookofLetters (B:1/282)of the Roman poet Ausonius(4th. CenturyBC):est et harundineis modulatio musica ripiscumque suis loquitur tremulum coma pinea uentis.***There is musical harmony in the reeds along river banksandthe hair (i.e. leaves) ofpinetreesspeaks tremulously toitswinds.Theepigraph shows a clear parallelwith thepoem on Goethe'sdeath[89]....the thinking reed: le roseau pensant of Pascal'sfamous aphorism,"Man is no more than theweakestreedin nature - butheis athinkingreed". (Pensees [231])290. May 30th. 1865. Yakov Polonsky (1819-98) was a poet andfriend ofTyutchev, with whom he served on thecensorshipcommittee. Heshared withmany poetsthe distinction of havinghis lyrics rubbished by Belinskyforlack of civic feeling.291. June5th.1865.Dedicated toN. Akinfeva andwrittenatherrequest to compose something for her album.292. June28th.1865. Agreetings telegramsent to Vyazemsky on hisname-day. Appended are the words, "Here are some fairly bad verses to pleasethe 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 stanzarecalls Elena, we are notsure as to thepoem's addressee. Alexander Georgievsky (1829-1911), Elena'sbrother-in-law, is a possibility.295. July 25th. or 29th. 1865. Onceagain, allegorical interpretationsare 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 andMolchit somnitel'no Vostok/The east isdoubtful, silent [295] share structure with the following poem [298], thougheach,likeFontan/TheFountain[119],istooclearlyaimingataphilosophical or political statement.298. August 18th. 1865. Theprevious day Tyutchev had left OvstugforDyad'kovo, returning the following day. The poem was written en route.299.November 23rd.1865.Theoldseparationtheme returnsinastrikingimage.Tyutchev'sanguishaboutthepastisrarelyabsentthroughout his life.300.December21st.1865.Thisclearly concernsNadezhda Akinfeva(1839-91), nee Annenkova,thegreat-niece of Prince A.Gorchakov, and wasinspired by gossip caused by her divorce and proposed marriage to her uncle.301.March 1st.1866. Dedicated to Countess A.Bludova,daughter ofCount D. Bludov.302. Written after the abortive attempt by Dmitry Karakozov on the lifeofAlexander II (April4th. 1866).Theterrorist wasayoung, neuroticmember of a tiny group calling itself Hell. Karakozov shot at and missed thetsar, was interviewed by him in person and hanged.303.April12th. 1866. St.Petersburg. Theprevious poemmayhaveelicited some official reaction and these lines could be a response to that.304. April,1866.AddressedtoA. Suvorov.Therelatively liberalSuvorov washeld partly responsible for the attempt on theTsar's life andwas removed from office. The sharptoneofTyutchev'spoem reflectsthedislikefelt for theprince amongthemoreconservativeSt. Petersburgcircles.305.May 11th. 1866. In connection with the intentionof the Ministryof Internal Affairs to suspend the journal Moskovskie vedomosti/MoscowNewsfor three months. Tyutchev was close to the editorial board at the time.306. June3rd.1866. When Samuil Greig (1827-87), who had once servedin the horse guards, was movedfrom the Admiralty to become deputyfinanceminister, Tyutchev pointed that that if they had given Reitern,the financeminister, command of a regiment ofhorse guards, Russiawould be shaken toits foundations by the howls of protest, despite the fact that administeringthefinancesofthe RussianEmpirewassomewhatmoredifficultthancommanding a regiment.307. July 1866. Tsarskoe Selo.Time and thephysical presence of swanvoices are joined as reflections in water.308. September 2nd. 1866. Count Mikhail Muravyov died on August 31st.309.September1st.-3rd.1866.Vyazemsky'ssatiricalpoems,Vospominaniya iz Bualo/Recollections from Boileau and Khlestakov/Khlestakov,were directed attheeditor ofthe Russkii vestnik/The Russian Herald andTheMoscowNews. Theopenlynationalistic editor,M. Katkov believed inlecturing the authorities, a trait Vyazemsky hated.Tyutchev's poem appearstobe adefence of Kakov.It isalsoan obliqueattackon Vyazemsky'sdislike of anything new. Tyutchev once compared Vyazemsky's attitude totheyoungergenerationtothatof the"prejudiced,hostileexplorer firststepping foot on foreign soil of which he has no knowledge. (LET. ERN., Jan.3rd.1869). Inorder to maintain anold friendship intact, Tyutchev askedfor the poem not to be published.310. September 17th. 1866. Petersburg.On the occasion ofthe arrivalin St.Petersburg of the Danish Princess Dagmar(1847-1928), bride oftheheirtothethrone,thefutureAlexanderIII.Dagmar,laterMariaFyodorovna,had, infact, been thefiancee ofAlexander's elder brother,Nikolay Alexandrovich. (See [286].)311.November28th. 1866.Thepoemencapsulates theidea ofmanySlavists (indeed,of manyRussians through the agesup till thepresent)that Russia wasa landwithaway of lifeallitsown,significantlydifferent to European states.314.Late December,1866. TR of aFrench poemwhich Ihave yettolocate.315. July1867. Connected withthe Cretanrebellionof1866. MaryamentionsLady Georgina Eliza Buchanan, wifeof the British Ambassador, SirAndrew Buchanan (1807-82, Ambassador Extraordinary to Russia), making a quipaboutunbalpourlescretins/aballforcretins,insteadofforchretiens/Christians. Such British aristocratic arrogance cannot have failedto anger Tyutchev. On the other hand, Lady Buchanan's father, 11th. baron ofBlantyre,hadbeenkilled by astray bulletduring aninsurrectioninBrussels in September 1830, soher attitude towards revolutionary movementswouldhavebeen somewhat coloured. Shewasthe third daughter ofRobertWalter Stuartandthe second wife of theambassador. AndrewBuchanan hadbeen a paid attache in St. Petersburg in the late 1830sand Tyutchevmighthave met him. Buchanan's first diplomatic duties took him to Constantinople.(See [326].)Ironically, someyearsearlier, Tyutchevhimself had played with theFrench word cretins, asAnna mentions in a letter to Vyazemsky (1854): "Dadisnow like ananimal throwing itselfaround itscage.He isextremelydisheartened at the way events haveturned and finds that people are prettystupid and the world isabsurd.He says that this isa war ofscoundrelsagainst cretins (c'est la guerre des gredins contre les cretins - FJ)".316. Summer, 1867.In1897,abook was published entitled Bratskayapomoshch'postradavshimvTurtsii/armyanam Armenii/Fraternal AidtotheArmeniansSuffering inTurkey.Tyutchev's poemappeared onp.128 (A:20,vol.1/179-181).317. 1866-67. Directed atPrince PyotrShuvalov (1827-1889). Chief ofpoliceand head ofthe Third Section (the political police), Shuvalovwasnicknamed "Alexander IV" and "Arakcheev II". Arakcheev was a petty noble whorose to high rank under Paul I (reigned1796-1801), finding favour with thetsarbyrelentless drillingof his troops and variousruthlessmeasurestaken against dissidents.318. March 1st. Addressed to Countess A. Bludova.319. April,1867.OnTyutchev'sfirst readingof Turgenev's novel,Dym/Smoke. The novelwas considered "lamentable" by many andconsidered tobethe beginning of the decline of the novelist's artistic career. Tyutchevwas extremelydispleased withit,especiallyits"moral feel"andtheabsenceof any "nationalfeeling": "Smoke is stillbeing read, and peoplehave not yet formed an opinion on it. Yesterday, I visited F.I. Tyutchev, hehad just readit andwas very displeased. Whileadmitting the skillwithwhich the main character was depicted, he deplored bitterly the ethical moodpervadingthenovellaandthetotallackofpatrioticsentiment".(A:2/420-430)320. May,1867. The mainimage ofthe poem compares the "mightyandbeautiful", "magic, kindred"forest of the1850s, i.e.Turgenev's earliernovels, with hislaterwork, whosetitle suggests that theeducatedandintellectualsofRussiaare so muchsmoke. Tyutchev genuinelyrespectedTurgenev'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 locationmarks the place ofthe battleat which the Turks, led by Murad II, defeated the Serbs in 1389.The Serbian Prince Lazar waskilled. Atthat time the Turks were advancingrapidly through the Balkans. The battle is oneofthose inanycountry'shistory which takes on symbolic importance to its people, here the Serbs.White Mountain: a hilly area near Prague. Thedefeat of theCzechs bytheGerman Emperor Ferdinand II onNovember 8th. 1620ledto the loss ofCzech political independence.After thatpoint Bavarian Catholicelementstook over from the formerProtestant German and Czech nobility and employedterror to attempt to oust Protestantism.322. May 11th. 1867. The epigraph is the words of the Austrian MinisterofForeign Affairs, Count Friedrich von Beust,who conducted ananti-Slavpolicy ("The Slavs must be pressed against the wall"). At theSlav Congressof this year, the poem was read twice to rapturous applause.323. 1867.In this postscriptto the earlierpoem, K Ganke/ToHanka[136], Tyutchev referstothe first so-called All-Slav festival, having inmind the Slavonic Congress which took place in 1867. Itfollowed on from anEthnographic Exhibitionin Moscow, therebeing a Slavonic section. InMay1867, eightyonerepresentativesof various Slav nations arrivedattheexhibition and celebrations followedin St. Petersburg from May 8th. to May15th. andin Moscow for a further twelve days. Petrovich (C:26)points outthat this "congress" (s''ezd) was more a get-together thana real congress.Despite the aspirations of the guests, such conferences and celebrations hadno hard political significance.324. May, 1867. St. Petersburg. Tyutchev was ever irritated by whathesaw as a haughty lack of nationalist feeling onthe part of the powers thatbe and a polite society which followed fashionable fawning after Europe.325. June 13th.1867.Onthefiftieth anniversary of A. Gorchakov'sentry into public life.326. Mid-July, 1867. On the occasion of Queen Victoria'sacceptance ofthe Sultan as her guest. Sentto Lady Buchanan. (See [315].) In a letter toAksakov(Aug. 23rd.1867),Tyutchev continues snipingatTurkey:"FuadPasha's embassyto Levadeia(a major town in eastern Greece- FJ) Livadiawas confined to an exchange of banalities, and the order theyawarded him -going againstPrinceGorchakov's view- was nomore than routine ritual,significant only in the sensethatsuch absurdity demonstrates howlittletoday's mood is understood, or how little value is placed on it".Having unsuccessfully triedtopersuade the Turks to returnCrete toGreece, although union was, indeed, vetoed by Britain, Alexander II saw fit,nonetheless,to awardMehmet FuadPashathe OrderofAlexander Nevsky.Tyutchev was characteristically incensed by the entire affair, notleast bywhat he perceived as the constant stupidity of Russian diplomacy.327. October 14th. 1867.Duringa session of the Chief Council of theManagementofPressAffairs,CountP.Kapnist (1830-98)noticedthatTyutchev"wasextremelyvacant-lookingandwasscribblingordrawingsomething ona sheetof paper on thetable infront ofhim".(A:33/ii,vol.1/430)After the meeting he left,looking very thoughtful, leaving thepaper.Kapnistretrievedthepaper "with which to rememberafavouritepoet".328. October27th. 1867.On the struggle between Garibaldi's patriotsand the papal forces, the result being the unification of Italy in 1870.... and whoever.... a reference tothe assistance the French gavethePope.Lines 9-12 are addressed to Pius IX (1792-1878).329.December 5th. 1867. In connection withRussia's refusal to agreetothe guaranteed integrity of the Turkish Empire. Tyutchev's hope that theSlavpeoples would rise against the Turks cametonothing. The Journal deSt. 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 theSt. Petersburg vicinity. Writing to Ekaterina, Tyutchev describes withsomehumour the situation in which "... I'm choking not only from the suffocatingheat of the town (Staraya Russa -FJ), but aswellfrom the smoke ofthefire which, for several miles all around, envelops all of Petersburg, thanksto theburning peat which isbeing allowed to burn quitequietly.... Theytell us it will makeexcellent soil. Well, let's suffer for the sake of thefuture".332. August 2nd.1868. On a farmstead at Gostilovka, near Ovstug.333. Late August, 1868. Pogodin was an undergraduate friend of Tyutchevand the two remained close throughout their lives.334. September 21st.1868. Egor Kovalevsky was a student of the MiddleEast.335. Mid-April, 1868.Tyutchev expressed a similar view in a letter tohis brother, Nikolay (April 13th. 1868), claiming that all the officialsoftheMinistry of InternalAffairs were "moreorless aset of rogues andlooking atthem is enough to make you feel sick, though our trouble is thatthis nausea never actually comes to throwing up".336.1868-early1869.AvariationonathemefromHeine'sTheHomecoming [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 bedand the young nightingale sings in it,singing about honourable love,I hear it as if in a dream.337.Mid-January,1869.AimedatVladimirSkaryatin,theultra-reactionary, anti-Slavophileeditorof the aristocratic, short-livednewspaper Vest'/The News. Line 8 is a reference to theclosure of Aksakov'sMoskva/Moscow in 1868, after which the Slavophilshad noseparate voice inthe press.szlachta: the Polish petty nobility.338. February 5th. 1869. To A. Gorchakov.339.1869.FirstprintedinthepamphletentitledPrazdnovanietysyacheletnei pamyati pervosvyatitelya slavyan sv. Kirilla 14 fevralya 1869g. v S.-Peterburge i Moskve/A Celebration of the OneThousandth Anniversaryof the High Prelate ofthe Slavs, the Great Saint Cyril,April 14th. 1869,inSt.PetersburgandMoscow.St.Cyrilwas one oftheteachers andconvertersoftheSlavs, theconversion of whom, in the south, took realform in the 9th. century. He andSt. Methodius are credited with giving theSlavs their Cyrillic alphabet.340. February 27th. 1869. If further evidence were needed of Tyutchev'sability to say a lot ina verysmall space,this poem provides it. One ofhis favouriteideas, that of blagodat'/grace(also "abundance"),seenassomethingwhich"comesnaturally"tous(dayotsya),isjoinedwithsochuvstvie/sympathy,but thereis no evidenceas to whator to whom the"sympathy" might refer.341.March,1869.Thisis a longer, more consideredpoemthan theshorter 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 referenceisto the gardens laid out byPeter Iaround the Ekaterinintal palace, built by him near Tallin.344.July11th.1869.Otrada,Serpukhovuezd,Moscowprovince.Addressed to the wife of a well known public figure, Count V. Orlov-Davydov.Tyutchev visited thefamilyat their estate, Otrada,famous for itsfinecollection of rare books (C:15/247) and was there on his hostess's name day.Aksakov describesOrlova-Davydova asa "curious phenomenon andremarkablecharacter" (A:20, vol.1/181) who spent most ofher time in the country, hada hospital built on their estate, opened schools for peasant women and did avery great deal to alleviate the situation of the Otrada peasants.In their ownway,many aristocratsand members of the petty nobilityactedphilanthropically, vaguely aware ofthe condition of the vast massesofpeasants intheir country.Tyutchev, ofcourse, could notresist thetemptation to lookcynically at theirefforts, while enjoying the results.In the winterof 1867-8 famine struck parts of northern and central Russia.He wrotetoAnna(February1868);"Right nowwe'reupto our ears infestivals,balls andconcerts ... thanks tothe famine... Thismethod ofshowing how tobe charitable towards people is the equivalent of an amusingtask dreamedupfor the teaching of children, and the result is thesame.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 displayofmaking subscriptions, what will neverbe established, even as a warningfor the future, is the part played by the administration's lack of foresightand negligence in the disaster striking the country".WithsuchwordsTyutchevshowsyetagainhisgenuineangeratadministrative ineptitude, his contempt forthe society ofwhichhe was amember,and his equallystrong desireto be a conspicuouspartofthatsociety.345.August, 1869.WrittenafterameetinginKievwithAndreyMuravyov. (See [13].)Inaletter of August 16th.1869, MuravyovthanksTyutchev for his verses, quoting some lines from Schiller:Die Konige und die PoetenWohnen auf Menschen-Hohen.***Kings and poetslive on humanity's heights.The temple is the Andreevsky cathedral in Kiev, built in the eighteenthcentury according to a Rastrelli design.346. August 16th. 1869. Written on one his lastvisits to thevillageof Ovstug.The dog isRomp, the family pet, who, true tohis breed,swambackwards and forwards chasing fowl during a walk.347. August, 1869. Ovstug. The absenceof ariddleis,perhaps, theabsence of any kind of faith.348. August,1869. On the five-hundredth anniversary ofthebirth ofthe reforming Czech preacher and martyr, Jan Hus(1369-1415), a patriot andreligious leaderwho ledhis people in a revolt againstPapal andGermandomination. Some considered Husto havebeen put to death byanti-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.FirsthalfofOctober,1869.Onthecelebrations inEgyptfollowing the opening of the Suez Canal. The shrewd Khedive Ismail succeededin staging a major public relations exercise bytouring Europe and invitingasmany countries aspossible to attend the opening. From General IgnatievofRussia(ambassadortoThePorte)toHenrikIbsenofNorway,representativesflockedto Egypt. The festival described by Tyutchevtookplace over several weeks, including trips up the Nile to Assuan for selectedcelebrities. While Tyutchevattacksthe"pasha"forspillingChristianblood, the Khedive, technicallya vassal of The Porte,was exploitingthewaninginfluenceofTurkeyinEgyptand,aimingat eventual Egyptianindependence, was somewhat more in chargeof events than Tyutchev gives himcredit for.The poem is remarkable for the final two stanzas,afavourite formulaTol'ko tam, gde.../Only there, where ...., contrasting two locations, one ofriotous happiness, the otherof horror and fear.In [111] Tyutchev employsthe same structure to refer to mountains disappearing into the distance in alight-hearted poem with a fairytale feel to it. The same structure used hereimparts an eerie, nocturnal atmosphere of dread.351.December17th. 1869. Addressed to therenownedJewishSlavistphilologist,ethnographer andcompilerof legends from the Onegaregion,Alexander Hilferding(1831-1871). Chosen as a junior memberof thesecondsectionof the Academy ofSciences, ameeting of the conference failed toelect him a full member. It was said that theGerman members of the academyconsidered hima renegade,having renouncedhisGerman roots to become aRussian. His family had movedfrom Germany in the early eighteenth century.Hilferding and Tyutchev were good friends.352.December 22nd. 1869. Dedicated to the musicianand singerYuliaAbaza, nee Stubbe. She wasfriendly with Gounod andLiszt and participatedin the foundation of the Russian Musical Society.353. The 1860s. Nothing is known about the theme nor the addressee.354.PossiblyNovember27th. 1869.Although Ernestinehaswritten"Hilferding" on the manuscript,Pigaryov has his doubts in view of the highesteem in which Tyutchev held this scholar.355. February, 1870. TR Goethe: Clarchen's song from Egmont (III,2).FreudvollUnd leidvoll,Gedankenvoll sein,LangenUnd bangenIn schwebender Pein,Himmelhoch jauchzend,Zum Tode betrubt;Glucklich alleinIst die Seele, die Liebt.***To be full of joyand full of sorrowand of thought,to get byand to fearin hovering agony,rejoicing to the skies,depressed to death;happily aloneis the soul which loves.Egmontwas written over aboutseven years duringthe1780s and is adrama ofrevolutionarynationalism set in the Netherlands in 1566-8 on theeveof the country's rebellionagainstPhillip IIof Spain.Egmont is acharismatic count.356.March, 1870. Composedtobe readatanevening with"livingpictures" in aid of the Slavonic Charitable Committee.The perfidious kaisar was the GermanEmperor, Sigismund. WhenHus wassummonedtothechurchcouncilinConstanz,Sigismundgavehimasafe-conduct pass but, under pressure from the council, declared it null andvoid.According to legend, one old lady threw a handful of brushwood onto thepyre,callingforth thewords, Sancta simplicitas!/Holy simplicity!fromHus.357. Early July, 1870. Written as hewas travelling totake the bathsat Karlsbad via Vilnius, just south east of Kaunas on the Neman. In a letterwritten from thespa,hecomplained bitterly to Elena Bogdanova thatthewaterswere only making himfeel worse. Bogdanova (1823-1900) was awidow(nee BaronessUslar,Frolova byherfirstmarriage) withwhom Tyutchevengaged in a affair of some sort during the last six years of his life, muchto the annoyance of his patient family and long-suffering wife.The Polish uprising of 1863 is referred to here.358. July 26th. 1870.Accordingto Polonsky,thereversedinitials("K.B.") stand for "Baroness Krudner",whom Tyutchev metin Karlsbadwithher second husband,Count N.Adlerberg.More recently, however, LaneandNikolaev have established thattheaddresseeis more probablyTyutchev'ssister-in-law, Klothilde. (A:24)359. A telegramsent to Ernestineon September14th. 1870,en routefrom Ovstug to Moscow.360.LateSeptember, 1870. This poem dealswiththe Franco-PrussianWar.WhileTyutchev believed that Germany had right on herside, he couldnot help but experience "a pang of anguish" (Letter to Bogdanova, August) atthe "final collapse of this great and beautifulFrance, whose name has beenso glorious in the history of the world".Unity....: Bismarck's words.361. October27th.1870.Written intothealbumofPlatonVakar(1820-99), a member of the Foreign Censorship Committee.362. NLearly November,1870.Dedicatedto Alexandra Pletnyova (neeShchetinina, 1826-1901). Her husband, the minor poet and critic, P. Pletnyov(1792-1865), had been a friendof Pushkin and was an editor of the latter'smagazine,The Contemporary. NekrasovandPanaev(1812-62),both menofBelinsky'sparty,boughtthemagazinein1864.PrincessShchetinina,Pletnyov's secondwife,was "a womanof rare spiritual qualities. SheissomewhatlikeTyutchev's poetry,inwhichthere isdepthand originalcharm". (C:20, vol.1/77)363. November, 1870. Provokedby the promulgationof State ChancellorPrince N. Gorchakov's declaration that the13th. been abrogated.FollowingRussia'sdefeatin theCrimean War, Article XIII of thePeaceTreaty ofParis (March 30th. 1856), stated: "The Black Sea being neutralised accordingto the termsof Article XI, the maintenance or establishment upon its CoastofMilitary-MaritimeArsenalsbecomesunnecessaryandpurposeless;inconsequence, His Majesty the Emperor of Allthe Russia's,and His ImperialMajesty the Sultan,engage not to establish or tomaintain upon that Coastany Military-Maritime Arsenal..." (C:5, vol./606)The content ofthefinal stanza can be clarified by a letter TyutchevwrotetoAksakovon the 22nd.,inwhich hecontrasts the "hard, worthystance of the cabinet" to the "pitiful and even loathsomebehaviourof thePetersburgsalons",ingratiatingthemselvesintothefavouroftheforeigners.364. November-early December, 1870. Inspired byMaria's desire to workas a Sister of Mercy in the Georgievsky commune.365.December11th. 1870.DedicatedtothememoryofTyutchev'sbrother, Nikolay (1801-1870), who had died three days earlier.According toAksakov, 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 thoughtsand secrets with any one of them in particular, who would not choose any oneofthem for thatexclusivelycloserelationship ofsincerefriendship.NikolayIvanovich Tyutchev loved his brothernotonly with fraternal, butwithpaternaltenderness,and withno-one else wasFyodorIvanovich sointimate,socloselylinkedbyhisownpersonalfatefrom hisverychildhood". (A:1/307)Tyutchev and his brother fell out morethan once butalwaysremainedthefriendsAksakov said they were. Sendingthisverseto EkaterinaonDecember31st. Tyutchevwroteof"this terrible year"(in July hissonDmitry died) and inparticular of "one image... odious and horrible: Itisseeinghim fallen, onthe premises of this clubIknow so well,him, sofrail and fearful,whohad always been afraid of this fall, lyingontheground, injured, fatally stricken and asking people to get him up".As a P.S. to the letter, Tyutchev mentions that the poem was written ina state of "half-sleep" on the way back from Moscow after the funeral.366. Late December, 1870. Theonly extant text is engraved on a silverserviette 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, onsending theverses: "Here'sa quatrainwhich dadcomposed 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, Kmoryu/To the Sea, written on leaving Odessa in 1825:Proshchai, svobodnaya stikhiya!V poslednii raz peredo mnoiTy katish' volny golubyeI bleshchesh' gordoyu krasoy.***Farewell, free element!Before me, one last time,you roll your blue wavesand glitter in proud beauty.Lines 39-40: the grave of Nicholas I.370. Early July,1871. On the anniversary of the proclamation of papalinfallibility (1st. Vatican Council, 1869-70; Pius IX).371.Secondhalf of August,1871. Tyutchev recordshisreflectionsduring a visit to Vshchizh,a formerprincedom wherebarrows may still beseen. Bloody legends are associated with the area's history.372. December 29th. 1871. Dedicated to M. Pogodin.373.NL March 3rd.1872. Writtenonthe death ofthe authoress andtranslator, M. Politkovskaya.374.April 16th.1872 (Easter Sunday).Sent toTyutchev'syoungestdaughter, Maria, who was dying of tuberculosis in Bad Reichenhall, Bavaria.375. April21st. 1872. Sent to Anna on her birthday,whichcoincidedwith the poet's name day, hence the final verse of this telegram.376.November 23rd1872.Writtenin thealbumof MariaPeterson,married to Count Montgelas and the grand-daughter of Tyutchev's first wife.377. NL 1872.Asocial compliment to Ekaterina Zybina (1845-1923) oneof 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.Thecoupletisthe startof anarrangementoftheOrthodoxcanticle,sungat matinson the first three days of the seventhweek of Lent.379. Possibly December, 1872. At this time, Tyutchev was "nailed to hisbed by illness". An improvisation addressed to Bogdanova.380. December 30th. 1872. On the death of Napoleon III. Dictated to hiswife, though havingsuffered his firststroke on December 4th. it cost himgreat effort. The poem copied by Ernestine was so incompletethat A. Maikovedited it atthe request of the editor of the Grazhdanin/Citizen. Accordingto Aksakov, "There is no doubt that Fyodor Ivanovich would have corrected itquitedifferently". As it is,weare not sure how much of the poem we areleft with is actually Tyutchev's.One of Napoleon III's priorities had been torelease France fromwhathe saw as the restrictions imposed upon herby the Congress of Vienna. TsarNicholaswas incensed whentheFrenchrulertook onthe title Emperor.Napoleon was authoritarian and anti-parliamentarian, though certainly shrewdenoughto realise thathis universalplebiscite wouldkeepthelargelyrural, anti-republican vote in his camp.381. January, 1873. Dedicated to EvgeniyaShenshina(1833-1873),neeArseneva.382.LateJanuary, 1873. Tyutchevbased thisverseonanarticlepublished on January 23rd. in theJournal de St. Petersbourg. It dealt withtheRussiancampaign totake the central Asiatic town of Khiva.From thekhanate of Khiva, sorties to capture Russian workers on the eastern coast oftheCaspianseaandusethemasslaveshadlongirritatedRussia.Characteristically agitated by Russian foreign policy, Tyutchev followed thenews in the papersfrom the beginning. The entire matter of the Great Game,thecat-and-mouseplay between Russia and Britaininthat part ofAsia,couldnot fail tospur himto the seriesofabrasiveswipes at Britainencountered in the poem. Russia established a base on theeastern shores oftheCaspianin1869andfromthereproceededtosubjugatemuchofTranscaucasia, ultimatelypushing across to the Pacific.The insane Paul Ihad nursedgrandiose plans tojoin up an army with the French and head viaKhiva and other khanates for India, thereby undermining the British positionon the sub-continent. The project remained a wild dream.383. January 30th. 1873. The governor of Moscow, Pyotr Durnovo, and thehead of the Moscow council, IvanLyamin,inspired this amusingpiece.Itseems that Durnovowas so incensedthatLyaminhadvisited him in tailsrather than in full dress uniform, that throughout the visit hetreated hisguest assubservient. Tyutchev wrote to Anna: "I'd like you to let mehavefurtherdetails of thisincident. Ican'timagine whatgood itdoesagovernment to be represented by badly brought up people".Fromthe middleofthe XIII tothe early XIV centuries, the baskakscollected the Golden Horde's taxes.384. January 30th. 1873. There is a play on words here. Tyutchevsays,"Of course, theywould nothave sent Durnovo",which soundsthe sameassaying,"...theywouldn'thavesentafool" (bothwordspronounceddurnovo).385. 1873.AddressedtoErnestine.Onhisdeathbed, Tyutchev ischaracteristicallyeconomical withhis language.Godhas, hecomplains,taken away his "health", whichpreventshim from enjoying the"air" (thatwhich forhimis "a condition of life", he tells Bogdanovain1870), his"will power", whichhe never had a great deal of to begin with,so perhapsthereis a macabrejoke here, andhis"sleep" and ability to "dream". Ofcourse, themost important thingremains, "love",embodiedby hiswife,allowing him to cling on to the faith he played with all his life.386. February, 1873. Tyutchev offers a final combination of observationand, 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 outthatthispoem, oneof several herefers to as senilia,demonstratesareturn to the childhood style of Lyubeznomu papen'ke/Dear Dad! [1].389. April 17th. 1873.Onthe55th.anniversaryofthebirthofAlexander II. Tyutchev recalls how he and his father were visiting Zhukovskyin Moscow at the time.390. April, 1873. Alexander II intended visiting theTyutchevs,neverhavingbeentotheirhousebefore,and,on hearingofit,Tyutchevcharacteristically noted thatit would be extremely indelicate if, the veryday after such a visit, he did not make a pointof dying. It is not certainwhether or not the visit actually took place.391. April, 1873.Despitean inevitable looseness of structureasaresult 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 tohavebeen written by Tyutchev andsenttoAlexanderNikitenko,professorofRussianliteratureattheUniversityof St. Petersburganda member ofthecensorshipcommittee.Written after the text arethe words: "When shall I see you, my friend, I'mfrightfully depressed and sad".341

                * SELECTIVE BIBLIOGRAPHY *

                TYUTCHEV'S LETTERSNocompleteedition of Tyutchev's lettershas yet appeared, althoughbeforehis death Pigaryovwas working on such aproject. Todate, in theregion of 1,330 letters written have been located.When referring to them Igive only dates and addressees.ABBREVIATIONSAN SSSRAkademiya nauk SSSRKLKhudozhestvennaya literatureLLeningradMMoscowMLMoscow-LeningradRANRossiiskaya akademiya naukRLRusskaya literaturaPSPolnoe sobranieSSSobranie sochineniiSSt.Sobranie stikhotvoreniiSPSovetskii pisatel'TRTranslated byUPUniversity PressInthe case of anthologies and collections, the first nameafterthetitleis that of the editor-in-chief orprincipalcontributor. Titles notgiven in English areof works which, to the best ofmy knowledge, have notbeen translated into English.


                Mostworksabout Tyutchev are in the form ofthe thesis, articleoressay. Far from being exhaustive, Section A contains materials I have eitherquoted 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": TextologyandExegesis of the Bogatyrev Manuscript. SEEJ, No.3, 1986. (pp.420-430)3. Berkovsky, L.Stikhotvoreniya. BP, ML, 1962.4. Bilokur, D.A Concordance tothe 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, KozmaPrutkov, Dobrolyubov. KL, L,1970(pp.9-75)7. Chulkov, G.Letopis' zhizni i tvorchestva F. I. Tyutcheva. ML, 1933.8. Coates, W.TiutchevandGermany:theRelationshipofhisPoetrytoGermanLiterature 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. WigzellFet on Tiutchev in Russian Writers on Russian Writers, Berg, 1994.13. Ginzburg, L.O lirike. SP, ML, 1964.14. Gregg, R.FedorTiutchev:The Evolution of aPoet. Columbia UniversityPress,1965.15. Grekhnyov, V.VremyavkompozitsiistikhotvoreniiTyutcheva.ANSSSR,Seriyaliteratury 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'speriod in Turin (October 1837 - October 1839). New Zealand Slavonic Journal,1989- 90.ii. Bibliographyof works byand about F.I. Tyutchev to1985.AstraPress, 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'sDiplomaticCareerinMunich(1822-37). IrishSlavonic Studies, 15, 1994. (pp.17-43).v. F.I. Tyutchev's Service Absenteeism and Second Marriage in the Lightof Unpublished Documents (1839). Irish Slavonic Studies, No. 8, 1987. (pp.6-13).vi. Hunting Tyutchev'sLiterary Sourcesin Poetry,Prose andPublicOpinion. In Memory of NikolayAndreyev. Ed. W. Harrison. Avebury PublishingCompany, 1984. (pp.43-68).vii. Pascalian and Christian Existential Elements in Tyutchev's Lettersand Poems. Forumfor ModernLanguageStudies, Vol.XVIII,No.4, October1982.viii. The Life and Work of F.I. Tyutchev. Ph.D. Cambridge, 1970.ix.Tyutchev in the1820s-1840s.AnUnpublishedCorrespondenceof1874-5. Irish Slavonic Studies, No.3, 1982. (pp.2-13).x.Tjutcev'sMissiontoGreece(1833)AccordingtoDiplomaticDocuments. Russian Literature XXIII. North-Holland, 1988. (pp.265-280).xi.Zagranichnayapoezdka Tyutchevav1853g.LN,vol.97: FyodorIvanovich Tyutchev, bk.2, "Nauka", 1988. (pp.464-470)19. Liberman, A.On the Heightsof Creation:The Lyrics ofFedor Tyutchev.JAIInc.Russian & European Studies, vol. 2, 1991.20. Literaturnoe nasledstvo. T.97:Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev, "Nauka",1988.21. Maimin, E.Russkayafilosofskayapoeziya: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.Thisarticlewasactuallyco-written by R. Lane.25. Ozerov, L.Poeziya Tyutcheva. M, 1975.26. Pigaryov, K.Zhizn' i tvorchestvaF. I. Tyutcheva. AN SSSR, M, 1962, republished in1978 as F. I Tyutchev i ego vremya..27. Pratt, S.RussianMetaphysicalRomanticism:ThePoetryofTiutchevandBoratynskii. Studies of the Russian Institute, Columbia University, StanfordUniversity Press, 1984.28. Sagner, O.TheSemantics 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 theHebrewUniversity.The Magnes Press, Jerusalem, 1979. (pp.36-69)31. Stremooukhoff, D.La Poesie et l'ideologie de Tiouttchev. Dissertation. Paris, 1937.32. Surina, N.Tyutchevi Lamartin."Poetika" 1-5. Heraus. von Dmitrij Tschizevskij.B. 104. Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Munchen, 1970.33. Tyutchev, F.i.La Papauteet laQuestion Romaine;LaRussie etla Revolution;Lettrea M. le Docteur Gustave Kolb, Redacteur de la 'Gazette Universelle';Lettre surla Censureen 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.


                1. AusoniusDecimi MagniAusonii Burdigalensis Opuscula. Ed. Sextus Prete. BSB BG.Teubner Verlagsgesellschaft, 1978.2. BatyushkovPSSt. N. Fridman, ML, 1964.3. BaudelaireOeuvresCompletes. Bibliotheque dela Pleiade. Texte etabli et annotepar Y.- G. le Dantec. Librairie Gallimard, 1954.4. BerangerOneHundredSongsof Pierre-Jean deBerangerwith TranslationsbyWilliam Young. Chapman & Hall. London, 1847.5. BohmeJacobBohme(1575-1624):StudiesinhisLifeandTeaching.H.Martensen. Translated by T. Rhys Evans. Notes and Appendices by S. Hobhouse.Rockliff, London, 1949.6. ByronLord Byron. The Complete Poetical Works. Ed. J.J. McGann. Oxford, 1980.7. Chaadaev, 1989.8. ChateaubriandGrandsecritspolitiques. T.I.Presentation etnotespar Jean-PaulClement. Imprimerie nationale Editions, 1993.9. DerzhavinStikhotvoreniya. SP, L, 1957.10. DobrolyubovSS. v 9 tomakh. M, 1952.11. Dostoevskyi. 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 "Dnevnikpisatelya". D. Grishin, Melbourne University, 1971.iii.F.M.Dostoevsky.PSSv 30 tomakh.Brat'yaKaramazovy (t.14),"Nauka", L, 1976.12. , 1963.13. Goethei. Essays on Goethe. Ed. W. Rose. Cassell & Co. Ltd. 1949.ii. Goethe:ACriticalIntroduction.R. Gray. CambridgeUniversityPress, 1967.iii.Goethe:ThePoet andtheAge.Vol. 1 ThePoetryofDesire(1749-1790). N. Boyle. Clarendon Press. Oxford, 1991.iv.Johann Wolfgang Goethe.Samtliche Werke.Briefe, TagebucherandGesprache. Vierzig Bande.DeutscherKlassiker Verlag. HerausvonHendrikBirus et al. Frankfurt am Main, 1987.v.NotestoGoethe'sPoems.J. Boyd.Blackwell, Oxford. (2 vols.:1749-86; 1786-1832).14. GrayThe Complete Poemsof Thomas Gray. Ed. H.W.Starr & J.R. Hendrickson.Oxford, 1966.15. Heinei. 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. 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