Part II
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MY MOSCOW FIREPLACE
Scarcely have we seen summer, behold, winter is here! The frosts drive us into our rooms, and will for a long time keep us within. Nature’s beauty is changed, and dimmed by the veil of night. Oh, what shall I do? What begin? I will move up to my dear fireplace, and will share with it, as before, my melancholy.
Whatever countries I have been in, whether my house was large or small, whether I paraded in high palace halls, or retired to my apartments,--the fireplace, my winter benefactor, was everywhere the witness of my acts: whole days I passed with it alone; pining, sorrows and annoyances, consolation, pleasure, joy,--my fireplace has experienced them all.
Whenever I mentally survey all human lots in this world, and by the fireplace in my study judge of humanity, I with difficulty can harmonise in my imagination the opinions of happiness that are common to all. The whole world lives in a noise and din; but what does it find in place of happiness? New causes for worriment.
Kings, of their own free will, leave the throne and hasten to arms; in their elevated place they not seldom curse their lives. No matter how boyárs grow stout, they also pale in their good fortune, like their lowest slave. He in his unbounded sphere, the other in his earth hut, or cave,--both are weak against the attack.
Everywhere they have written of happiness, and will always prate about it, but they have nowhere found it. Yes, ’tis difficult to attain! And I, though a simple man, can also like a philosopher aver it is within me; but where, and how to find it?--I do not know! In sorrow I suffer openly; whenever I am merry, ’tis as if in a dream.
Protesting against the evil of the passions, knitting his brow, like Cato, when all is quiet in his soul, the philosopher proclaims his law: “Why be enslaved by passions? We must submit to reason. All our desires are an empty dream; all upon earth, O men, is transitory: seek eternal happiness in Heaven, for the world is vanity of vanities.
“If one dish satisfies your hunger, why have three? If you have a caftan, what is the use of five? What need is there of a pile of money? When you die, you will not take it with you. Contract the limits of your necessities, flee from the city into the country, live quietly your allotted time, with equanimity bear insults, magnanimously suffer sorrow, be more than man!”
What are you yourself, my teacher? Are you a god, or an angel in the flesh? Guardian of deep wisdom, permit me to look within you! Reveal to us not your mind alone, but your feelings, announce to us without ambiguity: are you yourself? I see, you are a vain hypocrite: you do not believe your own sermon, you are an empty-sounding cymbal.
Oh, if people all lived as reason bids them! If feelings were more gentle, if the fount of blood did not boil,--how nice life would be! All would be peace and security, and love the tie of all the lands; people would not devour each other; and a Frenchman, an Arab, a Mussulman would live in harmony together.
Oh, if ... I need but place this word at the head, and my pen creates at once a new earth, nay, heaven. All kingdoms will flow with abundance, all men will be equally strong, nowhere there shall be snow, nor winter, but flowers will grow the year around, and we will not run to the fireplace,--we shall be regenerated.
Oh no! I am sorry for the fireplace! Let us leave all as it is: we cannot reproduce what my reason has evoked. Let the sphere circle around, and let each various chimera disport with every mind! The Creator will turn all for the best: to-day the chill disturbs us, but the thunder of the summer does not terrify us.
I hear at all times of the good qualities of countrymen, what beautiful lives they lead, and how the law of nature is not trampled upon by them. “Their manners,” they assert, “are coarser, but their amusements are incomparably simpler than ours: they live in freedom with each other, do not drink nor eat according to the fashion.” ’Tis not true!
When we listen to serenades on a beautiful summer day, while limpid waterfalls make a rippling noise, and the shade of cedars protects us from the heat, the peasant hitches his horse to the plough and tears up the earth, or hauls a log, or, if it be winter, looks through dim windows, through which nothing can be seen, at the blizzard without.
Fireplace, I will not exchange you for all the treasures of the lords! You are often my consolation, and always pleasant and agreeable to me. Let sorrows be inevitable: joy is coextensive with them. You are the throne of my amusements; but I am satisfied with my books; I feel with them neither pain, nor think my room small, and I read them as my spirit prompts me.
But when I leave my book, and fix my eyes upon the fireplace, with what pleasure I recall the host of various incidents! I at once reproduce in my mind the picture of my youth, and the progress and cause of my cares; I even now, as it were, glance to the north, and south, and the capital, and the Finland border.
I accuse myself before thee, my Lord! I have in vain killed my youth; carried on the wave of habit, I have given my days and nights to dreaming. I, tossed now hither, now thither, hastened to make new acquaintances, and thought: “This is all a loan I make; some day the debt, I am sure, will be duly returned to me.”
’Tis time to adapt myself to the custom! I shall soon be forty years old: it is time to learn from experience that to judge people rightly, to know this world, to seek friends is a self-deception and vain endeavour of the heart. The measure of human indifference is in our days full to overflowing; ask for no examples: alas! there are too many of them.
In your presence all will praise you, but let there be an occasion for helping you, and your worth will be depreciated, or without saying a word they will walk away. If one be cunning, he will so oppress you that he will compel you to think all your life of him in tears; if he be foolish, he will, wherever he may meet you, cast a heap of stones before you and bar your way.
From all such evils my consolation art Thou, only God, God of all creation! I need nothing more, for I expect no happiness from men. A hundredfold more pleasant it is, staying at home, and not perceiving in it the temptations of the world, to live simply with your family and, modestly passing your time and vigorously communing with reason, to stir the wood in the fireplace.
Iván Ivánovich Dmítriev. (1760-1837.)
Dmítriev was born in the Government of Simbírsk, where his friend and colleague Karamzín was also born. He entered the army in 1775 as a common soldier, and did not advance to the grade of commissioned officer until 1787. During his military service he privately studied foreign languages and wrote poetry. His first collection of poems, containing _Ermák_, _What Others Say_ and _The Little Dove_, appeared in 1795. These are the best of his productions. He also wrote a number of fables that do not suffer by comparison with those of Krylóv. His shorter songs, like _The Little Dove_, have become very popular, and are part of every song-book, together with Neledínski’s “To the streamlet I’ll repair” and other similar songs. Dmítriev did for poetry what Karamzín was doing for prose,--he purified Russian from the dross of the Church-Slavic language, an inheritance from the days of Lomonósov, and he popularised the Romantic spirit in Russian literature. He also encouraged younger men of talent, such as Krylóv. Dmítriev rapidly rose in honours, until he was made Minister of Justice in 1810. He retired a few years later to his estates near Moscow, where he passed his days surrounded by a coterie of literary men.
The following English versions of his poems have appeared: _During a Thunder-Storm_, _The Tsar and the Two Shepherds_, _The Broken Fiddle_, _Over the Grave of Bogdanóvich_, _Love and Friendship_, in Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I .; _Yermak_, _Moskva Rescued_, _To the Volga_, _Enjoyment_, “O had I but known before,” _The Little Dove_, _To Chloe_, _ib._,