Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol 58, No. 357, July 1845
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The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may, perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the original exceedingly well adapted to be sung – one of the highest merits of this class of poetry – for all ancient ballads, in every language throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted; and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these ancient compositions – the first lispings of the Muse – can only be successful in proportion as they possess the essential and characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original, distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse: —
The Black ShawlLike a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl;Remorse, fear, and anguish – this heart knows them all.When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth,I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.That fair one caress'd me – my life! oh, 'twas bright,But it set – that fair day – in a hurricane night.One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew."With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,"And she hath betray'd thee – thy young Grecian maid."I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold,And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold."Ho! my charger – my charger!" we mount, we depart,And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood —I was faint – and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:By the maiden's lone window I listen'd, and thereI beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.The light darken'd round me – then flash'd my good blade…The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream…Thus perish'd the maiden – thus perish'd my dream.This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore —On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.The mists of the evening arose, and my slaveHurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light —Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl;Remorse, fear, and anguish – this heart knows them all!The pretty lines which we are now about to offer, are rather remarkable as being written in the manner of the ancient national songs of Russia, than for any thing very new in the ideas, or very striking in the expression. They possess, however – at least in the original – a certain charm arising from simplicity and grace.
The RoseWhere is our rose, friends?Tell if ye may!Faded the rose, friends,The Dawn-child of Day.Ah, do not say,Such is youth's fleetness!Ah, do not say,Thus fades life's sweetness!No, rather say,I mourn thee, rose – farewell!Now to the lily-bellFlit we away.Among the thousand-and-one compositions, in all languages, founded upon the sublime theme of the downfall and death of Napoleon, there are, we think, very few which have surpassed, in weight of thought, in splendour of diction, and in grandeur of versification, Púshkin's noble lyric upon this subject. The mighty share which Russia had in overthrowing the gigantic power of the greatest of modern conquerors, could not fail of affording to a Russian poet a peculiar source of triumphant yet not too exulting inspiration; and Púshkin, in that portion of the following ode in which he is led more particularly to allude to the part played by his country in the sublime drama, whose catastrophe was the ruin of Bonaparte's blood-cemented empire, has given undeniable proof of his possessing that union of magnanimity and patriotism, which is not the meanest characteristic of elevated genius. While the poet gives full way to the triumphant feelings so naturally inspired by the exploits of Russian valour, and by the patient fortitude of Russian policy, he wisely and nobly abstains on indulging in any of those outbursts of gratified revenge and national hatred which deform the pages of almost all – poets, and even historians – who have written on this colossal subject.
NapoleonThe wondrous destiny is ended,The mighty light is quench'd and dead;In storm and darkness hath descendedNapoleon's sun, so bright and dread.The captive King hath burst his prison —The petted child of Victory;And for the Exile hath arisenThe dawning of Posterity.O thou, of whose immortal storyEarth aye the memory shall keep,Now, 'neath the shadow of thy gloryRest, rest, amid the lonely deep!A grave sublime … nor nobler everCouldst thou have found … for o'er thine urnThe Nations' hate is quench'd for ever,And Glory's beacon-ray shall burn.There was a time thine eagles tower'dResistless o'er the humbled world;There was a time the empires cower'dBefore the bolt thy hand had hurl'd:The standards, thy proud will obeying,Flapp'd wrath and woe on every wind —A few short years, and thou wert layingThine iron yoke on human kind.And France, on glories vain and hollow,Had fixed her frenzy-glance of flame —Forgot sublimer hopes, to followThee, Conqueror, thee – her dazzling shame!Thy legions' swords with blood were drunken —All sank before thine echoing tread;And Europe fell – for sleep was sunken,The sleep of death – upon her head.Thou mightst have judged us, but thou wouldst not!What dimm'd thy reason's piercing light,That Russian hearts thou understoodst not,From thine heroic spirit's height?Moscow's immortal conflagrationForeseeing not, thou deem'dst that weWould kneel for peace, a conquer'd nation —Thou knew'st the Russ … too late for thee!Up, Russia! Queen of hundred battles,Remember now thine ancient right!Blaze, Moscow! – Far shall shine thy light!Lo! other times are dawning o'er us:Be blotted out, our short disgrace!Swell, Russia, swell the battle chorus!War! is the watchword of our race!Lo! how the baffled leader seizeth,With fetter'd hands, his Iron Crown —A dread abyss his spirit freezeth!Down, down he goes, to ruin down!And Europe's armaments are driven,Like mist, along the blood-stain'd snow —That snow shall melt 'neath summer's heaven,With the last footstep of the foe.'Twas a wild storm of fear and wonder,When Europe woke and burst her chain;The accursed race, like scatter'd thunder,After the tyrant fled amain.And Nemesis a doom hath spoken,The Mighty hears that doom with dread:The wrongs thou'st done shall now be wroken,Tyrant, upon thy guilty head!Thou shalt redeem thy usurpation,Thy long career of war and crime,In exile's eating desolation,Beneath a far and stranger clime.And oft the midnight sail shall wanderBy that lone isle, thy prison-place,And oft a stranger there shall ponder,And o'er that stone a pardon trace,Where mused the Exile, oft recallingThe well-known clang of sword and lance,The yells, Night's icy ear appalling;His own blue sky – the sky of France;Where, in his loneliness forgettingHis broken sword, his ruin'd throne,With bitter grief, with vain regretting,On his fair Boy he mused alone.But shame, and curses without number,Upon that reptile head be laid,Whose insults now shall vex the slumberOf him – that sad discrowned shade!No! for his trump the signal sounded,Her glorious race when Russia ran;His hand, 'mid strife and battle, foundedEternal liberty for man!The next specimen for which we have to request the indulgence of our readers, is a little composition of a very different and much less ambitious character. The idea is simple enough, and not, we think, entirely devoid of originality – the primary object of every translator in the selection of the subjects on which he is to exercise his dexterity.
The StormSee, on yon rock, a maiden's form,Far o'er the wave a white robe flashing,Around, before the blackening storm,On the loud beach the billows dashing;Along the waves, now red, now pale,The lightning-glare incessant gleameth;Whirling and fluttering in the gale,The snowy robe incessant streameth;Fair is that sea in blackening storm,And fair that sky with lightnings riven,But fairer far that maiden form,Than wave, or flash, or stormy heaven!We now come to one of the most remarkable lyric productions of our Poet's genius, the "General;" and in order that our readers may be enabled to understand and appreciate this exquisite little poem, we shall preface it with a few remarks of an explanatory character; as the details, at least, of the events upon which it is founded may not be so generally known in England as they are in Russia. Our English readers, however, are doubtless sufficiently familiar with the history of the great campaign of the year 1812, which led to the burning of Moscow, and to the consequent annihilation of the mighty army which Napoleon led to perish in the snows of Russia, to remember one remarkable episode connected with that most important campaign. They remember that one of the Russian armies was placed under the command of Field-marshal Barclay de Tolly, a general descended from an ancient Scottish family which had been settled for some generations in Russia, but who was in every respect to be considered as a native Russian, being born a subject of the Tsar, and having, during a long life of service in the Russian army, gradually reached the highest military rank, and acquired a well-earned and universal reputation as an able strategist and a brave man. The mode of operations determined on at the beginning of this most momentous struggle, and persevered in throughout by the Russians, with a patience and steadiness no less admirable than the wisdom of the combinations on which they were founded, was a purely defensive system of tactics. The event amply demonstrated the soundness of the principles upon which those operations were based; for while Napoleon was gradually attracted into the interior of the country by armies which perpetually retired before him without giving him the opportunity of coming to a general action, the autumn was gradually passing away, and the flames of Moscow only served to light up, for the French army, the beginning of their hopeless retreat through a country now totally laid waste, and covered with the snows of a Russian winter. This mode of operations, however, was by no means likely to please the population of Russia, infuriated by the long unaccustomed presence of a hostile army within their sacred frontier, and worked up by all the circumstances of the invasion to the highest pitch of patriotic enthusiasm. Unable to appreciate the value of what must have appeared to them a timid and pusillanimous policy, they overwhelmed Barclay de Tolly with violent accusations of cowardice, and even of treachery; rendered the more plausible to the mind of the ignorant, by the circumstance of their object being a foreigner – or at least of foreign blood. So violent ultimately became these accusations, that although the Field-marshal continued to enjoy the highest confidence and esteem of his sovereign, it was found expedient to allow him to resign the chief command, in which he was succeeded by Kutúzoff. Barclay de Tolly, during the greater part of the campaign, fought as a simple general of division, in which character (as Púshkin describes) he took part in the great battle of Borodíno.
Barclay must still be considered as one of those distinguished persons to whose memory justice has never been entirely done; and to do this justice was Púshkin's generous task in the noble lines which follow these remarks. No traveller has ever visited the winter palace of St Petersburg without having been struck with the celebrated "Hall of Marshals," which forms one of its most imposing features. In this magnificent room are placed the portraits (chiefly painted by Dawe, an English artist, who passed the greater part of his life in Russia) of the Russian generals who figured in that great campaign; and among them is to be found, of course, the "counterfeit presentment" of Barclay de Tolly, painted, as the field-marshals are in every case in this gallery of portraits, at full length. With respect to the versification of this and several other poems which we have selected, the English reader will not perhaps at first remark that it is nothing more than the measure used by old Drayton in the Polyolbion, and one in which a great deal of the earlier English poetry is written. It is very favourite measure of our Russian poet, who has, however, increased, in some degree, its difficulty for an English versifier, by introducing a great number of double terminations. It will be found, indeed, that these double rhymes are as numerous as the single or monosyllabic ones.
The GeneralIn the Tsar's palace stands a hall right nobly builded;Its walls are neither carved, nor velvet-hung, nor gilded,Nor here beneath the glass doth pearl or diamond glow;But wheresoe'er ye look, around, above, below,The quick-eyed Painter's hand, now bold, now softly tender,From his free pencil here hath shed a magic splendour.Here are no village nymphs, no dewy forest-glades,No fauns with giddy cups, no snowy-bosom'd maids,No hunting-scene, no dance; but cloaks, and plumes, and sabres,And faces sternly still, and dark with hero-labours.The Painter's art hath here in glittering crowd portray'dThe chiefs who Russia's line to victory array'd;Chiefs in that great Campaign attired in fadeless gloryOf the year Twelve, that aye shall live in Russian story.Here oft in musing mood my silent footstep strays,Before these well-known forms I love to stop and gaze,And dream I hear their voice, 'mid battle-thunder ringing.Some of them are no more; and some, with faces flingingUpon the canvass still Youth's fresh and rosy bloom,Are wrinkled now and old, and bending to the tombThe laurel-wreathed brow.But chiefly One doth win me'Mid the stern throng. With new thoughts swelling in meBefore that One I stand, and cannot lightly brookTo take mine eye from him. And still, the more I look,The more within my breast is bitterness awaked.He's painted at full length. His brow, austere and naked,Shines like a fleshless skull, and on it ye may markA mighty weight of woe. Around him – all is dark;Behind, a tented field. Tranquil and stern he raisesHis mournful eye, and with contemptuous calmness gazes.Be't that the artist here embodied his own thought,When on the canvass thus the lineaments he caught,Or guided and inspired by some unknown Possession —I know not: Dawe has drawn the man with this expression.Unhappy chief! Alas, thy cup was full of gall;Unto a foreign land thou sacrificedst all.The savage mob's dull glance of hate thou calmly balkedst,With thy great thoughts alone and silently thou walkedst;The people could not brook thy foreign-sounding name,Pursued thee with its yell, and piled thy head with shame,And by thy very hand though saved from ill and danger,Mock'd at thy sacred age – thou hoary-headed stranger!And even he, whose soul could read thy noble heart,To please that idiot mob, blamed thee with cruel art…And long with patient faith, defying doubt and terror,Thou heldest on unmoved, spite of a people's error;And, e'er thy race was run, wert forced at last to yieldThe well-earned laurel-wreath of many a bloody field,Fame, power, and deep-thought plans; and with thy sword beside theeWithin a regiment's ranks, alone, obscure, to hide thee,And there, a veteran chief, like some young sentinel,When first upon his ear rings the ball's whistling knell,Thou rushedst 'mid the fire, a warrior's death desiring —In vain! —O men! O wretched race! O worthy tears and laughter!Priests of the moment's god, ne'er thinking of hereafter!How oft among ye, men! a mighty one is seen,Whom the blind age pursues with insults mad and mean,But gazing on whose face, some future generationShall feel, as I do now, regret and admiration!SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS; BEING A SEQUEL TO THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER
PART II
The Oxford visions, of which some have been given, were but anticipations necessary to illustrate the glimpse opened of childhood, (as being its reaction.) In this Second part, returning from that anticipation, I retrace an abstract of my boyish and youthful days so far as they furnished or exposed the germs of later experiences in worlds more shadowy.
Upon me, as upon others scattered thinly by tens and twenties over every thousand years, fell too powerfully and too early the vision of life. The horror of life mixed itself already in earliest youth with the heavenly sweetness of life; that grief, which one in a hundred has sensibility enough to gather from the sad retrospect of life in its closing stage, for me shed its dews as a prelibation upon the fountains of life whilst yet sparkling to the morning sun. I saw from afar and from before what I was to see from behind. Is this the description of an early youth passed in the shades of gloom? No, but of a youth passed in the divinest happiness. And if the reader has (which so few have) the passion, without which there is no reading of the legend and superscription upon man's brow, if he is not (as most are) deafer than the grave to every deep note that sighs upwards from the Delphic caves of human life, he will know that the rapture of life (or any thing which by approach can merit that name) does not arise, unless as perfect music arises – music of Mozart or Beethoven – by the confluence of the mighty and terrific discords with the subtle concords. Not by contrast, or as reciprocal foils do these elements act, which is the feeble conception of many, but by union. They are the sexual forces in music: "male and female created he them;" and these mighty antagonists do not put forth their hostilities by repulsion, but by deepest attraction.
As "in to-day already walks to-morrow," so in the past experience of a youthful life may be seen dimly the future. The collisions with alien interests or hostile views, of a child, boy, or very young man, so insulated as each of these is sure to be, – those aspects of opposition which such a person can occupy, are limited by the exceedingly few and trivial lines of connexion along which he is able to radiate any essential influence whatever upon the fortunes or happiness of others. Circumstances may magnify his importance for the moment; but, after all, any cable which he carries out upon other vessels is easily slipped upon a feud arising. Far otherwise is the state of relations connecting an adult or responsible man with the circles around him as life advances. The network of these relations is a thousand times more intricate, the jarring of these intricate relations a thousand times more frequent, and the vibrations a thousand times harsher which these jarrings diffuse. This truth is felt beforehand misgivingly and in troubled vision, by a young man who stands upon the threshold of manhood. One earliest instinct of fear and horror would darken his spirit if it could be revealed to itself and self-questioned at the moment of birth: a second instinct of the sane nature would again pollute that tremulous mirror, if the moment were as punctually marked as physical birth is marked, which dismisses him finally upon the tides of absolute self-control. A dark ocean would seem the total expanse of life from the first: but far darker and more appalling would seem that interior and second chamber of the ocean which called him away for ever on the direct accountability of others. Dreadful would be the morning which should say – "Be thou a human child incarnate;" but more dreadful the morning which should say – "Bear thou henceforth the sceptre of thy self-dominion through life, and the passion of life!" Yes, dreadful would be both: but without a basis of the dreadful there is no perfect rapture. It is a part through the sorrow of life, growing out of its events, that this basis of awe and solemn darkness slowly accumulates. That I have illustrated. But, as life expands, it is more through the strife which besets us, strife from conflicting opinions, positions, passions, interests, that the funereal ground settles and deposits itself, which sends upward the dark lustrous brilliancy through the jewel of life – else revealing a pale and superficial glitter. Either the human being must suffer and struggle as the price of a more searching vision, or his gaze must be shallow and without intellectual revelation.
Through accident it was in part, and, where through no accident but my own nature, not through features of it at all painful to recollect, that constantly in early life (that is, from boyish days until eighteen, when by going to Oxford, practically I became my own master) I was engaged in duels of fierce continual struggle, with some person or body of persons, that sought, like the Roman retiarius, to throw a net of deadly coercion or constraint over the undoubted rights of my natural freedom. The steady rebellion upon my part in one-half, was a mere human reaction of justifiable indignation; but in the other half it was the struggle of a conscientious nature – disdaining to feel it as any mere right or discretional privilege – no, feeling it as the noblest of duties to resist, though it should be mortally, those that would have enslaved me, and to retort scorn upon those that would have put my head below their feet. Too much, even in later life, I have perceived in men that pass for good men, a disposition to degrade (and if possible to degrade through self-degradation) those in whom unwillingly they feel any weight of oppression to themselves, by commanding qualities of intellect or character. They respect you: they are compelled to do so: and they hate to do so. Next, therefore, they seek to throw off the sense of this oppression, and to take vengeance for it, by co-operating with any unhappy accidents in your life, to inflict a sense of humiliation upon you, and (if possible) to force you into becoming a consenting party to that humiliation. Oh, wherefore is it that those who presume to call themselves the "friends" of this man or that woman, are so often those above all others, whom in the hour of death that man or woman is most likely to salute with the valediction – Would God I had never seen your face?
In citing one or two cases of these early struggles, I have chiefly in view the effect of these upon my subsequent visions under the reign of opium. And this indulgent reflection should accompany the mature reader through all such records of boyish inexperience. A good tempered-man, who is also acquainted with the world, will easily evade, without needing any artifice of servile obsequiousness, those quarrels which an upright simplicity, jealous of its own rights, and unpractised in the science of worldly address, cannot always evade without some loss of self-respect. Suavity in this manner may, it is true, be reconciled with firmness in the matter; but not easily by a young person who wants all the appropriate resources of knowledge, of adroit and guarded language, for making his good temper available. Men are protected from insult and wrong, not merely by their own skill, but also in the absence of any skill at all, by the general spirit of forbearance to which society has trained all those whom they are likely to meet. But boys meeting with no such forbearance or training in other boys, must sometimes be thrown upon feuds in the ratio of their own firmness, much more than in the ratio of any natural proneness to quarrel. Such a subject, however, will be best illustrated by a sketch or two of my own principal feuds.