Nature, Love And Politics

     Copyright (c) F. Jude
     Durham, 2000

     I  dedicate  this  book  to Dr. R. Lane of the University of Durham for
sharing with me his great expertise and for his encouragement, to  my  wife,
Viv,  and stepsons, Richard and Matthew, for being so patient, to a warm and
good person, Julian Marko, who died on February 28th. 1994, for his  genuine
friendship, and to my father, Hugh, for many reasons.

	Imperturbable form is the outward sign
	of nature's utter consonance.
	Only our spectral liberty
	imparts 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 sea
	and why must the thinking reed complain?
(The sea is harmony. F. Tyutchev)

     .....  the  great  figures  in  imaginative literature are  perpetually
contemporary... they never become History. Ancient or  modern, they  live in
the  perpetual present of mankind, crowding it with an accumulation of  life
and a living variety of human experience.
     (Essays in Literature and Society. E. Muir)


     A freelance teacher in the north east of England, having taught  myself
Russian  I graduated from the University of Durham in 1972 with first  class
honours, following this with  doctoral  research  in the  work of  Tyutchev,
supervised by R. Lane. The research was never completed and I returned to it
some four years ago, one result being this book.
     Early editions of  selections of the poems appeared  under  the surname
"Murtagh", the name  I was born with and which I have discarded for personal


     Shaheen Razvi is a  freelance artist living in Scotland.  She  has done
portraits, illustrated an Urdu text book and  a multi-cultural collection of
nursery  rhymes. She  has also contributed a  series of  oil paintings on an
anti-racist theme to a major exhibition.

     The  poet  Fyodor Tyutchev is  known and appreciated by too few  people
outside of Russia, and yet his  position as second to Pushkin (arguably only
with  the exception of Lermontov)  has  been acknowledged  by generations of
Russian/Soviet writers and critics. The reading  public had always cherished
his  lyrics, although they did  not always  have sufficient access to  them.
Tyutchev can teach  much  of  value  about both how to savour the  beauty of
fleeting moments and how to face life's adversities with spirit.
     It is precisely these  qualities which  have, I  believe,  been  caught
admirably  in  Frank  Murtagh's  translations. They  transmit faithfully the
feelings and the tone of the originals, sometimes with remarkable success. I
believe that he has tackled  sensibly the dilemma of the equation facing all
translators of  poetry - to what extent to reproduce the originals. It seems
inevitable that some  of the  rhymes  and the other formal features must  be
sacrificed to  the need to reproduce the "feel"  of Tyutchev's often amazing
lyrics.  Frank Murtagh  has  trod  this tightrope with  great  sureness  and
Tyutchev's distinctive  style  remains largely unsacrificed. Because he  has
known  and  loved the  Master  for  so long, his  translations  have  become
consonant with the original  poems. In this way they fill a real lacuna. For
this collection is the  first  accurate translation in  bulk  by  a  British
author. Its only forerunner was  Charles Tomlinson's  slim  volume  of 1960.
This  contained poems of great distinction by an eminent poet, but there was
more of  Tomlinson in them  than  Tyutchev. What is more, Frank  Murtagh has
translated more poems than any other author, several for the first time into
English, including some of the much neglected political pieces.
     This  book has been interestingly illustrated by Shaheen Razvi. Certain
of  the  illustrations  do not  present the poems in the  way in which  some
people  might have visualised  them, but they  are nevertheless a bold break
with  the   pretty-pretty  presentation  of  anthological  pieces   hitherto
     All  in all, I believe that Frank Murtagh's book  is  essential reading
for  students  and  other readers  of Russian poetry  and  is  to  be warmly

     R. Lane
     University of Durham, England
     February, 1983

     Since R. Lane wrote his Foreword in 1983, only one edition of "quality"
translations of Tyutchev  has appeared till now, Anatoly Liberman's versions
of  181  of  the  poems  published  in  1991.  In   calling  them  "quality"
translations, I make a deliberate value judgement, for  his is not the  only
edition of selected poems to have appeared.
     There are  too many gaps in published Tyutchev  scholarship for any one
researcher  to deal with. The present book  is  intended to  be the first of
several of  various  lengths and  formats which I  wish to  produce  as time
allows and whose overall  aim  is to fill some  of these gaps.  I shall also
continue to work at the translations of the poems. I am all too aware of the
defects  of several of  my versions,  although  I  hope  they are  at  least
accurately rendered, even if they do little justice to Tyutchev. Very little
has been published in English about  his personal letters. There has been no
serious  attempt to translate them in bulk, possibly  because the task would
be monumental. A  satisfactory Russian version of all the  poems has yet  to
appear.  Russian  editors  still  tend  to  favour  splitting  up the  poems
according to relative quality, a very subjective business, to say the least.
A  study  of  Tyutchev in  the letters  and memoirs  of  others  would prove
illuminating. His  family, in  particular  two  of  his daughters, Anna  and
Ekaterina, deserve attention in their own right.
     Studies  carried  out by  Russian scholars  during the  late nineteenth
century and the Soviet period, culminating  in Pigaryov's Lirika edition and
his 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 his
contributions published in Literaturnoe nasledstvo  (1988-89), now, it seems
to me, need drawing together  with the many  other smaller  contributions of
the  past twenty  or thirty years  into a single, new book in English on the
writer, a thorough,  critical re-appraisal of his work. Such a  task will be
for a new Tyutchev scholar of energy.

     Frank Jude
     Durham, England
     January, 2000

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

     The  title/first line of a known translation and the author's  name are
given after  the  English  title/first  line. Some titles  are in  French or
Latin. Where the  first  line is given in  French,  the poem was  written in
French. Italics are used for the first line of each untitled poem. Where the
title is a proper  name identical in the  languages in question, it is given
once only (e.g. Sakontala).

Title/first line									Page

1.	Lyubeznomu papen'ke						    53
	Dear Dad!
2.	Na novyi 1816 god							    53
	New Year 1816
3.	Dvum druz'yam							    54
	To Two Friends
4.	Puskai ot zavisti serdtsa zoilov noyut					    55
	Let envy gnaw Zoilus's heart
5. Poslanie Goratsiya k Metsenatu, v kotorom priglashaet ego k	    55
sel'skomu obedu
	A Letter from Horace to Mecenatus Inviting him to Dinner in the
	Tyrrhena progenies, tibi (Horace)
6.	Vsesilen ya i vmeste rab						    57
	Omnipotent am I while weak
7.	Uraniya								    57
8.	Nevernye preodolev puchiny						    61
	Inconstant, watery gulfs finally behind him
9.	K ode Pushkina na Vol'nost'						    61
	On Pushkin's Ode to Freedom
10.	Kharon i Kachenovsky						    62
	Charon and Kachenovsky
11.	Odinochestvo								    62
	L'Isolement (Lamartine)
12.	Vesna (Posvyashchaetsya druz'yam)					    63
	Spring (Dedicated to my Friends)
13.	A.N.M.								    64
14.	Gektor i Andromakha							    64
	Hector and Andromache
	Hektor und Andromacha (Schiller)
15.	Na kamen' zhizni rokovoi						    65
	Along the fateful shore of life
16.	"Ne dai nam dukhu prazdnoslov'ya!"				    65
	"Do not endow us with the spirit of idle gossip!"
17.	Protivnikam vina							    66
	(Yako i vino veselit serdtse cheloveka)
	To Wine's Detractors
	(For wine, indeed, brings joy to man's heart)
18.	Poslanie k A.V. Sheremetevu						    67
	An Epistle to A.V. Sheremetev
19.	Pesn' Radosti								    67
	Song of Joy
	An die Freude (Schiller)
20.	Slyozy									    70
21.	S chuzhoi storony							    70
	From a Foreign Land
	Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
22.	Drug, otkroisya predo mnoyu						    71
	Be open with me, my love
	Libeste, sollst mir heute sagen (Heine)
23.	Druz'yam pri posylke Pesni Radosti - iz Shillera			    71
	To My Friends (On Sending them  Schiller's "Song of Joy")
24.	K N.									    72
	To N.
25.	K Nise									    72
	To Nisa.
26.	Pesn' skandinavskikh voinov						    72
	The Song of the Norse Warriors
	Morgengesang im Kriege (Herder)
27.	Problesk								    73
	The Gleam
28.	V al'bom druz'yam							    74
	In an Album for my Friends
	Lines written in an Album at Malta (Byron)
29.	Sakontala (Kalidasa/Goethe)						    74
30.	14-oe dekabrya 1825							    75
	December 14th. 1825
31.	Zakralas' v serdtse grust', - i smutno					    75		Sadness stole into my heart and I vaguely
	Das Herz ist mir bedruckt, und sehnlich (Heine)
32.	Voprosy							    75
33.	Korablekrushenie						    76
	The Shipwrecked Man
	Der Schiffbruchige (Heine)
34.	Kak poroyu svetlyi mesyats					    77
	As the bright moon sometimes
	Wie der Mond sich leuchtend dranget (Heine)
35.	Privetstvie dukha						    77
	The Spirit's Greeting
	Geistesgruss (Goethe)
36.	i	Kto s khlebom slyoz svoikh ne el			    78
		He who has not eaten tears with his bread
		Wer nie sein Brot mit Tranen a?
	ii	Kto khochet miru chuzhdym byt'
		He who would be a stranger in the world
		Wer sich der Einsamkeit ergiebt (Goethe)
37.	Zapad, Nord i Yug v krushen'e				    78
	Hegire (Goethe)
38.	Vesennyaya groza						    80
	A Spring Storm
39.	Mogila Napoleona						    80
	Napoleon's Tomb
40.	Cache-Cache							    80
	Hide and Seek
41.	Letnii vecher							    81
	A Summer Evening
42.	Olegov shchit							    81
	Oleg's Shield
43.	Videnie							    82
	A Vision
44.	Bairon								    82
	Totenkranze (Zedlitz)
45.	Sredstvo i tsel'						    86
	The Means and the End
46.	Imperatoru Nikolayu I						    86
	To the Emperor Nicholas I
	Nicolaus das ist der Volksbesieger (Ludwig I of Bavaria)
47.	Bessonnitsa							    87
48.	Utro v gorakh							    88
	Morning in the Mountains
49.	Snezhnye gory							    88
	Snowy Mountains
50.	Poslednii kataklizm						    88
	The Final Cataclysm
51.	K N.N.								    88
	To N.N.
52.	Eshchyo shumel vesyolyi den'					    89
	The happy day was loud
53.	Vecher								    89
54.	Polden'							    90
55.	Lebed'								    90
	The Swan
56.	"Prekrasnyi budet den", - skazal tovarischch		    90
	"It's going to be a nice day", my friend said
	Reisebilder (Heine)
57.	Ty zrel ego v krugu bol'shogo sveta				    92
	You saw him in polite company
58.	V tolpe lyudei, v neskromnom shume dnya			    92
	Among society's gossips
59.	i	Zvuchit, kak drevle, pred toboyu			    92
		As in days gone by, before you is heard
		Die Sonne tont nach alter Weise
	ii	Kto zval menya? - O strashnyi vid! -
		"Who called me? - "Oh, horrible sight!"
		Wer ruft mir? - Schreckliches Gesicht!
	iii	Chego vy ot menya khotite?
		What do you want of me
		Was sucht ihr, machtig und gelind
	iv	Zachem gubit' v unynii pustom
		Why destroy in empty depression
		Doch la? uns dieser Stunde schones Gut
	v	Zavetnyi kubok
		The Cherished Cup
		Es war ein Konig in Thule
	vi	Derzhavnyi dukh!  Ty dal mne, dal mne vsyo
		Almighty spirit, you have given me everything, everything
		Erhabner Geist, du gabst mir, gabst mir alles (Goethe)
60.	Vysokogo predchuvstviya					    96
	Lofty presentiment's
	Il cinque maggio (Manzoni)
61.	Edva my vyshli iz tresenskikh vrat				    97
	We had just left the gates of Trezene
	A peine nous sortions des portes de Trezene (Racine)
62.	Nochnye mysli						    99
	Night Thoughts
	Nachtgedanken (Goethe)
63.	i	lyubovniki, bezumtsy i poety				    99
		Lovers, madmen and poets
	ii	Zarevel golodnyi lev
		The hungry lion has begun to roar (Shakespeare)
64.	Kak okean ob''emlet shar zemnoi				   100
	Just as the ocean curls around earth's shores
65.	Velikii Karl, prosti! - Velikii, nezabvennyi!			   100
	Forgive me, Great Charles!  Great, unforgotten!
	Hernani (Hugo)	HeHH
66.	Kon' morskoi							   102
	The Sea Horse
67.	Pevets								   102
	The Singer
	Der Sanger (Goethe)
68.	Zdes', gde tak vyalo svod nebesnyi				   103
	Here the sky stares inert
69.	Uspokoenie (Groza proshla - eshchyo kuryas', lezhal)	   104
	Peace (The storm has passed)
70.	Dvum syostram						   104
	To Two Sisters
71.	Sei den', ya pomnyu						   104
	I recall that day
72.	Tsitseron							   104
73.	Osennii vecher						   105
	An Autumn Evening
74.	List'ya								   105
75.	Cherez livonskie ya proezzhal polya				   106
	Crossing Livonian fields
76.	Pesok sypuchii po koleni					   106
	Sand gives softly.  Hooves sink.
77.	Strannik							   106
	The Wanderer
78.	Bezumie							   107
79.	Al'py								   107
	The Alps
80.	Mal'aria							   108
	Infected Air
81.	Za nashim vekom my idyom					   108
	We walk behind our age
82.	Vesennie vody							   108
	Vernal Waters
83.	Silentium!							   108
	Stay Silent!
84.	Kak nad goryacheyu zoloi					   109
	As a piece of paper
85.	K*** (Usta s ulybkoyu privetnoi)				   109
	To... (Lips with a smile of greeting)
86.	Kak doch' rodnuyu na zaklan'e				   110
	Just as Agamenon brought his daughter
87.	Vsyo beshenei burya, vsyo zlee i zlei				   110
	The storm howls more evilly, screaming its spite
88.	Vesennee uspokoenie						   111
	Peace in Springtime
	Fruhlingsruhe (Uhland)
89.	Na dreve chelovechestva vysokom				   111
	You were the best leaf
90.	Dva demona emu sluzhili					   111
	Two demons served him
91.	Probleme							   112
	A Problem
92.	Son na more							   112
	A Dream at Sea
93.	Prishlosya konchit' zhizn' v ovrage				   113
	I'm ending my days in a ditch
94.	Arfa skal'da							   114
	The Skald's Harp
95.	Ya lyuteran lyublyu bogosluzhen'e				   114
	I like the service of the Lutherans
96.	V kotoruyu iz dvukh lyubit'sya				   114
	With which of the two has fate decreed
	In welche soll ich mich verlieben (Heine)
97.	Iz kraya v krai, iz grada v grad				   115
	From land to land, from town to town
	Es treibt dich fort von Ort zu Ort (Heine)
98.	Ya pomnyu vremya zolotoe					   115
	I remember a golden time
99.	Dusha moya - elisium tenei					   116
	My soul, you're an Elysium of shades
100.	Kak sladko dremlet sad temnozelyonyi			   116
	How sweetly sleep lies on the green garden
101.	Net,  moego k tebe pristrast'ya				   117
	No, Mother-Earth, my tenderness for you
102.	V dushnom vozdukha molchan'e				   117
	Silent air enwrapping
103.	Chto ty klonish' nad vodami					   118
	Willow, why do you lower
104.	Vecher mglistyi i nenastnyi					   118
	Foul night, misty night
105.	I grob opushchen uzh v mogilu				   118
	Into the grave the coffin's lowered
106.	Vostok belel.  Lad'ya katilas'					   118
	The east whitened.
107.	Teni sizye smesilis'						   119
	Blue-grey mingling
108.	S polyany korshun podnyalsya				   119
	The kite lifts from the field
109.	Kakoe dikoe ushchel'e					   120
	What a wild ravine!
110.	Kak ptichka, ranneyu zaryoi					   120
	The whole world starts as sunlight streams
111.	Tam, gde gory, ubegaya					   120
	Far into the shining distance
112.	Nad vinogradnymi kholmami					   121
	Across vine-covered hillsides
113.	O chyom ty voesh', vetr nochnoi?				   122
	Why do you howl, night wind?
114.	Potok sgustilsya i tuskneet					   122
	The stream has frozen and dulled
115.	Sizhu zadumchiv i odin					   122
	I sit deep in thought and alone
116.	Eshchyo zemli pechalen vid					   123
	Earth's face is still a melancholy thing
117.	Zima nedarom zlitsya						   123
	Winter's spite is vain
118.	Yarkii sneg siyal v doline					   124
	Brilliant snow shone in the valley
119.	Fontan								   124
	The Fountain
120.	Dusha khotela b byt' zvezdoi					   124
	My soul would like to be a star
121.	Ne to, chto mnite vy priroda					   125
	Nature is not what you think it is
122.	I chuvstva net v tvoikh ochakh				   125
	There's not a spark of feeling in your eyes
123.	Lyublyu glaza tvoi, moi drug					   125
	I love your eyes, dear
124.	Vchera, v mechtakh obvorozhyonnykh			   126
	Last night in enchanted dreams
125.	29-oe yanvarya 1837						   126
	January 29th. 1837
126.	1-oe dekabrya 1837						   127
	December 1st. 1837
127.	Ital'yanskaya villa						   127
	The Italian Villa
128.	Davno l', davno l', o Yug blazhennyi				   128
	Is it so long, blessed, blissful South
129.	S kakoyu negoyu, s kakoi toskoi vlyublyonnoi		   128
	What gentle, tender joy, what enamoured pangs
130.	Nous avons pu, tous deux, fatigues du voyage		   129
	Tired by travel, we made
131.	Smotri, kak zapad razgorelsya				   129
	Watch the West flaming up
132.	Vesna (Kak ni gnetyot ruka sud'biny)			   129
	Spring (No matter how oppressive the hand of fate)
133.	Den' i noch'							   130
	Day and Night
134.	Ne ver', ne ver' poetu, deva					   130
	Don't believe the poet, girl!
135.	Zhivym sochuvstviem priveta					   131
	With a lively, sympathetic greeting
136.	K Ganke							   132
	To Hanka
137.	Znamya i Slovo						   133
	The Banner and the Word
138. Ot russkogo, po prochtenii otryvkov lektsii g-na 		   133
139. Mitskevicha
	From a Russian, Having Read Extracts from Mr.
Mickiewicz's Lectures
139.	Que l'homme est peu reel, qu'aisement il s'efface!		   134
	Unreal man's so simple to efface
140.	Glyadel ya, stoya nad Nevoi					   134
	I stood by the Neva, my gaze
141.	Kolumb							   134
142.	Un Reve							   135
	A Reverie
143.	More i Utyos							   136
	The Sea and the Cliff
144.	Un ciel lourd que la nuit bien avant l'heure assiege		   136
	A heavy sky which night has prematurely assailed
145.	Eshchyo tomlyus' toskoi zhelanii				   137
	Longing, desires still ravage
146.	Ne znaesh', chto lestnei dlya mudrosti lyudskoi		   137
	By which can human wisdom more surely be enhanced
147.	Kak dymnyi stolp svetleet v vyshine				   137
	A cloud bank, bright and high
148.	Russkoi zhenshchine						    137
	To Russian Woman
149.	Russkaya Geografiya						    137
	A Russian Geography
150.	Svyataya noch' na nebosklon vzoshla				    138
	Holy night has climbed across the sky
151.	Neokhotno i nesmelo						    138
	Timidly, unwillingly
152.	Itak, opyat' uvidelsya ya s vami				    138
	So once again we meet
153.	Tikhoi noch'yu, pozdnim letom				    139
	Quiet evening, late in summer
154.	Kogda v krugu ubiistvennykh zabot				    139
	When clinging, murderous cares
155.	Slyozy lyudskie, o slyozy lyudskie				    139
	Tears of people, tears of people
156.	Pochtenneishemu imeninniku Filippu Filippovichu Vigelyu	    140
	To the Most Honourable Filipp Filippovich Vigel
157.	Po ravnine vod lazurnoi					    140
	Across an azure plain of water
158.	Rassvet							    140
159.	Vnov' tvoi ya vizhu ochi					    141
	Once again I see your eyes
160.	Kak on lyubil rodnye eli					    141
	How he loved the native firs
161.	Lamartine (La lyre d'Apollon, cet oracle des dieux)		    142
	Lamartine (Apollo's lyre, oracle of the gods)
162.	Napoleon							    142
163.	Comme en aimant le coeur devient pusillanime		    143
	The heart in love cowers
164.	Poeziya							    143
165.	Rim noch'yu							    143
	Rome at night
166.	Venetsiya							    143
167.	Konchen pir, umolkli khory					    144
	Feating finished, choirs quiet
168.	Prorochestvo							    144
	A Prophecy
169.	Uzh tretii god besnuyutsya yazyki				    145
	For the third year now, the tribes have run amok
170.	Net, karlik moi! trus besprimernyi				    145
	Your cowardice can't be measured, you dwarf!
171.	Poshli, Gospod', svoyu otradu				    146
	Lord, send your comfort
172.	Na Neve							    146
	On the Neva
173.	Kak ni dyshit polden' znoinyi					    147
	Midday breathes its hottest
174.	Ne rassuzhdai, ne khlopochi!					    147
	Forget all cares, don't reason deep
175.	Pod dykhan'em nepogody					    147
	Swelling, darkening waters
176.	Vous dont on voit briller, dans les nuits azurees		    148
	Unsullied gods of light
177.	Obveyan veshcheyu dremotoi					    148
	Prophetic sleep enfolds
178.	Grafine E.P. Rostopchinoi (V otvet na eyo pis'mo)		     148
	To Countess E.P. Rostopchina (In Reply to her Letter)
179.	Dva golosa							    149
	Two Voices
180.	Togda lish' v polnom torzhestve				    149
	The desired structure
181.	Pominki							    150
	The Wake
182.	Smotri, kak na rechnom prostore				    153
	Across the river's broad expanse you see
183.	O, kak ubiistvenno my lyubim!				    154
	How we murder while we love!
184.	Des premiers ans de votre vie					    155
	How I love to find again the source
185.	Ne znayu ya, kosnyotsya l' blagodat'				    155
	I don't know whether grace will touch
186.	Pervyi list							    155
	The First Leaf
187.	Ne raz ty slyshala priznan'e					    156
	You've often heard the admission
188.	Nash vek							    156
	Our Age
189.	Volna i duma							    156
	The Wave and the Thought
190.	Ne ostyvshaya ot znoyu					    156
	Heat has not congealed
191.	V razluke est' vysokoe znachen'e				    157
	Separation has this lofty meaning
192.	Ty znaesh' krai, gde mirt i lavr rastyot			    157
	Do you know the land where the myrtle and laurel bloom
	Kennst du das land, wo die Zitronen bluhn (Goethe)		    157
193.	Den' vechereet, noch' blizka					    157
	Day turns to evening. Night approaches.
194.	Kak vesel grokhot letnikh bur'				    158
	Summer thunder's a happy ogre
195.	S ozera veet prokhlada i nega					    158
	Coolness and comfort waft up from the lake
	Es lachelt der See, er ladet zum Bade
196.	Nedarom miloserdym Bogom					    158
	Not in vain has the gracious God
197.	Predopredelenie						    159
198.	Ne govori: menya on, kak i prezhde, lyubit			    159
	Don't say he loves me as he used to
199.	O, ne trevozh' menya ukoroi spravedlivoi			    160
200.	Chemu molilas' ty s lyubov'yu				    160
	What you guarded in your heart
201.	Ya ochi znal - o eti ochi!					    161
	I knew a pair of eyes.  Oh, what a sight!
202.	Bliznetsy							    161
	The Twins
203.	Ty, volna moya morskaya					    161
204.	Pamyati V.A. Zhukovskogo					    162
	To the Memory of V.A. Zhukovsky
205.	Siyaet solntse, vody bleshchut					    163
	The sun is shining, waters glisten
206.	Charodeikoyu zimoyu						    163
	The forest is entranced
207.	Poslednyaya lyubov'						    163
	Last Love	HonhHd
208.	Neman								    164
	The Nieman
209.	Spiriticheskoe predskazanie					    165
	A Spiritualistic Prediction
210.	A.S. Dolgorukoi						    165
	To A.S. Dolgorukaya
211.	Leto 1854							    165
	Summer 1854
212.	Uvy, chto nashego neznan'ya					    165
	What is more impotent and sad
213.	Teper' tebe ne do stikhov					    165
	You're not in the mood for verses
214.	De son crayon inimitable					    166
	To merit one word, one comma, one full stop
215. Po sluchayu priezda avstriiskogo ertsgertsoga na		    166
Pokhorony imperatora Nikolaya
	On the Occasion of the Arrival of the Austrian Archduke
at the Funeral of the Emperor Nicholas.
216.	Plamya rdeet, plamya pyshet					    166
	Redness.  Flaring.
217.	Tak, v zhizni est' mgnoven'ya					    167
	In life there are moments you cannot convey
218.	Eti bednye selen'ya						    167
	These poor villages, this sorry nature!
219.	Vot ot morya i do morya					    167
	From sea to sea the wire goes
220.	Grafine Rostopchinoi (O, v eti dni - dni rokovye)		    168
	To Countess Rostopchina (Oh, in these days, these
fateful days)
221.	1856 (Stoim my slepo pred sud'boyu)				    168
	1856 (Blindly we face fate)
222.	O veshchaya dusha moya!					    168
	Oh, my prophetic soul!
223.	Molchi, proshu, ne smei menya budit'			    169
	Be quiet, please!  Don't dare wake me!
224.	Oui, le sommeil m'est doux! plus doux de n'etre pas!	    169
	Yes, sleep is sweet, but it's sweeter not to have been!
225.	Ne Bogu ty sluzhil i ne Rossii					    169
	To serve God and Russia was never your intention
226.	Tomu, kto s veroi i lyubov'yu					    169
	For him who served his native land
227.	Vsyo, chto sberech' mne udalos'				    169
	What I've managed to keep alive
228.	Il faut qu'une porte						    170
	A door should be open or closed
229.	N.F. Shcherbine						    170
	To N.F. Shcherbina
230.	S vremenshchikom Fortuna v spore				    170
	Fortune had an argument with a favourite
	Das Gluck und die Weisheit (Schiller)
231.	Prekrasnyi den' ego na Zapade ischez			    170
	His fine day has disappeared in the West
232.	Nad etoi tyomnoyu tolpoi					    170
	Above this ignorant crowd
233.	Est' v oseni pervonachal'noi					    171
	There is a fleeting, wondrous moment
234.	Smotri, kak roshcha zeleneet					    171
	Look at the coppice!
235.	Kogda os'mnadtsat' let tvoi					    172
	When your eighteen years
236. E.N. Annenkovoi (D'une fille du nord, chetive et		    172
	To E.N. Annenkova (Are you trying to borrow the
237.	V chasy, kogda byvaet						    172
	At times when there is
238.	Ona sidela na polu						    173
	She was sitting on the floor
239.	Uspoloenie (Kogda, chto zvali my svoim)			    173
	Peace (When what we called our own)
240.	Osennei pozdneyu poroyu					    174
	Late in autumn
241.	Na vozvratnom puti						    174
	On the Journey Home
242.	Est mnogo melkikh, bezymyannykh				    175
	There are many tiny, unnamed
243.	Pour sa Majeste l'Imperatrice					    176
	For her Imperial Majesty
244.	Pour Madame la Grande Duchesse Helene			    176
	For Grand Duchess Helen
245.	Dekabr'skoe utro						    176
	A December Morning
246.	E.N. Annenkovoi (I v nashei zhizni povsdnevnoi)		    176
	To E.N. Annenkova (Into daily life)
247.	Iz Yakoba Byome						    177
	From Jacob Bohme
248.	Kuda somnitelen mne tvoi					    177
	"Sceptical" sums up the way I feel
249.	Prokhodya svoi put' po svodu					    177
	Tracing its path across the sky
250.	De ces frimas, de ces deserts					    177
	From these empty lands, from this wintry weather
251.	Memento!							    177
252.	Khot' ya i svil gnezdo v doline				    178
	I have built my nest in a valley
253.	La vieille Hecube, helas, trop longtemps eprouvee		    178
	Old Hecuba, alas, so long so sorely tried
254.	Na yubilei knyazya Petra Andreevicha Vyazemskogo	    179
	On the Occasion of Prince Pyotr Andreevich Vyazemsky's
255.	Kogda-to ya byla maiorom					    180
	Once I was a major, many years ago
256.	Aleksandru II							    180
	To Alexander II
257.	Ya znal eyo eshchyo togda					    180
	I knew her even then
258.	Nedarom russkie ty s detstva pomnil zvuki			    181
	Not for nothing have your remembered the sounds
259. Knyazyu P.A. Vyazemskomu (Teper' ne to, chto za		    181
	To Prince P.A. Vyazemsky (It's not the same now as it
was six months back)
260.	Igrai, pokuda nad toboi					    181
	Play while above you
261.	Pri posylke Novogo Zaveta					    182
	On Sending the New Testament
262.	Oboim Nikolayam						    182
	To Both Nicholases
263.	On prezhde mirnyi byl kazak					    182
	He used to be a gentle cossack
264.	A.A. Fetu							    182
	To A.A. Fet
265.	Inym dostalsya ot prirody					    183
	Nature has endowed some with a sense
266.	Svyatye gory							    183
	The Sacred Mountains
267.	Zateyu etogo rasskaza						    184
	For itself this story speaks
268.	Uzhasnyi son otyagotel nad nami				    184
	We've been burdened by a horrible dream
269.	Ego svetlosti A.A. Suvorovu					    184
	To his Grace Prince A.A. Suvorov
270.	Kak letnei inogda poroyu					    185
	Just as now and then during summer
271.	N.I. Krolyu							    186
	To N.I. Krol'
272.	19-oe fevralya 1864 (i tikhimi poslednimi shagami)		    186
	February 19th. 1864 (With his last quiet steps)
273.	Ne vsyo dushe boleznennoe snitsya				    187
	Not always does the soul have sickly dreams
274.	Utikhla biza.... Legche dyshit					    187
	the breeze has dropped and lighter is the breath
275.	Ves' den' ona lezhala v zabyt'I				    187
	All day she lay oblivious
276.	Kak nerazgadannaya taina					    187
	Like an unresolved mystery
277.	O, etot Yug, o, eta Nitstsa!					    188
	Oh, this south, oh, this Nice!
278.	Kto b ni byl ty, no vstretyas' s nei				    188
	No matter who you are, just meeting her
279.	Encyclica							    188
	An Encyclical
280.	Knyazyu Gorchakovu (vam vypalo prizvan'e rokovoe)	    188
	To Prince Gorchakov (Yours has been a fateful calling)
281.	Kak khorosho ty, o more nochnoe				    189
	Ocean-billows, night-surging
282.	Kogda na to net Bozh'ego soglas'ya				    189
	When god has deferred assent
283.	Otvet na adres							    189
	In Reply to an Address
284.	Est' i v moyom stradal'cheskom zastoe			    190
	In the martyrdom of my stagnation
285.	On, umiraya, somnevalsya					    190
	Dying, he doubted
286.	Syn tsarskii umiraet v Nitstse					    191
	In Nice the tsar's son is dying
287.	12-oe aprelya 1865						    191
	April 12th. 1865
288.	Kak verno zdravyi smysl naroda				    192
	How truly has the common sense of folk
289.	Pevuchest' est' v morskikh volnakh				    192
	The sea is harmony
290.	Drugu moemu Ya. P. Polonskomu				    193
	To my Friend, Ya. P. Polonsky
291.	Veleli vy - khot', mozhet byt', i v shutku			    193
	You commanded, though, perhaps, in jest
292.	Knyazyu Vyazemskomu (Est' telegraf za neimen'em nog)	    193
	To Prince Vyazemsky (There's the telegraph if you've go
no legs)
293.	Bednyi Lazar', Ir ubogoi					    193
	Poor Lazarus, wretched Iros
294.	Segodnya, drug, pyatnadtsat' let minulo			    193
	It's fifteen years today, my friend
295.	Molchit somnitel'no Vostok					    194
	The East is doubtful, silent
296.	Nakanune godovshchiny 4-ogo avgusta 1864 g.		    194
	On the Eve of the Anniversary of August 4th. 1864
297.	Kak neozhidanno i yarko					    194
	Unexpectedly and brightly
298.	Nochnoe nebo tak ugryumo					    195
	Sad night creeps
299.	Net dnya, chtoby dusha ne nyla				    195
	Not a day relievs the soul of pain
300.	Kak ni besilosya zlorech'e					    195
	Let foul slander rage
301.	Grafine A.D. Bludovoi					    196
	To Countess A.D. Bludova
302.	Tak! On spasyon! Inache byt' ne mozhet			    196
	So he's saved! Could it turn out otherwise?
303.	Kogda sochuvstvenno na nashe slovo				    196
	When what we have said is echoed far and wide
304.	Knyazyu Suvorovu (Dva raznorodnye stremlen'ya)		    196
	To Prince Suvorov (Two disparate tendencies)
305.	I v Bozh'em mire to zh byvaet					    197
	In God's world it can happen
306.	Kogda rasstroennyi kredit					    197
	When our disordered exchequer
307.	Tikho v ozere struitsya					    197
	Lake's still currents
308.	Na grobovoi ego pokrov					    197
	On his funeral pall
309.	Kogda dryakhleyushchie sily					    197
	When our decrepit energies turn traitor
310.	Nebo blednogoluboe						    198
	The pale-blue sky
311.	Umom Rossiyu ne ponyat'					    199
	Russia is a thing of which
312.	Na yubilei N.M. Karamzin					    199
	On the Jubilee of N.M. Karamzin
313.	Ty l'dolgo budesh' za tumanom				    200
	Russian star, will you always seek
314.	V Rime							    200
	In Rome
315.	Khotya b ona soshla s litsa zemnogo				    201
	Although it has slipped from the face of the earth
316.	Ne v pervyi raz volnuetsya Vostok				    201
	It's not the first time the East has been in turmoil.
317.	Nad Rossiei rasprostyortoi					    201
318.	Kak etogo posmertnogo al'boma				    201
	How I love the cherished pages
319.	I dym otechestva i sladok i priyaten				    202
	The smoke of the fatherland is sweet to smell!
320.	Dym								    202
321.	Slavyanam (Privet vam zadushevnyi, brat'ya)		    203
	To the Slavs (A heartfelt greeting to you, brethren)
322.	Slavyanam (Oni krichat, oni grozyatsya)			    204
	To the Slavs (They shout, they threaten)
323.	Pripiska							    205
	Postscript to the Poem Entitled To Hanka
324.	Naprasnyi trud - net, ikh ne vrazumish'			    206
	It's a waste of time.  You'll not make them see sense
325.	Na yubilei knyazya A.N. Gorchakova			    206
	On the Jubilee of Prince A.N. Gorchakov
326.	Lorsqu'un noble prince en ces jours de demence		    206
	In these days of madness, if a noble prince sinks
327.	Kak ni tyazhyol poslednii chas				    206
	However burdensome the end
328.	Svershaetsya zasluzhennaya kara				    207
	A righteous punishment is being meted out
329. Po prochtenii depesh imperatorskogo kabineta,		    207
napechatannykh v "Journal de St. Petersbourg"
On Reading the Imperial Despatches, Printed in the
Journal de St. Petersbourg
330.	Opyat, stoyu ya nad Nevoi					    207
	Once more by the Neva I stand
331.	Pozhary							    208
332.	V nebe tayut oblaka						    208
	Clouds melt in the sky
333.	Mikhailu Petrovichu Pogodinu				    209
	To Mikhail Petrovich Pogodin
334.	Pamyati E.P. Kovalevskogo					    209
	In Memory of E.P. Kovalevsky
335.	Pechati russkoi dobrokhoty					    209
	The well-wishers of the Russian Press
336.	Motiv Geine							    210
	A Heine Motif
	Der Tod, das ist die kuhle Nacht (Heine)
337.	Vy ne rodilus' polyakom					    210
	You weren't born a Pole
338.	"Net, ne mogu ya videt vas...."				    210
339.	Velikii den' Kirillovoi konchiny				    211
	With which heartfelt, simple greeting
340.	Nam ne dano predugadat'					    211
	It's not given us to foretell
341.	Dve sily est' - dve rokovye sily				    211
	There are two powers, two fateful powers
342. 11-oe maya 1869 (Nas vsekh, sobravshikhsya na obshchii	    212
prazdnik snova)
	May 11th. 1869 (The word of the Gospel has now taugh
 us all)
343.	Kak nasazhdeniya Petrova					    212
	Just as the trees
344.	O.I. Orlovoi-Davydovoi					    213
	To O.I. Orlova-Davydova
345. Andreyu Nikolaevichu Murav'yovu (Tam, gde na vysote	   213
	To Andrei Nikolaevich Murav'yov (There, on the summit
of an overhang)
346.	V derevne							    213
	In the Country
347.	Priroda - sfinks.  I tem ona vernei				    213
	Nature is a sphinx.
348.	Chekham ot moskovskikh slavyan				    215
	To the Czechs from the Moscow Slavs
349.	Kak nas ni ugnetai razluka					    216
	No matter how we're crushed by separation
350.	Sovremennoe							     216
	Today's News
351.	A.F. Gil'ferdingu						    218
	To A.F. Hilferding
352.	Yu. F. Abaze							    219
	To Yu F. Abaza
353.	Krasnorechivuyu, zhivuyu					    219
	I read my rebuke
354.	Tak providenie sudilo						    219
	Thus has providence judged
355.	Radost' i gore v zhivom upoen'e				    219
	Joy and grief in living ecstasy
	Freudvoll (Goethe)
356.	Gus na kostre							    220
	Hus at the Stake
357.	Nad russkoi Vil'noi starodavnoi				    221
	Over ancient, Russian Vilnius
358.	K.B.								    221
359.	Doekhal ispravno, ustalyi i tselyi				    222
	Tired and in one piece, I got here on time
360.	Dva edinstva							    222
	Two Unities
361.	Velen'yu vyshemy pokorny					    222
	Submissive to a high command
362.	Chemu by zhizn' nas ni uchila				    222
	Whatever life might have taught us
363.	Da, vy derzhali vashe slovo					    223
	Yes, you have kept your word
364.	Ah, quelle meprise						    224
	I'm bewildered and let me say
365.	Brat, stol'ko let soputsvovavshii mne				    224
	Brother, you have been with me so long
366.	S novym godom, s novym schast'em				    224
	Happy New Year, all the best
367.	Davno izvestnaya vsem dura					    224
	A fool we've known for ages
368.	Vprosonkakh slyshu ya - i ne mogu				    224
	I'm half asleep and I can't
369.	Chyornoe more						    224
	The Black Sea
370.	Vatikanskaya godovshchina					    226
	The Vatican's Anniversary
371.	Ot zhizni toi, chto bushevala zdes'				    226
	Of the life that raged here
372.	Vrag otritsatel'nosti uzkoi					    227
	Enemy of narrow negativity
373.	Pamyati M.K. Politkovskoi					    227
	To the Memory of M.K. Politkovskii
374.	Den' pravoslavnogo Vostoka					    228
	On this day of the Orthodox East
375.	Mir i soglas'e mezhdu nas					    229
	There's peace and harmony between us
376.	Kak bestolkovy chisla eti					    229
	These dates are so illogical!
377.	Tut tselyi mir, zhivoi, raznoobraznyi				    229
	Here's a whole world, living, varied
378.	Chertog tvoi, spasitel', ya vizhu ukrashen			    229
	Saviour, I see your mansion decked out
379.	Khotel by ya, chtoby v svoei mogile				    229
	In my grave I'd love to lie
380.	Napoleon III							    229
381.	Tebe, bolyashchaya v dalyokoi storone			    230
	To you, ill in a distant land
382.	Britanskii leopard						    231
	The British Leopard
383.	Konechno, vredno pol'zam gosudarstva			    232
	Of course, it is harmful to the wellbeing of the state
384.	Vo dni napastei i bedy						    232
	In days of misfortune and trouble
385.	Vsyo otnyal ot menya kaznyashchii Bog			    232
	In punishment, God's taken everything away
386.	Ital'yanskaya vesna						    233
	Spring in Italy
387.	My solntsu yuga ustupaem vas				    233
	We surrender you to the sun of the south.
388.	Vot svezhie tebe svety						    233
	Here are some fresh blooms for you
389.	April 17th. 1818						    233
390.	Imperatoru Aleksandru II					    234
	To his Imperial Majesty Alexander II
391.	Bessonnitsa (nochnoi moment)				    235
	Insomnia (A Moment at Night)
392.	Khot' rodom on byl ne Slavyanin				    235
	Although he wasn't born a Slav
393.	Byvaet rokovye dni						    235
	Fate Sends Days

     This  book has two principal objectives: (a) to provide, for  the first
time in English, an annotated  version of all of Tyutchev's surviving poems,
including his translations of other writers, which will  be  of  use to  the
student of Russian, the Tyutchev researcher and anyone involved in the field
of literary translation; (b) to serve as the first ever attempt to introduce
Tyutchev the poet in full to the reader of literature who knows no Russian.
     Most of the annotations deal  with history, literary and  political.  I
have incorporated almost all the notes from Pigaryov's edition, (A:33ii) (1)
which are a  summary  of many  people's findings,  references  to  Aksakov's
biography  and  extracts from  Tyutchev's  letters,  as  well  as  including
comments by many researchers and myself.
     The full version and my translation  of  every  identifiable  surviving
foreign work Tyutchev translated permits readers to consider why he may have
chosen  particular material for translation in  the  first place and why  he
retained its  sense or altered it  as  he did. My versions and, indeed,  any
translations necessarily afford only an approximate idea of this. The way he
dealt  with the work  of others  is in itself  a fascinating feature of  any
research into the poet,  for Tyutchev was not  always a faithful translator.
While certain  of these works are very good renditions indeed, others do not
pretend to adhere to the sense of the source poem. It is difficult to regard
Pesn' skandinavskikh voinov/The Song of the  Norse Warriors as a translation
of  Herder's Morgengesang  im Kriege/Morning  Song in War Time, written in a
folk or  pseudo-folk vein, for  it  doubles  the German  piece in length and
introduces material utterly foreign  to  the spirit and movement of Herder's
work, though the new material does owe a little to Russian folklore.  On the
other hand, parts of Tyutchev's work are  a direct translation or close copy
of the German. Tyutchev sticks  closely to the original  when he chooses to,
as in  his translation  of two short pieces from Shakespeare's A Midsummer's
Night's Dream, which he probably translated  from a good German version, and
Hippolytus's death scene from Racine's Phedre. These are skilful renditions,
as are a number of shorter  works from Heine and Goethe  and sections of the
latter's Faust (Part 1). But where do we stand with  the extract from Hugo's
Hernani?  It is  significantly  and  deliberately altered  in some  ways yet
retains  very  large sections of the  original.  Do we  consider  the  lyric
entitled Sakontala to be a translation? It resembles  only superficially the
originating  scene from  Kalidasa'splay and  is  not  much like  the  Goethe
version  often  said to be its inspiration.  Classical  Sanskrit  literature
being so popular in the nineteenth century through  the  work of such as  A.
Schlegel  (1767-1845), Tyutchev's Sakontala should  probably be seen  as one
more  of many  poems written on one  of  its themes.  The question  of  what
motivated him to alter other works in the subtle ways he did remains, and is
beyond the scope of this book.
     Because it can be so difficult to know  exactly where to draw the  line
between        Tyutchev's       original        lyrics        and        his
translations/adaptations/paraphrases, I have considered each of his works as
part of the one evolving body of poetry without  attempting to classify into
"lyric",  "political"  and  "occasional", fully  aware  that  I  go  against
standard practice in adopting this approach, although  Liberman has recently
adopted the chronological manner of grouping the lyrics. (A:19) It has  been
too common in the past to present the reader with the bulk of what all would
agree is his best  lyric poetry, leaving other types  of verse, for  example
the political pieces, in what has sometimes amounted to an appendix.
     A  number  of  Tyutchev's  "lyric"  poems,  if   we  follow  Pigaryov's
categories, are mediocre and some of his political and, indeed, a handful of
the so-called "occasional" verses, including  a few  written in French,  are
far from inferior. Five of his French poems are  good and two are among this
reader's personal  favourites. To  present an undiluted diet of lyric poetry
written  over  roughly fifty  years  is  to  give an erroneous impression of
Tyutchev.  It would be  equally  misleading  to produce  a  book  of  solely
political verse. It  is likely that Tyutchev wrote  in these categories more
or less simultaneously and we  are probably on safe ground in asserting that
there is  no period  of his creative life when he  was not  producing nature
lyrics,  political   verse,   love  poetry,  superficial  occasional  lines,
philosophical statements  and taking limerick-like  swipes at people  he did
not  like. Whatever  spurred him to write a remarkable description of sunset
(Letnii vecher/A  Summer Evening  [41]),  occurred at the same time  as  the
Russo-Turkish  war (see Olegov shchit/Oleg's Shield [42]) and coincided with
an alluring young female turning his  head to anything but poetry, as in the
erotic,  possibly  adulterous K  N.N./To N.  N.  [51].  Since poems  of  all
categories  were certainly fermenting at any one time, it  seems  logical to
deduce that they all represent in  some way the poet as he was at that time.
The chronological approach does need to be reinforced. To this end I present
Tyutchev's work as I do.
     While the exact chronology of the poems before 1847 will probably never
be established, I have adhered to the best chronological sequence I can come
up with at present.  Works  clearly showing someone else's  influence appear
beside those considered  truly original. Of course, while  a large number of
his  early  nature poems  could  be  said  to trace their  genesis to German
romanticism, a point made early this century by Tynyanov, and Tyutchev being
very much a poet who saw the world through literary eyes, the best of  them,
while  sharing  imagery  and  themes   with  German  lyrics,   are  uniquely
characteristic  of Tyutchev and often considerably more innovative than many
of the works which may have inspired them.
     It has often been said that there are cycles in Tyutchev. Poems written
to his mistress, Elena Deniseva,  are said to make up the so-called Deniseva
Cycle.  These  were  produced over several years and in no  way constitute a
cycle, let alone a "novel in verse".  (See A:20,  vol.1/58) His relationship
with Elena  did not cramp  his  style when it came to  writing to  and about
other women, including his first  and second wives and Amalia Krudner, whose
name  and  presence crop  up at  various  stages of his  life in letters and
poems. Whether poems to women are in question, nature descriptions or lyrics
with all the imagery of chaos so beloved of Tyutchev, he  simply was not the
poet to produce a cycle on any theme, being so unforgivably careless when it
came to looking after his  work once  the interest of  immediate inspiration
had evaporated. Nodal  themes and commonly recurring groups of images,  such
as  the so-called  "Holy  Night", do  not  suggest cycles any more  than the
lyrics addressed  to his mistress. Heine's Nordsee/North Sea, parts of which
Tyutchev translated, is a cycle. The lyrics take a theme and present it from
different angles  and with  different  nuances,  but however  much each poem
might differ from another, they are deliberately, artistically linked by the
sea/abandonment theme, or whatever one might wish to call it.
     It  is  not  even  useful to  consider that  he  wrote  lyrics  loosely
connected,  as  did Lamartine in his group  of  Meditations Poetiques/Poetic
Meditations,  number 1  of which Tyutchev translated, for all too  often  in
Tyutchev spontaneity is  of  the first importance in the writing of his best
works  and spontaneity and  cycles tend  not to go hand in  hand.  The  same
applies,  from a literary-historical  point of view, to periods.  Continuity
is, as Liberman notes, a most important feature of Tyutchev's style, so much
so that "it  is hardly  possible to  detect 'periods' in his creative life",
differences, when they do emerge, being "unrelated  to the juxtaposition  of
romanticism and realism".  (A:19) Ultimately Tyutchev is  unique in being  a
brilliant and great poet who, it could be  argued, had absolutely  no desire
to be any kind of poet at all.
     "It is possible  that nothing leads  us closer to contemplation  of the
essence of literature than working at the translation of poetry, or at least
thoughtfully appraising such work." (D:11/147) Translation can enjoy certain
advantages over exegesis. Translators become acquainted with "their" authors
in a way not always permitted by the  kind  of interpretation which requires
neutral  objectivity, ever respectfully acknowledging the work of others, be
that good, bad or indifferent. There  are countless trenchant  statements by
countless clever translators concerning the problems inherent in the process
of literary translation. Does the translator bring the author to the reader,
the  "domesticating  method",  as  one  writer  puts  it,  "an  ethnocentric
reduction of  the  foreign text to target-language cultural values, bringing
the author back home,  or  does  he adopt the  "foreignizing method  .... an
ethnodeviant  pressure  on  those values  to  register  the  linguistic  and
cultural  differences  of the  foreign  text,  sending  the reader  abroad".
(D:25/20)  Perhaps neither of these  methods is applicable to Tyutchev, who,
it  could  be said,  was Russian by  nationality only  and  possessed  to no
significant   degree  Russian   cultural   values.  To   translate  one   so
cosmopolitan, even  rootless, perhaps  the  domesticating  and  foreignizing
methods are irrelevant.
     Imitation,  for all the following caveat,  may  be  the  best  means of
dealing with the source languages, the imitator  having "not  the  slightest
intention of bringing  the two together - the writer of the original and the
reader of  the imitation -  because  he does  not  believe that an immediate
relationship between them is  possible; he  only wants to give the latter an
impression similar to that which the contemporaries of the original received
from it". (D:19/41) In  my own  translations  I often strive to give such an
impression, so  perhaps I  join Schleiermacher's ranks  of imitators, though
while I accept that it is "foolish to argue for the  exact reconstruction of
a poem in another language when the building  blocks at one's disposal  bear
no resemblance to  those of the original",  (D:27/107) I do feel that a more
than  adequate  reconstruction  is not  beyond  the  grasp  of  the  capable
     Concerning the reproduction of those formal aspects of a poem which set
it apart  from  any other piece  of writing,  Jacquin allows the  translator
pretty well  free play:  "If  rhymed verse  becomes  blank or free verse  in
translation (something which is sometimes prose in disguise ...) the poet is
betrayed and the  reader led astray; for the translation deflects from their
functions  forms  inscribed in  tradition.  But to  preserve  rhymes  is  to
restrict one's choice of terms, hindered moreover by lexical and grammatical
restraints, to  risk  sacrificing the  other  values  of  the piece  to  the
ornament of sound and thus to destroy its cohesive power". (D:6/52-53)
     I do  not attempt to produce a lyric which reminds an English reader of
what he likes in English poetry. Nor is my aim to achieve a general romantic
or  nineteenth-century  "feel", whatever  that may be. I do not  consider an
adherence to formal  characteristics to be  of the first importance any more
than I ignore them, for if they  are present in  a poem  they are important,
and if the  translator  chooses to sacrifice them, something else must  take
their  place  in  order  that the  result be  poetry and not prose. What  is
necessary,  and  it is  the only thing that will work, is a juggling act, an
ability to read between the lines, keeping one eye on the foreignness of the
source and another on what is  probably a desire  on the reader's part to be
presented  with something with which  he feels  comfortable.  This  idea  of
"comfortableness" might  be  considered  subjective, even vague,  but it  is
important and  can  generally be achieved provided the  translator  can say,
with a degree  of confidence,  "I  am acquainted with the person who is that
     It  is  certainly  likely  that  in   translating  lyric  poetry,  "the
translator will have  chosen the poem himself, and even more likely that the
task will be undertaken with empathy and a  degree of  personal commitment".
(D:20/631) This personal choice, this commitment on the translator's part is
of  the first importance. The  task might be  likened  to  explaining to  an
outsider what a close relative or friend who has lost his voice is trying to
say. Most emphatically, I  am  not a poet of  any description.  My target is
simply to introduce the reader directly to Tyutchev.
     Aware  of the many well-researched  conclusions reached by theorists in
the field  of translation studies, I  believe three things are essential  in
the  attainment  of  this  target.  The first and  most obvious  is  a  good
knowledge of the  target and source languages; the second, occasionally more
controversial, is a  degree of expertise in the manipulation  of language, a
most  important  willingness and  ability  to take risks at  the expense  of
structural fidelity, even at  the apparent expense of faithfulness  to major
images  and  poetic formulae;  the third,  not  readily appreciated  by  all
translators, is an acceptance  of the importance  of the  writer's life, not
only his creative life, for on its own this is a thing in  a vacuum, but his
personal  motivations,  his  social  milieux  and  his  political/historical
environment. A close acquaintance with the writer can allow us  to clear, at
least  in part,  the  hurdles posed by the untranslated words.  While  words
cannot  always  be  translated  perfectly  (2),  once the  various  possible
meanings and their nuances, taking into account  the  age in which they were
written, have been listed, the emotions and thoughts which produced them can
be coped with to  some extent for, whether we be English  or  Russian,  what
makes us feel, think, believe  the way we  do is universal  and,  therefore,
capable  of  being  translated.  The reproduction  of  the  word is not,  it
follows, my ultimate aim, for the words lead us into the thing the writer is
expressing.  From the melting  pot of  my priorities emerges, it is hoped, a
new creation which is an accurate statement about Tyutchev in a  given lyric
at a given time.
     My  translation  methods correspond broadly with two of Nabokov's three
modes  of  translation, the  "paraphrastic" and  the  "literal"  (D:2,  vol.
1/viii).  From his early, relatively free translations, Nabokov became  more
and more dogmatic,  even obsessive, scathingly attacking anything other than
the purely literal (and by implication  his own early,  excellent renditions
of Tyutchev), once claiming that his ideal translation would  be  a  book of
annotations  with  the corresponding line  of verse every few pages: "I want
translations in copious footnotes, footnotes reaching up like skyscrapers to
the top of this or that page, so as to leave only the  gleam  of one textual
line between  commentary and  eternity." (D:12/512) However  tongue-in-cheek
this comment may be, Nabokov began to  work according  to  it,  but  such  a
method of translation  is (surely) an extreme business unless translation is
to be a purely  scholarly exercise enjoyed by the few. Such is not  the role
of art. Concerning the  art of translation, Nabokov wrote,  "the  person who
desires  to turn  a literary masterpiece into another language, has only one
duty to perform, and this is  to produce with  absolute exactitude the whole
text,  and   nothing  but  the  text.  The  term  "literal"  translation  is
tautological  since  anything  but  that  is  not  truly translation but  an
imitation, an adaptation or a  parody" (D:13/496-512) (3). Such an  approach
automatically  distances the  vast majority  of readers from precisely  what
makes  great literature enjoyable. Literalists all too often miss the point.
I join those translators who are ready, where appropriate to sacrifice rhyme
and assonance "to the silent counterpoint of poetic meaning". (D:22/v)
     While annotated literalness  creates  a gap between reader  and writer,
its  structural cousin, the  search  for  a  different  kind of  literalness
through  the  minefield of  any attempt  to adhere to formal characteristics
such  as  rhyme, is an equally dangerous  business and retention of a poem's
formal  aspects  should be  considered only provided the sense and "feel" of
the poem remain intact.  In producing a work accurate from the point of view
of rhyme and metre, the translator will inevitably be stretching the  target
language,  all  too  often in a contrived  fashion,  producing  an unnatural
effect not present in the source  work. While  the result might  be  clever,
often very good, it cannot be denied that frequently too much will have been
lost. Aiming at contextual literalness produces a "story line" bereft of the
music.  By making formal  fidelity one's  aim, one can easily lose sight  of
meaning   in  the   search  for  shape.  Sensitive,  informed   paraphrastic
translation, it seems to me, is the only way forward.
     My renderings  are literally faithful  where appropriate.  This is  the
case with Tyutchev's  versions of other poets and with many of the political
pieces. There is no  point in treating 11-oe maya 1869/May  11th. 1869 [342]
in any  other  than a  rigidly literal manner.  They are  sometimes  loosely
"poetic",  as in Sovremennoe/Today's Event [350], a political item ending in
a more  "poetic"  structure  which Tyutchev uses more than once in  his best
work. I favour a form of rhythmic prose  in poems such as [128], where there
is  a certain narrative feel. A number of poems are as they are because I am
happy  with  them, others, I have to admit, leave me far  from satisfied. In
the translation of poetry,  there is never a final word. There remain  those
versions  which, were  Nabokov still with  us, would  be savaged ruthlessly,
works which, from the standpoint of imagery and/or structure I have  offered
in a  deliberate, considered mistranslation,  though  if  there  results  "a
slightly  wrong  meaning",  there  remains  hopefully  "a  completely  right
feeling".  (D:24/12) Such a work is [200],  my original imagery  giving  the
best  effect  of  which I was capable at  the  time,  the  priority being to
reproduce the sense  of  seething,  impotent anger and genuine sadness which
motivated the poet to write it.
     The    celebrated    Formalist,    V.    Shklovsky,   rightly   rejects
"authomatisation", for  it  "eats things, clothing, furniture, your wife and
fear of war". (D:12/11-12) Shklovsky believed that the artist is called upon
to counteract routine by dealing with objects out of their habitual context,
by getting  rid of verbal cliches and their stock responses.  I  am in  full
agreement with Shklovsky on this matter. I would not at this stage undertake
a  serious  translation of  poems  by Blok,  Baudelaire  or Holderlin,  even
enjoying these writers in  their own languages, and certainly being able  to
translate the words and sentences which make up the elements of their works,
for I  could not  approach  them with the confidence  with which  I  know  a
Tyutchev  lyric. Given the often scanty information at hand and the abyss of
time between us, I feel I have come to know him to some extent, his milieux,
his  family, the  way  he  felt  and thought  and passed  the  time, whether
observing  his dog chasing ducks or wishing, on a boat  trip, his friend was
there with a gun for the  shooting of fowl, moaning to all  and sundry about
his  gout and rheumatism, complaining  to  the heavens that he  is bored and
lonely,  irrespective of  the heartache  to which he subjects those close to
him, pulling Schelling to pieces, cursing the British, the French, the Turks
and  the  Vatican,  irritating  Pogodin  with  his  intellectual  arrogance,
vilifying the tsar and his ministers for their crass ineptitude, or angry at
his daughter for  marrying a  sailor who -  sin of sins -  spoke Russian  in
preference to French. Such  proximity  is essential  in the production of  a
good translation, for it allows the translator to  pull apart convention and
rewrite the poet with confidence.
     Shklovsky's "making strange", making form difficult, "seeing" (videnie)
as opposed to "recognising" (uznavanie) (ibid.)  should  be  born in mind as
the reader  approaches many of  my  translations. The much-anthologised good
poem can lose  one of its greatest  qualities, that  of  newness,  by  being
anthologised, whether in a  book or in a particular, accepted  format in the
hands of translators, by  being there, by looking more  or less the same all
the time. I believe that the translator must make the  reader sit up and pay
attention. He must not be the critic who, in Steiner's words, "when he looks
back ... sees a eunuch's  shadow" (D:7/21). The translator of any literature
worth 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 it  follows that great literature needs retranslating every so often
in order to make sense to different generations.
     While the possessiveness of the  committed translator  who has "chosen"
his poet can allow an illuminating insight into the workings of the writer's
mind, it can, of course, work the other way and the good translator needs to
ensure  that he is  producing the writer and not himself playing at being  a
poet.  It  is also very  easy  to become blase about one's  knowledge  of  a
foreign language, for unless one is genuinely bilingual, as, indeed, Nabokov
was, the brain, albeit translating quickly, nonetheless pauses to translate,
and this pause  indicates  an inability, at times  not  very significant, to
translate instinctively. This pause can also be a useful thing. I have often
found, on rendering  a poem into English, that an image  in  the Russian has
struck  forcefully home for the first time, despite having read the work  in
question many times.  Students of  foreign  literature  could do  worse than
attempt  occasional  translation  if  for  no other  reason than to  satisfy
themselves that they have indeed understood what  the poet's  words actually
mean, let alone what might be  implied.  They should  certainly never be put
off. If a translator can be so  bold as to render Khlebnikov's  entertaining
Zaklyatie  smekhom/Incantation  by  Laughter  into  Scots,   there  is  most
assuredly hope for the youngest novice (D:4/89).
     Where I have taken considerable liberties, there will, it  goes without
saying, be those who point out that I have altered the structure of the poem
and,  therefore, its  meaning.  Whatever  the  case  may be,  my target  has
remained throughout  the accurate  communication of what I believe  Tyutchev
was feeling,  thinking  then  saying. I  hope that  more  than a  handful of
educated Russian speakers now feel that they can enjoy the complete poems of
this major writer  as a result of my approach, despite it being  "as wise to
cast a violet into a crucible that  you might discover the  formal principle
of its colour and odour, as seek to transfuse from one language into another
the creations of a poet". (D:1/).
     The reader unfamiliar with  this author  will find  a story and  a life
unfolding  from  the earliest extant poem written on his  father's birthday,
through  truly  wondrous nature lyrics, sharp,  often  hurtful  love  poems,
occasional  verse,  chauvinistic  political pronouncements  on  Pan-Slavism,
philosophical  and religious  lines,  to  tormented  protests  in  which  an
embittered,  frightened poet of alienation faces inner  turmoil, illness and
encroaching death.  In  the Romantic age of  Pushkin and Lermontov we find a
seriously "modern" poet; in the realistic age of Dostoevskian  and Tolstoyan
prose, a poet who would not be disowned by later existentialist writers will
be discovered at a time when the reading public is less enthralled by poetry
than by Anna Karenina and The Brothers Karamazov.
     My former supervisor, Dr. R.C. Lane,  is  a leading  authority  in  the
field  of  Tyutchev   studies.  Discussions  with  him  have  always  proved
invaluable. He has read the  first section of my manuscript and the endnotes
and  I  am  grateful  to him for his suggestions, encouragement and  general
assistance, as well as for  kindly writing a foreword to the 1983 edition. I
have  chosen  to retain this, for it says what I wish to have said  about my
approach and,  I feel, could not be  improved. His doctoral  thesis and many
subsequent  publications   represent,   in  my  view,   the  fullest,   most
comprehensive study  of the poet  in  English. He has produced articles  and
reports on various  aspects of Tyutchev's  life, poetry and  diplomatic work
and  on some of the philosophical  influences in the lyrics in addition to a
complete catalogue of works by and about the poet up to 1985. Since he first
looked at the manuscript,  I have amended  certain sections. Any defects  in
the later or, indeed, earlier material are my responsibility alone.
     R. Gregg's book is a solid introduction offering interesting studies of
the  poems  if often  somewhat  biased towards psychoanalysis. K. Pigaryov's
study  and I. Aksakov's  biography are essential preliminary reading for the
specialist,  as are many Soviet contributions. The latter contain  essential
background information.  Some deal intuitively with  the  inspiration behind
the  greatest  poems and cleverly with their structure,  notably  Tynyanov's
famous article on the short  lyric as a "fragment" of the neo-classical ode.
The point Tynyanov makes is that Tyutchev, wanting to retain the "monumental
forms" of the "dogmatic poem" and of the  "philosophical epistle", realising
that these had more  or less disappeared since Derzhavin's  time,  found his
outlet  in the  artistic form of  the "fragment", the latter,  he goes on to
claim,  realised in  the  west  by the  Romantics  and canonised  by  Heine.
Inevitably  Soviet  scholarship  has suffered from  a  requirement  to  give
prominence to approved themes.  The so-called Tyutchev-Pushkin question is a
case  in point.  On  various somewhat  spurious  bases  (e.g.  Pushkin  once
ridiculed Raich, Tyutchev's  friend  and tutor), an enmity between  the  two
poets was created. Apart  from  the  fact  that such a matter is  remarkably
irrelevant, 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 the
mainstream literary scene in his country and famously made no effort to have
his best  work read  by the  public  before 1836  (he may  have deliberately
destroyed  some of it), such  "professional" hostility  would probably never
have existed. I have avoided any further reference to this matter  or to any
concerning a comparison of his talents with those of other writers.
     Tyutchev  has had several  translators. Each one worthy  of mention has
tackled  only  a very small  number  of the better known  lyrics,  with  the
notable  exception  of  Anatoly  Liberman  who  has  taken  on  the bulk  of
Tyutchev's best  work, sticking rigorously to the formal features, including
rhymes. He  is  the first to  have  published such a  large number of worthy
translations of Tyutchev's lyrics, preceded by an excellent introduction. He
and I have different attitudes towards poetic translation. He informed me in
one  of many communications that when I decide not  to  reproduce Tyutchev's
rhyme schemes, the "general aura  that okutyvaet"  ("enwraps") my renderings
tends to make up for this. I am more than happy with this judgement.
     Work in Europe and the USA, a relatively slow trickle  of research, has
laid the as yet extremely narrow foundations of the  West's understanding of
Tyutchev.  Considering the importance of his position in Russian literature,
it is astonishing just how many students of western European literature have
never even heard of this amazing writer.  A lot  of building remains. I hope
this 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 numeral  is used where an author has more than one contribution, and
page 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
(and  infamous) translator's  preface  to  his version of Pushkin's  Evgenii
Onegin. Nabokov writes,  "Attempts to render a poem in another language fall
into three categories:
     (i)  Paraphrastic:  offering  a  free  version  of  the  original  with
omissions and  additions prompted by the exigencies of form, the conventions
attributed to the consumer, and the translator's ignorance. Some paraphrases
may  possess  the charm of stylish diction and  idiomatic conciseness but no
scholar should succumb to stylishness and no reader be fooled by it.
     (ii) Lexical (or constructional): rendering the basic meaning  of words
(and  their  order).  This  a machine  can do  under  the  direction  of  an
intelligent bilinguist.
     (iii) Literal: rendering as closely as possible  as the associative and
syntactical capacities of the  language allow,  the exact contextual meaning
of 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, due  to the role played by stressed  and  unstressed syllables, the
full  "ye" is not  always  heard. I transliterate both this  and the  second
Russian "e" simply  as "e".  Foreign  names beginning with "H" tend to start
with "G" in Russian. I retain the "H". I stick to general convention in  the
cases of certain names (e.g. Tolstoy, Alexander, Ernestine). I reproduce the
soft  and  hard signs  by '  and '' respectively and represent the  letter i
kratkoe by "i". I also tend to omit patronymic names. Where appropriate, the
acute accent indicates the  stressed syllable. This produces the  occasional
unfamiliar  sound, such as  "Sevastopol",  and not  the "Sevastopol" English
speakers are used to.

     I am indebted to the following for their assistance:

     1.  Dr.  P.  J. Fitzpatrick  (Department  of Philosophy, University  of
Durham) for his  translations of two of Horace's Carmina  and part of a poem
by Ausonius.
     2.  Professor  A.   Liberman   (University  of  Minneapolis)   for  his
encouragement through  several  e-mails and for reading and commenting  on a
small selection of my work.
     3.  Mr.  J.  Norton  (Director  of  the  Centre  for  Turkish  Studies,
University  of  Durham)  for assisting me with  information  on Mehmed  Fuad
     4.  Thanks  are due  to  my former  teachers at  Durham.  Professor  W.
Harrison showed me that History  is  important,  as well as interesting  and
entertaining, and he, Mr. L.S.K. le Fleming and Mrs. S. le Fleming, together
with Dr. R. Lane, helped a self-taught student with  a somewhat chaotic mind
to channel his energies and occasionally write something which made sense.
     5. Should  the anonymous translator of Manzoni's Il cinque  maggio ever
recognise  his/her  work,  I shall  gladly  acknowledge this in  any  future
     6.  Mr. A. Stansfield (ITS Consultant, University of Durham)  explained
to me the essentials of web page design. Thanks to him I now have a web site
on which parts of this book appear.
     7. The manuscript, untidy and very faded in parts, was ably typed up by
Miss Julie Bell of the Physics Department.

     My book is  very much  a  product of happy  years as a student  at  St.
Cuthbert's Society  in the University of Durham, a  centre  of learning with
which I have never cut the ties and, hopefully, never shall.

     The  Tyutchev  family  tradition,  in line with general  practice among
Russian  noble  families  which liked to link  their  genealogy with foreign
immigrants, had it that a Venetian  trader  called  Dudgi  accompanied Marco
Polo on his  travels to China  and, on the way home,  settled  in Russia. It
would be surprising if Tyutchev had not at some time made a flippant quip at
the  Italian's expense. When d'Anthes was  exiled from Russia  in perpetuity
for slaying Pushkin in a duel,  Tyutchev, who never liked living in  Russia,
remarked,  "Well, I'm off  to kill Zhukovsky", the latter being  the veteran
poet and  highly esteemed  translator  (1783-1852) (A:5).  From the Niconian
chronicle  comes the equally  attractive  tale, impossible to  link directly
with  Tyutchev's family, of  the  shrewd Zakhary  Tyutchev  sent  by Dmitrii
Donskoi as  ambassador to  the  Golden  Horde  on  the  eve  of the  crucial
fourteenth-century Battle of Kulikovo. It is said that on receiving a demand
for increased tribute to the Horde, the diplomat,  on the  way home, tore up
the  Mongol  missive  and sent the  pieces back  to the  khan. After a great
Russian victory, news reached the right quarters and Zakhary became the hero
of the tale, Pro Mamaya bezbozhnogo/Concerning Mamai the Godless.
     The second  son  of  land-owning parents, (1) Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
was born on November 23rd. 1803  (2) in the village of Ovstug, about  thirty
kilometres north of Bryansk in what  was then the Orlov province (C:15). The
village of Ovstug was partly  in the possession of the Tyutchevs and lies on
the  river Desna in a densely  wooded part of south west Russia. The  family
would spend  winters  in Moscow.  In August  1812 they moved temporarily  to
Yaroslavl on the eve of Napoleon's taking of the capital. The boy was raised
in a household where French was  spoken almost  exclusively, although serfs,
servants,  nannies  and  the  local  clergy  used  Russian.  This  made  him
effectively bilingual. Throughout his life he  spoke French. His letters are
overwhelmingly in French, as are his articles and a handful of verses.
     In  1812 his education was  entrusted to Semyon  Raich, a conscientious
and gifted  student of Classical and  Italian literature, enthusiastic  poet
and translator. Tyutchev went up to Moscow University in 1819, graduated and
in 1822 entered  government service in the Office of Foreign Affairs in  St.
Petersburg. In the stimulating atmosphere of the capital many would-be-poets
made small contributions to Russian letters  and played  their part  in  the
rapidly  developing  cultural   life  of   the  city.  German   writers  and
philosophers were being popularised, particularly Schelling, who referred to
Tyutchev as "an excellent and most  cultivated man with whom it is  always a
pleasure  to  converse" (A:5,  vol. 3/492).  Tyutchev had a  less flattering
opinion  of  the  German,  as  a  famous  conversation  between the  two men
indicates A:1/319).
     In   attempting  to   reconcile   Christian  mystery   with   empirical
investigation, Schelling fell  foul of  Tyutchev's sharp mind, probably more
than once. Karl Pfeffel (the  brother of Tyutchev's second wife) reports the
two having several conversations "in the field of  metaphysical speculation"
(ibid.). Tyutchev  felt an instinctive impatience for  any scientific system
(a  distrust  which never altered throughout his  life)  and  for anyone who
attempted  to  explain man's  presence in the universe  as  no more  than  a
gradual process of self-cognition. In  Tyutchev's  view, what Nature allowed
to  happen simply happened, in her extreme indifference to man. The argument
highlights Tyutchev's insistence on blind faith  in  the  scheme  of things,
despite  being   a  less   than  devout  person  himself,  but,  of  course,
intellectual conviction can  go  hand  in  hand  with  daily practice  which
appears to  contradict it. After all, Kant the  philosopher was the sharpest
critic of the Protestantism to which, in practice, he adhered passionately.
     Tyutchev's celebrated objection went along the following lines: "You're
attempting  an  impossible  task   ...  A  philosophy   which   rejects  the
supernatural and wants  to prove  everything by  reason must  inevitably  be
diverted  towards  materialism  in  order  to  drown  in atheism.  The  only
philosophy compatible with Christianity is contained  in its entirety in the
catechism. You must believe what St. Paul believed, kneel before the Madness
of the  Cross or  deny  everything. The supernatural is fundamental to  that
which is most natural to man. It  has roots in human consciousness which are
far superior to what we call reason, this poor reason which allows only what
it understands, in other words nothing". (ibid.)
     The section ending at "the Madness of the Cross" (La Folie de la Croix)
is as much  as  most commentators choose  to  quote. The lines following it,
however,  might be seen to indicate a nod in the direction of a more general
sense of man being but a  mote in God's eye.  The word "nothing" returns us,
perhaps,  to  the  formlessness   Schelling  was  striving  from  but  which
Christianity  as  well needed to  escape  by producing its own  system. That
Tyutchev  actually  adhered  to  his  belief, at least publicly, is born out
throughout his  life in  poetry, conversation and  letters. Some of  what he
thought appears to have been passed on  to his clever, influential  daughter
Ekaterina  ("Kitty").  Writing  to  the  great  statesman  and  proponent of
conservative  nationalism,  K.  Pobedonostsev  (1827-1907),  who  considered
Tyutchev's  daughter to  be his  closest  friend,  Ekaterina,  around whom a
significant literary circle  often met in her aunt Darya's house, complained
of The Brothers Karamazov that Dostoevsky had  ignored  the fact that "there
are deep  streams which  cannot, should not be touched by  the word of  man"
(B:11iii, vol.  15/495). This  comment  concerned worries  expressed in  her
circle that Ivan Karamazov's rebellion would be taken more seriously by more
people than  Zosima's  teaching. The  comment certainly smacks of the public
     While   Tyutchev  studied   at  Moscow,  a   number  of   his   friends
enthusiastically experimented with the relatively untried medium of literary
Russian, some as  members of  Merzlyakov's "little academy".  During much of
the eighteenth  century  Russian had  tended  to  be an unwieldy  tool for a
generally tedious and imitative literature. At the turn  of the century such
writers  as  Derzhavin  (1743-1816),   Karamzin  (1766-1826)  and  Lermontov
(1814-41)  and Batyushkov  (1787-1855) were laying the groundwork of the new
literature. Their  efforts were crowned  by  the prolific genius  of Pushkin
(1799-1826),  whose compositions  secured  Russian  literature  its rightful
place in Europe.
     In the  year he obtained his first appointment, Tyutchev  was offered a
post  in the  Russian legation in Munich, thanks to the efforts of an uncle.
Shortly after his return on leave to Russia in 1825,  the Decembrists staged
their revolt. After it the  police arrested  scores of young revolutionaries
and  idealists who  had been  no  more than spiritual sympathisers with  the
instigators of the uprising. The ringleaders' original sentence, quartering,
was commuted  to hanging  (Russia  had  not seen  the death penalty used for
fifty years)  and many  others wasted their lives in the  army in skirmishes
with  southern  tribes or  in exile  in Siberia.  The generally unrebellious
Tyutchev produced an interesting work entitled 14-oe dekabrya  1825/December
14th. 1825  [30], in which the comparison between autocracy and a glacier is
tempting for those seeking a revolutionary beneath a conservative veneer. He
refers to the insurgents as misguided people. His sadness at  their fate  is
real. The most accurate gauge of Tyutchev's feelings about the  Decembrists,
if not of his intellectual conclusions,  is  the poem itself. As a polemical
piece directed against  would-be revolutionaries it  is  weak. As  an  early
example of his  better  poetic imagery  it  is fairly effective; the glacier
image hardly flatters the regime of Nicholas I. The poem is an indication of
a growing,  very public conservatism  and nationalism  which lasted  all his
life, as well  as of his day-to-day view of  Russia  as  a cold, undesirable
place, both literally and figuratively. Tyutchev's concern about the dangers
of  revolution, especially  close  to  Russia's  borders, became  a  passion
lasting until  his  death.  He  would  interpret  various  western  European
policies as a series of efforts to deny Russia  her geographical heritage to
the advantage of the Turks. Tyutchev was obsessed by the Eastern Question.
     Returning to  Munich  in  1826, he  married Eleonore Peterson  (nee von
Bothmer),  a twenty-six year old widow with  three  children.  She had three
more  by  him (3).  Both  were impractical people  and experienced financial
hardship.  Little is  documented about Darya,  but Anna  and  Ekaterina  are
revealed in the  memories of various people as  intelligent,  energetic  and
creative women in different ways. Indeed, Tolstoy himself showed more than a
passing affection for Ekaterina. A  selection  of his comments from 1857  to
1858 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.  She  occupies  me  persistently.  It's  even  a  nuisance,
especially since it's not love; it doesn't have love's charm".
     "Went  to  Tyutchev's  prepared   to  love  her.   She's  cold,  petty,
     "Alas, I was cold towards Tyutcheva".
     "I'd almost be prepared to marry her impassively, without love, but she
received me with studied coldness". (B:39)
     There are girlish hints in the sisters' letters to each other about the
possibility of marriage between the daughter of a celebrated poet and one of
Russia's greatest novelists, but  Kitty  once said she was so discriminating
that the opposite sex would just have to put up with her never marrying. She
never did.  She did buy the Varvarino estate  in 1873 and began the building
of a  clinic  and  a  school, also  writing  children's  books  and  doing a
children's  version of  the Bible. Anna was Tyutchev's favourite and wrote a
fascinating diary of her life as  lady-in-waiting to the empress (C:19). She
married  Ivan  Aksakov,  a major publicist, public figure  in  the field  of
Slavophilism, and the poet's first biographer.
     Tyutchev travelled through Germany, Austria, Switzerland, visited Paris
and,  his  duties  being far from  onerous,  enjoyed  a  full  social  life,
returning for a  short while to  Russia  in 1830. A number  of poems written
during these early years  in Europe show  the  increasing importance  of the
beauties of west European nature in his  life, while there is a tendency  to
employ images  of bleakness  when  depicting the east  European countryside.
Coming back from a diplomatic mission to Greece in  1833, he decided to tidy
up  his desk. In 1836 he wrote to his friend, Gagarin: "What I have sent you
is but the tiniest handful of the  pile that time has amassed but which fate
or some act of incomprehensible  providence has dealt with. Having set about
sorting  my papers in the twilight, I consigned to  the abyss the major part
of my nocturnal, poetic imaginings, and did not notice this till much later.
At first I  was somewhat vexed,  but  soon consoled myself with the  thought
that  the  library  at   Alexandria  had   also  burned.  Incidentally,  the
translation  of  the  entire first act  of Part  2  of Faust was there. It's
possible that was better than all the rest".
     Only one hundred  and  fifty two lines of his  translations  of  Goethe
remain  while one hundred  and fifteen  from Part 2 were lost. For  whatever
reason Tyutchev did throw out his work, we are facing a significant literary
loss, though it seems to have bothered him little, for there  will have been
poems of the quality of the best ones still in our possession among the pile
of  papers he destroyed,  and Act 1 of the second part of Faust contains the
kind of description Tyutchev would have done  superbly. While he was capable
of getting rid  of his work on purpose, we simply have no proof. What we  do
know is  that his poetic eye  was very much fixed on the universe around him
and not on the scraps of paper for which  he had the scantest respect. It is
possible that, as Barabtarlo has pointed out [A:2/425], Tyutchev was  in the
habit of  destroying rough drafts  and, since his  fair copies tend to  look
like his rough drafts, a genuine mistake must  be considered.  The  flippant
tone  of this section of  the  letter is characteristic  of  his  dismissive
attitude towards his best work. He describes the lyrics  in question as mere
elucubrations  poetiques/poetic   imaginings  (almost  "ravings").  Such  an
attitude resulted in his being known as a poet of worth among only a handful
of  close friends  and partly explains why  he  played no direct part in the
Golden Age of Russian poetry.
     The situation changed slightly  in 1836 when,  after constant cajoling,
Gagarin finally persuaded his friend to send him some lyrics. Gagarin showed
them to Zhukovsky,  then to Pushkin, and in the same year sixteen Poems Sent
from  Germany appeared  in Pushkin's  journal Sovremennik/The  Contemporary,
over the initials "F.T.". More appeared later, but  for a variety of reasons
sparked  off little  interest in  Russia.  Tyutchev was not  at this  time a
conspicuous  member of  the literary scene  in his homeland; he was careless
when  it  came to  preserving  his  own  lyrics  and  indifferent  to  their
publication; and the age of realistic prose was  on the way in. Tyutchev was
"discovered" in the 1890's by such poets as Bryusov, at a time when the idea
of pure art, or Art for Art's Sake, was becoming popular. The late  thirties
and middle years of the century were  the  age of Belinsky  and Dobrolyubov,
for whom  art  had to  be socially  relevant. Belinsky was also  the leading
light  in  the  westernising  movement  which  was fundamentally opposed  to
Slavophilism,  the latter to become  of increasing importance to Tyutchev as
he  grew older and settled in Russia. Considering Belinsky's great influence
and the rise  of the Russian novel, it is hardly  surprising that Tyutchev's
poetry initially raised little interest.
     In May 1838 fire swept  the steamer Nicholas I on which Tyutchev's wife
and family were travelling to Germany. On board was the young novelist  Ivan
Turgenev  (1818-83). He has given  a  frank account  of the  incident  in Un
Incendie en Mer/A Fire at Sea,  describing the panic  which swept the vessel
and his own  terror (B:40ii, vol.  14/186). It seems that Eleonore ("Nelly")
Tyutcheva,  encumbered  by three small  children and  a  nanny, showed great
courage and  was one  of the last to leave the ship. The highly-strung woman
who had attempted suicide (probably more of the call-for-help kind) in 1836,
did not  survive  the  ordeal and died  in August  of that  year,  household
tensions having  exacerbated  her condition. Extreme  grief did not  prevent
Tyutchev from flinging himself  into the fast social whirl  of Lake Como, at
the time being  visited by members of the Russian imperial family, and where
he met and became friends with Zhukovsky.
     In 1839 he married Ernestine von Dornberg. They had been lovers for six
years and she was already having his child. Having been allowed to marry but
refused leave of absence, he  locked up the legation and left, losing secret
documents in the  process (A:18v). The couple settled  in Munich. Tyutchev's
decision  to  take  leave  of  his post  despite his superior's  refusal  of
permission  had  left  him  jobless.  Ernestine  possessed  a  rather calmer
personality, not to mention  more  personal  capital, than  Eleonore. In his
memoirs,  Meshchersky,  editor  of  the  Grazhdanin/The  Citizen, wrote  the
following  of the couple  as he observed them in later  years  in the family
seat of Ovstug: "The soul and heart of  this family was Ernestine Fyodorovna
... a poetic and sublime woman in  whom the  intelligence, the heart and the
charm  of  a  woman fused into one harmonious and graceful whole ...  Fyodor
Ivanovich himself  was some kind of  visitor in spirit to this household ...
Life's prose did not  exist for him. He divided his life between  poetic and
political impressions." (C:15/65)
     In  the early  1840s the poet wrote a number of nationalistic poems and
published his first  political letter,  the Lettre a M.  le  Docteur Gustave
Kolb/Letter to Doctor  Gustav Kolb (A:33i), attacking the German press which
saw Russia  as a  threat to German unification. In it  he also attempted  to
explain Russia's role in relation to what he saw as  the revolutionary West.
This idea was to evolve into  the later  theme of the legitimacy of  humble,
peasant,  Orthodox   Russia  opposed  to   the  fundamentally  illegitimate,
anti-Christian  Europe and recurred in two  further articles  written during
the years 1848-50 (ibid.) and some political poems, the latter produced from
1844 to 1873, nearly half his surviving output in terms of lines written. At
their  worst  they are  tendentious, biased  and turgid though, despite what
some commentators have  always thought, rarely  anything  less  than sharply
thought out  and often  cleverly expressed.  At their  best they  possess  a
highly eloquent quality  of indignation and frustration. The political verse
was the only part of his poetical output he made any  effort to publish.  He
was known to  have taken such work  along  to an editor  personally while he
could  scribble  lyrics  of worth  on scraps  of paper for others  to  find,
dictate them, send them in letters, and generally not appear to care whether
they ever  saw the light of day. Gagarin's insistence that he be allowed  to
get his friend's poems published  might  well have been  the kind of trigger
annoying Tyutchev enough to make him throw them out in a fit of pique.
     As a writer destined for a place  in the  history books, the odds  were
stacked  against Tyutchev. Obviously  when impelled as a poet to  write, his
interest lasted as long as his inspiration and afterwards he felt no need to
take any trouble over  the physical manifestations as  the emotions in which
they took their source had  been replaced  by others. His political writings
answered a different need and were calculatedly produced to make influential
people see things from his point of view, not to mention ultimately persuade
his former employers to look  favourably  on him  once more  and,  after his
marriage, give him a job. This worked, and after Tyutchev settled in  Russia
in 1844, it was as an increasingly respected government official.
     Although  he  and his  family visited the West  several times  over the
following years, Russia had become his permanent home. Several poems written
from  this point express  longing for the blue  skies, warmth  and light  of
Western  Europe,  and  on  many  occasions  he  refers  to  Russia  in  such
unflattering terms it  is difficult  at first  to  understand his constantly
passionate  defence  of that country. And,  despite adoring nature, he spent
most  of  his  time in  towns. Indeed, "this  champion  of  Russia  and  its
peculiarly eastern way of  life was seldom happier than when he was  leaving
for the West; while Russia's greatest nature poet was throughout his Russian
years at least, a confirmed city-dweller". (A:14/17)
     In 1846  he  met Elena Deniseva, over  twenty  years  his  junior.  The
ensuing  love  affair scandalised  polite  society  and  caused the partners
intense emotional suffering and bitterness.  Elena's mother was Principal of
the Smolny Institute, a girls' school where Darya and Ekaterina were pupils.
Elena more than cared passionately for him. She was  neurotically  convinced
that she and she alone was the real Mrs.  Tyutcheva  and that only  external
circumstances  prevented  their  marrying.  She  was  known  for  irrational
behaviour and tantrums, at least once  throwing an  object at  her lover. He
could not endure life without her. She bore them three children. Fully aware
of  all  this, Ernestine  remained  stoically  faithful,  although once  did
suggest they  separate  for a  while. As  the  affair became a major talking
point, society shunned Elena, though Tyutchev  remained in as much demand as
ever in the salons  of the capital. It caused displeasure at court level and
resulted, peripherally, in old Mrs. Deniseva being forced to leave her post.
     The  love affair produced  a small body of lyrics rightly considered to
be  among the finest  love  poems in Russian. Short,  sometimes employing  a
dialogue technique in which the lyric-hero appears to be conversing with his
lover, sometimes taking the form of monologues, and frequently characterised
by a cogent,  highly lyrical and profound  sense of his own  inadequacy  and
selfishness, the Deniseva poems bare the love affair like an open  wound. In
these and other works  about love and his relationships with people close to
him, there is often a quality of anger and open contempt for the opinions of
a  narrow-minded public  ever  ready to  cast  the first  stone.  Tyutchev's
deserved reputation  as  a great  nature  poet  should never  be  allowed to
eclipse  his standing  as  portrayer  of  the love-hate  relationship  which
accompanies an illicit love affair.  He is a ruthless analyst of the anguish
tormenting an individual in his blackest moments.
     While he never ceased writing entirely, there is a hiatus from  1838 to
1847. In 1847 he began composing once more in quantity. He was reinstated in
government service in 1845 and in  1848  became Senior Censor in the Russian
Foreign Office and  ultimately a fairly liberal Chairman of the Committee of
Foreign  Censorship.  During 1848 he wrote La Russie et la Revolution/Russia
and Revolution (A:33/i),  an  article  dealing  with the  role  of  Orthodox
Christians as saviours of their  brother Slavs in the west. A third article,
La Papaute et la Question Romaine/The Papacy and the Roman Question (ibid.),
attacked  the Catholic Church for  the  secularism  which had, in Tyutchev's
mind, inevitably  infected  it  since  its  break with  Orthodoxy. From this
point, these themes are frequently reinforced in the poetry.
     Tyutchev remained  till  his death obsessively anxious  about  Russia's
historical destiny,  characteristically never pulling his punches, certainly
in his letters and  often by  hint and image in the lyrics, when it  came to
expressing disapproval  of  official Russian  policy. He experienced genuine
anger and grief  at the  Crimean  debacle and never lost  his  capacity  for
berating the West, the Vatican and the  waning Turkish empire. He maintained
a  steady,  often  impassioned  interest in foreign affairs  generally.  His
statements   about  politics,  oral  or  written,  are   clever,  frequently
sarcastic, and constantly nationalistic,  although, despite not  trusting it
politically,  his love of  the west  never deserted  him. His shock  at  the
Russian defeat in the  Crimea was repeated,  if not so publicly, at France's
rout in the Franco-Prussian War.
     His personal happiness was  marred  by  several blows. Elena's death of
tuberculosis  in  1864  shattered  him. Family  bereavement followed. Two of
Elena's  children by  him  died, as  well  as  his  eldest son Dmitrii,  his
daughter Maria, and his brother. With that dark humour which never left him,
Tyutchev compared his  existence, rapidly emptying of those close to him, to
the game of patience in which one by one cards vanish from the pack. All the
same, till the  end he  was unable to  resist  the charms of a young, pretty
woman, as a jocular album contribution  tells us in 1872 [376]. It expresses
doubt  at  what his  senses tell him, in other words that a  fine  day  (the
woman) has arrived in November (his old age).
     Increasing ill health and anguished thoughts of his own death tormented
him during the final years,  although a certain amount of  probably harmless
womanising was still possible. The widow  Elena Bogdanova was his last fling
and,  while  nothing  is  thought to  have  come of  it, it showed the  aged
Tyutchev still  capable  of that  selfishness which could all too  easily be
interpreted  as lack of concern  for his  own family.  Such difficulties and
grief  accompanied at this late stage a growing reputation as  a poet. While
the  poetic  output  of  the  last half  dozen  years  of his life  is often
considered mediocre, he composed  several  masterpieces during  this period.
They  cover the  common themes of personal  suffering and ageing [284, 309],
man's  relationship  as  an  individual to Nature [289], nature description,
sometimes  with  a  clever  political  subtext  [295,  297,  298],  superbly
indignant  attacks  on narrow-minded  people  [300] and  the Vatican  [370],
epigrammatic  profundities  [311, 347,  385],  and an  astonishing,  elegiac
description of the gardens of  Tsarskoe Selo [307]. Despite composing lyrics
of genius, Tyutchev remained totally uninterested in his work.
     In January  1873  the first of several strokes partly paralysed him and
on July 15th. he died.

     Pantheism is a  synthetic view  of  the  universe, an  outlook bringing
together all facets of creation, making of all things one and not permitting
any  categorisation  of existence  into  "nature",  "man",  "God" or "gods".
Tyutchev certainly appears to be a pantheist. Whether  there is ultimately a
consensus of opinion about the  question of  his poetic attitude to  nature,
suffice  it to say that many of  his lyrics are so replete with sensation in
the face of  its beauties that  "pantheistic" is one of several labels which
will endure over the years.
     In short, often aphoristic lyrics  written in simple, lucid  Russian  -
despite a number of archaisms, which  remain  quite easy to cope  with -  he
depicts  nature as an ordered,  palpable entity with which  man  is often at
one.  Equally there  are  lyrics  expressing his sense of being cut off from
nature,  in which he is aware of  currents of disorder. Tyutchev's  poetry -
and Tyutchev the man, in many ways  -  are bipolar. Tyutchev's poetic images
for this order and disorder are "cosmos"  and "chaos", and he employs a wide
range  of vocabulary to  describe  them.  Chaos is  frequently seen to  be a
result of  man's  drawing back from the whole in order to observe existence,
split  it into  separate phenomena and compartmentalise these. When Tyutchev
writes of that aspect of existence we commonly  refer  to  as  "nature",  he
indulges  in no trite  pathetic  fallacies; his  apostrophes to  nature  are
deeply  experienced  statements  of  wonder and  empathy. There is no  vapid
philosophising,  drawing of  predictable  moral conclusions  nor  attempt to
construct  scientific  or  philosophical structures  to  explain things; his
scenes  represent  his sense  of man's physical and mental oneness  with the
universe,  the universe not only  of  space, but  of  time.  "In  Tyutchev's
poetry,  the  temporal  epochs  of  human  life, its  past  and  its present
fluctuate and vacillate  in equal measure.  The unstoppable current  of time
erodes the outline of the present." (A:20/487)
     In  sensing man's  position in the universe,  Tyutchev  produces in his
best lyrics a feeling of genuine awe.  The reader feels the movements of the
air and the sea, the  heat of the sun on peaks, warm rain from a spring sky,
and such nature  phenomena are there for their own sakes. When  he describes
mountain summits as bozhestva rodnye/gods who are our cousins [49],  he does
more than simply transplant classical deities into  a given landscape  after
the fashion  of the eighteenth century mimicking its  Roman mentors.  He is,
indeed,  behaving  more  like many classical  authors themselves,  for  whom
nature was literally peopled by gods.
     Dealing  with a world Tyutchev felt was teeming  with its  own kind  of
life leaves the reader with the impression that man, while observing nature,
is  himself  one  of  its  creations.  In  the best poems,  the  immediately
accessible visual-audial-tactile level, the "feel" of the poem, is more than
merely a set of references to Hebe, Zeus, Pan or Atlas, "titanising" nature,
as  Gregg puts  it (A:14/78).  In Tyutchev,  mythologisation is  a  powerful
poetic technique and involves an ability to animate a scene in such a way as
to recall  to us a  common, ancient sense of belonging and oneness. To claim
that simple "titanising"  is taking  place is to  demean this writer,  whose
poetic  statements  bear  some resemblance  to  Vico's.  The  latter's  "new
science" castigated "our civilised natures"  because by them  "we ... cannot
at all imagine  and can understand  only by great toil the poetic nature  of
these first men" (B:43/22).  Tyutchev  resurrects an ancestry scientific man
had apparently forgotten. Natural objects and phenomena in his nature  poems
are  portrayed  in a  manner strikingly  innovative  for  the age, precisely
because of this skilfully manipulated awareness  that man is literally  part
of nature  and  not apart from  it.  "Myth"  in Tyutchev is neither  toy nor
pretty poetic game.  Myth  is  a  kind of truth  every bit as  valid  as the
scientific "truth"  he attacked in the early  poem addressed to A. Muravyov,
A.N.M. [13]. Myth  is  seen as  ancient man's way of explaining the universe
and,  years  after Newton  and Descartes,  it  remained as  valid as ever to
Tyutchev, despite, or perhaps because of being "unscientific". In this sense
Tyutchev  fits into the broad Romantic  mould  of Lamartine  and  Hugo,  who
represented a revolt against the rationalism of the  pre-Revolutionary years
in France.
     As  for the difference  in feel between  the earlier  "European" nature
poetry and the later "Russian" lyrics, while his attitudes and emotions were
subject to different ageing and  environmental influences, I feel it is glib
to consider that  "the image of nature, which had been  largely mythocentric
in the  early Munich years and  anthropocentric  in the following decade, is
now very largely its  own excuse for  being." (A:14/193) Tyutchev's attitude
towards nature never changed. He  was a floating  particle  in it, unable to
comprehend  it,  unlike Pascal who believed he  could  understand it through
reason, and whether we have in mind  the lush, warm, bustling quality of the
Munich years (Kozhinov rightly mentions the  mnogolyud'e/populousness of the
early years (A:17/352-353)), or the desertedness of  the Russian  works, the
same awareness  of  being  subservient  to nature  is evident.  The  changes
affecting Tyutchev the man, the poet,  the diplomat, the errant  husband did
not alter the sense of awe with which he dealt with the natural world around
     Tyutchev produces some amazing results. Sometimes it is as if a mystery
is about to unfold over the earth, as when nocturnal lightning-flashes tease
the clouds,  Kak demony glukhonemye/Vedut  besedu mezh  soboi/like deaf-mute
ghouls/debating heatedly [298]. In Son na more/A Dream at  Sea [92], and Kak
okean  ob''emlet shar  zemnoi/Just as the ocean  curls around Earth's shores
[64], the boundary between two kinds of reality, that of dream/hallucination
and diurnal, observable existence is  hazy. Man is  often described as being
abandoned  and   frighteningly  alone  in  an   incomprehensible,  boundless
universe, and when this is not stated it is implied. Behind the cosmos,  the
chaotic elements  of  the thing that is Tyutchev-in-nature are ever-present,
part of an essential,  inescapable reality, a Pascalian duality evident from
the earliest poems, in his  letters and refusing to leave  him in peace even
in his final years.
     At first  glance the  western-nature  lyrics are  his  most  attractive
works. They  are certainly the  most numerous and,  even permanently settled
back in Russia, he often  wrote poems  of reminiscence  in which some of the
magic  of  the European  days  raises  its  head.  They  are descriptions of
sun-soaked lands, vernal and aestival days, warm nights by the Mediterranean
beneath clear,  star-filled  skies.  They are  also, as  a  rule,  skilfully
anthropomorphic.  When  it comes  to  concreteness,  incredible accuracy  of
detail and  photographic precision in placing  objects in a landscape, those
poems describing  Russia's countryside are far  superior and earn Tyutchev a
special place in  Russian letters as a poet who, despite his dislike of  his
native land, has produced among the finest verses possible about the bleaker
aspects  of  that  country, so  much so  that  one questions the traditional
approach  whereby  he  is seen as  a poet  of the West  who also wrote about
Russia.  The  sharp-limned  landscapes  of  the "Russian" poems  are  almost
entirely  lacking in  the "European" ones, whose unbelievable landscapes are
deceptive, for they are frequently vague. In them the reader feels  heat but
does not always  see a great deal  to suggest it to the eye. In the greatest
Russian poems, things are generally "seen".
     In  Russia  it  is not often  the case  that  laughing,  benign  nature
distracts  him, makes  him feel contented. He  observes the harsh reality of
his surroundings for what it  is and  depicts it  with unerring  sureness of
touch.  His  Russian  nature  poems  are not  indicators  of  any  sense  of
well-being. Many of  them are "cold" and it is in them that we discover some
of the most wondrous visual effects of his entire  oeuvre. In Na  vozvratnom
puti/On  the  Journey Home [241], ponderous clouds and stagnant pools make a
feeble  hearkening  back to  western  blueness (11.14-16, pt.2) mediocre  by
comparison.  The  perfectly placed strand of spider-web  across a  furrow in
Est' v oseni  pervonachal'noi/There is a fleeting, wondrous moment [233], is
evidence  of the  poet's huge talent in describing scenes, here implying, as
Tolstoy noted, restfulness after hard work by the peasants  in the fields by
the  careful positioning of  a  single, aptly  chosen object. In  these  and
others,  heady  mythologisations  are  supplanted  by  sad,  bleak  external
reality. But the resulting poetry is astonishing.
     This  is  not to  say that  there  are no "warm" poems  describing  the
Russian  countryside. The  movement  of Tikhoi noch'yu, pozdnim  letom/Quiet
evening  late in  summer [153],  eight lines  produced  as  if in  a  single
exhalation,  not  even  constituting  a  sentence,  is not  exceptional.  In
Neokhotno i nesmelo/Timidly, unwillingly [151], simple images culminate in a
charming  image  of  the  sun  shyly  peaking  down  at  a  land  "crumpled"
(smyatennaya) by a warm shower. There are others. While as descriptions they
are better, there is, nonetheless, something missing, and it is something in
the poet  himself: quite simply,  while geographically at home, in spirit he
is not. This  ability  to  create superb poetry  about locations he does not
enjoy living in is further evidence, if it were needed, of his gift.
     When Tyutchev is  at his best  in  those early years (1822-44) when  he
lived and worked in  Western  Europe,  he  is  truly  great.  In one of  his
masterpieces,  Letnii vecher/A Summer Evening [41], the almost magical sense
of peace  is  achieved  by transforming the earth into a giantess from whose
head  the setting sun rolls heavily, while stars become creatures physically
hoisting up the  sky and a nature-goddess sensually  splashes  her feet with
cold water after a day of oppressive heat. There is in such works a sense of
excitement and sensual delight, occasionally a hint of apprehension,  in the
presence of natural beauty which  cumulatively produces  skilful landscapes,
remaining at once superb natural descriptions and  indicators of  the poet's
state of mind. The picture is wonderful, unparalleled in that era, and it is
doubtful if any purely concrete treatment could improve upon it. In Snezhnye
gory/Snowy Mountains [49], the earth  is an enormous female expiring  in the
sun while youthful mountain peaks play games with the sky. By stark contrast
one of  the very  few early Russian nature poems, Zdes', gde  tak vyalo svod
nebesnyi/Here the sky stares inert [68], contains sparsely  sprouting bushes
and lichens, ugly creatures of nightmare, inmates of some fevered dream even
before Tyutchev  uses  that  smile (Kak  likhoradochnye  gryozy/like fevered
     Tyutchev will always  be  best  known for his nature poetry  which has,
perhaps, been anthologised at the expense of other kinds. His  nature lyrics
are extremely simple  to read,  relying on short, uncomplicated  verses  and
generic language (in Tyutchev there are few birches, oaks or elms; there are
many "trees"). As  in the  lyrics of Pasternak,  it is  often as if  we  are
surveying  a  scene  for  the first  time,  objects  and  their  surrounding
phenomena  appearing  as  they  were "on the first  day  of creation".  (See
[100].) Such poems  as  those described are, in addition,  much more  than a
series of nature descriptions of genius.
     His poems  contain images  so nodal that they become  the  lynchpins of
whole poetic scenarios. Son translates both "sleep" and "dream". Tyutchev is
a master at  playing  with this  word.  Dreams become part of diurnal  life,
linking man with his inner life.  Nature sleeps and dreams change into young
deities playing around woods and mountains. Sleep can be the erotic state of
half-slumber or the nightmarish version  of hell blazing from the night sky.
In the form of half-sleep, or dozing, it forms part of daily life and we all
readily  daydream  (his words for  this kind  of dreaming  being  gryozy and
mechty).  Dream,  attained  through sleep, may be  a harking back to ancient
memory, individual or collective. Son  zheleznyi/iron  sleep  represents the
atrophied  intellects and  hearts of the Russia of  Nicholas I. Sleep can be
the romantic  escape  route from daily reality  into fantasy. From  the very
beginning, in such  an early work as an adaption of  Heine's Ein Fichtenbaum
steht  einsam/A  spruce  tree  stands  alone  [21], he is  mesmerised by the
quality of dream, for "it... (Heine's poem - FJ) is a dream-poem. Its melody
soothes asleep  the  Argus-eye of common sense ...  And again,  it is a poem
about  a dream;  about  the bitter sweetness of all passionate yearning  for
things so remote that only in dream can they be ours". (C:23) Sleep/dream is
tantalisingly  multi-purpose.  What is more, it  does not develop through  a
series  of stages as a poetic image.  Rather, as part  and parcel of life at
any one moment, it is present from the start.
     "Night", "Time", "Space" -  these and others  are concepts of the first
importance to Tyutchev. His expression of what lies behind the facade of the
universe  and those dark elements  within man's inner being owes more than a
little to Pascal, one of whose Pensees goes, "The eternal silence  of  these
infinite spaces frightens me" (B:31/233). Tyutchev once remarked in a letter
to Ernestine (1858), "I don't think anyone can  ever have felt themselves as
empty as I do faced by these two oppressors  and  tyrants of  humanity: time
and   space".  Night  in   Tyutchev  is  the  poetic  image  often  covering
economically and simply the vast  notions  of time  and space as they affect
man in his struggle through life. A given scene in Tyutchev has little to do
with  any  Schellingian idea  of some primordial blackness  out  of which we
gradually  move.  Such  an  "evolution" does not  exist  in  Tyutchev. He is
preoccupied with eternal night forever threatening man while  ever  aware of
fullness, of man  being part of a  living nature, a result of  its  creative
impulse. However he expresses his feelings about his universe  of cosmos and
chaos,  whether  Tyutchev/man  is central  or peripheral,  Nature  does  not
     There are too many strands to Tyutchev's talent  as a poet of nature to
deal with  in  such  a short introduction.  There  is lyrical position,  the
up-down movement of  so many of his pieces, be it someone looking  down at a
river along which a steamer  chugs [111], or  as  if flying and  gazing down
into a valley [48], staring up into the sky  at star-deities looking down at
him  [167,176],  or  experiencing  the  sickly, hallucinogenic  sensation of
floating above a nightmare storm [92].  The use of a  sudden  flash  from or
into a different time, sometimes almost a different universe, is common, its
earliest  manifestation  being  Problesk/The  Gleam  [27].  Weaving  natural
phenomena  into  the very  body  of  a  woman,  as in the raindrops image of
[102,106] and the sky-woman picture of [257], is one  of his most  effective
techniques, and  the sense of some sound being almost out of  earshot [100],
are but a few of the different  and powerful  techniques Tyutchev brought to
Russian poetry.
     Tyutchev  was  renowned for the attentions he paid  to women; not to an
ideal,  to some poetic notion of femininity,  but to flesh-and-blood  women.
"Tyutchev knew the woman (zhenshchinu -  FJ) (for  depth of passion,  no-one
has yet matched him), but  Femininity (Zhenstvennoe - FJ) was  the  field of
Lermontov,  Fet, Vladimir Solovyov, Blok" (C:20, vol.1/217).  There are many
poems to  many  women  and  matching  up  verse and female can be an amusing
guessing game.  His lines vary from  K Nise/To Nisa [25], apparently written
in  a fit of pique - he  clearly did not always get  his own way,  sexual or
otherwise - to K N. N./To N. N., a poetic masterpiece of lust  [51], through
the  playfully  lightweight Cache-cache/Hide and  Seek [40], the mysterious,
languorous  Ital'yanskaya  villa/An Italian Villa [127],  dealing  with  his
affair with  Ernestine, the poems to Elena  which show lovers' arguments and
recriminations, to his final  old  man's reminiscences  about  past glories.
Tyutchev the love  poet does not allow of anything other than a woman's full
commitment to him, shows his  irritation  at  Elena's demands to be the  one
woman 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 other
protagonist (for  Tyutchev's lyrics can be  monologues,  the audience before
him  and  another character just off stage,  listening).  Equally, the  love
poems  give  space  to the  genuine  and  soft aspect of the  emotion and to
Ernestine's strength.
     Love  in  the lyrics is a mixture of deep, genuine,  tender feeling and
lust, fired, especially  in the Deniseva years,  by a sense of conflict. His
love  affair with Elena produced gems of poetic anger, as in  Chemu molilas'
ty s lyubov'yu/What you guarded in your heart [200]:
     Akh, esli by zhivye kryl'ya

     Dushi, paryashchei nad tolpoi,
     Eyo spasali ot nasil'ya
     Bessmertnoi poshlosti lyudskoi.
     God, if your soul had wings to leave your body,
     to lift you by the nape
     from the crudeness of the crowd,
     to keep you safe
     from man's eternal rape!
     Equally  he  can  address  himself  with  unconcealed  cruelty,  almost
     I, zhalkii charodei, pered volshebnym mirom,
     Mnoi sozdannym samim, bez very ya stoyu -
     I samogo sebya, krasneya, soznayu
     Zhivoi dushi tvoei bezzhiznennym kumirom
     a weak magician in a little magic role
     created 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], having  taken the reader
through  a soothing description  of the  villa, its cypresses  and  babbling
fountain,  Tyutchev,  there with his mistress, Baroness von Dornberg,  while
his  family was in St. Petersburg, makes those  very natural items voice the
lustful sensations undoubtedly running through the lovers:
     Vdrug vsyo smutilos': sudorozhnyi trepet
     Po 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 and
his mistress have crossed a "forbidden threshold",  suggesting that the life
they are living  right  then is  "wicked", that  their  love is "turbulently
hot", but until that  final  stanza,  love  is  in the hands  of  the nature
surrounding them.
     Spurred  on by  the possible marriage of Gorchakov to his niece and  by
the attendant gossip, Tyutchev attacked the  scandal-mongers in an indignant
work  in  which  Nadezhda  Akinfeva's  soul   is  "cloudless",  its  "azure"
untroubled  by  wagging  tongues.  He  concludes  with  a  typical  piece of
     K nei i pylinka ne pristala
     Ot glupykh spletnei, zlykh rechei;
     I dazhe kleveta ne smyala
     Vozdushnyi shyolk eyo kudrei.
     Not a speck of dusk adheres
     when those nauseating churls
     sow their stupid calumny
     which cannot even crumple
     the airy silk of her curls [300].
     The physical attributes  of the woman,  dealt with in terms of the  sky
and the  air  around  her  (the speck of dust  floating  in it),  become  as
important in this poem as the direct effect exerted  on her by what  society
had to say  about the  affair. The  superb music  of  Vostok  belel.  Lad'ya
katilas'/The  east  whitened [106],  with  its  liquid  repetitions  running
through each stanza,  bears a  long  with  it  a  concrete,  possibly sexual
situation which is inseparable from  the verbal expression of the  coming of
     There  is  a great deal of self-centredness in Tyutchev's  depiction of
love. In a remarkable work on Elena's final days [275],  he produces one  of
his most  characteristic types of poem, one  in which  nature and  woman are
somehow  interlinked,  nature  remaining,  as  always, indifferent  to human
     Ves' den' ona lezhala v zabyt'i,
     I vsyu eyo uzh teni pokryvali.
     Lil tyoplyi letnii dozhd' - ego strui
     Po 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 games
     As  warm,  summer  rain  falls  through  branches,  gaily   and  loudly
splashing,  the dying woman comes to and  mutters how much she  had loved it
all. Shadows,  literally  and  figuratively, gather over her,  yet  Tyutchev
saves  his burst of anguish  for  the  realisation  that  he  will  have  to
"survive" her  death.  This is  not the only example of a lyric in  which he
complains that he must survive someone else's agony.
     The image of love as the  one thing Tyutchev could forever  hold on to,
despite the vicissitudes of a fate he so often reviled, stayed with him till
his 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 flows
     and my heart believes in truth and love. [393]
     It  remains  to  look at  the political  poems.  They have  never  been
seriously  studied as poetry. Not all are tasteless.  Some are even  good. A
few, perhaps, may be better than a small number of his non-political lyrics.
In the  quality of  their indignation and the unswervingly  accurate, clever
sniping backed  up  by witty rhymes and  memorable metres,  they  will  have
caused more  than one  pompous  figure to wriggle  uncomfortably.  Some,  of
course, are dreadful, but Tyutchev was  fully aware of  this.  Conscious all
the time of his every  line being the subject of scrutiny of the censors  of
whom he was, in later life, an influential member, he knew precisely what to
say, to whom, when and how, although  he did occasionally get it  wrong  and
found his own works the target of the editing pencil. (See [39, 132, 370].)
     Gregg (A:14/146) appears to  see a flaw in Tyutchev's personality which
produces such apparent ravings as  those  lines  from Russkaya  Geografiya/A
Russian Geography [149], in which the poet describes the Nile and the Ganges
as elements of the Russian empire. Nothing could be farther  from the truth.
Tyutchev was  an exceptionally intelligent and cunning writer  and chose his
themes and times carefully. It should not be forgotten that from the time he
began  writing  till the  year he died, Russia  was  embroiled  in  one ajor
foreign-policy adventure  or war  after another, among them  the  Napoleonic
invasion  of  1812, the Russo-Turkish war (1828-9),  three Polish  uprisings
(1830, 1846, 1863), the Crimean catastrophe (1853-6) and the Khivan campaign
of  1873. Nationalism  is a  heady  force, especially at  times  of war  and
depression,  and, bearing in mind Russia's eternal paranoia about  invasion,
borders and ice-free ports, Tyutchev's nationalistic outpourings  can easily
be understood. It  is  inaccurate and misleading in the extreme to attribute
these  political works  to some psychological aberration. To claim that  the
ideology of the  political verse is "expounded with the repetitive  rigidity
of a child's catechism, their realia ..  the kings, swords, flags and altars
of  a  boy's  adventure book ... enunciating  with obsessive regularity  the
themes of betrayal of  Russia,  punishment and  the necessary  submission to
authority"  (A:14/146) is  to  misunderstand  verse which,  while taking the
message seriously, in his heart of hearts Tyutchev must have cringed  at. To
continue  by saying that  if "ultra-nationalism  is  taken  to represent  an
adult's refusal to accept maturity, then it becomes (as in Tiutchev's  case)
an  infantile disorder" (ibid.)  is  to  make of  relatively straightforward
matters something complex and employ a  totally inappropriate  vocabulary to
make the  point. When  it  came  to politics, Tyutchev always knew precisely
what he was saying.
     Frequently  a  mediocre  political  pronouncement  starts  or  finishes
powerfully, the poetic mediocrities reserved  for the central "message" part
of 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 corpses
     resurrected for fresh funerals.
     The poem then  develops quickly  along overtly  nationalistic,  largely
non-lyrical lines, culminating in a call to Russia to stand firm when  faced
with foreign hostility. There is a  warm start and a gently eerie finish  to
     Nad russkoi Vil'noi starodavnoi
     Rodnye teplyatsya kresty -
     I zvonom medi pravoslavnoi
     Vse oglasilis' vysoty.
     V tot chas, kak s neba mesyats skhodit,
     V kholodnei, rannei polumgle,
     Eshchyo kakoi-to prizrak brodit
     Po ozhivayushchei zemle.
     Over ancient, Russian Vilnius
     kindred crosses glimmer.
     Orthodoxy's pealing bronze
     makes all the heavens shudder.
     and as the moon's about to leave the sky,
     in that early morning chill,
     across the land just waking up
     a spectral visitor wanders still
     The opening of Gus na kostre/Hus at the Stake [356] parallels the lyric
poem Pozhary/Fires [331]. The political piece begins:
     Kostyor sooruzhyon, i rokovoe
     Gotovo vspykhnut' plamya; vsyo molchit -
     Lish' slyshen lyogkii tresk, i v nizhnem sloe
     Kostra ogon' predatel'ski skvozit.
     The pyre has been built. The fateful
     flame's about to flare and all is silent,
     save for gentle crackles as deep within the pyre
     the treacherous fire filters.
     The more lyrical  of  the two  works  is  a treatment  of the  cunning,
treacherous beast which is the fire:
     Na pozharishche pechal'nom
     Net ni iskry, dym odin, -
     Gde zh ogon, zloi istrebitel',
     Polnomochnyi vlastelin?
     On this sad, scorched site
     no sparks, only smoke.
     Where's the fire, malicious destroyer,
     omnipotent master?
     Many of Tyutchev's political poems are more complex than has often been
thought. They have  their  genesis  in  the  lyrical mind  of the poet  and,
irrespective of their content,  what  is at times only  a residual degree of
lyricism  often  imbues  them  with  a  poetic  quality  which  successfully
reinforces their political message.
     The three thematic groups,  nature, love and  politics, all too briefly
dealt with  above, sum up Tyutchev's poetic preoccupations. This is  not  to
say that he did not have other themes. There are justly famous religious and
philosophical  poems, but a number of the religious  works are  inextricably
linked with  politics  and many of  his  philosophical lines  are  scattered
through works which more properly belong in one of the other categories. One
reaches  a  point  in  Tyutchev  where  it becomes  impossible  to  classify
accurately, for themes and imagery  spill  across  borders. And  just as his
political works are not all bad,  so  many of his religious lyrics, far from
being "flaccid little  exercises in other people's piety"  (A:14/137-9), are
"inspired and noble", possessing a  "depth and  sincerity" which "cannot  be
doubted"  (A:18vii/328).  His  philosophical  works   are  equally  genuine.
Tyutchev did not present a  system of ideas in his lyrics, rather expressing
"moods and problems which the leading thinkers were only beginning to tackle
and of which others were not yet even aware".  (ibid./330-1) These moods and
problems of which Lane  speaks are dealt with,  often subtly,  certainly not
always overtly, in poems of many kinds.
     No matter how a reader reacts to Tyutchev's oeuvre as a whole or to one
or the other of his broad categories, the poet must ultimately  be judged on
his greatest lyrics. In the thirties,  no Russian poet  produced such a work
as  Letnii  vecher/A  Summer  Evening  [41].  Lines containing  the  echoing
depression  of Bessonnitsa/Insomnia  [47]  flowed  from the pen  of  neither
Pushkin nor Lermontov.  There are many other examples  of  the uniqueness of
this  poet: the  egocentric, strange detachment of a mind floating  above  a
world which might be real or  unreal, as in Eshchyo shumel vesyolyi den'/The
happy  day was loud [52],  the almost sexually explicit final stanza of K N.
N./  To  N. N. [51],  the slow,  languorous movement and  ominous imagery of
fading  and death  of Osennii vecher/ An Autumn Evening [73], the  Pascalian
picture  of  man  hanging  lost in  an  abyss  of  Kak  okean ob''emlet shar
zemnoi/Just as  the ocean  curls around  earth's shore [64], and  the pithy,
philosophical comment made with impressive economy,  as  in  Silentium!/Stay
Silent!  [83], containing  his  most famous  line,  Mysl' izrechennaya  est'
lozh'/A thought you've spoken is untrue.
     Tyutchev's existing poetic  works  consist  of  just under four hundred
pieces. Approximately half of these are translations, occasional  poems  and
the political verse. Of the  remaining fifty per cent  not all poems  are of
equal merit and his best works are very short. It is  remarkable that on the
basis of such an insignificant output in terms of lines written, over such a
long period, Tyutchev  should be considered at least the  equal of Lermontov
and  by no  means  far behind  Pushkin  in  the  pantheon of  Russian poets,
although  such a  situation is  not unique.  After all, Kafka  wrote  little
fiction. Tyutchev's importance is attributable  not only  to  the very  high
quality of poems written in a  relatively new literary age, that which began
in  Russia  at  the  end  of the  eighteenth  century  and  developed  apace
throughout the  "golden" nineteenth,  when  Russia boasted scores of clever,
talented poets whose work was by no means inferior to that  of their Western
counterparts.  Ultimately, perhaps, we judge him  on that originality,  that
sense of being different which is a characteristic of the voice out of place
in  its  time, for Tyutchev's  most celebrated  lyrics  are brilliant, often
troubling works  which  do  not properly  represent the first third  of  the
nineteenth  century.  So many  observations  inspiring his  lyrics triggered
conflict in his mind. His scenes, even at their most idyllic, are parts of a
larger picture of anxiety.  Turmoil and  brooding questioning are central to
Tyutchev's view of the universe and  he  expresses them  with a very modern,
uncompromising sharpness which appeals to our own age  rather more, perhaps,
than the florid, immense variety of Pushkin and Lermontov.

     1.   Tyutchev's  parents  were  Ivan  (1776-1846)  and  Ekaterina  (nee
Tolstaya,  1776-1866). He  had a  brother, Nikolay (1801-70)  and a  sister,
Darya, (1806-79),  married name Sushkova). Apart from these, Sergei, Dmitrii
and Vasilii died in childbirth.
     2. Prior to the decree of  February 14th. 1918,  Russia used the Julian
calendar which was twelve days behind the  Gregorian in use in the West. The
two dating systems are referred to  as Old  and New Style  and all  dates in
this book are Old Style.
     3.  His first wife was  the widowed Eleonore Peterson (nee Countess von
Bothmer, 1799-1838), four years older than he and with three children of her
own. She had three  daughters by Tyutchev, Anna (1829-89), Darya (1834-1903)
and Ekaterina (1835-82). His children by his second wife, Baroness Ernestine
von  Dornberg  (nee  Pfeffel, 1810-94), also a widow, were Maria  (1840-72),
Dmitrii  (1841-70)  and  Ivan  (1846-1909).  His  mistress,  Elena  Deniseva
(1826-64)   bore  him  Elena  (1851-65),  Fyodor  (1860-1916)   and  Nikolai


	On this happy day, a sonТs tender feelings
	seek a gift for you, but what sort?
	A bunch of flowers?  But the blooms are all over
	and meadows and valleys have lost their colours.
	Shall I ask the Muses for some verses?
	IТll ask my heart.
	HereТs 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 sun
	looks down with smile upon flowers
	brought to life by its beams.

	Already the heavensТ 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 urn
	comes the SunТs new son, the New Year!
	His forerunner has vanished from the face of the earth
	and on the current of revolving ages,
	like a drop in the ocean, has drowned in eternity!
	This year will pass too.  HeavenТs statute is sacred.
	Oh, Time!  EternityТs mobile mirror!
	Everything disintegrates, falls beneath your hand.
	Your boundaries, your beginning are hidden
	from 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 TroyТs toppled stones
	stinging thorns are thickly entwined!

And you, oh son of luxury, mortal voluptuary,
	your life of idle bliss and comfort
	rolls peacefully on!  But youТve forgotten, unfortunate man,
	that we must all gaze at the shores of fearsome Cocytus.
	Your elevated rank, your flatterers, your gold
	will not save you from death!  Can you really not have seen
	how frequently fire-winged lightning
	strikes the brows of towering cliffs?
	Yet still your greedy hand has dared
	to 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 forever
	hanging by the finest hair above your head;
	your ulcerated flesh will be garbed
	not in purple cloth, but in a blanket of writhing worms!
	You will lay your torn members upon a bed
	not 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 shades
	maliciously 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 hellТs vengeance!
	Your forgotten grave is now covered by grass!
	The voice which flattered you up here
	has forever fallen completely silent!

	On this blessed day, one of you adopted
	the name and virtue of that maiden
	who struggled in the name of sacred religion;
	nature conferred upon the other one existence.
	She engineered it that in both, feelings and deeds
	should 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 hearts
	youТll finally see her,
	forgetting past suffering!
	Let envy gnaw ZoilusТs heart!
	Voltaire, he cannot harm you!
	The Muses protect their fostered ones:
	into eternityТs temple,
	Oh wondrous one, theyТll lead you.

	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 flattererТs hand,
	the aromas of anemones and lilies pour fragrantly onto the feast
	and 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 temples
	entice 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 penates
	where everything is beautiful and breathes simplicity,
	where the cold glitter of purple and gold are alien,
	thatТs 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 stepped
	into the regions of heat and along a flaming path
	flows 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 shade
	and 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 compatriotsТ happiness is the good and worthy fruit
	of your unremitting endeavours.
	On their behalf you would like to know what fate has in store,
	but the stern ruler of Earth, Heaven and Hell
	has 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 confusion
	and this turbulent sage will be the godsТ 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 waves
	through peaceful glades and along banks luxuriant in abundant swards.
	Across the ripplesТ silver, the sunТs golden light
	plays and slips; but give it an hour and, quickly tempestuous,
	forgetting its shores, forgetting its peaceful movement, itТs lost in
	the 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 the
	celestial Guide
	which flows to rest in NeptuneТs domains,
	who, overjoyed, can say to himself: I have lived!
	Tomorrow, through a leaden cloud, let
	the omnipotent god of thunder throw a crimson mantle to
	envelope the darkening air,
	or let sunlight once more scatter through the skies,
	for mortal man it makes no difference, and what the winged
	years have taken away with them from earthТs sad face
	into the repository of time
	not 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 universe
	through 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 witness
	and 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 depths
	and fuse the black hills of the seaТs seething waters with
	thunder clouds, ripping fragile shipsТ 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 sleep
	if 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 IТm the one who gets the smack.

	It has been revealed!  Is it not a dream?  A new world! A new force,
	like  a 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, constricting
	shroud of turmoil and vanity has gone!
	Like the sunТs golden beams, the ether has touched my eyes
	and blown earthly dust from them.
	I behold the dwellings of the all-highest ones
	whence, through open doors of mystery,
	by the good will of fate, MnemosyneТs 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 waves
	the 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 clouds
	UraniaТs islet lifts from silvered foam.
	A steady light pours all around me
	born of the smile of goddesses.
	The sounds of lyres rise higher.
	The world drowns in enchantment!
	Setting aside the shades of the ethereal cover
	and the CharitesТ magic belt,
	Urania has adopted her own image
	and a starry crown burns on the goddess!
	On earth, what captivated us as a dream
	presents itself up here as Truth.
	Only here, under a clear sky,
	will lifeТs murky current brighten;
	only here, forgotten by Aquilon,
	it flows deep and bright!
	Only here is lifeТs genius fair,
	here, where roses of pure pleasure last forever,
	is PoetryТs garland eternally young!
	Like Pharos for enlightened souls and minds,
	the temple of the Heavenly One has been erected
	and Wisdom invites those captivated by what is heavenly
	to 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 mortals
	creators of good, of order, of cities.
	Behold eternally youthful Peace, with golden chains
	binding 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 landТs 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 staff
	the 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 heavens
	reaching, she embraces the universe and pours lifeТs gifts
	onto 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 gates
	the Sun haughtily passes through the dwelling of its birth
	and 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 steppes
	where they are sorrowfully met by the hunter or the ploughman,
	fruitlessly digging the burning sands or sadly, bashfully slipping
	across 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 bowed
	a welcoming head to it, and on the hills of Hellas
	AtheneТs 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 AresТs hand,
	and the sweet songs of shepherds;
	Rome rose, and the thunder and sweet-sounding songs of Mars
	resounded a hundredfold across TiberТs 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 worldТs morning star has set.
	Everywhere there is chaos and darkness!
	УNo!  The light of the sciences is eternal
	It will not be embraced by the ungovernable gloom.
	Its fruit is imperishable and will not die!Ф
	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 lionТs neck.
	Everything began here!  The holy ground,
	valleys, the bowels of mountains, streams, woods
	and 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 battles
	nor 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 Jerusalem
	victory and a crown.
	There the nymphs of the Tajo, there the waves of the Guadalquivir
	flow 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 Eden
	and high priests of incomprehensible mysteries,
	one from BritainТs 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 heavens
	in 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 salvation
	and 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 fruit
	and 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 skies
	that he may block the path of flaming storms.
	With MinervaТs lance he struck the bowels of earth
	and golden treasures flowed forth.
	He stretched his imperial gaze across the sea
	and his light burns, like Castor and Pollux!
	The singer, on the grave of the father, the hero-tsar, laid
	fresh laurels, and he has illuminated ElizabethТs
	priceless days of peace and bliss.
	Then, spilling out, light from the northern lights
	was reflected on the steep shores of the Araks
	and the geniuses reached their hands to gaze that way
	and 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; GodТs spirit reposes above him!
	The Muses have joyously sung the praises
	of 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.
	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 drape
	his mighty bark with flowers?
	Beneath their luxuriant, shining verdure
	will he not hide the scars of dark tempests and seas?
	You too with fearless glory sundered
	the seasТ expanses with your rudder
	and today, my friend, stately in peace,
	rejoicing, you fly into your haven.
	Quicker to the shore, onto friendshipТs bosom
	incline your head, oh singer,
	that I might weave sprigs from ApolloТs tree
	into his foster-childТs hair!

	Alight with the fire of freedom
	and drowning out the noise of chains,
	the spirit of Alcaeus has awoken in the lyre
	and slaveryТs dust has fled it.
	Sparks have scattered from the lyre
	and in a stream,
	like a divine flame, they have fallen
	onto 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 truths
	to inveterate tyrants!
	And you, fostered by the muses,
	have been rewarded by this great lot!
	Sing and with the power of euphony
	soften, touch, transform
	autocracyТs sold friends
	into friends of goodness and beauty!
	Singer, trouble not our civic calm,
	darken not the royal glitter!
	Beneath the kingly velvet,
	let your magic strumming
	soften hearts, without alarming!

	Are you really from the land of the living, brother?
	YouТre so dry and thin.  In truth, IТm ready to swear here and now
	that your unclean spirit has long been languishing in Hades.
	Well, friend Charon.  IТm skinny and dry from books
	and - why hide it any longer?
	IТve been full of bile, vengeful and bad-tempered,
	my life as useless as a burned out match.

	Glancing from a craggy height, how often
	I sit pensive in the shade of dense thickets,
	eveningТs 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 pond
	are bright in deep silence.
	Through the dark foliage of trees
	I see duskТs last ray still wandering.
	The moon slowly rises from the north
	on a chariot of clouds and from a lone belfry
	drawn-out, indistinct peals are heard all around.
	The passer-by listens, and the distant bell
	fuses its voice with the dayТs final sounds.
	The world is beautiful!  Yet rapture
	has 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 natureТs beauty!
	And you, my fields, copses and valleys,
	you are dead!  LifeТs 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 change
	and thereТs 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 through
	the 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 divinityТs 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 lifeТs valley.
	Bear me away, tempestuous ones, carry off this orphan!

	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 freedom
	rises, fans around us!
	Joy has poured into our hearts,
	like an echo of springТs celebration,
	like the life-creating voice of a god!
	Where are you, sons of Harmony?
	Come, with bold fingers
	touch the slumbering strings,
	warmed by the bright rays
	of love, of ecstasy, of spring!
	Just as in full, flaming bloom,
	at morningТs first, young light
	roses glisten and burn;
	as the zephyr in its joyous flight
	scatters their aroma,
	so do you, life-joy, pour yourself into everything.
	Singers, letТs 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 motherТs breast
	the flower it picked in a meadow!

	You have no faith in wondrous fancies.
	Reason has destroyed everything
	and, subjugating to constricting laws
	the air, the seas, the land,
	like prisoners, has laid them bare.
	It has dried to its depths that life
	which 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 Nature
	clearly, without glasses!
	No, youТre 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 off
	their gold-winged dreams.
	Believe me - experience is all the proof you need
	the magic temple of good fairies
	even in a vision, is more joyful
	than, in waking life, languishing bored
	in your squalid shack!

	Once more, Hector, do you hurl yourself into the storm of battle
	where, unapproachable with his sword of steel,
	the vengeful Pelides fights furiously?
	Who will look out for HectorТs son?
	Who will teach him his lordly duty,
	instil fear of the gods into the baby?
	Am 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.
	In these halls of fame am I fated
	to see your sword idle and rusting?
	Are all of PriamТs kin condemned?
	Soon, where there is neither love nor light,
	where the dusky Lethe flows,
	soon your love will die!
	All my soulТs hopes, all my impulses
	will be swallowed by the silent waters,
	but not HectorТs love!
	Do you hear?  TheyТre 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 youth
	played, unaware of danger.
	The Muse took in the orphaned boy
	and he became her family.
	She wore a rug of poetry,
	luxuriant and lovely.
	When heТd matured, nurtured by
	the MuseТs good example,
	a surplus of sensation led
	him off to FreedomТs temple.
	He made no gloomy offerings in
	the service of his idol,
	just proffering a fiery harp,
	just scattering some petals.
	There was one more priority,
	itТs worthy of a mention,
	for Cupid played around his head,
	demanding his attention.
	An arrow was the godТs kind gift.
	As soon as he was able,
	OrpheusТs wife became
	the subject of a fable.
	Reality was just a dream,
	his world was what he made it.
	Thus heТs attracted earthly fame,
	thus heaven will reward him.
	HeТs sharp of intellect and quick,
	of rich imagination,
	and only ever argued to
	defend his dissertation.

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

	WeТre far too quick to criticise.
	WhatТs wrong with liking drink?
	Drinking wineТs a healthy joy
	no man of sense denies.
	Curses and grief to those who dare
	to dispute whatТs so blatantly clear.
	I summon the heavens to the box
	to 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 grape
	yet let an apple turn his head
	Honour and glory has Noah earned,
	conducting himself with skill,
	becoming friendly with the wine
	when water he had spurned.
	Neither quarrels nor reproaches
	could spoil his drinking pleasure,
	the juice of the grape he often poured
	into his cup at times of leisure.
	All of his best efforts
	God himself has blessed.
	They both reached an agreement,
	divine good will to test:
	Should any of his sons not learn
	to love to take a drink -
	the scoundrel! - Noah intervened:
	the blackguard was condemned to burn.
	So let us stand and raise a glass
	letТs sup it out of piety,
	so that along with Noah
	through heavenТs gates weТll pass.

	Your good genius had difficulty
	getting 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 sabre
	in the hero-agronomistТs garden.
	Okay then.  Free once more, could you ever
	be faithless to your favourite dream?
	Inactivity can spell trouble, friend,
	If youТve no-one to share it with.
	Take my friendly advice
	(the Oracle would speak in verse
	and always convinced its listeners):
	amongst the beauties of Moscow
	no doubt itТs easy to find
	a pretty girl of fifteen,
	whoТs bright, who has spirit and serfs.
	Leave for a while the plough of Tolstoy,
	forget chimerae and rank,
	get married and in the worldТs full sense
	be the aide-de-camp of your wife.
	Then weТll surrender to inspiration,
	Hymen will wake up the Muse.
	IТll sacrifice my sloth to her,
	just you overcome your own!

	Joy, first-born of creation,
	daughter of the great Father,
	as a glorifying offering
	we devote our hearts to you!
	Whatever the whim of the world has separated,
	your altar brings together once again,
	and the soul you have warmed
	drinks love in your rays!
	Get into one circle, children of God!
	Your father is looking at you!
	His summoning voice is sacred
	and 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 anotherТs heart
	has echoed in a brotherТs breast;
	whoever cannot love, out of the circle
	with you, leave in tears!
	Family of souls!  Oh, heavenly ray!
	Almighty link!
	It leads to the heavens
	where the Unknown One dwells!
	At the breasts of good nature
	everything which breathes drinks Joy!
	All creations, all nations
	are 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.
	Hearts, 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 feeds
	the soul of GodТs creation
	with 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 chaos
	and in space, not subservient
	to the astronomer, it has poured it!
	As worlds roll on one behind the other
	behind the ever-moving finger,
	we flow on to our destination
	bravely, like a hero to battle!
	In the bright mirror of truth
	your image shines in our eyes,
	your jewel burns at the bottom
	of the bitter phial of experience.
	Like a cloud of coolness, you
	appear to us amidst difficulties,
	you shine like the morning of rebirth
	through the cracks in tombs!
	Believe in the guiding hand!
	Our griefs, tears, sighs
	are preserved in it like a pledge
	and 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.
	We 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!
	You, 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 heartТs blood!
	The bold voice of the citizen
	to the council of earthly gods.
	Solemnise the sacred deed.
	Eternal shame to his enemies.
	Our hand to yours, father,
	we stretch for all eternity!
	Give eternity to our oaths!
	Our oaths are the hymn of hearts!

        O lacrimarum fons....
	Friends, I love to let my eyes caress
	the sparkling, deep red of the wine,
	or peer through the foliage
	at the scented ruby of the vine.
	I love to watch creation deep
	in spring time in sweet fragrance
	when the world is slumbering sweetly
	and is smiling in its sleep!
	I love the face of a pretty girl
	ablaze in the breeze of spring,
	her cheeks folding into dimples,
	the sensual silk of her curls.
	But what are VenusТs delights,
	the juice of the grape and rosesТ aromas,
	compared to you, oh sacred well of tears,
	the dew of the godТs morning light!
	Heavenly beams play upon them
	and, refracted in fiery showers,
	on the storm-clouds of existence
	they sketch rainbow-living colours.
	And should the pupils of mortal man
	be brushed by the wings of the angel of tears,
	then the mist will vanish in tearful swirls
	and  a sky of seraph faces
	will before our eyes unfurl.

	In the gloomy north, on a bleak crag,
	a lone, white cedar stands in the snow
	and has fallen sweetly asleep in the frosty mist,
	and the blizzard lulls its sleep.
	It dreams all the time of a young palm
	which, in the EastТs distant regions,
	beneath a burning sky, on a scorched hill,
	stands and blossoms, alone.

	Be open with me, my love:
	are you some spectre
	of the sort occasionally produced
	by the poetТs fiery mind?
	No, I canТt believe that: the dear light
	of 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 idolТs dreams,
	this is what the poetТs 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 sang
	in a fiery outburst of freedom,
	in the full emotion of Existence,
	when to natureТs feast
	the 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 hymn
	far 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 strings
	are soaked by tears of sadness and torn by Separation!
	But, friends, youТre no stranger to inspiration!
	In a secondТs heartfelt ecstasy
	involuntarily IТd forgotten my lot
	(a transient, but sweet oblivion!)
	I flew in soul to what has taken its course
	and sang of joy while I thought about you.

	Your dear gaze, with innocent passion filled,
	the golden dawn of your heavenly feelings
	serve as a silent reproach to them,
	at propitiation it is unskilled.
	These hearts in which there is no truth
	flee, my friend, as they would flee a judgement,
	fearing as they fear childhood memories
	the 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 flame
	burns in a fearsome abyss.

	Nisa, Nisa, just get lost!
	My friendship means nothing to you.
	You played with me and then you tossed
	me away from those who admire you.
	Indifferent and carefree,
	you gullible little tease,
	you do like laughing at me.
	My gift of true love couldnТt please.
	Nisa, Nisa, IТd have been true,
	but you prefer to play the field.
	It seems my feelings just never appealed.
	Nisa, IТve just had enough of you!

	Cold, bright,
	day has awakened.
	The early cock
	has shaken its wings.
	Warriors, leap up!
	Rise, oh friends!
	Brisker, brisker
	to the feast of swords,
	to the fight!
	Our leader is before us!
	Be men, oh friends,
	and behind the mighty one
	let us strike like a storm!
	We shall hurtle like a whirlwind
	through clouds and thunder,
	to the sun of victory
	following 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 blood
	he 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 cock
	has shaken its wings.
	Warriors, leap up!
	It is not a foaming cup of fragrant mead
	which the rosy morning hands to the heroes;
	nor does the love and conversation of voluptuous women
	warm 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!

	Have you heard an Aeolian harp
	deep in the night
	carelessly brushing midnight,
	sleeping strings waking
	to trouble the silence,
	resounding, fading fast,
	as if a final cry of anguish
	had echoed there and died?
	The breezeТs every breath
	stings them to sorrow:
	perhaps a lyre fell to earth,
	playing dirges for lost bliss.
	Captive, our souls soar in immortal skies,
	gathering memories
	as we gather the dear shades of friends,
	clasping them tight against our breasts.
	How readily we believe  with living faith,
	how glad and bright our hearts become:
	youТd 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 momentТs effort we barely manage
	a short-lived, troubled, trembling glance
	from the window of our daily dream,
	half-rising, staring round the sky.
	The sky is weighty on us.
	A single beam can blind us  and weТll fall.
	Peaceful sleep does not await us.
	Exhausting dreams reclaim us.

	As the travellerТs attention tarries
	on cold tombstones,
	so let my friendsТ attention go
	to the writing of a familiar hand!
	In many, many years
	it will remind them of a former friend:
	УHeТs no longer with you,
	but his heart is buried there!Ф

	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 beauty
	in rays of imagination,
	everything, everything Poetry has poured
	into you alone, Sakontala.

	Tyranny itself seduced you.
	Its sword has mown you like reeds.
	The Law is incorruptibly impartial.
	The LawТs infallible in word and deed.
	Disloyalty is shunned by our people.
	TheyТll 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 saw
	your thin blood trickling,
	covering the ice-caps
	as if alone it could thaw
	that age-old polar face.
	Why, it would scarce have time to sparkle
	when up thereТd gust a breath of iron winter
	to murder every tiny trace!

	Sadness stole into my heart and I vaguely
	recalled the past;
	everything was so cosy then,
	and people lived as in a dream.
	Now itТs as if the world has disintegrated:
	everythingТs upside down, everyoneТs been knocked over.
	The Lord-God in his HeavenТs dead
	and SatanТs expired in Hell.
	ItТs as if people live in the world reluctantly.
	Everywhere thereТs grumbling, everywhere thereТs dissent.
	Were it not for a crumb of love in a person,
	IТd have long ago left this world.

	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,
	УOh settle lifeТs riddle for me,
	this agonisingly ancient riddle
	over which hundreds, thousands of heads
	in Egyptian, Chaldaean caps
	embroidered with hieroglyphs,
	in turbans, mitres and skull-caps,
	be-wigged and shaven,
	hosts of poor, human heads
	have spun and withered and sweated.
	Tell me, what is the significance of man?Ф
	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!

	Hope, love, everything, everything has perished!
	A pale, naked corpse
	thrown 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 skyТs monstrous daughters!
	Into misty vessels they scoop the sea water
	and with their burden, tired,
	drag themselves into the distance
	and 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 visions
	rise, tormentedly joyful!
	A woman lives in the north!
	A beautiful image, regally beautiful!
	Her figure, shapely as a palmТs,
	is wrapped all around in white, voluptuous material;
	the dark billow of her luxuriant curls
	flows like a night of blissful gods
	from a head crowned with plaits
	and softly flutters in light ringlets
	around her pale, dear face,
	and from her dear, pale face
	her frank, fiery eyes
	shine like a black sun!
	Oh fiery black sun,
	oh how many, many times in your rays
	have I drunk the wild flame of ecstasy,
	drunk, grown number, shuddered,
	and with heavenly, dovelike meekness
	a smile has fanned across your lips,
	and your proudly dear mouth
	has breathed words as quiet as moonlight
	and as sweet as the fragrance of roses,
	and the spirit reviving in me has taken flight
	and soared like an eagle to the sun!
	Be silent, birds, stop roaring, sea.
	Everything has perished, happiness and hope,
	hope and love!  IТm alone here,
	thrown up onto the desolate shore by the storm.
	I lie prostrate and with my glowing face
	I scrabble the wet sand of the seaТs depths!

	As the bright moon sometimes
	sails 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 banks
	stretching out before us,
	and at the feet of a charming lady
	I sat reflective,
	and on her dear, pale face
	the 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 went
	mountains and castles on hills
	and they shone, reflected
	in my dear companionТs eyes.

	On an old tower by a river
	the spirit of a knight stands

	and as soon as he sees my boats,
	he sends them a greeting:
	УBlood once boiled in this breast,
	my fist was made of lead,
	and there was a heroТs 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!Ф

	He who has not eaten tears with his bread,
	who has not in life sat entire nights
	crying 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!
	He who would be a stranger in the world
	will soon be one.
	Ah, people have someone to love,
	what are our needs to them!
	So!  What am I to you?
	WhatТs my misfortune to you?
	ItТs mine alone
	and IТll not be split from it!
	As the lover steals hidden to his darling:
	УAnswer me, love, are you along?Ф
	so by night and day wandering
	around me goes anguish.
	Sadness is all around me!
	Ah, is it only in the grave
	that IТll manage to get away from them all?
	In the grave, in the damp earth,
	there theyТll throw me!

	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, feasting
	renew your existence!
	There I shall penetrate in secret
	to the hidden sources
	of primeval generations
	which directly hear
	the voice of divine commands
	without racking their minds.
	Sanctifying the memory of our forebears,
	where foreign ways are sickened,
	where balance has been preserved in everything
	and thought is narrow, faith is spacious,
	where the strong, esteemed word
	is like a living revelation!
	Now with shepherds beneath copses,
	now in the blossoming oasis
	I shall rest with a caravan,
	trading in aromatics.
	I shall keep an eye on all movements
	from the desert into the settlements.
	The sacred songs of
	will sweeten the steep paths:
	their vociferous guide,
	singing in the pure firmament,
	awakens the late stars
	and irks the camelsТ 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 poetТs honeyed tones
	rouse desire in heavenТs maidens!
	Do not impute this haughtiness
	to superstition;
	know that every word of the poet
	in a light swarm, greedy for light,
	knocks at the gates of paradise,
	imploring the gift of immortality!

	I love MayТs first storms:
	chuckling, sporting spring
	grumbles in mock anger;
	young thunder claps,
	a spatter of rain and flying dust
	and wet pearls hanging
	threaded 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.
	YouТd 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.

	SpringТs soul brings nature back to life
	and everything shines, celebrating peace:
	the skiesТ 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 waves
	on the marble, warmed by spring.
	A thunder of his victories long ago fell silent,
	but their echo still resounds.
	A great shade has filled manТs mind,
	and his solitary shadow upon a wild shore,
	alien to everything, consoled by sea-birdsТ shrieks,
	listens to the oceanТs roar.

	ThereТs her harp in its usual corner.
	By the window, carnations and roses.
	On the floor a midday sunbeam dozes.
	TimeТs up.  So whereТs she hiding?
	WhoТll help me catch this teaser?
	Come on out, sylph!  WhereТs your lair?
	I can feel your magical nearness
	abundantly poured into the air.

	Carnations peak slyly, nestling beside
	more fragrant, warmer roses,
	but I know whoТs wrapped in your blossoms,
	I know who youТre trying to hide.
	Was that your harp I heard?
	Do you think you can hide in its golden strings?
	YouТve brought the metal to life!
	I can feel it shuddering as it rings.
	See the dust dancing in the sunТs shimmers,
	Like living sparks in kindred flames!
	Stop whirling, dear guest,
	magical being. How can I not know youТre there?

	Earth nods its head.
	A glowing sphere rolls
	into the ocean, which enfolds
	the calm, evening red.
	Bright stars start rising,
	heads still moist.
	They take the sky and hoist
	it far over the horizon.
	Sweetness shudders through the land
	as if, freed from the heat,
	natureТd scooped spring waters in her hand
	and splashed her burning feet.

	УAllah, pour your light on us!
	Oh beauty and strength of the faithful!
	Terror of the two-faced heathens!
	Your prophet is Mohammed!Ф
	УOh, our fortress and our bulwark!
	Great God, lead us now
	as once, from the desert,
	you led your chosen people!Ф
	Deep midnight!  All is still!
	Suddenly from behind a cloud the moon shines down
	and there above the gates of Istanbul
	it lights up OlegТs shield!

	There is an hour at night when all the world is silent.
	Sights are seen.  Miracles are done.
	The living horse and chariot of creation
	stampede the heavens in unbridled run.
	Night draws in, thick Chaos heavy on the seas.
	Oblivion presses on the earth, like Atlas.
	Alone on the MusesТ virgin soul
	in seer-dreams the gods inflict unease.

	Come 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 thereТs been no change
	for silence standing guard here.  On the threshold
	the 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 gift
	of the inextinguishably fiery word,
	why did you flee your own roof?
	Why did you betray your fatherТs hearth?
	Ah, and where, in untimely repose,
	did this tempest which carried you off, speed you?
	So, a mighty dweller once lived here.
	Here he breathed song and his breathing
	did not seem like that of the playful babbling
	of 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 garden
	it tore off the rivets
	and spewed out darkness and ice and flame,
	scorched with fire and furrowed with hail.
	Only in those spots where the cloud had torn
	did the skyТs azure smile charmingly!
	They say the frenzied singing of demons
	drove those who listened mad.
	Thus it was with him, like an unearthly force,
	it tore up all the depths of his souls
	and on the very bed it awakened crime.
	Breathing stopped, the heart ached
	and something constricted the breast.
	Like a layer of air, thinning all around,
	he sucked the living blood from our veins
	and in the struggle we ran out of strength
	and 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!
	And is it any wonder that a memory of the sublime
	visited your soul with involuntary sadness!
	Fate did not create a swan of you,
	dipping its wing into the crimson waves
	when the sunset burns above the currents
	and it swims, admiring itself,
	between a dual dawn.
	You were an eagle and from your native crags
	where you wove your nest, and in it, as if in a cradle,
	storms and blizzards lulled you.
	You plunged into the skiesТ depths, inexhaustible,
	soared high above sea and earth,
	but your eye sought only corpses!
	Ill-fated spirit!  Like the glow of a conflagration
	was 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 brow
	and with the sceptre of power at this unearthly council
	in this confused world, you loved
	to 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?
	He 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 wings
	of the sea bird, dweller of bleak cliffs,
	so the gods decreed that he should pass
	along lifeТs 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!
	Fugitive from his native land, the bard now hurtles
	to 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 fragrantly
	and 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 genius
	seems fanned by the magic light
	of AlhambraТs patterned colonnades
	or the sweet-scented thickets of Granada!
	Now 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 foot
	still trembles involuntarily even now,
	like a tundra of blood.  Here, in dreadful torments,
	ranks of valiant hearts have been trodden into the ground
	and their ash lies layered around the plain.
	Enemies, they fell quiet together,
	some thirsting for, some thrilling in their vengeance!
	The bard goes on and sees before him
	the grape-bearing, eternally youthful Rhine,
	and here and there, on vine-covered heights,
	a castle flashes, even today fanned
	by 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 shade
	and above it all icy heights,
	now pale, now fierily alive!
	Then from the heights, where waters separate
	into the wide, southern plains,
	hurling their currents as if going to a feast,
	whence more than once, like glacial avalanches
	northern tribes have torn down
	into 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 roses
	and rustles like a transparent blanket
	above the slumbering, ruined past!
	But to the blossoming, deserted East
	the singer was drawn by an all-powerful passion,
	to his imaginationТs favourite land!
	Once more before his demise he saw
	this world of violence, indolence, voluptuousness,
	where life and destruction embraced
	in luxuriant desolation
	and like friends in the evening light
	mountain peaks grew, where once there lived happy brigandage.
	There, beyond the cliff, is the pirateТs white sail,
	here the horn of the moon, burning on a mosque,
	and the pure remains of the Parthenon
	against the virginal rosiness of the heavens.
	But you annulled the union of this creation,
	spirit of freedom, immortal element!
	Battle flared up between Despair and Power!
	Blood flowed like spring waters
	and 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 love
	on the spot where the spirit of the singer wanders,
	where in the gloaming of sickly hope
	death closed his earthly eyelids!
	The 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 heavens
	the high divinity of suffering
	was for him a hostile riddle
	and, 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!
	Thus he was, mighty, majestic,
	exulting critic of creation!
	But is his lot worthy of envy?
	Like the parental gift of existence
	he 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 star
	only rarely blew away the gloom of his soul
	where storms howled.
	He has quietened now, a burned out volcano.
	And the late luminary of immortality
	sadly looks down on him from the night skies.

	IТm in no hurry to receive garlands from you,
	though I am partial to your praises
	when I meet them along the way.
	Although the ballast does not determine
	where and how the ship will float,
	it certainly alleviates its voyage.

	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 sword
	to lead his people from the shades of death
	and 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 hand
	they will fall to the foot of the cross.
	Complete your work, the salvation of people.
	Say, УLet there be light!Ф 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.

	Monotonous dying of the hours:
	midnight is telling a tedious tale
	in a foreign language we canТt fail
	to recognise as ours.
	Who can claim it never befell
	him to hear timeТs muffled groans
	stab his soul at night, the drone,
	when allТs quiet, of a prescient farewell?
	ItТs as if the world had been orphaned
	by 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 earthТs edge,
	and with our friends and with our age
	it pales into the distance.
	While under the sun there is a birth,
	a new and youthful tribeТs begotten
	and it has long since been forgotten
	that we, our friends, our age, were ever on this earth!
	At times, performing some gloomy rite,
	we can her metallic sighs
	bemoaning our demise
	in the silence of the night.

	Morning smiles blue across country
	refreshed by rainstorms over night.
	Dew-bespeckled, through the mountains
	a valleyТs a snail-track of light.
	Above it all the soaring summits
	are half in misty curtains caught,
	as if they were the airy ruins
	of castles sorcerers had wrought.

	Midday soars.
	It pauses, now holds steady.
	It sears the grasslands,
	skims and scalds the rills.
	Its sheer rays strike dusky woods
	which spread beneath the haze.
	Below, there is a steel-bright mirror.
	Blue currents in the lake invite quick streams
	to leave the heat, to scamper by smooth boulders
	and 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 thatТs left to die,
	the mountainsТ icy peaks play with
	the fiery blueness of the sky.

	When natureТs final hour strikes
	and earthly matter has disintegrated,
	the visible universe will be flooded.
	In the waters GodТs face will be reflected.

	You know how to love.
	YouТre such a good actress,
	and when weТre in a crowd
	(and they canТt see us!)
	and my leg touches yours,
	you answer me without a blush.
	You always look so absent
	and youТre callous.
	As your breasts move,
	as you glance around and smile,
	that hateful guardian of a husband
	admires your servile beauty!
	Thanks to people, thanks to fate
	youТve learned the cost of secret joys.
	YouТve learned about the world,
	that world which will betray us!
	Treason flatters you!
	VirginityТs first blush has left
	your youthful cheeks,
	as morning sunshine ravishes young roses
	of their sweet-smelling soul.
	So be it!
	In scorching summer heat
	our feelings are more flattered,
	our eyes more tempted
	by parting a vine in the shade
	and watching the grape,
	through dense, tight leaves,
	oozing its blood.

	The happy day was loud
	and streets shone with crowds
	and shadows, cast by evening cloud,
	flew across bright buildings.
	From time to time the noise would float
	to me, sounds of heavenly existence;
	theyТd merge into a single note,
	a hundred sounds, loud but muffled.
	The day moved on.  I fell asleep.
	SpringТs 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 gleamed
	a pallid star which kept a secret,
	and as it peered at me it seemed
	it was a guardian of my slumber.
	It seemed to me as if IТd been
	abducted by some loving genie
	which craftily and quite unseen
	had sped me to a land of shadow.

	Melting in the air above the valley,
	distant bells are chiming
	like 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.

	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.

	Eagle, plumb the clouds,
	talk to lightning,
	drink sunlight
	into your motionless eyes,
	but envy the swan,
	the pure, white swan.
	In a dual abyss,
	the deity has clothed you
	in the pure element,
	that god which cherishes omniscient vision,
	so that the swan is captured,
	surrounded on all sides
	by the full, starry glory of the sky.

	УItТs going to be a nice dayФ, my friend said,
	glancing at the sky from the window of the carriage.
	Yes, itТll be a nice day,
	my praying heart repeated,
	and it shivered in sadness and bliss!
	It will be a nice day!  The sun of freedom
	will burn more animatedly and hotly now than
	the aristocracy of nocturnal luminaries!
	And the happiest tribe will bloom,
	conceived in arbitrary embraces,
	not on the iron bed of coercion
	beneath the strict customs scrutiny
	of the spiritual police, and in these souls,
	free-born, there will flare boldly
	the purest fire of ideas and feelings
	incomprehensible to us, by nature slaves!
	Thus I thought and climbed from my carriage
	and with a sincere, morning prayer
	stepped onto the dust, sanctified by immortality!
	As beneath a high, triumphal vault
	of vast clouds, the sun rose
	victorious, bold and bright,
	announcing a fine day to nature.
	But at the sight I was so melancholy,
	like the moon, still a visible shade
	pale in the sky.  Poor moon!
	In the deep night, alone, orphaned,
	it completed its bitter path
	while the world slept and only
	owls, apparitions and bandits caroused.
	And today before the young day, rising in glory,
	rays ringing forth joy
	and shot through with the dawnТs purple,
	it runs off.  Just one more glance
	at the luxuriant universal light
	and like a fine wisp of smoke it flies from the sky.
	Ah, equally incomprehensible to them
	will be that night in which their fathers
	joylessly languished their entire lives
	and carried on a despairing battle, a cruel one,
	against foul owls and subterranean vampires,
	monstrous things begotten of Erebus!
	Ill-fated warriors, all the spiritТs strength,
	all the heartТs 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 sun
	will not enliven exhausted hearts,
	will not bring fire once more to dulled cheeks!
	We shall hide before them, like the pale moon!
	I donТt know nor do I seek to foresee
	what the Muse has in store for me!  The poetТs laurels
	may or may not grace my gravestone!
	Poetry was to my soul
	a childlike-divine toy
	and 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 faith
	in 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 seems
	exhausted, a pitiful wraithe.
	Wait till night falls,
	then you see this radiant god
	enfolding sleeping copses in its beams!

	Among societyТs gossips,
	in the pointless noise of day,
	at times my gaze, my movements, feelings, words
	just canТt be happy, donТt 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 mirror
	the fragrant, amber nectar of its light!

	As in days gone by, before you is heard
	the dayТs luminary in the system of the planets
	and along its predetermined course
	thundering, it completes its flight!
	Seraphs marvel at it,
	but till now who has comprehended it?
	As on the first day, incomprehensible
	are the deeds, Almighty, of your hands!
	And swiftly, with miraculous swiftness,
	the earthТs globe turns,
	replacing the quiet light of the sky
	with the deep darkness of night.
	The waves roar over the seaТs abyss,
	gouging out its rocky shore,
	and the chasm of waters with its cliffs
	the 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 heavensТ praise thunders to you!
	As on the first day, incomprehensible
	are the deeds, Lord, of your hands!
	УWho called me?Ф
	УOh, horrible sight!Ф
	УWith a powerful and persistent charm
	you gnawed my magic circle and not in vain, and now ...Ф
	УYour aspect benumbs me!Ф
	УWas that not you praying, like one in a frenzy,
	to see my face and hear my voice?
	I inclined myself to your persistent call
	and here I stand before you!  What despicable fear
	has suddenly possessed your soul, titan?
	Is this the breast whose creative power
	created a world, nourished and cultivated it
	and, hoping for unterrestrial valour,
	with indefatigable effort
	strove 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?Ф
	УDo 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!Ф
	УThe tempest of events and the swell of the fates
	I 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!Ф
	УWith what insuperable affinity,
	immortal spirit, you attract me to yourself!Ф
	УOnly to that nature you have dreamed up
	are you alike - not to me!Ф

	УWhat 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 sound
	still entices me to existence!
	It would happen that the heavens would kiss
	me in the silence of Sunday.
	I heard the trembling of sacred bells
	in the depths of my soul,
	and the prayer was living sweetness to me!
	The soulТs urge to be one with heaven
	carried  me off to woods and dales
	and, drenched in warm tears,
	I created a new world for myself.
	About happy youthТs game,
	about bright spring would this glad news be.
	Ah, and at that solemn hour
	the recollection of them would master my soul!
	Sing out, voices, play again, sacred hymn!
	My tear flees!  Earth, I am yours once more!Ф
	Why destroy in empty depression
	the blissful possession of this hour?
	See how evening shines and scatters around
	the huts with their greenery.
	The day is through, and to other skies
	the dayТs 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 feet
	and, 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 shining
	in its gulfs the ocean.
	But the bright divinity inclines its head to the waters
	and suddenly the mysterious might of its wing
	has come to life again and chases after the departing one
	and 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,
	weТll 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 breast
	and at times it comes to life in us,
	when, during spring, above our heads,
	the larkТs song tinkles from a cloud,
	when over a steep, wooded slope
	the eagle, spreading its wings, soars,
	when over lakes or the empty steppe
	the crane hurries home.
	There was a king, so few they are now,
	faithful up to his death.
	As he died, his loved one
	gave him a goblet.
	He valued it greatly
	and frequently drained it,
	his heart beating strongly in him
	the moment he picked it up.
	When his turn came
	to quit this world,
	he divided out his possessions,
	but did not give away the cup.
	And into the castle above the sea
	he summoned his friends
	and, taking his farewells of them,
	he sat there carousing.
	When he drank for the last time
	the fiery liquid,
	he leaned out over the abyss
	and 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 beat
	the king had drunk his last drop!
	Almighty spirit, you have given me everything, everything
	I prayed for!  Not for nothing
	did your face lean radiant to me!
	You gave me all of nature to possess
	and showed me how to love it.  You allowed me
	not to be a mere, idly-amazed guest
	at her feast, but admitted me
	into the very depths of her breast,
	as into the heart of a friend!  The ranks of earth-born
	filed past me and you taught me,
	in a thicket, in the open, or on the seasТ 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 crack
	in a crash of falling boughs, indistinctly a rumble
	arises all around and, unsteady, the hillsides groan.
	You lead me into a peaceful cavern,
	and you present me
	to the eyes of my very soul and its world,
	its wondrous world, you reveal for me!
	Let the all-sweetening moon rise
	in its meek brilliance and to me there fly
	from craggy mountains, from the humid pine forest,
	the silver shades of past ages,
	and in the stern consolation of contemplation
	they soften me with their mysterious influence!

	Lofty presentimentТs
	urges and languor,
	the soul, thirsting for mastery,
	in its seething aspirations,
	the coming together of designs
	as 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 centuries
	in cruel conflict,
	seeing him, suddenly made peace,
	as they would before omnipotent destiny.
	He commanded them to be silent
	and sat between them in judgement!

	He disappeared and in exile saw out
	his 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 shore
	vainly visible to palpitating glances
	appears from above,
	so memory above his soul,
	gathering, lies heavy!
	How often this soul desired
	to speak out
	and, stupefied, onto the sheet already begun,
	the hand suddenly fell!
	How often before dayТs end,
	a day of joyless torment,
	lowering his lightning-flashing eyes,
	folding his arms across his breast,
	he would stand, letting the past
	possess him!
	In his mindТs eye he saw the campaign tents,
	the plains of battle,
	the long glint of infantry ranks,
	currents of cavalry formations,
	an iron world breathing
	by one command alone!
	Oh, beneath such a burden
	his heart lost its energy
	and his spirit sagged ... but a powerful
	hand came down to him
	and, merciful, to heaven
	raised him!

	We had just left the gates of Trezene.
	He sat on his chariot, surrounded
	by 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 airТs silence,
	and at that moment some fearsome voice
	from beneath the earth replied with a groan.
	EveryoneТs blood froze in their chests
	and the keen horsesТ manes stood up.
	But then, white above the watery plain,
	a wave rose, like a mountain of snow,
	growing, getting nearer, smashing into the shore
	and 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 lance
	and, 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 horsesТ feet
	and, scrabbling at the ground, from its bloody jaws
	poured 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 trident
	prodded their steaming flanks.
	They flew across rocks, patches of undergrowth.
	The axle creaked and broke.  The fearless Hippolytus
	from his smashed, crushed chariot
	fell to earth, enmeshed in the reins.
	Forgive my tears!  This mournful scene
	will forever call tears from me!
	I saw, alas, your son
	dragged 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 thorns
	bloody clots of hair hanging.
	Our maddened cries carried across the land!
	But finally the crazed steedsТ
	ardour calmed down.  They stopped
	near where your forefathers
	lie at rest in ancient tombs!
	I ran up, I called.  With enormous effort
	opening his eyes, he gave me his hand:
	УThe 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 sonТs innocence,
	oh, to console a complaining shadow,
	let him alleviate his prisonerТs
	lot!  Let him return to her.Ф
	The hero died at these words,
	and in my arms which held him
	there remained a corpse, savagely distorted,
	a sign of the horrible punishment of the gods,
	unrecognisable even by a fatherТs eyes!

	I pity you, hapless stars!
	So beautifully, so brightly do you burn,
	willingly lighting the marinerТs way,
	unrewarded by God or man!
	You donТt know love.  YouТve never known it!
	Unstoppable, the gods of time lead you
	through the skyТs limitless night!
	Oh, what a path you have traversed
	since the moment when, in my sweetheartТs arms,
	I sweetly turned off from midnight and you!

	Lovers, madmen and poets
	are forged from one and the same imagination!
	One sees demons which donТt even exist in Hell
	(the madman, that is), another is equally insane,
	 the passionate lover, seeing, entranced,
	HelenТs beauty in a dark-skinned gypsy.
	The poetТs eye, in bright frenzy,
	turning round upon itself, sparkles and slips
	from sky to earth, from earth to sky,
	and, let his imagination but create forms
	for unknown creatures, then the poetТs wand
	transforms them into people and gives
	aerial shades a place and a name!
	The hungry lion has begun to roar
	and 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 screech
	and to the invalid on his death-bed
	has predicted an early shroud.
	All cemeteries at this time
	from yawning graves
	into the moonТs damp dusk
	send forth their dead!

	Just as the ocean curls around earthТs shores,
	our earthly lifeТs embraced by dreams.
	Night comes and brings the element
	and night intensifies its roars.
	Now, thereТs its voice, persisting, pleading.
	The magic skiff is straining to be free.
	Now out it goes, its human cargo leading
	into the dark, immeasurable sea.
	HeavenТs vaultТs aflame with starry glory.
	From every side, as long as weТre afloat,
	its mystery staring from the deeps,
	that fiery chasm engulfs our boat.

	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 it
	and the entire purple-born throng beneath their feet!
	All other powers, authorities, possessions
	are legacies and accidents of birth,
	but God Himself has given the pope and the caesar to the earth
	and 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,
	youТre 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, majestically
	it 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 earthly
	happens only by and through them.  Like a living mystery
	heaven 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 two
	exists 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 disgrace
	not 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 was
	of 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 itТs all contained in here!
	Seek out dominions and weigh the handful of dust
	of him who had everything, his power revered as much as GodТs.
	Fill with thunder the whole of earth, build, raise up
	your columns to the clouds, ever higher, height upon height,
	although your fame has touched the immortal stars,
	thatТs 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 creation
	on high - alone - between heaven and earth
	and 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 seaТs 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, theyТre 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 skeletons
	of 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 seize
	the rod of authority in this world!  Who am I?  The progeny of dust!

	Ardent horse, sea-horse,
	pale-green maned,
	gentle, loving-tamed,
	raging, wild-playing,
	fed by violent storms
	in GodТs open plains!
	He taught and trained you
	to play, to leap at will.
	I love you when you bound
	madly, 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!

	УWhat sounds are they in front of my house,
	what voices before my gates?
	Let the song ring out before us
	in our high tower!Ф
	The king spoke, the page runs,
	the page returned, the king speaks:
	УQuickly, admit the old man!Ф

	УPraise 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 time
	To idly entertain my eyes!Ф
	The grey-haired singer shut his eyes
	and 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 chain
	with which to honour the grey-haired singer!
	УDonТt 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 toils
	this golden burden!
	I sing at GodТs will,
	like a bird in the sky,
	not seeking recompense for my songs,
	for the song is reward enough!
	IТd ask one boon of you, just one,
	and thatТs a golden goblet
	filled with bright wine!Ф
	He took the cup and drank it dry
	and spoke with heat in his heart:
	УLet God bless such a household
	where this serves only as a meagre gift!
	Let him send his favours to you
	and let Him comfort you on this earth
	just as you have comforted me!Ф

	Here, the sky stares inert
	at 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.

	The storm has passed.
	Thunder-smitten, the tall oak
	is prostrate, smouldering still,
	boughs trickling blue smoke
	through the greenery, where,
	for a while now, louder, fuller,
	throughout the storm-refreshed copse,
	bird-song resounds,
	and a rainbow has settled
	the end of its arc among
	the green summits.

	I saw you both together
	and at once saw you in her:
	that quiet glance, tender voice,
	that charm of early morning
	wafting from your head!
	As if in a magic mirror
	everything 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 lifeТs 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 love
	burst from her breast and
	I saw a new world!

	The Roman orator was speaking
	as citizens started to fight:
	УI rose late, and while I was walking
	was chased and captured by RomeТs nightФ.
	So be it!  But making your farewells, you saw
	in grandeur and with awe,
	RomeТs bloody star go down.
	Blessed is he who visits this life
	at its fateful moments of strife:
	the all-wise sent him an invitation
	to speak with them at their celebrations.
	HeТs the witness of high affairs,
	knows their councils, sits on them,
	and a living god while there,
	has drunk immortality with them.

	In the brightness of autumn evenings
	there is a touching, mysterious charm:
	an ominous glitter, motley trees,
	a light, languorous rustle of scarlet leaves,
	a hazy, quiet blueness
	across the sadly orphaned world
	and, presaging gathering storms,
	at times a gusty snap of wind.
	Loss.  Exhaustion.  And on it all
	there is that gentle smile of fading
	which, in a thinking creature, we should call
	the divine shame of suffering.

	Let pines and firs
	jut out all winter,
	curled up and sleeping
	through snows and blizzards.
	Their meagre greens,
	like a hedgehogТs spines,
	might never yellow -
	theyТre never fresh.
	But we, weТre a light tribe,
	blossoming, glittering
	such a short time,
	guests on our branches.
	All the fine summer
	weТre 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 itТs better
	to fly away with them?
	Faster, wild winds,
	faster, faster!
	Snatch us quickly
	from boring boughs.
	Tear us, hurl us away.
	We donТt want to wait.
	Fly, come fly
	and weТll fly with you!

	Crossing Livonian fields ...
	Baltic emptiness, sand
	and the dull emptiness of this colourless land
	allowed my soul to yield
	to contemplation of its former sad plight,
	a dark and bloody state
	when its citizens, prostrate,
	kissed the spurs of invading knights.
	I stared at a deserted water-course.
	Along its length were silent spinneys.
	I thought, УYouТve had quite a journey,
	you peers of the past, youТve forced
	a path into our lives
	from the shores of another time and place!Ф
	So many questions!
	Such frustration!  I strive
	for 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 games
	and keeping his secret during the day.

	Sand gives softly.  Hooves sink.
	We ride.  ItТs late.  Light starts to fade.
	The shadows of the pines along the roadside
	have merged into a single shade.
	The woodТs dark heart grows denser, blacker.
	ItТs such a melancholy place!
	Night scowls, a hundred-eyed wild creature.
	From every bush it leers and pokes its face!

	Zeus is kind to the poor tramp.
	His patronage enables
	this exile from the cares of home
	to sit as a guest at HeavenТs 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 towns
	the brightening road extending,
	he wanders freely the entire earth.
	He sees it all, to God his praises sending!

	Where the earth is seered,
	in the skyТs misty haze disappears,
	in carefree gaiety
	lives pitiful insanity.
	Beneath rays which burn,
	digging into flaming sands,
	his glassy gaze is turned
	to seek things far above the land.
	Suddenly heТll 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 mirth
	as they course beneath the ground,
	and he thinks itТs a cradle-song heТs found
	as they noisily burst from the earth.

	Throughout blue nights
	glisten mountainsТ eyes,
	eyes of death, eyes of fright,
	by icy horror paralysed.
	Charmed by some spell
	till DawnТs first beams,
	in hazy menace they dream,
	like all those ancient kings who fell.

	But let the East begin to shine
	and the fatal charms are broken.
	High up and first in line
	the eldest brother has awoken.
	From the head of the next there rolls
	a stream onto the heads of all the others,
	till, glistening in crowns of gold,
	all the familyТs resurrected with the brothers!

	I love GodТs 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 breastТs 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, voices
	presaging our final hour,
	sweetening our final torment,
	and as the fates encroach
	and call earthТs sons from this life,
	perhaps their messenger uses them,
	weaving a veil to hid his face
	and his fearsome approach!

	We walk behind our age
	as Creusa walked behind Aeneas.
	As we go a little way, we weaken,
	but if we hurry on, we fall behind.

	Snow is still white in the fields
	but spring is in the waterТs voice.
	Running, the waters wake the sleepy banks.
	They run, they glisten, they rejoice.
	УSpring is coming, spring is coming!Ф
	in every direction they shout.
	УWeТre the young springТs runners,
	with the news she has sent us out!Ф
	Spring is coming, spring is coming!
	In a bright, rosy round-dance plays
	a frolicking, happy bustle
	of MayТs warm, quiet days.

	Stay silent, out of sight and hide
	your feelings and your dreams inside.
	Within your soulТs deep centre let
	them silently rise, let them set
	like stars in the night.  DonТt be heard.
	Admire them,  DonТt say a word.
	How can your heart itself express?
	Can others understand or guess
	exactly what life means to you?
	A thought youТve spoken is untrue.
	You only cloud the streams youТve stirred.
	Be fed by them.  DonТt say a word.
	Making living in yourself your goal.
	There is a world within your soul
	where mystery-magic thoughts abound.
	By outer noise they will be drowned.
	TheyТll scatter as day is bestirred.
	Just heed their song.  DonТt say a word!

	As  a piece of paper
	smoulders, catches, burns
	on glowing embers,
	the flames indistinct
	and 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 once
	range flame-like at will,
	not languishing, and not tormented,
	bursting into brilliance
	before - just going out!

	Lips which greet me with a smile,
	a young girlТs rosy complexion,
	your gaze which is bright and which sparkles....
	it all entices me to pleasure.
	Ah, this gaze in passionТs fire
	on gossamer wings sends out desire,
	and with some magical power
	locks hearts in its fabulous tower!

	Just as Agamemnon brought this daughter
	as an offering to the gods,
	asking the indignant heavens
	for the breath of fair winds,
	so we, over woeful Warsaw,
	have struck a fateful blow,
	and at this bloody price weТll buy
	RussiaТs integrity and peace.
	Away from us, inglorious wreath
	woven by a servile hand!
	Not for the koran of autocracy
	did Russian blood run like a river!
	No!  We were animated in the fight
	not by any love of carnage,
	not as trained and bestial janissaries,
	and not because, as executioners, we must subdue!
	A different thought, a different belief
	beat in RussiansТ hearts:
	we needed to maintain the integrity of authority
	by the saving storm of example,
	to gather under one Russian banner
	kindred generations of Slavs,
	to lead them in the campaign of enlightenment,
	all of one mind, like a host!
	This higher consciousness
	led our valiant people.
	It boldly takes upon itself
	the vindication of heavenТs ways.
	It senses above its head
	a star in the invisible heights
	and unswervingly follows the star
	to its mysterious destination!
	Pierced by your brotherТs arrow,
	fulfilling destinyТs 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!

	УThe storm howls more evilly, screaming its spite.
	Caress me, my lover, cling to me tight.Ф
	УOh darling, I fear the skiesТ vengeful power.
	DonТt talk of forbidden love at this hour.Ф
	УThe song of the storm is so sweet as it gusts
	and lulls us on our bed of lust.Ф
	УOh, remember the sea and the miserable sailors,
	gracious lord, shelter all of those wretches.Ф
	УIn the seaТs broad ravines let the waves roam at will.
	They wonТt breach our refuge nor shatter this still.Ф
	УOh darling, donТt say that, such talk is not right.
	DonТt you know who is out on the ocean this night?!Ф
	Lamenting and trembling, her voice fades away
	and 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 round
	and 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 child
	she crashed to the ground in a swoon.
	In the lightning flashes which sundered the gloom,
	the ghost of her husband was clearly seen
	where he sat by the cot at the end of the room.

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

	You were the best leaf
	on humanityТs high tree,
	nourished by its purest sap,
	grown in the sunТs purest rays!
	More harmonious than all
	you shook with its great soul,
	prophetically talking with storms,
	happily playing with breezes!

	Not a late wind, not late summer rain
	tore 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-flight
	of wide-spanned inspirations;
	and in the very riot of audacity
	there was a calculating serpent.
	But not sanctifying power,
	a force of which the mind cannot conceive,
	illuminated his soul
	nor stepped towards him.
	He was of earth, not GodТs flame.
	He proudly sailed, despised the sea,
	but on the hidden reef of faith
	his fragile boat was smashed.

	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.

	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 sorcererТs wail,
	the sea-deeps my wanderings stormed and assailed,
	and into my silence of dreams burst the lash
	of tempests, of howls, of the seaТs frightful crash.

	IТm ending of days in a ditch.
	IТm weak and old with no strength to go on!
	УHe drinks, canТt you see?Ф they say about the tramp.
	Just so long as they donТt 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!
	IТve laboured through, IТve coped with the years,
	clearly people donТt die of hunger.
	Perhaps, I thought, on a bed
	they will at least let me die,
	but their hospitals and gaols
	are all full!  You canТt 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.
	УWeТve barely work for ourselves!
	Pick up your bag.  Get out and beg.Ф
	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 road
	did 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 came
	and captured our splendid town,
	and I, like an idiot cried in vexation,
	cursing the foe who fed me!
	Why did you not crush me
	like 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.
	IТd have blessed you, brethren, I would.
	Instead, as he dies, the tramp curses you!

	Skald-harp, long ago your poet-master
	left 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 swirls
	in your heart as you recall past days?
	Memories of nights when voluptuous girls
	told 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 lessons
	in these bare walls, in this empty temple.
	CanТt you see?  Preparing to leave,
	faith presents itself to us for the final time:
	itТs barely crossed its threshold,
	yet already its house stands bare and empty.
	ItТs barely crossed its threshold,
	the door not closed behind it,
but here its hour has struck.  Pray to God.
	ItТs the last time you will pray.

	With which of the two has fate decreed
	that I should fall in love?

	Daughter and mother are fair indeed,
	like each other, each uniquely charming.
	How her untried, youthful members
	sweetly agitate my mind!
	Yet the charm of those brilliant glances
	is omnipotent over my soul.
	Flapping my ears in contemplation,
	I stand just as BuridanТs friend did,
	between two hay ricks, staring,
	wondering which of the two would be the sweeter?

	From land to land, from town to town
	like 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 loveТs final farewell.
	So many tears are left behind.
	Ahead, thereТs mist.  Ahead is the unknown!
	УOh, wait, look back!Ф
	Where are you running? Why run at all?
	LoveТs dropped behind
	WhatТs better in the world than that?
	LoveТs still falling back,
	in tears and in despair.
	Have pity on your pain,
	your bliss you should spare!
	Bring to mind the bliss
	of so many, many days.
	All thatТs dear to your soul
	youТre abandoning along the way!
	ItТs not the time to summon shades:
	that time is now dead dark.
The shadows of departed souls
	are 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 touched
	the age-old keepТs remains
	while the sun dallied in its farewells
	to the castle, the hill and to you.
	A quiet, passing breeze
	playing with your dress,
	and from wild apples, flower after flower
	strewn 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 louder
	from the river in its darkening banks.
	In carefree joy you spent the happy day.
	Sweetly the shade of swiftly-flowing life
	passed over us and flew away.

	My soul, youТre an Elysium of shades,
	silent shades, beautiful shades which shine
	and 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 poles
	from men who have no feelings?

	How sweetly sleep lies on the green garden
	taken by nightТs blue in blissful swoon,
	and through the apple-blossom-whitened boughs
	how sweetly filter rays from the golden moon!
	As on the first day of creation, with mystery
	the starry hosts burn in the shoreless sky,
	and there are heard the shouts of distant music;
	still louderТs the voice of the brook nearby.
	Across earthТs day thereТs been unfurled a curtain
	All movementТs been exhausted, energyТs 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 you
	IТm powerless not to display!
	I do not thirst for pale delights of fleshless spirits.
	Your loyal son IТll 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?
	IТd rather spend all day in deep inaction,
	springТs warm air drinking deep and true.
	At times, across the distant, pure skies
	sail cloud-wisps which my eyes would eagerly pursue.
	IТd wander aimless, doing nothing,
	and stumble inadvertently
	upon a lilacТs fresh aroma,
	or on a shining reverie.

	Silent air enwrapping
	me, storm-threatening,
	crickets louder singing,
	rosesТ aromas sharper rising ....
	From behind a white, hazy cloud
	thunder rattles round the land.
	Lightning scampers round the sky,
	sewing for its waist a band.
	Life-surplus overflowing,
	nectar pouring
	through the air, scorching,
	melting through my veins, burning ...
	Girl, what things excite
	the gauze across your breasts,
	darkening and troubling
	your eyesТ 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 lashes
	tears form -
	are they early raindrops
	of the coming storm?

	Willow, why do you lower
	your head to the river,
	letting, like hungry mouths,
	your leaves a-quiver
	try to catch the fleeing stream?
	All the longing, all the shuddering
	of 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 skylarkТs voice,
	is that you, morningТs lovely guest,
	at this late, dead hour,
	pliant, playful, bright with song
	at this dead, late hour?
	Like the fearful laughter of the insane,
	it wrenched my soul.  It caused me pain.

	Into the grave the coffinТs 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 sermonТs under way.
	ManТs 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 reddened
	and she had started praying.
	SheТd worn a veil.
	She took it from her brow.
	She breathed a prayer, and when she turned
	the sky within her eyes exulted.
	Dawn flamed.
	Her head was slowly sinking.
	Her neck gleamed whitely, cowed,
	and down her youthful cheeks were burned
	the traces of her fiery tears.

	Blue-grey mingling.
	Colour darkening.
	Silence possesses sound.
	Life and movement have drowned
	in 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, overfill
	my soul,
	give me void.
	In the worldТs sleep
	pour 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 -
	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 IТm higher still,
	sitting, joyful, quiet.
	Run to your valley.
	Go on, stream,
	see what itТs like among people!

	The whole world starts as sunlight streams
	to wake it, like a bird which shakes its feathers.
	Fine, fine!  Beneficial dreams
	have passed my by while visiting the others.
	Despite the morning freshness
	wafting through my tousled hair,
	I feel a heavy weight upon me:
	yesterdayТs dust, yesterdayТs glare!
	ItТs all so piercing and savage
	and I detest in every way
	the shouts, the talk, the tumult, all the movement
	of the youthful, fiery day!
	Red rays falling seer my eyes.
	Night, night where are your covers,
	your dusky silence, dews, your cool moonrise?
	GenerationsТ 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 shadow
	whose 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, swaying
	under waters, on them too.
	Waves would sing, the moon would listen.
	High on overhanging hills
	knightly 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 other
	words 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 heТd quick awaken
	and continue his patrol.
	Everything has gone.  The years have seized it.
	Danube, fate has not missed you:
	now your lotТs to see the steamers
	chugging up your waters blue.

	Across vine-covered hillsides
	go sailing golden clouds.
	Below, its waters swelling greenly,
	the river darkens, calling loud.
	My gaze climbs slowly from the valley
	and bit by bit the peaks are found.
	Upon the very summit
	there is a temple, bright and round.
	Into that unearthly dwelling
	mortal foot will never go.
	There is such light there.
	Desertedly so pure, air flows
	to silence sounds which reach the heights.
	ThereТs only nature-life up there,
	and something wafted, lightly festive,
	thatТs like a SundayТs 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 canТt,
	and at times you uproot and plough up
	frenzied noises in your words!
	DonТt sing these songs,
	these fearsome songs
	of ancient Chaos, kindred Chaos!
	How avidly the inner soul of night
	hears 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 streamТs immortal life
	does not submit to winterТs omnipotent will:
	the water flows on and as it babbles
	it 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 bark
	there is still life, thereТs still a murmur,
	and at times there can be heard
	the streamТs mysterious whisper.

	I sit deep in thought and alone,
	gazing at dying coals
	by tears blurred.
	Sadly thinking of past days,
	I look for ways
	to speak my gloom.
	I find no words.
	The past - well, has there been a past?
	WhatТs now - will that forever last?
	It will go by.
	It will go by as everything will pass.
	Drowning in timeТs dark morass,
	each year will fly.
	Year after year, age on age!
	Why does man presume to rage?
	Such chaff is man!
	HeТll wither very quickly too.
	Each summer, blossom, chaff anew
	is natureТs plan.
	All that we knew once more weТll know.
	Once again will roses grow.
	Thorns will too.
	But you, my flower, pale, forlorn,
	in summer you wonТt be reborn.
	LifeТs not for you.
	The hand that plucked you was my own.
	The bliss, the grief I felt is known
	only on high.
	Stay, then, upon my breast until
	all breath of love in it is stilled,
	the final sigh.

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

	for its time has come at last.
	Knocking at the panes,
	spring has cast
	it out and everythingТs in turmoil,
	bustling Winter out,
	and skylarks in the blueness
	have taken up the shout.
	Winter is still fussing
	and 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 throw
	it 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 me
	on snow-summits, sparkling white?
	Now the morning light is sowing
	red, fresh roses on their heights.

	Look, a living cloud,
	the radiant fountain throws
	its flaming spray, scattering
	moist mist towards the sun,
	tossing rays up to the sky,
	touching forbidden heights
	and once again, a fire-coloured dust,
	is sentenced to fall back to earth.
	Water-course of human thought,
	inexhaustible water-course!
	What incomprehensible law
	tosses and urges you up there?
	How greedily you reach out to the sky!
	But an invisible, fateful hand
	diffracts and pulls your stubborn stream
	in 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, gaze
	at our sleepy earth-world from afar.
	No, but during daytime when,
	as if theyТre hidden
	in 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:
	itТs 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 ripen
	by the play of outer, alien forces?
	They donТt see and they are deaf,
	living in this world as if they were blind.
	Suns donТt breathe for them.
	The oceanТs waves possess no life.
	Rays have never come down into their soul.
	Spring has never blossomed in their breast.
	Forests donТt talk in their presence
	and starry nights are dumb for them.
	In unearthly tongues,
	agitating rivers and woods,
	theyТve never held discourse
	with a friendly storm!
	The faultТs not theirs.
	Can a deaf-mute understand an organТs life?
	Alas for them, theyТd be unmoved
	by the voice of their own mother!

	ThereТs not a spark of feeling in your eyes.
	When you speak, your words are lies
	and thereТs no soul in you.
	Stand fast, my heart, right to the end:
	godless, creation has to fend,
	so prayingТs pointless too.

	I love your eyes, dear,
	their fiery-playful games,
	their sudden upward glances
	slowly looking all around
	like lightning-flames.
	ThereТs a more potent spell:
	eyes lower.
	A mouth hungers.
	Lids almost close.
	Sullen arousal glows.

	Last night in enchanted dreams,
	the moonТs last ray
	languidly lit your lashes,
	while in late sleep you lay.
	Silence went quiet around you,
	shadows frowned darker,
	the even movements of your breast
	flowed louder through the air.
	Quiet-streaming, quiet-wafting,
	as if a breeze had borne it in,
	dimly lilac, hazily light
	through your bedroom came a fluttering,
	an invisible running
	across rugs which were glimmering,
	clutching the edge of the blankets
	and the sides of the bed, crawling,
	unfolding like a ribbon
	onto your bed like a writhing snake,
	teasing beneath your bed curtain
	until with a life-shining quiver
	it felt your young breasts,
	with a loud, rosy cry
	it opened your lashes,
	felt their silk .... caressed ....

	Who fired the shot?
	Who stilled the life which quivered
	in the poetТs heart?
	In whose hands was the fragile phial shivered?
	Innocent or deserving blame,
	in the eyes of earthly justice
	and branded forever by heaven,
	Regicide will be his name.
	Into a dark, timeless deep
	you 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 godТs mouthpiece,
	but you lived.
	In your veins, warm blood coursed!
	This noble blood has silenced jeers
	staining honourТs name.
	Now in the sacred shade you rest,
	beneath the banner of our peopleТs tears.
	Let Him pass judgement!
	He can hear the flow of blood spilled.
	You will be first love in a youthful breast:
	in RussiaТs heart eternally dear!

	So, hereТs where weТre fated
	to say our final farewell,
	farewell to everything by which we lived,
	which killed your life, reducing it to ashes
	in your tormented breast!
	After many, many years
	youТll 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,
	DecemberТs air is warmed.

	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 sleep
	in its flowery keep,
	it submits to heavenТs desires.
	HeavenТs care is so loving!
	Warm southern winters, many a summer
	have 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 life
	which coursed through our veins, turbulently hot,
	step over a forbidden threshold?

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

	What gentle, tender joy, what enamoured pangs
	are 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 childТs, 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 dreamed
	what the future held for us both,
	as if stung, youТd have woken with a scream
	or passed into a different dream.

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

	Watch the west flaming up
	in eveningТs dull glow,
	the east darkly clothing itself
	in a cold, blue-grey comb!
	Are they enemies?
	Or is the sun one for both?
	With its immovable wholeness
	dividing, does it unite them?

	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 trials
	to which we daily must succumb,
	what can resist the breath of
	and that first encounter with spring!
	Spring does not know us,
	us, our grief, our malice ...
	Her gaze shines with immortality.
	ThereТs 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 doesnТt need to know.
	The sky is cloud-covered.
	These clouds are her own, leaving not a trace
	of the extinct life of former springs.
	Roses do not sign about the past,
	nor do nightingales sing it.
	Dawn does not shed tears
	of fragrance for the past,
	and terror of the ineluctable end
	does 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 feelings
	and throw yourself lustily, omnipotently
	into this life-creating ocean!
	Come on, in its ethereal stream
	wash your suffering breast
	and in this divinely all-peaceful life
	for just one moment be a guest!

	On to the secret world of spirits,
	across this nameless chasm,
	a cloth of gold has been draped
	by 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.
	ItТs here, and from the fated world
	it rips the cover of plenty
	and tosses it aside,
	revealing the abyss
	with all its mists and fearsome sights.
	No wall divides us from them,
	which is why weТre afraid of the night!

	DonТt believe the poet, girl!
	DonТt ever make the dread mistake
	of calling him your own,
	and, more than flames, and more than anger from above,
	be sure you fear the poetТs love!
	DonТt think youТll win the poetТs heart
	with your little-girlish soul.
	The flames of lust you wonТt conceal
	behind a virginТs 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 maidenТs curls!
	The rabble, never thinking,
	may praise or revile him, but they will soon see
	that he does not sting the heart like a snake,
	he sucks it like a bee.
	The poetТs 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 greeting
	from an unattainable height
	I 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 poetТs superstitious,
	but he rarely serves the powerful.
	Before all earthly idols
	he walks and bows his head,
	or else he stands before them,
	confused and timorous, yet proud,
	and should a living word
	fall suddenly from their lips,

	should he, through earthly grandeur,
	see all the charms of a female flash,
	and fully, humanly aware
	of their omnipotent beauty,

	should wondrously refined features
	shine 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!

	Must we stay apart forever?
	IsnТt it time that we woke up,
	shaking hands
	with relatives and friends?
	WeТve been blind for centuries
	and, like wretched blind men,
	have wandered directionless,
	lost, aimlessly.
	When by chance
	we bumped into each other,
	more than once, bloody rivers flowed
	and swords tore kindred breasts.
	The sea of this mad enmity
	bore fruit a hundredfold:
	more than once a tribe has perished,
	or ended up in exile.
	Non-believers, foreign hate
	divided 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 warriorТs modest hand
	has lit a beacon in the gloom.
	Oh, what rays
	have lit up all parts!
	Clearly now we see the face
	of this entire Slavonic land!
	Mountains, steppes and coasts
	are 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 speak
	with golden-domed Moscow!
	The dialects of our brothers
	once again make sense.
	Now that theyТre awake, the grandsons see
	what they grandparents only dreamed of!

	Into a bloody storm, through the flames of war,
	announcing salvation, the Russian Banner
	had led you to immortal victory.
	In memory of this sacred union, itТs not surprising that
	behind the Russian Banner the Russian Word
	has come to you in kinship.

	May the Heavenly King bless
	your happy enterprise,
	son of undoubted calling,
	son of reconciling love.
	Not in vain have you boldly cast aside
	the 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 first
	to utter the words: СHere I am!Т
	You, supernaturally able
	to heal all enmity in yourself,
	on your enlightened soul
	let GodТs Grace repose!

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

	I stood by the Neva, my gaze
	fixed on the giant of St. IsaacТs.
	Its golden cupola was glinting
	through a murk of icy haze.
	Timid clouds sailed
	onto winterТs night sky.
	Frozen in a deathly still
	beneath the ice, the current paled.
	Sad, silent memories came
	of lands whose sun burns.
	At this very moment,
	GenoaТs luxuriant gulfТs aflame.
	Wizard of northern lands,
	am I caught by your enchantment?
	Am I really held in fetters
	against you by your granite hand?
	If only some spirit passing by,
	wafted through the misty evening,
	could swiftly carry me from here
	back to my sultry, southern skies!

	A crown for you, Columbus!
	Boldly mapping the outlines of Earth
	and once for all fulfilling
	DestinyТs unfinished business,
	you rent the veil with your godlike hand
	and into GodТs light, from the limitless murk,
	you pulled a new world behind you,
	an unknown world, an unexpected one.
	Thus are linked and united forever
	in a union of blood
	that reasoning genius of man
	and natureТs creative power.
	Let him but utter a secret word
	and nature, with a whole new world,
	is forever ready to respond
	to his kindred voice!

	УWhat gift can I make at the end of the year?
	WinterТs wind has killed the turf,
	flowers die and leaves have faded.
	At this dead time, no living things stir.Ф
	Many a sweet and dear leaf was kept
	in your herbarium.  Your loving fingers
	wake in fragrant pages
	a 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 flowers
	while leafing through dried remains,
	and by some secret magic
	in 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 youТd like to see
	some 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 fire
	you will see it bloom again.
	So it happens that when we face
	the fatal day, dreams and designs act thus:
	when memoriesТ pallor dulls our hearts,
	they bloom again in DeathТs embrace.

	Raging, seething,
	lashing, whistling, roaring,
	leaping for the skies,
	the unassailable skies ...
	Is it hell, some hellish force
	beneath the boiling cauldron
	churning up the deeps,
	some hellish fire
	turning 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!
	leaping into fateful struggle
	waves come howling back
	to beat against your granite face...
	The changeless stone
	dashes aside the noisy onslaught.
	Scattered waters fall apart.
	Impotent gusts fall grumbling away.
	Stand, mighty cliff!
	Just wait awhile.
	The thundering waves will tire
	of warring with your foot.
	Exhausted by its spiteful game
	the 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 flailed
	around granite quays, threaded, pearled.
	The seaТs closed in.  The living are hurled
	into retreat, the living, troubled world.
	In the dim dusk-glow lulled,
	the pole attracts: its faithful cityТs pulled.

	Longing, desires still ravage
	my soul which strives to reach you.
	In recollectionТs twilight
	I try to catch your image.
	I canТt 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 unityТs Babylonian tower,
	or the sly republican structure
	of the outrages witnessed in France.

	A cloud bank, bright and high
	covers earth with fleeing shades.
	УThatТs our lifeФ, you sighed,
	Уnot the cloud lit up by rays,
	but that shadow running away.Ф

	Far from the sun and nature,
	far from light and art,
	far from life and love
	your youth flashes by.
	Living feelings deadened,
	dissipated dreams ...
	Your life flows by invisibly
	in this deserted, nameless place
	on this unnoticed earth,
	as a misty cloud just disappears
	in the dull and hazy sky
	of endless autumnТs murk ...

	Moscow and PeterТs town, the city of Constantine,
	these are the cherished capitals of the Russian monarchy.
	But where is their limit?  And where are their frontiers
	to the north, the east, the south and the setting sun?
	The Fates will reveal them to future generations.
	Seven internal seas and seven great rivers
	from 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 heТs immersed,
	in his soul,
	and from outside thereТs 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, unwillingly
	sun looks at fields.
	Thunder rumbles in a cloud ...
	Earth frowns.
	Gusts of warm wind ...
	Distant growls, spots of rain ...
	Greening meadows
	greener under threat of storm.
	Splitting a cloud -
	a blue lightning-streak ...
	White, flying flame
	hems its edge.
	More raindrops...
	Dust eddied up from fields.
	Thunder claps
	are bolder, angrier.
	Once more peeks the sun
	askance at fields...
	Drowning in brilliance -
	the crumpled land.

	So once again we meet,
	unlovely relative,
	where I first thought, first felt.
	Now, misty-eyed
	in the light of fading day,
	my childhood looks at me.
	Ah, feeble, poor, unclear spectre
	of forgotten, enigmatic happiness!
	Faithless, detached,
	I gaze at you, fleeting guest.
	YouТve become so alien to my gaze,
	like my little brother who died at birth.
	No, it wasnТt here, my deserted land,
	my soul was never at home here.
	Not here did I celebrate the flowering
	of wonderful youthТs great feast.
	Oh, not in this earth did I bury
	everything 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 glimmer
	slumbering cornfields ripen...
	in their silent, soothing radiance,
	in the stillness of the night,
	undulating, golden wavelets
	in the moonlight splashed with white...

	When clinging, murderous cares
	sicken 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.
	ItТs 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 careers
	deep in the autumn, when night covers all.

	As a token of my love, accept this picture,
	understanding it, of course, and the value which we place
	on you, though donТt forget, if youТll forgive my saying,
	we like you a lot, though itТs not for your face.

	Across an azure plain of water,
	chugging on its trusty way,
	a fire-breathing, stormy-tempered
	sea-snake bore us all away.
	From the sky the stars shone down,
	sparkling was the waterТs swell.
	Drops of sea-dust in a blizzard
	swirled 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,
	womenТs chatter, womenТs 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 waters
	to a lullaby they sway!

	Not for the first time is the cock crowing.
	ItТs 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 arrived
	to strike the bell in the city of Tsargrad?
	Ring out your good news.
	May it resound throughout the East!
	ItТs 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 alone
	has dissipated the slumberous cold
	of a sad, Cymmerian night.
	Before me rises up once more
	a different land, a native land,
	as if through the sins of their fathers
	itТs a paradise perished for the sons.
	Stately laurels rustle,
	ripple the pale blue air.
	The quiet breathing of the sea
	wafts through summer heat.
	All day ripening in the sun -
	the golden vine.
	A fabulous past of ancient tales
	wafted from marble arcades.
	Like an ugly dream
	the fateful north has vanished,
	the light, fair vault of the sky
	shines above me.
	Once again with avid eyes
	drinking in this bracing light,
	beneath those pure rays
	I recognise a magic land.

	How he loved the native firs
	of his beloved Savoy.
	How melodiously their boughs
	rustled above his head.
	With what sensual thought
	their majestically gloomy
	dark, wild, strange plaint
	entranced his mind.

	ApolloТs 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.

	RevolutionТs Son, with a fearsome mother
	fearlessly 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.
	Two demons served him.
	Two forces merged wondrously within him:
	in his head, eagles soared,
	in his breast, serpents writhed:
	a daring eagle-flight
	of wide-spanned inspirations:
	and in the very riot of audacity
	there 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 GodТs flame.
	He proudly sailed, despised the sea,
	but on the hidden reef of faith
	his fragile boat was smashed.
	And there you stood, and Russia stood before you!
	Prescient sorcerer sensing battle,
	you yourself uttered the fateful words:
	СLet her destiny come about!Т
	Your oath was not in vain:
	Fate echoed your voice!
	But from exile you tossed another riddle
	at the fateful echo.
	Years have passed.  Now back from cramped exile
	the corpse has returned to its native land.
	On the banks of the river you loved,
	turbulent spirit, youТve rested now,
	but you sleep lightly.  Tormented during the night,
	sometimes you will rise.  YouТll gaze at the East.
	Suddenly, alarmed, youТll flee, as if youТd sensed
	the breeze which ushers in the dawn.

	The loving heart cowers,
	admitting sadness, anguish, fear.
	I cry УStop!Ф to the fleeing hours.
	УThe moment could be here
	when a chasm yawns between usФ.
	Frightful worry, implacable terror
	constrict my wearied heart.
	IТve lived too much for both of us.
	The past has weighed too heavy on my back.
	LetТs keep our love apart from memory.
	Let history never claim us.

	Through conflagration, through thunderТs roars,
	through seething passion,
	burning in elemental strife,
	she comes to us from on high,
	to earth-bound children,
	with her gaze, her clear eyes
	and across the mutinous seas
	a gentle oil of peace
	cups in her palm ... and pours.

	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 RomeТs ancient dust,
	as if the lunar world, the sleeping city,
	were one and the same: magic, theyТve outlived their days!

	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 cast
	his ring into these waters:
	entire aeons, not just years,
	(peoples marvelled at the wonder)
	did this magic warrior-ring
	bind them with its spell.
	Loving, peaceful did the couple
	settle to a life of fame.
	Three centuries, or maybe four,
	mightier and wider growing,
	spreading out into the world,
	the shadow of the lionТs wing.
	And now?  Into oblivionТs waves
	so many rings were thrown!
	Generations came and went.
	These wedding rings have now become
	the 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 clatter
	and the dull, red lighting,
	over sleepless crowds of people,
	over all this earthly tumult,
	in the high, too distant heavens
	pure stars were burning,
	answering the gaze of mortals
	with their uncorrupted shining.

	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:
	УThe fourth age comes to a close.
	It will come to pass and the hour will crash out!Ф
	Then SofiaТs ancient vaults
	will once more house ChristТs altar
	in 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.
	PeopleТs 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...  УIt will not be so!Ф
	You spake, and once again the waters fell away.

	Your cowardice canТt be measured, you dwarf!
	Squirm and wriggle as much as you like,
	youТll not entice holy Russia
	with 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 other
	that, 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 victories
	to please peopleТs cowardice.
	What was promised her by the fates
	way back in her cradle,
	bequeathed by the ages,
	by the faith of all her tsars,
	what OlegТs troops
	went out to achieve by the sword,
	what CatherineТs eagle
	covered with its wings:
	the crown and sceptre of Byzantium,
	you wonТt deprive us of that!
	The universal fate of Russia,
	No!  YouТll not block that off!

	Lord, send your comfort
	to him who, during summerТs scorching heat,
	like some poor beggar past a garden,
	along a hot road drags his weary feet,
	who gazes in passing across a fence
	at the shades of trees, at valleysТ golden grain
	and at the inaccessible coolness
	of softly bright, luxuriant plains.
	Not for him have forests woven
	a welcome with their boughts and fronds;
	not for him have fountains scattered
	a misty haze above their ponds.
	A being made of mist, an azure grotto
	tries vain enticement at his gaze;
	his head cannot be cooled and freshened
	by the fountainТs dewy haze.
	Lord, send your blessing
	to him who, trailing through lifeТs heat,
	like some poor beggar past a garden,
	along a dry road drags his blistered feet.

	Once again the river surges
	and the starlight seems to float,
	once again has love entrusted
	to the waves its secret boat.
	Between the river and the starlight
	it slips, as if a dream befell
	in which this pair of spectres travelled
	far off across the riverТs swell.
	Are they slothful children
	idling at the dead of night?
	Are they blissful spirits
	of 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 hottest
	through my window opened wide
	into my peaceful bedroom.
	Everything is still and dark inside.
	Sweet aromas live there,
	wandering in the dusky shade.
	In the sweet dusk of half-slumber
	rest yourself and fade.
	A tireless fountain in the corner
	sings away the nights and days.
	Invisible dew it showers
	on the dark, enchanted haze.
	In the glimmer of the half-light,
	by some secret passion seized,
	over an enamoured poet
	a reverie is lightly breezed.

	Forget all cares, donТt reason deep!
	ItТs mad to seek, a half-wit judges.
	YouТll 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.
	DonТt wish, donТt pine regretfully.
	The dayТs lived through.  Send God your prayers!

	Swelling, darkening waters
	turn leaden in inclement air.
	Through their severe lustre, rainbow hues
	stroke the eveningТs crimson glare.
	It scatters golden sparks,
	it sows fiery roses
	and the current bears them down.
	Above the dark-azure river
	the tempestuous, fiery evening
	tears off its crown.

	Unsullied gods of light
	glow through azure nights.
	Glory, stars, glory to your splendid rays,
	glory to that which lasts without decay!
	EarthТs ephemeridae,
	the instant we are born we start to fail,
	watching, greeting as we pass you by:
	УThose about to die shout their immortal Hail!Ф

	Prophetic sleep enfolds
	sad, half-clad trees.
	Perhaps every hundredth summer leaf,
	glistening with autumn gold,
	still trembles in the breeze.
	I share the scene, moved at the sight
	when, through storm-clouds breaking,
	suddenly on the mottled sheens
	of exhausted, faded leaves
	thereТs a lightning-splash of light.
	How charming are fading powers!
	How delightful the sight
	when what once so lived and flowered
	is 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 itТs as if spring has been wafted in,
	as if something sang of spring.
	ThereТs a familiar voice, a wondrous voice,
	sometimes a lyreТs note, at times a womanТs 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 slumber
	in 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 me
	expressions of old friendship
	and into musical visions
	it 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 fairy
	suddenly the pair of us appeared together!
	Together!  And her song resounded
	and from the secret porch
	chased the brash braggard
	and the loathsome flatterer.

	Be manly, my friends, in the fight do not tire.
	The struggleТs 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 donТt tire.
	Troubles and labours belong to mankind.
	Man cannot know victory.  DeathТs all he finds.
	Be 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 down
	on this war of inflexible hearts.
	The fighter who falls beneath DestinyТs darts
	has torn from their grasp the victory-crown!

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

	Regal Troy has fallen.
	PriamТs city has been destroyed
	and the Achaeans, preparing
	their homeward voyage,
	sat in their vessels
	along the shores of the Aegean,
	singing songs of praise,
	loudly glorifying all the gods.
		УRing out, victorious voices!
		Ships, wing yourselves
		to the shores of our native land,
		on the path home, along a trouble-free way!Ф
	In a long line too
	there sat a sadly pale family,
	the wives and maidens of fallen Troy,
	complaining and crying
	in the great and general grief,
	crying for themselves,
	and with the victorious, wild shouts
	their wild lament was fused.
		УBitter captivity awaits us
		there, far off, in a foreign land.
		Farewell, native land!
		How the lot of the dead is to be envied!Ф
	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 Poseidon
	who engirdles the world,
	and to you, aegis-bearer,
	Zeus, who darkens the ether!
		УToppled, annihilated
		is the great city of Ilion!
		The long, long quarrel has been resolved.
		The judgement of the gods is immutableФ.
	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 anguish
	the royal gaze darkened:
	many of them had come to Troy,
	few had returned.
		УSo rise louder, voices of praise!
		Sing and be joyful a hundredfold.
		He who knows the golden return
		has not been carried off by hostile fate!Ф
	But not all are judged by God
	to have a peaceful, joyful return:
	on the threshold of many homes
	does Murder stand guard.
	СAlive and well, returned from the battle,
	in his own temple he perished!Т
	Inspired by all-bountiful Athena,
	thus spoke inspired Odysseus.
		УOnly that home is steady and durable
		where the law of the family is sacred:
		the gullible way of women
		is disloyal and shamefulФ.
	With his wife, snatched in battle,
	happy one more, Atreus
	puts his arm around her splendid waist,
	and his passionate looks are glad.
	A wicked end awaits that which is wicked
	Punishment follows dishonesty.
	In heaven, the godsТ court does not slumber!
	ZeusТs 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.
	УItТs good for fortuneТs favouritesФ,
	said AjaxТs younger brother,
	Уto honour with praise
	the despotism of the Olympians.
	Unsubservient to a higher power
	is fortune in her whims:
	Friend Patroclus is long in his grave
	and Thersites still lives!
		Destiny throws the dice
		with her capricious hand.
		Be happy and sing songs
		if the luminary warms you!

	Be consoled, my dear brother!
	Your memory is eternal!
	You are the indestructible bulwark
	of 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 one
	who won the great revenge.
		Not by the victorious hand of the foe,
		but by your own did you fall.
		Ah, but itТs often the best of people
		who are destroyed by pernicious anger!Ф
	And now to your masterly
	shade, valiant Pelides,
	your son, Pyrrhus, glorious warrior,
	prepares a libation.
	УMy parentФ, he pronounced,
	Уno-one but you has Zeus, the great designer,
	raised to such earthly stature.Ф
		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.
	УAlthough 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.Ф
	Thus the son of Tidaeus foretold.
		Honour to him who unquailing
		has lain down his life for his brothers!
		The conqueror may have conquered,
		but the fame of the fallen is more sacred!
	Now old Nestor, venerable
	reveller, taking his cup, stands,
	and the vessel, wreathed in ivy,
	he gives to Hecuba:
	УMother, drink, this healing stream
	and forget your loss!
	The magic juice of Bacchus is powerful,
	it heals us miraculously!
		Mother, taste the healing stream
		and forget destinyТs law.
		It heals miraculously,
		this magic gift of Bacchus.Ф
	And the power of ancient Niobe
	is oppressed by evil grief,
	but she drank the wondrous juice
	and was consoled.
	Just let the goblet at the table sparkle
	with paradisal wine
	and into the Lethe our grief will fall
	falling like a key to its bed.
		Yes, while in the cup there plays
		the all-powerful wine,
		grief is carried away to Lethe,
		our grief drowns in the Lethe!
	And there rose at the farewell
	the soothsayer-wife,
	and she fulfilled a prophecy,
	an inspired one,
	taking one last time
	the burned out ruins of her home:
	СSmoke and steam is all our life is,
	immortality, oh gods, is for you alone!Т
		As the plumes of smoke waft away,
		so our days go by!
		Gods, only you are eternal,
		everything earthly goes by!Т

	Across the riverТs broad expanse you see,
	as the waters come back to life,
	floe following floe
	into 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 seduce
	the mind of man!
	Is this your only fate?
	Is this your only use?

	How we murder while we love!
	How, filled with passionТs blind fury,
	we are so consummately skilled
	at destroying what is closest to our hearts!
	Was it long ago, proud of your gains,
	that you told herself, УSheТs mine!Ф?
	Not a year has passed.  Now ask yourself,
	УWhatТs left of her?Ф
	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?
	WhatТs 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 FateТs dread gaol -
	your love did that for her -
	lying across her life
	like a shame she had never deserved.
	A life of denial, a suffering life!
	In the depths of her soul
	she 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 hard
	into 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 passionТs blind fury,
	we are so consummately skilled
	at destroying what is closest to our hearts!

	How I love to find again the source
	of your lifeТs 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 light
	bathes this misty sky!
	What blossoms coloured the banks
	of this stream which flowed so purely!
	What beautiful reveries
	were reflected in its blueness!
	When you have spoken of your childhood,
	which I have incompletely understood,
	I have felt my body lifted in a breeze
	and floating like veiled spring.

	I donТt know whether grace will touch
	my sickly-sinful soul.
	Will it rise from the dead?
	Will this spiritual torpor pass?
	If only my soul could find
	peace here, on this earth,
	that state of grace would be you,
	you, my earthly providence!

	Young leaves are turning green.
	See the youthful foliage
	where birches standed wafted,
	airily, hazily green,
	part-translucent, like mist.
	TheyТve 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 leaves
	washed in sunshine,
	casting their first shadows!
	And from their stirring we can hear

	that in these thousands, through these shadowy masses,
	you will not find a single leaf thatТs dead!

	YouТve often heard the admission:
	СI am not worthy of your loveТ.
	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 kneel
	before that dear cradle,
	where she sleeps, your creation,
	your unnamed cherub,
	remember my humility
	before your loving heart.

	Today itТs 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 heТs there.
	Through non-belief heТs dry and burned,
	he tolerates what man should never bear,
	aware at every step that he is ruined, not trying
	to attain that faith for which heТs always yearned.
	The door stays closed though he may grieve.
	HeТll never offer prayers nor tears.
	HeТll never call, УMy God, admit me, for I do have faith!
	Come to my aid, for I cannot believe!Ф

	Thoughts and the smooth ebb and flow of the tides
	are 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 congealed
	this glittering night in July
	and above the dulling earth
	the storm-pregnant sky
	shimmers in summer lightning.
	Like heavy eyelids
	lifting over earth,
	through scampering lightning
	threatening pupils
	flashing now and then...

	Separation has this lofty meaning:
	if love lasts years,
	if but a day it takes,
	loveТs just a dream
	and weТre a moment dreaming,
	and whether early, whether late the waking,
	the time must finally arrive when we awake.

	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 orange
	burns like a fire beneath its dense foliage?
		Have you been there?  There, there would I
		like 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 you
		lies our path.  LetТs 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.
	УWhat is it with you, poor child?Ф
		Have you been there?  There, there with you,
		letТs go away quickly; letТs go, my parent.

Day turns to evening.  Night approaches.
	Shadows lie longer down slopes.
	Clouds fade away
	as it becomes late and evening encroaches.
	I do not fear the murk of night!
	Nor do I regret the fading day

	as long as you, my magic spectre,
	as long as you donТt leave my sight!
	Let your wings capture
	me, soothe the agitation in my heart,
	and the shade will be bliss indeed
	for a soul in rapture.
	Who are you?  Where are you from?  How can I decide
	if youТre of heaven or of earth?
	Perhaps you live in heaven,
	but thereТs a passionate, female soul inside!

	Summer thunderТs a happy ogre
	eddying flying dust
	when a storm, welling darkly huge,
	troubles the blue of the sky,
	and when a sudden dart of madness
	pounces on a grove, making trees shudder
	wide-leaved and noisily.
	As if beneath some unseen foot,
	the woody giants bend
	their tops in anxious grumbles
	of a secret conference.
	Through the quick alarm
	not a single bird stops whistling,
	and somewhere in the middle of it all
	the first yellow leaf,
	tumbling along a road, announces fall.

	Coolness and comfort waft up from the lake.
	The youth has dozed off, lulled on the shore.
		Blissful sounds
		he hears in his sleep;
		the faces of angels
		singing on high.
	And now heТs come out of his heavenly slumber,
	embraced and caressed by the swell,
		and he hears a voice,
		like the thrumming of strings;
		УCome, handsome boy,
		into my embrace!Ф

	Not in vain has the gracious god
	made the little bird easily scared.
	To ensure it survives this life,
	itТs been created well and truly timid.
	No good will come of it.  The poor bird
	has to live with people, as part of the family of man,
	and the nearer to them, the nearer to Fate.
	ItТll come to no good in their hands.
	Now hereТs a little bird which a girl,
	from its fledgling feathers, from the very nest,
	has nurtured, helped to grow
	neither regretting nor sparing
	caresses nor effort.
	But despite all the love and concern
	you spend on it, love,
	the day will come, my girl, youТll not avoid it,
	when your careless ward
	will perish at your hands.

	Love, tradition states,
	is a union of kindred souls.
	They join together, they combine,
	fatefully they mingle
	and itТs a duel ordained by fate.
	Whichever is the tenderer
	in this one-sided war of two hearts,
	more surely, ineluctably will find
	love and sad, numb delight ... and pain
	as its exhausted, languid gain.

	DonТt tell me that he loves me as he used to,
	that, just as he used to, he places value on my life.
	DonТt!  HeТs inhuman and heТs 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 - ItТs 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 heart
	like a tiny, frightened beast,
	praying, protecting,
	fate has grabbed by the scruff
	and thrown into a lions' feast.
	The animals stormed
	the 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 nape
	from the crudeness of the crowd,
	to keep you safe
	from 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 torn
	from 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 once
	that I would meet them unperturbed,
	without a tear springing to my eyes.

	There are twins.  For the earthborn
	they 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 fearsome
	than 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 mystery
	do 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'onde
	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 world
	in 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 night
	guard the secret you have taken.
	Not a treasured ring-gift
	did I drop into your swell.

	Not a precious stone
	did 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.

	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 discerned
	his 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 tales
	from childhood's early years.
	Meanwhile, the dusky, mysterious light
	of the stars crept over them.
	In truth, he was whole and pure in spirit,
	dove-like, though not despising
	the serpent's wisdom; he understood it.
	A pure dove's spirit wafted through him
	and by this spiritual purity
	he 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 soul
	which gave him life, nourished his muse
	like 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 air
	and the blossoming world of nature
	is ecstatic in life's abundance.
	But in all this surplus of sensation
	no joy is more acute than a single smile of emotion
	from your tormented soul.

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

	On the final slope of years
	our 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!

	Neman, majestic Neman, is it you,
	you flowing before me?
	You, so long, so gloriously
	guarding Russia faithfully?
	Once, only once, by the will of God,
	you let the Antichrist affront
	the sacred integrity of our Russian land
	and doing that, you made it firm forever!
	Neman, do you remember the past,
	the day of that fateful year
	when 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 item
	with his wondrous eyes.
	Just one thing he did not see,
	this wondrous warrior, did not see
	that there, upon the other bank, there stood
	Another. Stood.  Waited.
	The companies went by
	with awesome, warlike faces.
	The inescapable Hand of Fate
	put 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 her
	and old Moscow will be
	the newest of the three capitals.

	In her there lives charm, a marvel of pure delicacy,
	a charm of mystery and melancholy,
	and her soft presence is like an obscure dream
	with which, without knowing how, the soul is filled.

	What a summer!  Such a season!
	It's got to be pure magic.
	How, I wonder, have we earned this
	for no apparent reason?
	In some alarm my eyes are meeting
	this glitter and this light.
	Is someone poking fun at us?
	Where is the source of such a greeting?
	Ah, it's like a youthful smile
	on a woman's lips and in her eyes,
	not ravishing, not tempting us,
	disturbing our old age a while.

	What is more impotent and sad
	than 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 allowed
	not a whole world to threaten you with calamity,
	but an entire hell to threaten your downfall!
	Every blasphemous mind
	and every-God-reviling race
	has dredged up monarchies of murk
	in the name of light and freedom!
	Preparing a cell for you,
	they foretell your ignominy,
	yours, the Word, life, enlightenment
	of 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 stop
	of his inimitable pencil,
	a devil would be converted,
	an angle would offer itself to the devil.


	No, 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 around
	people 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 apostles
	be 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 me
	and 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 glance
	cannot comprehend - would not even notice! -
	what shines secretly through
	your humble nakedness.
	Burdened by his cross,
	throughout your length and breadth,
	in the rags of a slave, the Heavenly King
	has walked, blessing you, my native land!

	From sea to sea the wire goes,
	a slippery thread of iron.
	Fame and grief are in abundance
	at times along its path.
	Following it with his eyes,
	the traveller will note at times
	prescient birds which perch
	along the grapevine.
	From the plain a raven
	rises, blackly sitting on the line,
	sitting, cawing,
	gaily flapping wings.
	And it shouts and it exults
	and it wheels above the wire.
	Does the raven sense the blood
	of news from Sevastopol?

	Oh, in these days, these fateful days,
	of trials and of losses,
	let her return be a joyful one
	to those places dear to her heart!
	Let the good spirit
	speed her on to meet that
	handful of friends still living,
	so many dear, dear shades!

	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 cradle
	the New Year's born in thunder.
	It's features are fearsomely stern
	and there's blood on its hands and its brow,
	but it's brought to man on his earth
	more 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 strike
	a 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 threshold
	of 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 breast
	be 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 shame
	seeing 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 task
	was nothing but spectral, false invention.
	You had no throne - you wore an actor's mask!

	For him who served his native land
	with 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 alive
	of hope, faith and love
	has 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!

	I fully understand the meaning
	of your sickly dream,
	your struggle, your striving,
	your alarmed service
	before the ideal of beauty.
	Like an imprisoned Hellene
	sinking into sleep out in the steppes,
	beneath blizzard-filled Scythian skies,
	who hallucinates about golden freedom
	and the sky of his native Greece.

	Fortune had an argument with a favourite
	and flew off to poor Wisdom:
	"Sister, give me your hand and my grief
	will be lightened by your friendship.
	With my best gifts
	have 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 crowd
	of 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 void
	that 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 moment
	during 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 notice
	across 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 flowing
	across 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 roots
	of trees fed by that rill,
	where trees waft in their thousands
	the stream which whispers in the dusky still.
	Delirium runs her fingers through the leafy summits
	suspended in the midday heat
	and every now and then an eagle screeches,
	from very far away.

	When your eighteen years
	will be a dream for you as well,
	with love, with quiet tenderness,
	remember it, remember us.

	Are you trying to borrow the features
	of a northern girl, a frail, languishing creature
	born 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 light
	is trying to mimic a birch-tree.

	At times when there is
	depression in our breasts,
	when the heart is tormented,
	when ahead there is only mist,
	when, powerless and static,
	we're so crushed
	that even our dear friends' consolations
	cease to amuse us,
	suddenly a sun-ray greets us,
	stealing stealthily up,
	fire-colouredly splashing
	in a stream across the walls,
	and from the benevolent sky,
	from the blue heights,
	a sudden fragrance
	flutters into our window
	Admonitions and advice
	are not what it brings
	and it will not save us
	from 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 floor
	sorting letters which were old,
	holding them before she threw them out
	like ash gone cold.
	Her look was strange
	while she held those pages she knew so well,
	as if she were a soul which peered down
	at its abandoned shell.
	So many irreversible events,
	such life fulfilled and filled
	with minutes of love and joy across the years!
	How many grief-packed minutes killed!
	Silent, I stood to one side
	and my knees were ready to bend
	as a fearful sadness crept into my heart,
	as if at the ghost of a dear, old friend!

	When what we called our own
	has left us forever
	and, as if we lay in our grave,
	there's a heavy weight upon us,
	we can always cast a fleeting glance
	across the waters' slope
	where streams flow headlong,
	wherever the current leads.
	Jostling each other,
	the currents run, hurry
	to some fateful summons
	they'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 eyes
	and through them we see,

	excitedly bubbling,
	everything more swiftly born away.
	The soul becomes oblivious
	and feels right then
	that it too is borne away
	by omnipotent waters.

	Late in autumn
	I love the park of Tsarskoe Selo,
	when a still half-dusk
	seems to drown it in slumber
	and winged visions of white
	in the lake's dull glass,
	voluptuously mute,
	hang limply in the dusk.
	On the royal steps
	of Catherine's halls
	lie twilight shadows
	of early October evenings.
	Like thickets of oaks,
	the gardens darken.
	Like a reflection of a glorious past,
	out of the murk with the stars
	a golden cupola emerges.

	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 mind
	steals the place I've left behind ...
	Its moon's alive and it delights
	in breathing Lake Leman's cool air.
	Wondrous country, wondrous sights!
	There's far to go - on through the night!
	I was born here,
	where giant snow-clouds list
	and let faint hints of blue
	filter down to touch dark woods
	muffled in late autumn mist.
	No life at all here ...
	Boundless silence, dull and bare ...
	The scene's drab greyness broken
	only 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 exhaustion
	man 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 reflect
	blue mountains caught in golden rays.

	There are many tiny, unnamed
	constellations in the lofty sky,
	indistinguishable one from the other
	to our weak, hazy eyes.
	No matter how they shine,
	it's not for us to judge their glitter.
	Only the telescope's wondrous power
	may be able to reach them.
	But there are different constellations,
	sending different rays:
	like fiery-living suns
	they shine to us at night.
	Their bracing, joy-bearing
	beacon is a boon to our souls
	everywhere, 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.

	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.

	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.

	The moon's still out.
	Night has still not budged,
	just ruling, unaware
	that day is coming to,
	albeit lazily and timidly.
	Ray after ray creeps out of cloud,
	though night in majesty
	still shines across the sky.
	Just give it three or four more moments
	and night will dissipate,
	while in its blinding fullness
	day will show itself and claim the earth.

	Into daily life
	come radiant dreams
	by which we're suddenly whisked off
	to 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 to
	and in the pure, flaming sky
	the 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.

	Whoever has combined in himself
	Time and Eternity,
	has protected himself
	from 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 know
	that it alone pours life into nature
	with its golden brilliance,
	that with its rays God draws
	tracery on blossoms,
	gives the gift of fruit to the farmer
	and scatters pearls around the river?
	You, casting (your dear)
	glance around, do you know
	that all my life and strength
	are 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.

	(Vevey 1859 - Geneva 1860)
	I recall her final glances
	at this land, this lake, these mountains
	luxuriantly 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 loved
	these mountains, waves and stars,
	loved with her keen, loving soul.
	And in dissolution's approaching strife,
	what tender feelings lived in her
	before this ever-youthful life.
	The Alps gleamed, the lake breathed.
	It was here, through tears, that we came to understand
	that 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 know
	that somewhere far above me, life-pulsing
	aerial currents flow.
	At times like that I'd leave this stifling world,
	towards those heights impelled,
	when everything which suffocates
	I desperately need to repel!
	I can gaze for many hours
	at inaccessible massifs
	which pour their coolness, rain such showers
	noisily towards me!
	In sudden iridescence
	bursts into light the virgin snow.
	That's when I see the traces on the summits
	where 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 warmer
	she 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 soul
	gazing long and hard at you.
	She didn't pass you by.  With time to spare
	she nourished, caressed, cared tenderly
	for your talent.  Her love became
	more tender year by year.
	Just as with the years the strength and fire
	of the noble vine develops,
	so in your goblet hotter, brighter,
	inspiration poured.
	Never did such wine as now
	crown your cup of fame.
	In honour of the goddess, prince,
	let's raise the foaming vessel!
	In honour of the goddess who nobly preserved
	the sacred legacy of the soul,
	our native tongue.  Let her grow freely
	and fulfil her great task!
	Then, reverently silent,
	we'll hold a sacred repast for the dead,
	a triple libation
	to three unforgettably dear ones.
	There is no echo to the voice that calls them,
	but on this bright festival of your saints-day
	is there anyone who cannot feel their presence,
	Zhukovsky, Pushkin, Karamzin!
	We believe right now that these invisible guests
	leave their celestial world
	to hover lovingly among us,
	sanctifying our feast.
	In the name of your Muse, we follow
	with a goblet to drink a toast.
	Let the wine in this bright cup
	sparkle 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.

	You seized your day, marked out in this age
	by 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 ray
	of the earliest days,
	a star already drowns in the blue sky,
	and she was as she'd always been,
	filled with that fresh charm
	of pre-dawn darkness
	when, unheard and unseen,
	dew touches flowers.
	At that time her life
	was so complete, so whole
	so 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 sounds
	of 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.

	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 gone
	to prepare this feast for you,
	all this shoreline, this sea,
	this whole wondrous world of summer.
	With its foot on the last step
	and 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 you
	the 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 dreams
	of the barely woken day,
	but late, living storms,
	passions' outbursts, passions' tears,
	no, none of this is for me!
	But perhaps in summer heat
	you'll recall your spring.
	Oh, remember this time too
	as we would a vague dream
	escaping us as dawn approaches.

	Fate did not select for you
	an easy nor a happy lot,
	and very early on you entered
	into unequal combat with merciless life.
	You fought with rare courage
	and in this fateful struggle
	every fibre of your soul endured
	the very harshest trials.
	No, life did not defeat you
	and in the hopeless fight
	not once, my dear, not once did you betray
	the truth in your heart, nor yourself.
	But earthly powers are feeble:
	malicious life will suddenly rage insanely
	and, as if about to be buried,
	we will suddenly feel such depression.
	At such times, remember
	this book with love,
	let all your soul incline to it
	and rest, the way you'd sink into your pillow.

	We wish all the very best
	to both Nicholases
	and 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 still
	he's no Alexander the Great.

	My heartfelt greeting to you,
	and, such as it is, here's my portrait.
	Sympathetic poet, let it
	tell you, silently at least,
	how dear your greeting was to me,
	how touched my soul was by it.

	Nature has endowed some with a sense
	which is prophetically sightless from its birth.
	They feel with it, they hear waters
	dark-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!

	Quietly, softly over Ukraine,
	the July night lies
	like a fascinating secret.
	The sky has gone in so deeply on itself,
	the stars burn so high
	and the Donets glistens in the dark.
	Sweet hour of peace!
	The peeling of bells, the prayers, the psalms
	of 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 Heaven
	like an eternal sentry
	guarding the monks.
	It is said that in its womb,
	locked away, as if in a grave,
	a wondrous monk lived
	in severe abnegation for many a year,
	shedding so many tears before God,
	lavishing so much faith!
	It's for that  that 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 travelled
	right 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 corpses
	resurrected 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 called
	to 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 arms
	has not been heard since the earliest times.
	Russia, it seems you have a great significance!
	Be valiant, stand firm, be strong and overcome!

	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 with
	someone 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, shouldered
	the 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 summer
	a bird will flutter into the room,
	bringing with it life and light,
	announcing, illuminating,
	pulling after it into our nook
	the blossoming world of nature,
	green woods, living waters
	and the gleam of a blue sky,
	so did our guest pay
	a transient, aerial visit
	to our stuck-up stifling world,
	shaking us all from sleep.
	Warmed by her presence,
	life shook its feathers anew,
	and even Peter's summer
	thought of thawing out when she arrived.
	While she was here, old age became young again
	and experience became an apprentice.
	She twisted this diplomatic milieu
	around her little finger.
	It was as if our entire house came to life,
	choosing her as its inhabitant,
	and already we were less troubled
	by 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 time
	those 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 hair
	which even fairies' fingers couldn't hold.

	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 out
	and by some charm
	the 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 me
	all the time your little bird was singing.

	With his last, quiet steps
	he approached the window.  Evening was coming
	and with rays as pure as grace
	it 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 shone
	from his face, emotion-filled.
	Two cherished, kindred images
	which 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 himself
	release 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 breath
	of 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 lulled
	by the air's caressing billow.
	And there, peacefully solemn,
	disrobed since early morning,
	Mont Blanc is shining
	like 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 absorbed
	as 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 alarm
	the quiet life of her eyes.
	Is this charm terrestrial in any way?
	Is it some earthly grace?
	My soul would like to pray
	but my heart strives to adore

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

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

	Once, the hammer of the justice of the Lord
	smashed and destroyed the primal temple
	where the high priest gasped his last,
	impaled upon his own sword.
	More fearsome, more implacable, God demands that he atone
	on these days of heavenly judgement
	in apostate Rome, and capital sentence will be passed
	on that Pretender to Christ's throne!
	Passing centuries disguise
	black deeds and lying rumours,
	but God in his justice cannot pardon
	this latest in a string of lies.
	No human being will win
	the 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!"

	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 honour
	of 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.  Bare
	but 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 soul
	immersed, 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 wholly
	to cherished love alone,
	breathing by it, suffering by it.
	May the Lord bless you, soul!
	He, the charitable, the omnipotent,
	He, warming with his rays
	luxuriant flowers blossoming in the air,
	and the pure pearl on the bed of the sea!

	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 stagnation
	are 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 affection
	close 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 world
	which 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 breakers
	upon 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 able
	to 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 passed
	and 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 freedom
	it 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 mind
	he fought for Enlightenment for us,
	not enslaving us to it.
	Like that Old Testament fighter
	who struggled till dawn
	with an unearthly Power
	and 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 brain
	could 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 mumbling
	of our native land's black sheep
	will not be heeded by Russia!
	Learn your lesson!  Let's not hear
	that fearful cry resound, as in the past:
	"Treason's abroad!  The tsar's been taken!"
	Russia won't save him then!

	It's all been decided and he is at peace,
	he, enduring till the end,
	though it seems he was worthy before God
	of 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 us
	there are bonds stronger than nature:
	with every heart in Russia
	now he prays for her,
	for her, whose sorrow and trials
	are understood and gauged only by the one
	who, sanctifying herself through suffering,
	stood crying by the cross.

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

							Est in arundineis modulatio
							musica 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 sign
	of nature's utter consonance.
	Only our spectral liberty
	imparts 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 sea
	and 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?

	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 battle
	and sued for peace at your feet.

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

	Poor Lazarus, wretched Iros,
	with effort and in turmoil
	I write to you, getting up from my sick bed,
	and let my lame greeting
	be given wings by the telegraph.
	Let it hasten it on, playing,
	to that wonderful, bright corner
	where all day, never silent,
	it's as if a rain storm
	sings in green copses.

	It's fifteen years today, my friend,
	since that blissful fateful day
	when 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 light
	which seems to glow with hidden passion.
	Brighter, more alive,
	burning right through ...
	Another moment - across
	the boundless skies
	a universal pealing heralds
	the sun's triumphant rising.

	Wandering along the highway
	as 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 vision
	is 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 surely
	as what you breathe and live by goes.

	Sad night creeps
	across an earth beset
	neither by thought nor threat
	but by joyless, sluggish sleep.
	Lightning brightens the scowls,
	winking intermittently
	like deaf-mute ghouls
	debating heatedly.
	A sign has been agreed:
	the sky's alight.  A sudden surge
	snaps from the murk with sudden speed
	and 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 affair
	they'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 sea
	that it's buried in the sand.

	Let foul slander rage,
	labour to crush her with lies.
	Every demand quails
	before the candour of her eyes.
	Sincere and lovely,
	of wondrous form,

her cloudless soul's a sky
	untroubled by storms.
	Not a speck of dust adheres
	when those nauseating churls
	sow their stupid calumny
	which cannot even crumple
	the airy silk of her curls!

	However meagre life becomes,
	however much we're forced to come to terms
	with 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 another
	never 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 blot
	on all the history of the Russian race!

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

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

	In God's world it can happen
	that 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 exchequer
	doesn'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 abundance
	in 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 past
	seems to breathe oblivion,
	slumbering sweetly, carefree,
	unworried, unalarmed
	in wondrous dreams
	by the momentary tremor
	of 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 animosity
	at our changing life,
	from feelings of suppressed spite
	at the world which is being renewed,
	where new guests sit
	at the feast prepared for them,
	at the bitter, galling awareness
	that 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 love
	is an old man's peevish passion.

	The pale, blue sky
	breathes warmth and light
	and greets Peter's city
	with an unheard of September.
	A warm, moist fullness in the air
	waters fresh foliage
	and quietly ripples
	through the stately pennants.
	The sun sows glittering heat
	along the deeps of the Neva.
	Everything gleams and wafts like the south
	and life is like a dream.
	More free and easy, more welcoming
	is the vanishing day,
	and the shade of autumn evenings
	is heated by summer comfort.
	At night, multi-coloured
	lights flame...
	enchanted nights,
	enchanted days.
	It's as if nature's strict rules
	had been relaxed
	in favour of the spirit of life and freedom,
	of the inspirations of love.
	It's as if, eternally indestructible,
	the eternal order had been destroyed
	by the loving and loved
	human soul.
	In this caressing radiance,
	in this blue sky
	there's a smile, there's an awareness,
	there's a sympathetic reception.
	And sacred emotion
	with the gift of pure tears
	has come to us like a revelation
	and echoed through everything.
	What was unprecedented till now
	our knowing people has understood,
	and the week of Dagmar
	will cross the generations.

	Russia is a thing of which
	the intellect cannot conceive.
	Hers is no common yardstick.
	You measure her uniquely:
	in Russia you believe!

	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 sympathy
	shall we honour this glorious day,
	this national, family festival?
	What respects shall we send you,
	you, our good, pure genius,
	amidst the perturbations and doubts
	of these much-troubled years
	with their ugly mixture
	of impotent justice and glaring lies,
	so hateful to a soul
	which is high, passionate about goodness,
	a soul, such as yours was
	when it still fought on here,
	but which headed irrepressibly
	for 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 together
	into an unbreakable, whole structure,
	everything humanly good,
	reinforcing it with Russian feeling,
	able, your neck unbending
	before the crown's charms,
	to be a friend of the tsar to the end
	and a true subject of Russia.

	Russian star, will you always seek
	mists to stay concealed,
	or like an optical illusion
	will you forever be revealed?
	Will you really be to avid eyes
	which seek your glow at night
	an empty, mocking meteor
	aimlessly 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!

	An edifice was raised in ancient Rome,
	Neron building himself a golden palace.
	At the very granite foot of the palace
	a 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 earth
	there 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!

	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 protect
	the 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 sounds
	and, like Pilate, wash your hands.
	Don't you see, it's your heart that's bleeding!

	Above prostrate Russia
	there arose in a sudden storm
	Peter, nicknamed the Fourth,
	Arakcheev the Second.

	How I love the cherished pages
	of 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 lines
	has 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 well
	and smuts our fatherland with smoke that reeks!

	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 thickets
	and 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 forest
	we 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 through
	where the fire's left it bare,

	and white flames run across the burned boughs
	with an ominous crackling.
	No, it's a dream!  No, the breeze will spring up
	and bear away the spectre of smoke
	and once more our wood will be green,
	as it was, magic, kindred.

	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 you
	to 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 home
	than in your own native land,
	here where the rule of foreign powers is unknown,
	here where there is but one tongue
	for all of us, rulers and ruled,
	and where Slavdom is not held accountable
	for the grave original sin.
	Although we've been split apart
	by 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 Russia
	nor Russia forgiven for you!
	They're worried to death
	by the fact that the Slavonic family
	is telling friend and foe to their faces
	for the first time, "Here I am!"
	At the memory which will not go away
	of 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 reinforced
	them, as the inheritance of the Slavs.
	And that which lasted centuries
	has not dried up today,
	and weighing down on us,
	above us, gathered here ...
	Still smarting from old pains
	is 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 disgrace
	and has not succumbed to their enmity
	is he who for his own kind everywhere and always
	has been the foremost miscreant:
	they will only honour our Judas
	with their kiss.
	Shamefully conciliatory tribe,
	when will you become a race?
	When will your time of differences and adversity
	become redundant,
	and when will a cry ring out for unity
	and bring down that which divides us?
	We'll wait and trust in providence
	which knows the day and the hour.
	And this faith in God's justice
	will no longer die in our breasts,
	though many sacrifices and much sorrow
	will still be met by us on the way ...
	It lives - this supreme achiever -
	and its judgement is not meagre,
	and the word liberator-tsar
	will reach out beyond the Russian border.

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 apart
	during their ardent onslaught!
	Yes, there's a wall, all right, but it's a big one
	and 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 globe
	it 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 warriors
	retreated 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 attempts
	of the Germans constrict and press you
	to 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 you
	and, like a living bulwark for you,
	will stand between you and the enemy
	and 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 guarantee
	that the desired day will come.
	For all your constancy
	in the battle which has still not ended,
	let the first All Slav festival
	be 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 be
	not the servants of enlightenment, rather its serfs.

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

	In these days of madness, if a noble prince sinks
	to 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 roused

	by watching one by one being doused
	our every cherished recollection.

	A righteous punishment is being meted out
	for 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 justice
	and whoever you might call to for support,
	judgement will be passed and the papal tiara
	will 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 hair
	be not dirtied by spilled blood.

	When expiation is accomplished
	and once more dawn illuminates the East,
	oh, how they'll then understand the meaning
	of these magnificent lines!
	How the first bright ray of daybreak,
	touching, will bring brilliant flame,
	gilding and making sacred
	these prophetic pages!
	And in an outpouring of national sentiment,
	like pure, divine dew,
	a tear of gratitude
	from free peoples will start to gleam on them!
	In them is written a whole story
	about 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 stare
	at these sleeping waters.

	There's not a spark in the sky's blue.
	Everything's stilled in pale enchantment.
	Alone along the pensive Neva
	currents of moonlight stream.
	Am I dreaming all this,
	or am I really seeing
	what we saw by this very moon
	when we were both still alive?

	As far as the eye can see,
	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 firs
	thinned out on the horizon.
	On this sad, scorched site
	no sparks, only smoke.
	Where's the fire, malicious destroyer,
	omnipotent master?
	Stealthily here and there,
	like some red beast
	crawling through the undergrowth,
	the living fire runs!
	Let twilight come
	Smoke and darkness merge.
	With consoling flames
	the 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, sparkling
	like a steel mirror.
	It's hotter by the hour.
	Shadows retreat to silent oak thickets.

	From whitening fields
	wafts honey-scent.
	What a wondrous day!  Centuries will pass
	and in the same eternal order
	and river will sparkle and flow
	and 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 enough
	to 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 oblivion
	will carry out its editorial task with precision.

	In the ranks of the fatherland's forces
	yet another bold warrior's fallen
	and yet again all honest, Russian hearts
	will sigh at their grievous loss.
	This living soul was valiantly
	true to himself, always and everywhere,
	this living flame, often smoking
	as it burned in suffocating milieux.
	Unembarrassed, he believed in truth and
	all 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 joylessly
	there 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 is
	that she doesn't actually throw up.

	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 glistening
	and 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 valour
	your freedom of speech allows you to fulminate
	against all those whom you've muzzled!
	Not in vain have you served
	with your pen the aristocracy.
	In which servants' quarters
	did you acquire this knightly manner?

	"No, I can't see you..."
	Thus indeed I spoke
	not 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 accustomed
	to admire its best star?

	With which heartfelt, simple greeting
	shall we commemorate the holy memory
	of the thousandth anniversary
	of 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, recalling
	his 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 reject
	your great service to the Slavs.'

	It's not given us to foretell
	how our words will echo through the ages,
	but sympathy is given us
	as 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 kneel
	and they don't answer for their deeds.
	They show no mercy.  They don't heed
	our 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 blind
	when beneath his scythe as equals they assemble.
	Society is different: disharmony and strife
	this jealous leader will not tolerate.
	He will not cut you honest and straight
	but by the roots will rive your life.
	And woe to him, alas, twofold woe
	to that youthful, energetic pride
	which with smiling gaze and decisive stride
	into that unequal battle dares to go.
	When, fatefully aware of all his rights,
	with the blossoming courage which beauty has planted
	in him, unflinching, by his task enchanted,
	he encounters slander and he fights,
	no mask covers his eyes
	He'll not be humbled, beaten, pushed.
	See, from his brow he's brushed
	abuse 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 brute
	where the guilt's more humanly sincere.

	The word of the Gospel has now taught us all
	in 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 summit
	so that all may see it, all the fraternal tribes.

	Just as the trees
	in Peter's plantations
	have grown splendidly
	in Catherine's valley,
	so may the living Russian word,
	now sown here,
	send down deeper roots and grow.

	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 overhang
	an aerial, iridescent temple
	goes off into the skies, a wonder to the eyes,
	as if soaring to heaven,
	where the First-Named Andrey's
	cross still shines today,
	white against the skies of Kiev,
	sacred observer of these places,
	reverently leaning
	your dwelling against its feet,
	you live there, no idle dweller,
	at the decline of the working day.
	And who without humility could
	not revere in you today
	the union of life and aspiration
	and steadfast firmness in the battle?
	Yes, many, many tribulations
	have you endured and overcome.
	Live, then, not in vain awareness
	of your deserts and good deeds,
	but for love, for example,
	so that people might be convinced by you
	of what can be accomplished by effective faith
	and the constant structure of thought.

	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 alarm
	makes 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 brag
	has totally ruined the regal peace
	and 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 steel
	as 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 fear
	that it puts the geese and ducks to flight?
	Ah, but there's a purpose, to it all, you see:
	someone noticed a stagnant creek
	and for the sake of progress
	swift action was the decree.
	So, benevolent Providence
	slipped the urchin from his chain
	so that the purpose of their wings
	they should never forget again.
	Though in much that happens today
	there doesn't seem much sense,
	that very genius of the age
	is 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 release
	the logical faculty of ducks and geese.

	Nature is a sphinx.
	The truer she kills you
	with 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 you
	with 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 hands
	that which once was yours,
	that which the old Czech family
	bought for itself at such a price,
	such a fearful price
	that even today the memory
	is your best sanctuary,
	your life blood.
	Take the Cup!  Like a star
	in the night of fates it has shone to you,
	and it has raised your impotence
	above the world of man.
	Oh, remember what a beloved sign
	it was to you,
	and that it was in the inextinguishable fire
	that 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 deprived
	by foreign, audacious falsehood,
	you allow it, alas, to smear
	the honour of your fathers and God's truth!
	And are you condemned for long
	to bear this heaviest of sentences,
	this spiritual captivity,
	oh Czech people of one blood?
	No, no, not in vain did your forefathers
	call down grace upon you,
	and it will be given to you to understand
	that there is no salvation for you without the Cup.
	It alone will finally solve
	for you the riddle of your people:
	in it there is spiritual freedom
	and the crown of union.
	Approach this wondrous Cup,
	gained by your best blood,
	approach, step closer to it
	with 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 hands
	is a single cover
	that we can only half see through.
	We know that underneath this gauze
	lies everything which pains our soul.
	Like some strange, invisible being
	it hides from us, stays silent.
	What's the point of such trials?
	The soul can't help being confused.
	On the wheel of bewilderment
	it cannot stop being whirled.
	The moment of separation has passed
	and we don't dare, when the time is ripe,
	touch then pull aside
	this cover we find so hateful!

	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 pasha
	has invited guests to merry toasts.
	He regales them all most handsomely,
	his dear allies from the West.
	He'd pawn his whole authority
	to give them nothing but the best.
	From the very sagest reaches
	in 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 world
	enjoys 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 backdrop
	of wondrous mountains and two seas
	this Christian princes' congress
	with 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 yet
	one shines bright while they carouse,
	the fairy in her coronet,
	the daughter born of Rome, his spouse.
	Notorious in her theatre
	of 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 her
	the sun has risen from the West!
	Only where the shadows wander
	through the mountains, through the vales,
	far from all this noise and racket,
	only where the shadows wander
	in the night, from fresh-hewn weals,
	slashed by scores of heathen swords,
	Christian blood still freely pours.

	Your failure's such a glittering success
	I 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 heard
	precisely 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 knows
	the credit's yours alone, and this is why they're peeved.
	Throughout this whole enormous place
	they'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 underwrites
	for the sake of these glorious defences,

	admit you, you, this brave German garrison,
	never having lost a fight?

	Harmony has power over souls,
	a boundless reach.
	All living people love to hear
	the notes of its dusky, kindred speech.
	Something groans within them, violently heaving,
	a spirit-prisoner in chains
	pleading 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 pain
	it grasps the links which held it, severs, rends.
	Wild-willed the soul exults,
	its sentence at an end.
	This infinitely mighty summons
	causes light and dark to roll
	apart 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 grandeur
	of the great Slavonic tsar
	shall be proclaimed to the universe
	not by almighty thunder's drumming,
	but by a mosquito's noisy humming.

	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.

	The pyre has been built.  The fateful
	flame's about to flare and all is silent,
	save for gentle crackles as deep within the pyre
	the 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 assembly
	of 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 Czechs
	unwavering witness to Christ,
	stern exposer of Vatican lies
	in all his high simplicity,
	betraying neither god nor his own people,
	undefeated, battling on
	for holy truth and for His freedom,
	for everything which Rome called heresy.
	In spirit he's in Heaven, in family love
	he's here still, among his people,
	shining, knowing that it was his blood
	which 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 Rome
	oppressed you for so long,
	on Hus's inextinguishable pyre
	melt the final link!

	Over ancient, Russian Vilnius
	kindred crosses glimmer.
	Orthodoxy's pealing bronze
	makes all the heavens shudder.
	Fearsome deeds forgotten.
	Gone the ages of temptation.
	Heavenly lilies blossom
	across the blight of desolation.
	Sacred ways are coming back,
	traditions fine of early days.
	Only the most recent past
	has dropped into the realm of shades,
	whence, as in a hazy dream,
	before the world's awake,
	our very peace of mind
	this 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 up
	a spectral visitor wanders still.

	I met you and the past
	came back to life in my dead heart.
	Remembering a golden time,
	my heart became so warm.
	Just as in late autumn
	there are days, the transient hour,
	when suddenly spring wafts again
	and something stirs within us,
	so, winnowed within by the breath
	of 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 ages
	I stare at you and think I'm dreaming,
	and suddenly sounds unsilenced in me
	could 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.

	Blood's pouring over the brim of the cup
	filled 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 command
	standing 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 be
	a mere guard of honour
	rather 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 fading
	will not touch unearthly flowers,
	and in the midday heat
	the dew on them will not dry up,
	and this faith will not deceive
	whoever 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 few
	is accessible only to those
	who in life's stern trials,
	like you, still loving, were able to suffer,
	have been able to cure
	others' ailments by their suffering,
	who have laid down their soul for their friends
	and endured everything to the end.

	Yes, you have kept your word:
	moving not a cannon, not a rouble,
	our native Russian land
	once 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 victory
	not by blood but by the intellect,
	happy he who can find in himself
	Archimedes'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 lever
	strengthen stubbornness in clever folk
	and lack of awareness in fools?

	I'm bewildered, and let me say
	I 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 vacate
	this 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 same
	and 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 censor
	feeds any old way on our flesh,
	God bless him!

	I'm half asleep and I can't
	work out this combination:
	I hear the whistle of runners on the snow
	and the chirruping of spring swallows.

	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 rattle
	of Sevastopol rumbling.
	The last, thunderous shot
	suddenly rang out, life-creating.
	The last word in the cruel battle
	has only now been spoken.
	It is the word of the Russian tsar.
	And everything which till so recently
	had been raised up by blind hostility,
	so insolently, so arbitrarily,
	has crumpled in on itself
	before 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 on
	and you sparkle in proud beauty!
	Fifteen years you spent
	in 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 billows
	call on your kindred Russia,
	and into this feud, reasoned out by God,
	great Sevastopol awakes
	from its enchanted sleep.
	And that which you, in days of old,
	hid from martial inclemency
	in your sympathetic breast
	you'll give us back, without casualties -
	the immortal Black Sea fleet.
	Yes, in the heart of the Russian people
	this day will be consecrated,
	it is our external freedom,
	it will illuminate the grave's shadows
	of the St. Peter and Paul vault.

	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 foot
	he stepped into the bottomless emptiness,
	when, obeying others' passions,
	the plaything and victim of dark forces,
	so blasphemously-equably
	he proclaimed himself a divinity.
	Suddenly a parable was created and appeared
	about the new Man-God
	and to sacrilegious tutelage
	Christ's church was betrayed.
	Oh, how much dissension and turmoil
	since then has that infallible one caused,
	and how beneath the storms of these debates
	blasphemy ripens and temptation grows.
	In fear seeking God's truth,
	suddenly coming to are all these tribes,
and as with the thousand-year old lie
	it's finally poisoned for them.
	And it is powerless to overcome
	this 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-Lama
	will not be summoned to be the vicar of Christ.

	Of the life that raged here,
	of bloody rivers that stained the ground
	what'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 care
	whose dust, whose memory they uproot.
	Ignorant of her past, nature seems.
	Alien to her are our spectral years.
	We are vaguely aware that we exist
	as shadows in her dreams.
	Completing life's useless game,
	one by one her children
	she 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 a  Russian,
	he was a man before a sage.

Elle a ete douce devant la mort.
	The meaningful word
	has 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 lack
	of abundant love in your soul,
	there was an inexhaustible supply.
	And that very loving power
	with which, not betraying yourself,
	you endured till the end
	all life's labour, all the day's malice,
	that rejoicing power
	of benevolence and love,
	not giving way, made a home
	for 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 you
	on my path through life,
	but with sincere anguish
	I say "Farewell" to you.
	In these days of desperate doubt,
	these days, suffering from lack of faith,
	when denser all around the shadows press
	onto the ruined earthly world,
	oh, if in this fearsome division
	in 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 peals
	and clothe all Russia in them!
	But do not limit your summons
	to the frontiers of Holy Russia.
	Let it be heard throughout the world,
	let it overflow its brim,
	with its distant wave
	embracing that vale
	where my own child
	fights with wicked sickness,
	that bright land, where in exile
	fate drew her,
	where the breathing of the southern sky
	she drinks as she would a medicine.
	Oh, cure this ailing girl,
	pour joy into her soul,
	so that in Christ's resurrection
	her whole life would itself be resurrected.

	There's peace and harmony between us,
	that was clear from the word go
	Let'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 lie
	as now upon my bed I lie.
	Silently, eternally I'd hear you
	as centuries passed by.
	The following poems were written during the last six months of Tyutchev's
	final illness.  During this period he suffered a number of strokes.

	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 solved
	but, the irresistible preacher
	of God's justice, not of earth's,
	you demonstrated to the world indeed
	how unsteady everything is if there's none of this truth there:
	you spent twenty stormy years
	pointlessly agitating the world,
	you sowed a lot of lies in the world
	and started a lot of tempests,
	and you scattered what was left
	and wasted what had been built up!
	The people who laid the crown upon you
	became dissolute thanks to you, and perished:
	and, true to your calling,
	stirring up the terrified world with your game,
	like a stupid child
	you 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 later
	you'll be defeated by it!
	But in expatiation of dark deeds
	you bequeathed to the world one great lesson:
	let people and lords make sense of it
	and each one who would compete with you;
	only there, only in that native family,
	where a living link with a higher power is sensed
	and where it's reinforced
	by mutual faith and a free conscience,
	where all its conditions are sacred
	and the people take heart in it,
	whether he stands by the throne
	or stands vigil at the head
	of the death bed, where the tsar's son lay,
	and all the people recently
	stood around that bed
	in Orthodox prayer.
	Oh, there's no place for treason here,
	or for various kinds of cunning,
	and extremely pitiful would be he
	who would insult this people
	by 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 sea
	it 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 attention
	they 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 tail
	and growl so vexedly?
	Where's the source of this sudden alarm?
	What have we done wrong?
	Is it because, having penetrated deep into
	the central Asian steppes,
	our northern bear,
	our all-Russian man of the land
	refused to surrender his rights
	to defend himself, even biting back?
	To show his friends that he means business,
	he's not about to let the world
	see him as some hermit-fakir.
	He's not willing to let the world,
	right in public view,
	see him offer his body as a meal
	to 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 itself
	in my presence, raising its paw,
	even snapping at me!
	You'll see, it'll come to such a pass
	that he'll start to think he has the same rights
	as me, the radiant lion.
	We cannot tolerate such mischief!"

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

	In days of misfortune and trouble
	when from the Golden Horde
	baskaks were sent to Moscow,
	I'm sure that even they
	would choose to despatch to the capital
	their 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.

	Fragrant and bright,
	even since February spring has been entering gardens,
	and here the almond has suddenly come into bloom
	and 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 places
	with 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 wishes
	hurry after you,
	the solemn wishes of all Russian souls.

	Here are some fresh blooms for you
	in honour of your name day.
	I spread more blossoms
	and myself, I wither so fast.
	I'd love to pick a handful of days,
	to weave one more garland with them
	for my name-day girl.

	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 storm
	which arose in the cloudless sky,
	suddenly replaced by a salvo of cannon.
	Everyone shuddered, comprehending this howl.
	Festive Moscow burned so
	with irridescent blue banners
	on this first azure-golden spring day.
	Here for the first time
	I understood the news
	that in the world there was a new dweller
	and a new royal guest in the Kremlin.
	At that moment you were endowed to the earth.
	From that moment this recollection
	has been burned into my soul
	dearly, 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 me
	and has illuminated my sad sick-bed
	and proclaimed a celebration of grace.
	I always imagined
	that the very hour of this early event
	would be a good omen in my life
	and I wasn't mistaken: my whole life has passed
	under this gentle, beneficent influence.
	Good fortune was allotted me
	by gracious fate,
	and all my age I (above myself)
	saw the one constellation,
	his constellation, and let it be till the end
	my single star,
	and many, many times
	let 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 accepting
	this hymn of simple gratitude!
	You, embracing with your love
	not hundreds, but thousands of people,
	have with its wings
	benevolently covered my wretched self today,
	I have not declared myself in any way,
	and can have no claim to the tsar's attention
	other than that of my own suffering!
	You have deigned to look after me
	with your beneficent attention
	and, my spirits having risen, you have calmed me.
	Oh, be a renowned and praised tsar
	but not as a tsar, rather as God's vicar,
	lending your ear not only to the bright legions
	of your chosen ones, your heavenly servants,
	but also to the isolated, cut-off groans
	of 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 as
	you are summoned by sacred fate
	to 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!

	At night in a deserted town
	there's an anguish-laden time
	when darkness grips streets tight
	and mist reigns in every corner.
	There's quiet calm.  The moon has risen
	and the moon's blue-grey glimmer
	picks 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 so
	but, weakening, finally go.

	Although he wasn't born a Slav,
	Slavdom's taken him to its heart
	and 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 days
	to 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 days
	the all-merciful God sends me
	the best of priceless gifts,
	a friend's sympathetic hand,
	a warm, living hand
	which, touching me only lightly,
	dissipates numbness,
	scatters the fearsome nightmare from above
	and turns the tables on Fate's cruel blows.
	Life lives again, again blood flows
	and my heart believes in truth and love.

     These  notes  comprise  information  gleaned  from  a  wide  variety of
sources. Tyutchev's translations of  other poets appear in the main body  of
the text. All Russian, German and French sources are in my own translations.
The English versions  of works in  Latin and Italian  are referred to in the
Acknowledgements and Bibliography.  All  poems  not written by Tyutchev  are
given in full below with literal translations. Titles are given in the first
instance   in  their   original  languages,  Russian  being  transliterated,
subsequently  translated  and where appropriate abbreviated,  e.g.  Herder's
Ideen zur Geschichte der Philosophie der Menschheit becoming Ideas.
     I have relied on the  dating  established by  such  Russian scholars as
Chulkov and  Pigaryov  and  I  rarely differ  from their generally  accepted
conclusions. When I do  I make  this clear. We know the dates  of most poems
written  after  1849, but many of the earlier ones are notoriously difficult
to pinpoint. We can often rely on nothing other than Tyutchev's handwriting,
inconsistent throughout  his  life,  although  a  certain  spidery, "Gothic"
scrawl does  appear  to be a favourite style. Sometimes a sheet of paper  on
which  he has scribbled  a few lines bears a  dated  watermark, though  that
proves little. Marginally more reliable is the fact that  the censor's stamp
had to appear on any work  to  be published, but this  simply  indicates the
latest possible date. His friends and relatives sometimes tell us when poems
were  produced.  Post-1847  lyrics  sometimes  appear  in  letters.   These,
therefore,  are generally more easily  datable, though not always definitely
so. Tyutchev's letters and those written  by members of his family and close
friends are an extremely important  source of information.  We can be fairly
sure about the dates of poems written for special occasions and those with a
political theme. He was especially keen on  having the latter published, for
they  are often  statements intended  for  the  authorities and  the reading
public.  Style  is  of  minimal  help.  Once   Tyutchev   casts  aside   the
neo-classical medium, his style  and limited vocabulary change  little. As a
reader comes  to know this  writer, intuition begins to play  a  large part,
but, of course, one  commentator's  intuition is different  to another's. It
is,  ultimately, probably true  to  say that there  is a consensus about the
chronology established by Soviet scholarship.
     With the broadest range of readers in mind, not all of whom will have a
knowledge of  European history and literature nor  of  the Classics, I offer
and  explain  a wide  variety  of  literary and  historical  references.  My
possibly unattainable aim  is to satisfy both specialists in various  fields
and  the educated reader  with a love of Russian literature but no knowledge
of its language. I  rarely delve  into  the intricacies of rhyme, metre  and
structural  characteristics. In any case,  such a job has recently been done
by  A. Liberman (A:19) I completed the best of my work and published a small
portion of it early in 1983 and neither he nor I came into contact with each
other till early  in 1998. I have attempted to include as  much  material of
interest as space will allow in order to give the widest possible picture of
Tyutchev and his background. Clearly this is a bottomless pit and if certain
matters seem to be dealt  with skimpily, it is  only to make room for others
which seem to me more important or interesting.
     The first entry  in each note  is  the date  or  postulated date of the
Tyutchev poem.  A number in square brackets after the name of a work  is its
number in the collection I  have used, e.g.  Pascal's Pensees [163], and, in
the  case of a Tyutchev poem, its number in this book. Extracts from letters
are followed by the date of the letter.


     NE Written no earlier than
     NL Written no later than
     LET.DAR Letter to Darya
     LET.ERN. Letter to Ernestine
     (INDEC)/(...) Indecipherable/doubtful word or phrase
     TR A translation of

     Months  are generally abbreviated, and other  abbreviations are of  the
standard type (i.e. "vol." for "volume").

     1. Probably 1813 or 1814. The poet's father, Ivan (1776-1846),  was  "a
reasoning  man with  a calm, common  sense approach to  things ... unusually
good-hearted, mild-mannered  and placid  with a rare moral sense ... neither
intellectually sharp nor talented". (A:1/19)
     2.  Late  Dec.  1815-early  Jan.  1816.  The  twelve-year old  Tyutchev
experiments by adapting Horace (65-8 BC), by  whom he was much influenced at
this  early  stage of  his writing life. Quintus  Horatius Flaccus, born  in
Venusia in  south-eastern  Italy, having unwisely sided with Brutus, escaped
the  rout of Philippi.  His poetry earned him the attention  of Vergil among
others and  he was introduced  to  the  great  arts  patron,  Gaius  Cilnius
Maecenas, who admitted the young writer to his  circle of friends in 38  BC.
Maecenas  and  Horace became  friends and the former gave the poet the small
country estate he had always craved. Horace worked about  ten  years  before
producing the first three books of his eighty eight carmina/odes.
     This  poem will  be  the  same as one entitled  Vel'mozha.  Podrazhanie
Goratsiyu/The Grandee.  An Imitation of  Horace  and  read by  A. Merzlyakov
(1778-1830)  at  a session  of  the Society of Lovers of Russian  Letters on
February  22nd.  1818.  Professor  Merzlyakov  was  one of  a generation  of
imitative writers  of meagre talent whose contribution to the development of
Russian literature in this period it would be uncharitable to ignore, for he
genuinely  loved poetry  and, if forgotten now, enthused many young  writers
with his own passion for writing. Together with heavy neo-classical works he
wrote skilful songs in a folk style. A  large  proportion of Tyutchev's poem
deals with the unmasking of  a  shamelessly hard-hearted  noble, this  theme
elbowing aside the new year  one. The poem contains echoes  of a whole range
of Russian poets of the eighteenth  and early nineteenth centuries, such  as
M. Lomonosov (1711-1765), N. Gnedich (1784-1838) and  Merzlyakov, as well as
some  of  the more innovative  and important ones, for example  G. Derzhavin
(1743-1816) and N. Karamzin (1766-1826).
     Tyutchev was  taught Latin by his  tutor, Semyon Raich (1792-1855), and
his reading of Horace and other Roman poets is evident in certain works.
     Chronos: the youngest  son  of Uranus (Heaven) and Gaia (Mother Earth).
Often mistakenly regarded as Time personified.
     Memphis: the Egyptian city named in honour of this  daughter  of Nilus,
god of the Nile.
     Ilion: Troy.
     Cocytus: one of the rivers of Hell, extremely cold and running parallel
to the  Styx. It formed  part of the expanse  of water to be  crossed by the
souls of the dead on the path to Hades.
     Eumenides: the Furies.
     3.  Dec.  4th.  1816. Addressee unknown. The reference in l.2 is to the
martyr St. Barbara, on whose day the poem appears to have been written.  The
konets/end of l.14 is probably intended to be nakonets/at last.
     4. May 8th.  1818. Tyutchev possessed  a copy of Abbe Jacques Delille's
two-volume translation of the Aeneid,  in which  Delille levels unflattering
criticism at Voltaire's Henriade (published 1805). Reworking some  verses of
I. Dmitriev  (1760-1837) addressed  to  M.  Kheraskov (1733-1807),  Tyutchev
appears to accuse Delille  of envy.  The lines  are written on a copy of the
     Kheraskov wrote two vast epics, Rossiada/The Rossiad and  Vladimir  the
former modelled on La Henriade and dealing with the taking of Kazan by  Ivan
IV  ("The  Terrible"),  the  latter  with  Prince,  later  Saint  Vladimir's
introduction of Christianity into Russia. Both were immensely popular at the
time.  Dmitriev was a Karamzinian, writing elegant  verse and  rejecting the
epic  norm. One of  the  founders of  the  Russian  Sentimental  school,  he
translated  and adapted French poets. He wrote  several Nadpisi/Inscriptions
to accompany portraits and  the  following is  clearly the  inspiration  for
Tyutchev's epigram:
     Puskai ot zavisti serdtsa zoilov noyut;

	Kheraskovu oni vreda ne nanesut:
	Vladimir, Ioann shchitom yego pokroyut
	I 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 with
	their shield and lead him into immortality's temple.

     Zoilus:  a  Greek  grammarian who, thanks to his attacks on Homer, gave
his name to carping, bitter criticism.

     5.   NL  Feb.  1819.  TR Horace. A variation on a theme of Ode 29 (Book
	Tyrrhena regum progenies, tibi
	non ante verso lene merum cado
	cum flore, Maecenas, rosarum et
	pressa tuis balanus capillis.
	iamdudum apud me est. eripe te morae,
	nec semper udum Tibur et Aefulae
	declive contempleris arvum et
	Telegoni iuga parricidae.
	fastidiosam desere copiam et
	molem propinquam nubibus arduis;
	omitte mirari beatae
	fumum et opes strepitumque Romae.
	Plerumque gratae divitibus vices
	mundaeque parvo sub lare pauperum
	cenae sine aulaei et ostro
	sollicitam explicuere frontem.
	iam clarus occultum Andromedae pater
	ostendit ignem, iam Procyon furit
	et stella vesani Leonis,
	sole dies referente siccos:
	iam pastor umbras cum grege languido
	rivumque fessus quaerit et horridi
	dumeta Silvani, caretque
	ripa vagis taciturna ventis.
	tu civitatem quis deceat status
	curas et Urbi sollicitus times
	quid Seres et regnata Cyro
	Bactra parent Tanaisque discors.
	prudens futuri temporis exitum
	caliginosa nocte premit deus,
	ridetque si mortalis ultra
	 fas trepidat. quod adest memento
	componere aequus; cetera fluminis
	ritu feruntur, nunc medio alvio
	cum pace delabentis Etruscum
	in mare, nunc lapides adesos
	stirpesque raptas et pecus et domos
	volventis una non sine montium
	clamore vicinaeque silvae,
	cum fera diluvies quietos
	irritat amnis. ille potens sui
	laetusque deget, cui licet in diem
	dixisse 'vixi: cras vel atra
	nube polum Pater occupato
	vel sole puro; non tamen irritum,
	quodcumque retro est, efficiet neque
	diffinget infectumque reddet,
	quod fugiens semel hora vexit.'
	Fortuna saeva laeta negotio et
	ludum insolentem ludere pertinax
	transmutat incertos honores,
	nunc mihi, nunc alii benigna.
	laudo manentem; si celeris quatit
	pennas, resigno quae dedit et mea
	virtute me involvo probamque
	pauperiem sine dote quaero.
	non est meum, si mugiat Africis
	malus procellis, ad miseras preces
	decurrere et votis pacisci
	ne Cypriae Tyriaeque merces
	addant avaro divitias mari.
	tunc me biremis praesidio scaphae
	tutum per Aegaeos tumultus
	aura feret geminusque Pollux.
	Tyrrhenian offspring of kings, for thee
	there is mellow wine in an unbroached cask,
	with the flower of roses, Maecenas, and
	pressed-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, and
	the hill of the parricide, Telegonus.
	Leave abundance, the bringer of weariness, and
	your mass (of masonry) approaching the steep clouds.
	Cease to marvel at
	the 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 Andromeda
	shows his hidden fire, now Procyon rages
	and the star of the furious lion,
	as the sun brings on the dry days.
	Now the tired shepherd with his languid flock
	seeks the shade, and the stream, and shaggy
	Silvanus's grove; and the silent
	river-bank lacks wandering breezes.
	You are concerned for what condition may best suit the state,
	and on the city's behalf you are anxious
	what 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 of
	future time,
	and he laughs if a mortal is anxious
	beyond measure.  That which is present, remember to
	govern properly.
	The rest in a river's manner is carried along,
	which at one time peacefully slips down in the midst
	of its channel
	to the Etruscan sea,
	at another time
	rolling along water-smoothed stones and tree-trunks
	it has scratched away and beasts and houses, not
	without noise (echoed) from the mountains
	and the neighbouring wood
	when the wild flood
	excites the great river.  That man rules himself
	and lives happy who can say each day
	"I have lived: tomorrow, let
	the Father occupy the pole with a black cloud
	or with the bright sun, he will make not make to be in rain
	what lies behind; nor
	will he undo or render unreal what the fleeting hour
	once brought along".
	Fortune is happy in her cruel work and
	persists 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 swift
	wings, I surrender what she gave me, and in
	my virtue I wrap myself, and an honest
	poverty I seek that has no dowry.
	It is not my way, if the mast creaks with African
	gales, to fly to wretched prayers
	and 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. The  manuscript bears the words, "A translation by
F.T...v".  The source  has yet  to  be located. Tyutchev's  lines are  early
evidence of his knack of being able to produce snappy, limerick-like verses,
a  talent which  stood him in  good stead during  his years as a  government
official whenever he felt the  need  to deliver poetic slaps to the faces of
those  in power who incensed him by their stupidity. In its tongue-in-cheek,
colloquial tone  it joins a handful of early works such as [10,16,17], which
owe little to the predominantly neo-classical, odic style of these years and
are evidence of the poet's sense of humour.
     7.  NL  June 1820.  The influences  are too numerous to mention. It  is
characteristic  of  poems  of  the  time  which were  read  aloud  at solemn
university gatherings. Most were poetically  unremarkable. Merzlyakov's Khod
i uspekhi izyashchnykh iskusstv/The Progress and Successes  of the Fine Arts
is a  good  example.  There  are echoes  of  Karamzin's  Poeziya/Poetry,  M.
Muravyov's  (1796-1866)  Khram  Marsa/The  Temple  of  Mars  and  Schiller's
(1759-1805)  Die  Kunstler/The Artists.  On the  other hand,  brief  lyrical
interludes  lighten the turgid  bulk of  this work, early  hints of the more
intimate, succinct Tyutchev soon to emerge.
     Urania: one of the  nine Muses, sometimes  called  "Pierides". Normally
the muse of astronomy, here she is divine beauty incarnate.
     Mnemosyne: mother of the nine muses.
     Charites: The Graces, goddesses  of feminine beauty who also bestowed a
love of nature upon human and divine hearts.
     Aquilon: god of the northern wind.
     Pharos: the lighthouse on the island of Pharos  near Alexandria. Pharos
was also the boatman who brought Helen and Mecenatus back from Troy. He died
of a snakebite on the island of a Nile estuary which bore his name.
     Persepolis:  the ancient capital of Persia. Perseus was the  son either
of Odysseus and Musicaa or of Telemachus and Polycaste, daughter of Nestor.
     Memnon:  son of Eo (Dawn).  Through the  gigantic  statue, one of those
raised  by Amenhotep III, Memnon is  said to  have  greeted his  mother with
harmonious sounds each morning.
     Pallas:  also  Athene  and  various  others.  The myrtle was, in  fact,
dedicated to Aphrodite, goddess of love, whose other plant was the rose.
     the blind singer: Homer,
     Ares: the Greek god of war.
     the  swan  of  Mantua:  the Roman poet Vergil (Publius Vergilius  Maro,
70-19 BC) was born in Mantua.
     the eagle of Ferrara: the  Italian poet Torquato Tasso (1544-1595).  He
spent several happy years at the court  of Duke Alfonso II of  Ferrara.  His
masterpiece was Gerusalemme liberata/Jerusalem  Liberated, a heroic  epic in
twenty  cantos. Afflicted  by a persecution mania  which  resulted  in seven
miserable  years in gaol,  he  ended his days a wreck of a  man. In European
literature  he became a symbol of misunderstood genius.  Like other literary
and historical figures of interest to Tyutchev, he bestrode two ages, in his
case  that  of  the  high Italian Renaissance shortly before the  Council of
Trent (1554-63) convened to combat the Reformation and, in his mature years,
the period of the Counter Reformation.
     Tajo and Guadalquivir: Spanish rivers.
     the  young  singer:  the   Portuguese  poet,   Luiz   Vaz   de   Camoes
(1524[?]-1579/80). Camoes wrote Os Lusiadas/The Men of Portugal,  a  heroic,
nationalistic epic  extolling the exploits of  the young Portuguese  nation,
based on the Aeneid. Portugal was at the time of  the poem conscious  of its
aspirations to taking a substantial share of maritime trade.
     the two geniuses:  John Milton (1608-74)  and the German poet Friedrich
Klopstock  (1724-1803). Klopstock wrote  Der  Messias/The  Messiah.  He  was
influenced by Horace, Milton and Edward Young (1683-1765).
     the  Russian Pinder:  Mikhail  Lomonosov (see [285]). Lomonosov  was  a
pioneer  in  the  techniques of analytical chemistry  and  a founder of  and
professor  at  Moscow  university. He also wrote on  the subject of  Russian
grammar, contributing to  the simplification of Russian. His Russian grammar
appeared  in  1775. He conducted astronomical  observations  and,  while not
officially credited with  the discovery, which like  much  of his scientific
work  went  unnoticed, was the first to  announce, on  May 26th.  1761, that
Venus  had  an atmosphere.  He wrote  neo-classical poetry and  was  one  of
Russia's  first   serious,  modern  intellectuals.   One  of   his  greatest
achievements was his contribution to  the development of a  new, more supple
Russian language. He defined  the relationship  between  Old Church Slavonic
and Russian, rid the  language of  many barbarisms,  yet  used foreign words
where  they were useful. In 1739  he wrote,  "I cannot rejoice enough at the
fact that our Russian language is not only not  inferior  to the Greek,  the
Latin and German in vigour and heroic sonority but also like them is capable
of 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 major
Russian poet  to  break  away from  the  imitative neo-classical  eighteenth
century and bridge the gap between  it and the early days  of the golden age
of Russian literature.
     Lines 172-195: a glorification of Alexander  I. The expression na trone
chelovek/(Be) a man on the throne is borrowed  from Derzhavin's Na rozhdenie
v severe porfirorodnogo otroka/On the Birth of a Youth Born in Purple in the
North (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 in  Rome. During times of  war, the doors to his
temple  remained open,  closing in peace time. The reference here is  to the
Napoleonic invasion of Russia  in  1812 and to  the  campaigns  which Russia
subsequently carried on beyond her borders up till 1814.
     8.  Sept.  14th.  1820. Addressed to Tyutchev's close friend and tutor,
the  poet-translator, Semyon Raich  (born Amfiteatrov).  This poem refers to
Raich's completion  of  his  translation  of  Vergil's  Georgics  (Virgilevy
Georgiki. Perevod A.R.,  published 1821).  For a long time Tyutchev  was the
only  one  allowed  to read  Raich's work  on  the Roman  poet.  Another  of
Tyutchev's friends, M. Pogodin (1800-75), wrote unkindly of Raich: "Tyutchev
possesses rare and brilliant  talents,  but sometimes takes a lot on himself
and  makes extremely  badly founded and  biased  judgements; for example, he
says that  Raich translates Vergil's Eclogues better  than  Merzlyakov does.
Every single one of Raich's  verses  is  constructed  around the same metre.
There is no nuance. They are all  identical.  He would be better translating
not 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.   Alexander  Pushkin  (1799-1837)   wrote   Vol'nost'.
Oda/Freedom. An Ode  in  1817  shortly  after  leaving  school, a youthfully
uncompromising poem  in  comparison  with  Tyutchev's  rather lame  plea  to
would-be  revolutionaries  to  soften  their  approach.  Here  we  encounter
Tyutchev's inability  to accept  fundamental  upheaval  when  discussion and
diplomacy  might  always   work.  The  reader  will  encounter  many  images
suggesting that  change in any shape  or form perturbs Tyutchev. Stanza 1 of
Pushkin'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.
     In  the  odes  of the  Greek poet Alcaeus  (fl. 600 BC) there are  many
anti-tyranny motifs. He  was a rebel and terrorist and the source of some of
Horace's political odes.
     The writer and historian, M.  Pogodin,  a student  friend of the  poet,
mentions in his diary that he  and Tyutchev discussed Pushkin, "... his ode,
Freedom,  the free, noble  spirit of the thought which for some time now has
made itself known to us". (Nov. 1st. 1820)
     10. Nov. 1820. Tyutchev was a renowned scribbler and is alleged to have
produced  several  epigrams   during   Kachenovsky's  lectures   at   Moscow
University. Gregg points  out  that Tyutchev's constant  chatter once drew a
"baleful stare" from the professor. (A:14) Unfortunately  only  this epigram
has survived. The Professor  of Archaeology and the  Theory of Fine Arts was
an opponent of anything new and sharply criticised Pushkin in  the pages  of
Vestnik Evropy/The Messenger  of Europe,  which  he edited at  the time. The
epigram may  have been prompted  by Kachenovsky's  attack on Pushkin's newly
published poem, Ruslan i Lyudmila/Ruslan and Lyudmila. It is easy to imagine
several such epigrams  aimed at the lecturer by his  students. Pushkin wrote
the following in 1821:

     Klevetnik bez darovan'ya,
     Palok ishchet on chut'yom,
     I dnevnogo propitan'ya
     Ezhemesyachnym vran'yom.
     A talentless slanderer,
     he seeks out the cane by scent,
     and his daily nourishment
     by his monthly lies.

     The "monthly lies" refers to The Messenger of Europe.
     Charon:  the ferryman responsible for the  transfer  of  souls from the
land of the living to Hades.
     11. NE  1820-NL  first  half of  March 1822. TR Lamartine  (1790-1869):
L'Isolement/Solitude,  [1]  of   Meditations  Poetiques/Poetic   Meditations

     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 dormantes
     Ou 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 ombres
     Monte, 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 rustique
     Aux derniers bruits du jour mele de saints concerts.
     Mais a ces doux tableaux mon ame indifferente
     N'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 waters
     where 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 shadows
     rises, 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 bell
     mingles 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 world
     is 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 illuminates
     I 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!

     One  of the  leading French Romantic writers of the 1820s, Alphonse  de
Lamartine  became   an  influential  politician,  heading   the  Provisional
Government  after   the  1848  revolution.  The  religious  and  sentimental
character of the Poetic Meditations  made the small group of poems extremely
popular during a period in France when  intuition  was  ousting reason  as a
means to self-knowledge. There is a strong pantheistic streak in the work of
many writers of the time. The first major treatment of Tyutchev's links with
French literature is (A:32, 111/148-167), in  which  Surina points  out that
images 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 are
repeated in later lyrics of genius.  Examples are the favourite  obveyat'/to
winnow, fan; pri pervom ... svete/at (the) first light; and the child at the
end of the poem who also appears, in adolescent guise, in [75].
     13. Dec. 13th. 1831. Dedicated to A. Muravyov (1806-74). A former pupil
of Raich. Muravyov's earlier years were characterised by  rationalist views,
giving  way in later life to an adherence to  Orthodoxy  and church  ritual.
(See [345]). Tyutchev's  thoughts echo those of  Raich as expressed  in  the
latter's  thesis  on  didactic poetry. Expounding his theory of ancient man,
Raich wrote that the ancients "observed nature at a  distance which favoured
the imagination and through the veil which  covered  it; today, people study
it close at hand  and, as  it were, armed with spectacles.  Certain of them,
describing objects, present us with living, laughing, attractive scenes, and
still more often with statues;  other  draw landscapes which are often dead.
The most pleasant location without living beings, especially man, can afford
us no  lasting  pleasure;  we  want  to  see  ourselves  in  everything  and
everywhere.  The  ancients  did  not  like  a  soulless  nature,  and  their
imagination  often peoples  it with  living  creatures. In  brooks they  saw
Naiads;  beneath the bark of a tree  beat the heart of a Dryad;  in valleys,
Nymphs  weaved  round-dances. This  is  why the  ancients'  descriptions are
always  short,  living. They  had  no  need to seek  innumerable nuances  to
describe an object; all they had to do was  personify it and the  reader saw
before him breathing imagines, spirantia signa (B:33/250-251).
     Raich  might well  be  describing the best  of Tyutchev's nature lyrics
here, where an undoubted sense of living nature contains the conviction that
any  rationalist  view  of nature, such as Pascal's  "Par la pensee,  je  le
comprehends" is misguided.
     14. Jun. 1822.  TR Schiller: Hektors  Abschied/Hector's  Farewell  from
Gedichte/Poems  (pt.  1,  1804). An  earlier  edition was entitled  Abschied
Andromachas und  Hektors/The Farewell of Andromache and  Hector. A  slightly
different version is sung by Amalia in the drama Die Rauber/The Robbers, II,
2 (1781).

     Will sich Hektor ewig von mir wenden,
     Wo Achill mit den unnahbar'n Handen
     Dem Patroklus schrecklich Opfer bringt?
     Wer wird kunftig deinen Kleinen Lehren
     Speere werfen und die Gotter ehren,
     wenn der finstre Orkus dich verschlingt?
     Teures Weib gebiete deinen Tranen,
     Nach der Feldschlacht ist mein feurig Sehnen,
     Diese Arme schutzen Pergamus.
     Kampfend fur den heil'gen Herd der Gotter
     Fall ich, und des Vaterlandes Retter
     Steig' ich nieder zu dem styg'schen Flu?.
     Nimmer 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.
     All 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.
     Does Hector want to turn away from me forever,
     where the unapproachable hands of Achilles
     make a terrible sacrifice to Patroclus?
     Who in the future will teach the little one
     to throw the javelin and honour the gods
     if the dark Orkus devours you?
     Dear wife, control your tears,
     my fiery longing is for the field of battle.
     These arms protect Pergamum.
     Fighting at the hearth of the gods
     I fall, and, saviour of the fatherland,
     I will go down to the river Styx.
     Never more shall I hear the sound of your weapons
     as 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.

     All my longing, all my thoughts
     will I drown in the Lethe's still waters
     but 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 renowned  for his sense of high seriousness and his belief
that literature was a civilising force with a capacity  to alter the ways of
individuals and societies. The  above poem comes  from a play  in which Karl
Moor indulges in  what appears to be indiscriminate brigandage and murder as
he 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 degree  on April 29th. 1822.
The  date of the  poem has been postulated by  Pigaryov  as  1822. Korolyova
considered  1827-28  more  likely  as  at  this  time  Raich  published  his
translation of Jerusalem Liberated.  Raich's balladic  metre created  heated
argument. Tyutchev's poem imitates this metre and he could  have been firmly
on his friend's side in the  debate although, equally, he was  his  own  man
when he felt like being so.
     16.  Early 1820s.  A  quotation  from a  Lenten prayer  by  Efrem Sirim
(Ephraim the Syrian, c. 306-378). Ephraim's mystical and poetical  works are
used in the Syrian liturgy.
     17. Early 1820s. Tyutchev's hedonistic views of this period are in good
company with this and the previous [16] humorous lines of the free-thinking,
extremely confident and self-possessed young man whose belief in himself and
the comfortable world around him had yet to be shaken.
     18.  Jan.  1823.  Dedicated  to   Tyutchev's  first  cousin,   Aleksei.
Sheremetev served as lifeguard in the horse  artillery.  He proceeded to  an
appointment  as  aide-de-camp to  Count P.  Tolstoy who commanded the  Fifth
Infantry Corps, billeted in Moscow where Sheremetev's mother and sister were
in residence.
     ...who has spirit  and serfs: Tyutchev employs an untranslatable pun on
dusha,  one  of  his  favourite  words,  which  can  mean  "soul",  "heart",
"feeling", as well as "serf". In  this  line he uses two difference cases of
the same  noun to suggest the liveliness  and "spirit" of  the young girl as
well  as the "serfs" who would come with  her estate. The most famous use of
the  noun in  this sense  is,  of  course,  in  Gogol's  (1809-52)  Myortvye
dushi/Dead Souls. The word dusha takes on a predominantly spiritual sense in
a number of later poems.
     Nadezhda  Sheremeteva (1775-1850) was Tyutchev's aunt. She corresponded
with Gogol  and  Zhukovksy.  Her son-in-law, I. Yakushkin, was sentenced  to
twenty  years  hard  labour  for  his  open  involvement  in  the Decembrist
     The hero-agronomist is Count Pyotr Tolstoi, one of the foremost figures
of the Moscow Agricultural Society.
     19. Feb.  1823. TR  Schiller: An  die Freude/To Joy, from Part 2 of the

	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.
	Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
		Diesen Ku? der ganzen Welt!
		Bruder - uberm Sternenzelt
	Mu? 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 Seele
		Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
	Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
		Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!
	Was den gro?en Ring bewohnet
		Huldige der Simpathie!
		Zu de Sternen leitet sie,
	Wo der Unbekannte thronet.
	Freude trinken alle Wesen
		An den Brusten der Natur,
	Alle Guten, alle Bosen
		Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
	Kusse gab sie uns and Reben,
		Einen Freund, gepruft im Tod,
	Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
		Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.
	Ihr sturzt nieder, Millionen?
		Ahndest du den Schopfer, Welt?
		Such ihn uberm Sternenzelt,
	Uber Sternen mu? er wohnen.
	Freude hei?t die starke Feder
		In der ewigen Natur.
	Freude, Freude treibt die Rader
		In 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!
	Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen,
		Durch des Himmels pracht'gen Plan,
		Laufet Bruder eure Bahn,
	Freudig wie ein Held zum siegen.
	Aus der Wahrheit Feuerspiegel
		Lachelt sie den Forscher an.
	Zu der Tugend steilem Hugel
		Leitet sie des Dulders Bahn.
	Auf des Glaubens Sonnenberge
		Sieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,
	Durch den Ri? gesprengster Sarge
		Sie im Chor der Engel stehn.
	Duldet mutig Millionen!
		Duldet fur die bess're Welt!
		Droben uberm Sternenzelt
	Wird 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.
	Unser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet!
		Ausgesohnt die ganze Welt!
		Bruder - uberm Sternenzelt
	Richtet Gott, wie wir gerichtet.
	Freude sprudelt in Pokalen,
		In der Traube gold'nem Blut
	Trinken 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!
	Den 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.
	Schlie?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 enter
	your shrine, oh heavenly one.
	Your magic reunites
	whatever convention has divided.
	Under your soft wings,
	all men become brothers.
	Millions, embrace!
	I want to kiss the whole world!
	Brothers, above the firmament
	a dear father must dwell.
	Let those who have the good fortune
	to be a friend,
	those who have won a lovely woman,
	join in the exultation!
	Yes, whoever can call one soul
	on earth his own!
	Those who have never managed this
	skulk away in tears.
	Let all who inhabit the universe
	pay homage to sympathy!
	It leads to the stars
	where the Unknown has his throne.
	All brings drink joy
	from 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 lust
	and cherubs enjoy the presence of God.
	Are 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 force
	behind eternal nature.
	It is joy that moves the cogs
	of the universe's great clock.
	It entices the flowers out of their buds
	and the suns from the firmament.
	It spins heavenly bodies in spaces
	never plumbed by the astronomer's telescope.
	If you want to fly happily like its suns
	across the sky's magnificent plain,
	brothers, go your way, full of joy,
	like a hero going to victory.
	From the fiery mirror of truth
	it smiles at the investigator
	and it leads those who are patient
	to the steep hill of virtue.
	On the sunny mountain of faith
	its banners are seen billowing
	Through the cracks in broken coffins you see it
	standing in the choir of angels.
	Millions, suffer with courage!
	Suffer for the better world!
	Up there above the firmament
	a great God will reward you.
	One cannot avenge oneself on gods.
	It's good to be like them.
	Sorrow and poverty shall come
	and rejoice together with gladness.
	Let's forget grudges and revenge,
	let's forgive our deadly enemies,
	so that they may not have to shed tears
	and be consumed by remorse.
	Let's wipe the slate clean!
	Let the world be at peace!
	Brothers, above the firmament
	God will judge the way we've judged.
	Joy bubbles in goblets,
	in the grape's golden blood
	cannibals drink gentleness
	and despair - heroism.
	Brothers, fly from your seats,
	when the full glass is passed around
	let the foam spray sky-high:
	raise this glass to the good spirit.
	Raise this glass to the good spirit
	there above the firmament,
	who is praised by the swirling stars
	and 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!
	Gather closer in the circle,
	swear on this golden wine
	to 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 processes

     In st. 4, as in Die Gotter  Griechenlands/The Gods of Greece (1788), we
encounter Schiller's theme  of  imagination being threatened by rationality,
an  important notion  recurring through Tyutchev's mature  lyrics  and given
informal,  if  in  places  pedestrian  treatment in Ne  to,  chto mnite  vy,
priroda/Nature is not what you think it is [121].
     20.  Jul.  21st.  1823. The epigraph is from Thomas  Gray's (1716-1771)
Alcaic  Fragment:  O  lachrymarum  fons,  tenero sacros/Oh fountain of tears
which have their (1738):
     O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
     Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
     Felix! in imo qui scatentem
     Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit!
     Oh fountain of tears which have their sacred
     sources in the sensitive soul! Four times
     fortunate is he who has felt
     thee bubbling up, holy nymph,
     from the depths of his heart!
     the  Pafian queen: Aphrodite, whose temple was in the town of Pafos, on
     21.  1823-24. TR Heine [33] of the  collection entitled Tragodien nebst
einem lyrischen Intermedzzo/Tragedies with a Lyrical Intermezzo (Apr. 1823),
one of several sections which make up the German poet's Buch der Lieder/Book
of Songs (1827).
     Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
     Im Norden auf kahler Hoh'.
     Ihn schlafert; mit wei?er Decke
     Umhullen ihn Eis und Schnee.
     Er traumt von einer Palme,
     Die, fern im Morgenland,
     Einsam und schweigend trauert
     Auf brennender Felsenwand.
     A spruce tree stands alone
     in the north, on a bare hill.
     It is sleepy. With a white blanket
     Ice and snow cover it.
     It dreams of a palm
     which, far off in the east,
     grieves, lonely and silent
     on a burning cliff.
     Heinrich Heine  (1797-1856) was a complex figure whose work  abounds in
images of love, nature and revolution. History is of the greatest importance
in his work. Heine one claimed that everything he had ever written had taken
its  inspiration  from   one  great  gottfreudige  Fruhlingsidee/Good-joyful
     He and Tyutchev  were good friends, although there is little documented
evidence. In a letter  of 1828,  Heine writes, "By  the way, you know  Count
Bothmer's daughters  in Stuttgart,  where you have  often  been?  One of the
same, no  longer exactly young,  but infinitely charming and secretly wed to
the best friend  I have  here, a young Russian diplomat called Tyutchev, and
the still very young, wonderfully pretty sister are the two ladies with whom
I  have  the  most  comfortable,  easily  relations.  These  two,  my friend
Tyutchev, and I often make up a foursome to eat together at lunchtime and in
the  evening,  where I  find  a  few more  beauties,  chatter to  my heart's
content, mostly ghost stories,  and generally believe that I have discovered
a beautiful oasis in life's desert".
     Tyanyanov (C:4iii/16) considers that the poems by Heine  which Tyutchev
translated were "not so much those close to Tyutchev in theme, as those that
are characteristic of  Heine's  manner".  This is partly  true, but  a close
study of the translations invariably throws up favourite themes.
     All  Tyutchev's extant  translations  from Heine are  from  the Book of
     22. NE Apr.  1822 and NL Dec. 1830. TR Heine: [16] of Tragedies  with a
Lyrical Intermezzo.
     Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:
     Bist du nicht ein Traumgebild,
     Wie's in schwulen Sommertagen
     Aus 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-picture
     of the kind which on hot summer days
     springs 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 fable
     are what the poet's fire produces.
     But you and your spite
     and your sweet face,
     and your false sanctimonious look,
     the poet can't create that.
     Tyutchev's  ending  is less  unkind than Heine's, probably  evidence of
different attachments.
     23.  1823-4,  probably shortly  after  he went  abroad.  The  theme  of
separation is now making itself felt, Tyutchev returns to this idea of being
away  from friends and family throughout his work  and  in numerous letters.
The first stanza does not, strictly speaking, make sense, but this is not an
unusual  thing in Tyutchev, who  seemed impatient with grammar on  more than
one occasion.
     24.  Nov. 23rd.  1824,  the  poet's  twenty-first  birthday.  Addressee
unknown, though Nisa [25] is a  possibility.  Tyutchev cleverly mixes images
of a young girl's "gaze" living within him, both physically and spiritually.
It  becomes as essential as the sky, always an important idea of freedom and
security, and as breath itself.  In a later superb poem, Ya znal eyo eshchyo
togda/I  knew  her   even   then  [257],  a   woman  and   the   sky  become
indistinguishable images.
     25. NL autumn  1825. Addressee unknown, but if it is the young woman of
[24] it indicates a dramatic change of attitude.
     26. NL autumn 1825. A variation on  a theme of Herder based on the poem
Morgengesang   im   Kriege/Morning  Song   in   War   Time,  [17]   of   the
Volkslieder/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!
     Der unsern Fuhrer!
     Des hohen Adils
     Erwacht, erwacht!
     Har, mit der Faust hart,
     Rolf, der Schutze,
     Manner im Blitze,
     Die nimmer fliehn!
     Zum Weingelage,
     Zum Weibsgekose
     Weck' ich euch nicht;
     Zu harter Schlacht
     Erwacht, erwacht!
     Day breaks!
     The cock crows,
     shaking its feathers.
     Up, brothers!
     It's time for battle!
     Wake up, wake up!
     Our leader!
     Comrades in battle
     of the great aedile,
     wake up, wake up!
     Har of the strong fist,
     Rolf the protector,
     men in lightning flashes
     who never flee!
     To the wine feast,
     to women's kisses
     I do not awake you:
     to hard battle
     awake, awake!

     The  writer  and philosopher Johann  Gottfried  Herder  (1744-1803) was
influential in  the  fields  of folklore and  philology. He knew Goethe  and
exerted a  significant influence on his development. In  essays forming part
of Von deutscher  Art und Kunst/On German Character and Art, he attempted to
demonstrate that folk song  was the source of all literature. He believed in
the close  relationship between nature, i.e. man's physical environment, and
the cultural evolution of  the  human race.  Herder  was also convinced that
nation states ought to  be  independent,  equal and brotherly. This idea  of
self-determination went down well with those Slav  states less powerful than
their  vast  eastern  neighbour, but  this  warm-hearted  man's ideas evoked
little  sympathy in  authoritarian  states  such as Russia.  His  Ideen  zur
Philosophie der  Geschichte  der  Menschheit/Ideas on the  Philosophy of the
History of Mankind and Folk Songs served to convince many Slav patriots that
they, indeed, carried the future in their  hands. Karamzin introduced Herder
into Russia, as he did so many writers.
     The  source  of  the Herder poem  is the Heimskringla/The Circle of the
World, a cycle of sixteen medieval  Icelandic sagas. This  poem concerns the
final battle of the great hero-king Hrolf kraki, told by his great champion,
     Har: Har the hard-gripping, a warrior.
     aedile: a Roman officer.
     27.  NL  autumn 1825. R. Brandt considers the  possibility that Raich's
Aeolian  harp was  the poem's  inspiration, though Pigaryov points out  that
during  Tyutchev's  stay in Russia in 1825  Raich  was  not in  Moscow.  The
presence or  absence of such an instrument is  probably unimportant,  though
Tyutchev did often write on the spur of the moment, so could well have heard
such a harp or something which reminded him of it.
     The  techniques  of using a  sound or object out of place  is common in
Tyutchev's work. As here, where  the harp perturbs the listener, so a lark's
voice at night [104]  and the chirruping of swallows  [368]  when snow still
lies are two examples  of many which make  him question the evidence  of his
     28. NL mid-1826. TR Byron Lines Written in an  Album  at  Malta. (Sept.
14th. 1809); one of his occasional pieces from 1807-24.
     As o'er the cold, sepulchral stone

		Some 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.
     Despite  huge  popularity in Europe, Byron (1788-1824) exercised little
if any direct influence on Tyutchev, although his involvement in  the  Greek
struggle for independence would certainly have interested Tyutchev, for whom
the Eastern Question became an obsession.

        29.  NL  mid-1826.  A  loose adaptation of Goethe's quatrain from
        Nachlese/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 greatest  German writer. His works
exhibit an incredible variety  of form, theme and style. Throughout his life
he wrote poetry, prose, drama, scientific essays and autobiography. Even the
profundities  of his  conversations  were recorded  by his  young secretary,
Eckermann, among others.
     Popular in  the  eighteenth  century,  the  original was written by the
Indian  poet Kalidasa  (fl.  400 AD?)  whose work is  characterised by long,
lyrical, descriptive  passages inbued  with delicate sentiment. The Sanskrit
was translated by the Englishman William Jones in 1789 and into German by G.
Forster  in  1791.  Karamzin   translated  sections  into  Russian  for  the
Moskovskii zhurnal/The Moscow  Journal. Tyutchev's poem  contains echoes  of
Act II, in which  the  king,  enamoured of the  hermit's daughter,Shakuntala
attempts to express his feelings to Vidusaka the clown, who suggests that he
"has lost his relish for dates and longs for the (sour) tamarind".

King		You have not seen her; and, therefore, you speak thus.
	Vidusaka	That indeed must be charming, which excites even your 				admiration.
	King		Friend, what need is there of many words?
			This immaculate beauty is like a flower not yet smelt, a
			delicate shoot not torn by the nails; an unperforated
			diamond; or fresh honey whose sweetness is yet
			untasted; or the full reward of meritorious deeds.  I know not
			whom Destiny will approach as the enjoyer here (of this form).

     Goethe's  lyric is  but  one of many works of  the time  on a classical
Sanskrit theme, and while similar to Tyutchev's poem in some ways, cannot be
said  to  be the  direct  source of  it. Referring  to  Goethe's  poem, C.V.
Devadhar was written that he "blends together  the young year's blossoms and
the fruits of its  decline", combining "heaven and  earth in one". According
to  Goethe,  Devadhar  continues,  "Shakuntala   contains  the   history  of
development - the development of flower into fruit, of earth into heaven, of
matter into spirit". (B: 20/xxiv).
     30. Second half of 1826. Written after  sentence had been passed on the
Decembrists. The  latter  were  a  group of  disaffected young officers  who
attempted  a coup in 1825, primarily  in  St.  Petersburg, hoping to  secure
various  reforms. Nicholas I was not a listening tsar. The ringleaders  were
hanged and others exiled for long periods.
     31. NE May 1826 - NL 1830. TR Heine from Die Heimkehr/The Homecoming
     Das Herz ist mir bedruckt, und sehnlich
     Gedenke 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 longingly
     I think about the old days;
     then the world was still so pleasant to live in
     and 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 April  1827,  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 andre
     Arme, 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 sea
     there 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 riddle
     over which so many heads have brooded,
     heads in caps which hieroglyphs,
     heads in turbans, heads in berets,
     bewigged heads and a thousand other
     poor, 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 scepticism  permeates the atmospheric North  Sea cycle. In
Abenddammerung/Dusk  [2], the principal theme  is that of nature's power "to
liberate the poetic imagination from convention". (B:15ii/118)
     33. NE April 1827, NL 1830. TR Heine Der Schiffbruchige/The Shipwrecked
Man, [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 Zypressengestalt
     Umschlie?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 oft
     Entzuckend oft, trank ich aus dir
     Die wilden Begeistrungsflammen,
     Und stand und taumelte, feuerberauscht -
     Dann schwebte ein taubenmildes Lacheln
     Um die hochgeschurzten, stolzen Lippen,
     Und die hochgeschurzten, stolzen Lippen
     Hauchten Worte, su? wie Mondlicht,
     Und zart wie der Duft der Rose -
     Und meine Seele erhob sich
     Und 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 Antlitz
     In 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 grief
     and above me flee the clouds,
     the shapeless, gruesome daughters of the air,
     which from the sea in water-buckets
     scoop the sea,
     and arduously drag and drag
     and 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 form
     covered all around by a sensual, white garment
     her dark locks,
     like a sacred night,
     poured from her plait-crowned head,
     sweet as a dream, framing
     her sweet, pale face
     and from her sweet, pale face,
     and amazing, open look beamed
     like a black sun.
     Oh, you black sun, how often,
     excitingly often, have I drunk from you
     the wild flame of inspiration
     and stood, giddily, intoxicated
     while a dovelike, gentle smile played
     on 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 up
     and 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 face
     into the damp sand.
     The sea was  an endless  source of inspiration  for the Romantics. On a
sea journey  to  Nantes from Riga in 1769, Herder was  shipwrecked. He wrote
the following about his impressions, which haunted him for some  time after:
"Have you ever, my  friend, on  cold, dark nights,  after a dangerous, grey,
awe-filled midnight ... hoped for the first red ray of morning,  sensed  the
living spirit  of the early  day, a breath of God! A spirit of Heaven  sinks
down  and  moves  across  the waters!  ...  And behold! This  rapture,  this
nameless  feeling of morning,  how it seems to thrill  all  things!  To  lie
across all of  nature!... Woe to that  feelingless person  who has not  seen
these 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 Zeiten
     Mir ein lichtes Bild hervor.
     Sa?en all auf dem Verdecke,
     Fuhren stolz hinab den Rhein,
     Und die Sommergrunen Ufer
     gluhn im Abendsonnenschein.
     Sinnend sa? ich zu den Fu?en
     Einer Dame, schon und hold;
     In ihr liebes, bleiches Antlitz
     Spielt' das rote Sonnengold.
     Lauten klangen, Bubeb sangen,
     Wunderbare Frohlichkeit!
     Und der Himmel wurde blauer,
     Und die Seele wurde weit
     Mahrchenhaft voruberzogen
     Berg' und Burgen,Wald und Au';
     Und das Alles sah ich glanzen
     In dem Aug' der schonen Frau.
     We were all sitting on the deck,
     sailing proudly down the Rhine,
     and the summer-green banks
     glowed in the evening sun.
     Pensively I sat at the feet
     of a beautiful, charming lady.
     The red gold of the sun played
     on her dear, pale face.
     Lutes were strumming, boys were singing -
     wonderful joyfulness!
     And the sky became bluer
     and the soul opened out.
     Passing by as if in a fairytale
     were hills and castles, forests and meadows,
     and I saw it all shining
     in the beautiful women's eyes.
     35.  1827-29. TR  Goethe:  Geistesgruss/The Spirit's Greeting (1774), a
ballad  from  Vermischte Gedichte/Miscellaneous  Poems from  the  Sturm  und
Drang/Storm and Stress movement.
     Hoch auf dem alten Turme steht
     Des 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 stands
     the ghost of a noble warrior
     who, 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 eight
years. It  was characterised by a new way of looking at history and society,
new attitudes  towards thinking,  religion and nature. What was also closely
questioned  by young writers was despotism, political and religious.  Poetry
was of the first importance during these years.
     36.  1827-9.  TR Goethe: Wilhelm Meisters  Lehrjahre/Wilhelm  Meister's
Apprenticeship (bk.2, ch.13). The first and second songs of the harpist.
     Wer nie sein Brot mit Tranen a?,
     Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte
     Auf 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 nights
     sat 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.
     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 einmal
     Recht einsam sein,
     Dann bin ich nicht allein.
     Es schleicht ein Liebender lauschend sacht,
     Ob seine Freundin allein?
     So uberschleicht bei Tag and Nacht
     Mich Einsamen die Pein,
     Mich Einsamen die Qual.
     Ach, werd' ich erst einmal
     Einsam 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 once
     really 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 me
     when I'm alone, pain,
     when I'm alone, misery.
     Ah, if I could just
     be in my grave,
     then I'd be truly alone!
     Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship is in the form of the picaresque novel
and was  published in instalments during  the last decade  of the eighteenth
century.  Many great German novels of later  years model  their depiction of
the  intellectual  and  spiritual  development   of  the  hero's  life  (the
Bildungsroman) on this important work.
     37.  1827-30.  TR   Goethe:  Hegire/Hegira   (1819),  with  which   his
West-Ostlicher Divan/West-East Divan opens.
     Nord und West und Sud zersplittern,
     Throne bersten, Reiche zittern,
     Fluchte du, im reinen Osten
     Patriarchenluft zu kosten,
     Unter Lieben, Trinken, Singen,
     Soll ich Chisers Quell verjungen.
     Dort, im Reinen und im Rechten,
     Will ich menschlichen Geschlechten
     In des Ursprungs Tiefe dringen,
     Wo sie noch von Gott empfingen
     Himmelslehr' 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 betreten
     Von der Wuste zu den Stadten.
     Bosen Felsweg auf und nieder
     Trosten 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 luftet
     Schuttlend Ambralocken duftet.
     Ja des Dichters Lieberflustern
     Mache selbst die Huris lustern.
     Wolltet ihr ihm dies beneiden,
     Oder etwa gar verleiden;
     Wisset nur, da? Dichterworte
     Um des Paradieses Pforte
     Immer leise klopfend schweben,
     Sich erbittend ew'ges Leben.
     North, South and East shattered,
     thrones cracking, empires trembling
     escape to the pure east
     to taste the air of the patriarchs,
     in love, drinking, singing
     shall I return your youth at Chizr's spring.
     There, where it is pure and right,
     I want to penetrate to the source
     of the human race.
     where from God they still received
     heavenly 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 there
     because it was a spoken word.
     I want to mix with the herdsmen,
     refresh myself at oases,
     stroll with caravans
     trade in shawls, coffee and musk,
     I'll tread every path
     from the deserts to the towns.
     Up and down steep rocks
     your songs, Hafiz, comfort me,
     when the leader with delight
     from 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 poet
     make the huris desire.
     If you were to begrudge him this
     or even try to spoil his whim,
     know only that the poet's word
     knocks at Paradise's door,
     softly hovering,
     beseeching eternal life for itself.
     The  Persian  poet Hafiz (c.1320-1390)  produced  brilliant ghazels and
divans, the former  a series of couplets  linked symbolically rather than by
any strict  logic  of  ideas.  The divan is often characterised by a special
rhyme   scheme  running  through  the  alphabet.  "Hegira"  means  "flight",
originally the flight of Mohammed  from Mecca in  622 A.D.,  from  which  is
dated the Mohammedan era.
     Goethe was approaching  seventy when he  wrote  these  exuberant poems,
many in the Persian style.
     Khizr: an Islamic deity associated with water.
     38. NL spring 1828. Hebe, goddess of eternal  youth, appears throughout
nineteenth-century art  and literature. Tyutchev replaces her cup of nectar,
with which she is often seen feeding Zeus's eagle, with one overflowing with
thunder, as if "she had transferred to herself the  functions of  the eagle,
often    represented    with    lightening   grasped    on   its    talons".
     Tyutchev's poem is fresh and joyful, along  the same  lines as Vesennie
vody/Vernal Waters [82], one of his favourite techniques, that of an up-down
movement between nature and the observer, finding its first expression.
     39. NL 1828 and reworked  in the 1850s. In 1840 Napoleon's remains were
transferred to Paris from their original  resting  place, the island  of St.
Helena, where he died on May 5th. 1821.
     40. NL  1828.  Possibly  written  in  1826 in  Munich and  addressed to
Eleonore during the first year of their marriage in Munich.
     Nahe/Nearness (1809), by  the  Romantic  poet  and  philologist  Ludwig
Uhland (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 flattern
     Durch diese Einsamkeit.
     Doch wie in bunter Fulle
     Hier deine Beete stehn!
     Und mit denn Blumenduften
     Die Weste mich umwehn!
     Ich fuhle dich mich nahe,
     Die Einsamkeit belebt;
     Wie uber seinen Welten
     Der unsichbare schwebt.
     I step into your garden.
     Where are you today, sweetheart?
     Only butterflies flutter
     through this solitude.
     How colourfully full
     are your flowerbeds.
     How the zephyrs waft
     colourful aromas around me!
     I feel you near to me,
     feel the solitude come to life.
     It's like the Invisible One
     hovers over his worlds.
     Sylph: a  being  made  of  air, the  creation  of  the eccentric  Swiss
alchemist-physician Paracelsus  (1493-1541) who exercised some influence  on
Bohme. (See [247].)
     41.  NL 1828. The  image of the setting sun swallowed  by the ocean  or
rolling  from the  earth  is one of the commonplaces of  Romantic poetry. In
Heine's Sonnenuntergang/Sunset, [3] of North Sea, we read:
     Die gluhend rote Sonne steigt
     Hinab ins weitaufschauernde,
     Silbergraue Weltmeer.
     The glowing, red sun sets
     into the far-heaving,
     silver-grey ocean.
     Without detracting from Heine's lyric. Tyutchev's shorter, more intense
poem makes the reader actually sense the natural repleteness of  the moment.
Tyutchev's work is a marvel of sensation and physical wellbeing.
     42.  NL first half of  1829 in connection with the Russo-Turkish war of
1828-9. In  support of the Greek struggle  for independence, Russia declared
war on the Ottoman  Empire  in April of this  year. In June the Russian army
crossed the Danube, in October it took Varna and in  June the following year
opened a  route to  the Balkan mountains after the victory at Kulevcha.  The
Treaty of Adrianople (Sept. 14th. 1829) assured  Russian domination over the
entire Black Sea coast,  a  situation making the western powers  uneasy  and
reversed by the Paris Peace Accord after Russia's defeat in the Crimean War.
     The legendary shield of  the title is described  in the  chronicles  as
having been  posted by  Prince Oleg of Kiev  at the  gates of Constantinople
after his successful campaign against the Byzantine city in 907.
     43.  NL first half  of 1829. One  of the  first  overt  "chaos"/"night"
poems, it  nonetheless contains little more than a  hint of that frisson  of
excitement which characterises such lyrics as Bessonnitsa/Insomnia [47], and
Kak okean ob"emlet shar zemnoi/Just as the ocean curls around earth's shores
     44.  1828-9.  T.R.  Zedlitz  (1790-1862): Totenkranze/Garlands for  the
     So wie die grausen Lieder der Damonen
     Zum Wahnsinn trieben, durch die wilden Klange,
     So fuhlen wir das tiefste Mark erbeben,
     Vernimmt das Ohr die furchtbaren Gesange;
     Und wie in den verdunnten Regionen
     Des 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 entrinnen
     Dem 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 Auen
     Hinschwebt, und grune, lachende Gesilde,
     Seh'n wir durch heit're Lufte dich getragen;
     Gleich dem einsamen Aar bist due zu schauen
     In oder Wuste Grauen,
     Der sich vom Fels, auf dem er horstet, schwinget,
     Und hoch und hoher steigt, bis unser'n Blicken
     Die 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 Spiegel
     So 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 Gebrause
     Das Sturm's den Schaum abstreifet von den Wogen!
     Wie Ahasverus ward er fortgetrieben
     Vom 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 Baskentale
     Der Felsensteg, der unwegsame, schmale,
     Hinauf sich schlingt, dort, wo die jungen Wellen
     Ausstromet 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 Treue
     Berhaucht die Seelen, sehen wir ihn wandern! -
     Ein Weh'n der Geister sauselt mir entgegen!
     O teure Erde, Platz der Todesweihe,
     Mit frommer, heil'ger Scheue
     Tritt dich der Fu?! Dich, mit dem edlen Staube
     Gemischt, 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 Brausen
     Des Strom's vernimmt, dem engen Tahl entrinnend! -
     So seh'n von Land zu Land wir ihn entweichen,
     Bis wo das bleiche Zeichen
     Des Halbmond's schimmert von den Minaretten;
     Jetzt in des Bosphorus treulose Wellen
     Sturzt er, durchschwimmt den Pa? der Dardanellen
     Zu Asiens Kuste - sucht die alten Statten
     Verschwund'ner Gro?' - und sieht aus edlen Trummern
     Athen, 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 Geisterscharen
     Gefall'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 nieder
     In trotz'ger Bildheit, die mit kaltem hohne
     Ruchlos die Herzen qualen und zerspalten!
     Die seligen Gewalten,
     Die durch die Schmerzen reinen und belohnen,
     Sind fremd dem Manne, dessen Zauberworte
     Den 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 Grunde
     So lebentotende Gebilde gohren?
     Wann gab, getrankt von milder Sehnsucht Fluten,
     Es je von Lieb' und Vaterfreuden Kunde,
     Von segenvollem Bunde
     Begluckter 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 beschieden
     War jenem Mann der Kranz! Wohlan, bekenne,
     Ob man in Wahrheit wohl ihn glucklich nenne? -
     As the wild sounds of the cruel songs
     of demons drove men crazy, so we feel
     shaken to the marrow of our bones when
     we hear the horrible chants. And as
     those who hover in rarified regions of
     the highest space often run out of
     breath and die, with their blood
     draining from compressed lungs, so the
     soul strives, full of fear, to get away
     in a daze from the magic song, until
     the magician who cast the magic circle
     laughing with derision, raises his wand.
     When we look at such a picture our
     pain will find release in justified
     complaints. We do not see you carried
     through the clear air as a swan full of
     song that hovers above the meadows and
     green, laughing fields. You can be seen
     in the horror of the bleak desert like
     a lonely eagle soaring from the rock on
     which he has his nest and rising higher
     and higher until his wings spread out
     wide, carry him out of our sight, away,
     where he can no long be reached by
     the eye that follows him. Yet he is not
     trying to reach the sun. His keen eye
     searches around - for corpses!
     Unhappy soul whose clouded mirror so
     horribly distorts the pictures it
     reflects that were painted by life and
     nature, with love, in bright colours
     and beautiful symbols. Although upon
     your forehead may glitter the seal of
     the master granted the power in the
     kingdom of the spirits, yet it gives
     you pleasure to confuse the soul in the
     pale, uncertain gloom. I can no longer
     recognise you yourself. The picture of
     Prometheus seems to be glowing in my
     eyes, yet I see it changing strangely
     and becoming confused. Are you the
     Prometheus who feels the wounds, or are
     you the vulture burrowing in his heart?
     He went from Newstead Abbey, the old,
     quiet house of his ancestors where he
     left dear pledges, like the seagull
     that, unsteady in the roaring storm,
     skims the foam from the
     crests of the waves. He was driven away
     like Ahasuerus from the home of those
     he loved. Like Ahasuerus, he was not to
     rest! He is straying aimlessly all over
     the globe, looking for good fortune and
     danger in a battle. The dark spell
     weighs upon his soul, even if he climbs
     the rock closely to the abyss or swims
     across the cold waters of the Hellespont.
     And one can see him rove and, so it
     seems, run away from himself. How he is
     on the banks of the Tagus, rinsed with
     gold, now on the tip of the shore
     surrounded by rocks, where the Atlantic
     as a border between continents joins
     the Mediterranean as a narrow ribbon
     dividing Europe from the land of the
     Moors, whence then the neighbouring
     waters mingle and dash away proudly
     and full of joy, now in the Pyrenees
     lit up by the sun, the peaks of which
     are reached from the valley of the
     Basques by an impassable, narrow,
     winding, rocky path, where the Adour springs from.
     And now we see him wandering with the
     dead who fell on that battlefield in
     Flanders for golden ideals and for
     honour and loyalty. I feel the breath
     of spirits moving towards me. Oh
     precious soil, the place of doom! My
     foot treads upon you with devotion and
     awe; upon you that was mixed with the
     noble dust of those thousands upon
     thousands of hearts who bled to death
     here in searing pain and, intoxicated
     by noble enthusiasm, fell happy in
     their beliefs, victims of the sword and the bullet.
     Now he is standing immersed in thought
     upon the crest of the glaciers, where
     turbulent waterfalls dash down into
     the abyss, reached only by the eye,
     while the ear can only hear the distant
     roaring of the stream escaping from the
     narrow valley. Thus we can see him
     escaping from country to country until
     he reaches the pale sign of the
     crescent glittering on top of the
     minarets. Now he throws himself into
     the treacherous waters of the
     Bosphorous, swims across the
     Dardanelles over to the coast of Asia -
     looks for the old places of vanished
     glory and sees Athens, Acrocorinth and
     Mycenae glimmering from noble ruins.
     Then he reaches the castle surrounded
     by walls, far away on the doorstep of
     the land of the Hellenes, rising from
     a sea of islands. Oh, the noble city,
     attacked a hundred times, is now
     destroyed by murder and fire. It is
     now reduced to rubble and it lowers its
     noble head to the ground. Pale crowds
     of spirits of falled heroes with grief
     on their faces hover earnestly and
     silently in the gloomy twilight around
     the hallowed ruins, with the eternal
     laurel in their hair, covered with
     blood. Here the life of the noble poet
     found its destiny. Fate could not give
     him a more worthy grave.
     And everywhere the gloomy feelings pour
     themselves out in wild poetry. The
     magic wand endows the shapes with life,
     and yet only the demons descend, full
     of horror, defiant and wild. With their
     cold derision they wickedly torment and
     break hearts. The blessed powers that
     lead to salvation through suffering are
     alien to the man whose magic words
     reveal the inside of the terrible place
     where the curse and the sin live. And
     nowhere is there a glimmer of the light
     of peace, and the poetry is full of
     hell and not of heaven.
     And was that reflection of torment and
     passion born from the breast of a
     happy man? Was it a blissful heart at
     the bottom of which such deadly images
     were seething? When did it, steeped in
     the waters of mild longing, sing of
     love and the joys of fatherhood? Of
     the blissful union of happy family
     life? Of God and peace? When did it
     sing of comfort, when of noble pain?
     It has destroyed other hearts, but
     when did it give them an uplift? Envy
     it if you can. And yet it was
     the fate of this man to wear a poet's
     garland. Well, admit it: can he
     truthfully be called happy?
     Joseph Zedlitz was an Austrian  who wrote Die Nachtliche  Heerschau/The
Nocturnal  Review,  a poem  dealing with the  Napoleonic  legend (adapted by
Zhukovsky in 1836: nochnoi smotr). His Totenkranze is  a cycle of  134 poems
in canzone form (the canzone being songs or airs of a madrigal type, as well
as, more generally, stanzas of poetry) reviewing some  of the famous dead of
history. He  published Poems in 1832  and translated  Byron's  Childe Harold
(Ritter  Harolds Pilgerfahrt).  Tyutchev translated Cantos 80-93 of Garlands
for the Dead.
     Ahasuerus:  an  Old  Testament  king  of  Persia  (historically Xerxes,
488-465 BC).
     Newstead Abbey: the estate on which Byron was  born. In 1816 Byron left
England for good.
     45. NL first half  of 1829.  Tyutchev could be seen as the traveller in
the air  balloon, most  certainly  taking  advantage of  situations as  they
occurred.  His tragedy, or perhaps that of both his wives and his  mistress,
was precisely  that he did tend to  "float", not always with any clear sense
of direction.
     46. Early October, 1829. TR King Ludwig I of Bavaria: Nicolaus, das ist
der Volksbesieger/Nicholas is the Defeater of Peoples.
     Ludwig  was unable to  work  with the new liberal  powers gaining  more
influence in Germany  in the  first half of the nineteenth century  and  was
eventually forced to abdicate in favour of his son. He was in his own mind a
liberal  enough monarch and one  of the first to establish  an  arts policy,
amounting  in real terms to subsidies to arts ventures  in Bavaria. Tyutchev
would have been acting in character  by translating such verses in  order to
bring to himself the attention of  the Russian authorities as employers. The
world "Nicholas" is written in italics by both Tyutchev and Ludwig.
     I have yet to read Ludwig's poem.
     47.  NL  1829. This  is one of Tyutchev's  most disturbing  visions  of
nocturnal  and universal  loneliness. His best poems  give an impression  of
having  being  effortlessly  composed.  There  is nothing contrived, nothing
overtly "poetic".  It is a profoundly  aching, very personal vision to which
he returned  in a poem  of  the same title [391]  on his death  bed in 1873.
Already, still in  his twenties, the comforting warmth  and  security of the
existence  he had  known is showing cracks. In  later years,  he  frequently
complains  of sleeplessness  for  a  different reason.  Rheumatism  and gout
plagued him.
     48. NL  1829. Such a light,  magically vernal poem indicates Tyutchev's
ability to treat the diurnal side of existence at the same  time and just as
skilfully  as  its  blacker side  with  no  apparent inconsistency.  From  a
bird's-eye view in stanza  1, the poet returns us to  the ground  whence  we
observe mountain peaks swathed in mist as  if they  were  magic castles. The
images themselves are not unusual for the time, but the  sense of motion, of
floating  above the scene then looking  up at a different part of it is very
     49. NL 1829.  Oppressive  heat and  the feel of  perspiration  opposite
coolness and light make of this lyric a  playful  and sensual wonder. One is
reminded of Baudelaire's La Geante/The Giantess, if  not  thematically, then
in the languishing feeling of  succumbing to  heat.  (B:3/97)  Gregg's point
that in this period Nature is before it starts to mean may simply be looking
at  the  same  nature  from  two different  angles.  In vecher/Evening [53],
Tyutchev effectively scraps the "meaning" aspect of Solitude [11] to produce
a  simple,  very much condensed  version, a scene which says  nothing, which
does not need man to try to interpret it. In [53], Nature most certainly is.
However, the  poem  par  excellence which  seems  to present  a  Tyutchevian
philosophy  of Nature. Ne to, chto mnite vy, priroda/Nature  is not what you
think  it  is [121],  actually states the opposite of  Gregg's point: Nature
cannot  be the  object of empirical  investigation and, therefore, cannot be
said to mean anything. In this and  the many nature poems of  later periods,
Nature remains a thing which is. While Tyutchev, like any poet, will exploit
a given scene in order to make a poetic point, fundamentally he does not use
Nature  as an  entity  or a concept on which  to build any philosophical, or
even personal, ordered system of "meaning".
     50. NL  1829.  These  philosophical lines reverse the biblical creation
myth, the universe collapsing after waters have once more covered it and the
original divine breath/image has appeared. "In equating the Divine Will with
the  dissolution  of  the  ladder (Schelling's  evolutionary  steps  towards
perfection  - FJ) and a regression toward unconsciousness, the poet  has (if
we insist on looking at things  from Schelling's  viewpoint) "perverted" the
philosopher's thought; which is  a  roundabout way  of  saying  that he  has
preserved his own". (A:14)
     I have to agree  that Schelling, together  with  so  many thinkers  and
writers, was a sounding board for Tyutchev. Once assimilated, he became more
or less irrelevant.
     51. NL 1829.  Tyutchev  revels in the idea of adulterous sex, his final
vine  image leaving little to  the imagination. The  poem is imbued  with an
utterly amoral sense of delight in the forbidden. It is one  of several such
images, although few of the others are quite so suggestive.
     52. The  first  two  drafts,  entitled Probuzhdenie/The  Awakening, can
probably be dated NL 1829. The final version is from the late forties to the
first half of 1851. As in Son na more/A Dream at Sea [92], the lyric-hero is
seen asleep  or, at  least,  supine and  in  a  state of half-sleep, while a
mixture of real and hallucinatory "events" takes place around him.
     53.  NL  late  1820s.  Tyutchev's  short lyric  is reminiscent  of  his
translation of Lamartine  [11],  taking  the essence  of a simple  theme and
dealing  with  it  in simple  language.  Having read  the  longer  Lamartine
adaptation,  the  reader  is  struck by  Tyutchev's decision to  repeat  the
experience and the inspiration of the French post while omitting anything no
longer  necessary to him, as well  as  retaining what the French poet writes
and 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-hearted
precursor  of Kak  ni dyshit  polden'  znoinyi/Midday  breathes  its hottest
     55. Late 1820s. The symbolism of the confrontational roles of the eagle
and  the  swan  (the latter  also  part  of the  Bavarian emblem)  "was much
favoured in  European  poetry, for in this  symbolic  contest, the eagle  is
victor". (C:4ii/363-364)  In  Tyutchev's poem,  the swan  is  victorious. In
verse by  Lamartine, Hugo, Schlegel and Zedlitz, the eagle represents battle
and 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 dem
     Schlachtfelde von Marengo, und stieg fur einige
     Minuten aus dem Wagen, um meine Morgenandacht zu halten.
     Wie unter einem Triumphbogen von kolossalen
     Wolkenmassen zog die Sonne herauf, siegreich, heiter,
     sicher, einen schonen Tag verhei?end. Mir aber war
     zumute wie dem armen Monde, der verbleichend noch am
     Himmel stand. Er hatte seine einsame Laufbahn
     durchwandelt, in oder Nachtzeit, wo das Gluck schlief
     und nur Gespenster, Eulen und Sunder ihr Wesen
     trieben; und jetzt, wo der junge Tag hervorstieg, mit
     jubelnden Strahlen und flatterndem Morgenrot, jetzt
     mu?te er von dannen - noch ein wehmuhtiger Blick
     nach dem gro?en Weltlicht, und er verschwand wie
     duftiger Neble.
     "Es wird ein schoner Tag werden!" reif mein
     Reisegefahrte aus dem Wagen mir zu. Ja, es wird ein
     schoner Tag werden, wiederholte leise mein betendes
     Herz, und zitterte vor Wehmut und Freude. Ja, es wird
     ein schoner Tag werden, die Freiheitssonne wird die
     Erde glucklicher warmen, als die Aristokratie
     sammtlicher Sterne; emporbluhen wird ein neues
     Geschlecht, das erzeugt worden in freier
     Wahlumarmung, nicht in Zwangsbette und unter der
     Kontrolle geistlicher Zollner; mit der freien Geburt
     werden auch in den Menschen freie Gedanken und
     Gefuhle zur Welt kommen, wovon wir geborenen Knechte
     keine Ahnung haben - O! sie werden ebensowenig ahnen,
     wie entsetzlich die Nacht war, in deren Dunkel wir
     leben mu?ten, und wie grauenhaft wir zu kampfen
     hatten, mit ha?lichen Gespenstern, dumpfen Eulen und
     scheinheiligen Sundern! O wir armen Kampfer! die wir
     unsre Lebenszeit in solchem Kampfer vergeuden mu?ten,
     und mude und bleich sind, wenn der Siegestag
     hervorstrahlt! Die Glut des Sonnenaufgangs wird unsre
     Wangen nicht mehr roten und unsre Herzen nicht mehr
     warmen konnen, wir sterben dahin wie der scheidende
     Mond - allzu kurz gemessen ist des Menschen
     Wanderbahn, an deren Ende das unerbittliche Grab.
     Ich wei? wirklich nicht, ob ich es verdiene, da? man
     mir einst mit einem Lorbeerkranze den Sarg verziere.
     Die Poesie, wie sehr ich sie auch liebte, war immer
     nur heiliges Spielzeug, oder geweihtes Mittel fur
     himmlische Zwecke. Ich habe nie gro?en Wert gelegt
     auf Dichterruhm, und ob man meiner Lieder preiset
     oder tadelt, es kummert mich wenig. Aber ein Schwert
     sollt ihr mir auf den Sarg legen; denn ich war ein
     braver Soldat in Befreiungskriege der Menscheit.
     "I am a good Russian", I said on the battlefield of
     Marengo, and stepped out of my carriage for a few
     minutes to say my morning prayers.
     As through a triumphal arch of colossal cloud-
     masses, the sun rose, victoriously, cheerfully, in
     certainty, promising a fine day. But I felt sad, as
     does the poor moon which, faded, still hangs in the
     sky. It has travelled its lonely journey in the dreary
     night time where happiness sleeps and only spectres,
     owls and sinners revel; and now, where the young day
     is about to rise, with jubilant rays and flapping
     morning red, now it has to leave - sending a wistful
     glance at the great world-light, and it has
     disappeared like a gossamer cloud.
     "It's going to be a nice day", my travelling
     companion called to me from the carriage. Yes, it will
     be a nice day, my praying heart repeated softly, and
     trembled with melancholy and joy. Yes, it will be a
     nice day, on which the suns of freedom will happily
     warm the earth, more gladly than the aristocracy of
     all the stars; A new race will rise, born in a free
     embrace and not constrained to marriage, not watched
     by 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 no
     conception. Ah, they will not understand how horrible
     was the night in whose darkness we were compelled to
     live, how bitterly we had to fight with frightful
     ghosts, stupid owls and sanctimonious sinners! Alas,
     we poor warriors who have had to squander our lives
     in such combat, and are weary and spent, now that the
     victory is at hand! The sunrise glow can no longer
     flush our checks and warm our hearts. We perish like
     the waning moon. All too brief is man's allotted
     course, and his end is the implacable grave!
     Truly, I do not know whether I deserve that a laurel
     wreath be placed on my bier: Poetry, much as I loved
     it, has always been to me only a sacred plaything, or,
     at best, a consecrated means to a heavenly end. I
     have never laid great store by poetic glory, and
     whether my songs are praised or blamed matters
     little to me. But lay a sword on my bier, for I have
     been a good soldier in the wars of human liberation.
     Tyutchev chooses blank  verse for his relatively  faithful translation,
although he does change  the order  of the sections, beginning  with Heine's
third paragraph ("It's going to be  a nice day"), continuing with his first,
though omitting "I am a good  Russian" and simply beginning, "Thus I thought
....", and retaining the final third in  its  right place"  ("Truly I do not
     Heine wrote his Travel Sketches over the years 1824-1830. In late 1824,
he  set  off on a walking tour of the  north German mountains and climbed in
the  Harz. The sketches  are a  colourful depiction of bodily  and spiritual
freedom after the stuffy academicism of Gottingen.
     Erebus: the dark cavern between Earth and Hades.
     57. Late 1829-early 1830. Addressee unknown. The Romantic  image of the
poet  in  the  first few  lines is widespread and appears more than  once in
Pushkin. Here, as in [58], it is likely to be autobiographical.
     58.  Late  1829-early 1850. Addressee unknown. Tyutchev  uses the  noun
dusha  ambiguously. On  one level he could  be  addressing  a woman.  On the
other, it could be an early indication of dusha used  in the more  spiritual
sense of "soul".
     59.  Probably late 1820s. TR Goethe,  from  Faust (pt.1). This  section
immediately  follows  the  Zueignung/Dedication and  the  Vorspiel  auf  dem
Theater/Prologue  in  the  Theatre.  The  Lord,  the  heavenly  hosts,  then
Mephistopheles are  present.  The  opening  lines  are  spoken  by the three
archangels as they step forward.
     1. (Prolog im Himmel)
     Die Sonne tont, nach alter Weise,
     In Bruderspharen Wettgesang,
     Und ihre vorgeschriebne Reise
     Vollendet sie mit Donnergang.
     Ihr Anblick gibt den Engeln Starke,
     Wenn keiner sie ergrunden mag.
     Die unbegreiflich hohen Werke
     Sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.
     Und schnell und unbegreiflich schnelle
     Dreht sich umher der Erde Pracht;
     Es wechselt Paradieses-Helle
     Mit tiefer, schauervoller Nacht;
     Es schaumt das Meer im breiten Flussen
     Am tiefen Grund der Felsen auf,
     Und Fels und Meer wird fortgerissen
     In ewig schnellem Spharenlauf.
     Und Sturme brausen um die Wette
     Vom Meer aufs Land, vom Land aufs Meer,
     Und bilden wutend eine Kette
     Der tiefsten Wirkung rings umher.
     Da flammt ein blitzendes Verheeren
     Dem Pfade vor des Donnerschlags.
     Doch deine Boten, Herr, verehren
     Das sanfte Wandeln deines Tags.
     Zu Drei
     Der Anblick gibt den Engein Starke
     Da keiner dich ergrunden mag,
     Und alle deine hohen Werke
     Sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag.
     2. In his study, Faust has been perusing a book written by Nostradamus.
As he  pronounces  the symbol of  the earth spirit, the spirit  appears in a
reddish flame.
     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 Grauen
     Fa?t Ubermenschen dich! Wo ist der Seele Ruf?
     Wo ist die Brust? die eine Welt in sich erschuf,
     Und trug und hegte; die mit Freudebeben
     Erschwoll, 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 Tatensturm
     Wall' 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.
     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 Sehnen
     Trieb 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)
     Doch la? uns dieser Stunde schones Gut,
     Durch solchen Trubsinn, nicht verkummern!
     Betrachte, wie in Abendsonneglut
     Die 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 Abendstrahl
     Die stille Welt zu meinen Fu?en,
     Entzundet alle Hohn, beruhigt jedes Tal,
     Den Silberbach in goldne Strome flie?en.
     Nicht hemmte dann den gottergleichen Lauf
     Der wilde Berg mit allen seinen Schluchten;
     Schon tut das Meer sich mit erwarmten Buchten
     Vor 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 leicht
     Kein 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 Fichtenhohen
     Der 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 song
was also published separately in Balladen/Ballads.
     Es war ein Konig in Thule
     Gar treu bis und das grab,
     Dem sterbend seine Buhle
     Einen 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 Becher
     Hinunter in die Flut.
     Er sah ihn sturzen, trinken
     Und 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 as
he begins this monologue.
     (Wald and Hohle)
     Faust (allein).
     Erhabner Geist, du gabst mir, gabst mir alles,
     Warum ich bat. Du hast mir nicht umsonst
     Dein Angesicht im Feuer zugewendet.
     Gabst mir die herrliche Natur zum Konigreich,
     Kraft, sie zu fuhlen, zu genie?en. Nicht
     Kalt staunenden Besuch erlaubst du nur,
     Vergonnest mir in ihre tiefe Brust,
     Wie in den Busen eines Freunds, zu schauen.
     Du fuhrst die Reihe der Lebendigen
     Vor mir vorbei, und lehrst mich meine Bruder
     Im stillen Busch, in Luft und Wasser kennen.
     Und wenn der Sturm im Walde braust und knarrt,
     Die Riesenfichte, sturzend, Nachbaraste
     Und Nachbarstamme, quetschend, niederstreift,
     Und ihrem Fall dumpf hohl der Hugel donnert,
     Dann fuhrst du mich zur sichern Hohle, zeigst
     Mich dann mir selbst, und meiner eignen Brust
     Geheime tiefe Wunder offnen sich.
     Und steigt vor meinem Blick der reine Mond
     Besanftigend heruber, schweben mir
     Von Felsenwanden, aus dem feuchten Busch,
     Der Vorwelt silberne Gestalten auf,
     Und lindern der Betrachtung strenge Lust.
     The sun rings out in the ancient way,
     competing in song with its brother's spheres,
     thunderously completing
     its predestined journey.
     The sight of it gives strength to the angels,
     though none can fathom it;
     the inexplicably lofty works
     are as magnificent as on the first day.
     Swiftly, incomprehensibly swiftly
     earth revolves in its magnificence.
     Paradise which had embraced the sky
     is replaced by deep, horror-filled night.
     The sea's broad waters foam
     against the cliff's deep base,
     the sea and cliffs are carried off
     by the eternally swift race of the spheres.
     And storms roar in competition
     from sea to land, from land to sea,
     and in rage they chain
     everything over which they had any influence.
     Flaming, devastating lightning
     seers the path of the thunder claps;
     yet thy heralds still worship, o Lord,
     the gentle progress of thy day.
     All Three
     The sight of it gives strength to the angels,
     sine none can fathom you,
     and all your lofty works
     are as magnificent as on the first day.
     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 before
     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 world
     within it
     and bore and cared for it, which in joyful trembling
     rose to be the equal of us spirits?
     Where are you, Faust, whose voice summoned me
     with such mad power?
     Are you the one who, wafted by my breath,
     tremble at the edge of life's abyss
     like a worm writhing in life's abyss
     like 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 energy
     I 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)
     Faust. Why do you seek me, powerful, gentle
     sounds of heaven, in the dust?
     Ring there, where men are milder.
     I hear your message, all that
     lacks in me is belief
     Miracles are the fondest child of faith.
     I dare not strive towards those spheres
     where 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 me
     in the grave stillness of the Sabbath.
     The bells, full of premonition, rang out
     and a prayer was a sensual pleasure.
     A sacred longing I could not comprehend
     impelled me through wood and meadow
     and beneath a thousand hot tears
     I sensed a world come into being.
     This song announced to lively youth
     the free joy of the festival of spring.
     That memory fills me with a child's sensation
     and pulls me back from that final, grave step.
     Ring out strong, you songs of heaven!
     Tears pour, I belong to Earth once more.
     Yet let us not destroy the beauty
     of this hour with such gloom.
     Look closer, see in the heat of the evening sun
     the 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 ground
     to strive and ever follow it!
     I would see in the eternal rays of evening
     the 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 up
     by wild mountains with their gorges;
     already the glistening bays of the ocean
     spread 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 join
     onto those incorporeal wings.
     Yet it comes naturally to us all
     to press onwards and everywhere,
     when above us, lost in the blue expanse
     ithe lark trills its song,
     when above the spruce's sharp tops
     the eagle soars wide-winged,
     the cranes point homewards.
     There was a king in Thule,
     true till the day he died.
     His dying mistress
     gave him a golden goblet.
     He kept it in safe keeping
     to use when he wanted a drink.
     He was close to tears
     whenever he drank from it.
     And when he was on his deathbed,
     he counted up the towns in his kingdom,
     left everything to his heir
     but kept the cup.
     He sat at the royal feast,
     his knights all around him
     in 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 goblet
     down into the waves.
     He watched it fall
     and sink deep into the sea.
     His eyes lost their energy,
     He never drank again.
     Faust. (alone)
     Powerful spirit, you have given me
     everything I asked for. Not in vain
     you 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 breast
     as in the bosom of a dear friend.
     You paraded rows of living things
     before me, teaching me to recognise
     my brothers in the quiet bush, the air, the water.
     And when the storm roared through the creaking
     hurling down the giant spruce's neighbouring boughs,
     bruising the trunks standing close together
     until 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 soul
     and let the pure moon rise before my eyes,
     sailing soothingly, and there appeared to me
     from cliff walls, from the damp bush
     the silver forms of a prehistoric time
     to ease the severe desire of contemplation.
     Goethe began  Faust as a young  man  and completed it in 1831, just one
year before he died.
     60. Late  1820s. TR Alessandro Manzoni  (1785-1873): Il cinque  maggio.
Ode/The Fifth of May. An  Ode  from Odi e Frammento di Canzone/Odes and Song
     La procellosa e trepida
     Gioia d'un gran disegno,
     L'ansia d'un cor che indocile
     Serve, pensando al regno;
     E il giunge, e tiene un premio
     Ch'era follia sperar;
     Tutto ei provo: la gloria
     Maggior 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 arbitro
     S'assise in mezzo a lor.
     E sparve, e i di nell'ozio
     Chiuse in si breve sponda,
     Segno d'immensa invidia
     E di pieta profonda,
     D'inestiguibil odio
     E d'indomato amor.
     Come sul capo al naufrago
     L'onda s'avvolve e pesa,
     L'onda su cui del misero,
     Alta pur dianzi e tesa,
     Scorrea la vista a scernere
     Prode remote invan;
     Tal su quell'alma il cumulo
     Delle memorie scese!
     Oh quante volte ai posteri
     Narrar se stesso imprese,
     E sull'eterne pagine
     Cadde la stanca man!
     Oh quante volte, al tacito
     Morir d'un giorno inerte,
     Chianti i rai fulminei,
     Le braccia al sen conserte,
     Stette, e dei di che furono
     L'assalse il sovvenir!
     E ripenso le mobili
     Tende, 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 strazio
     Cadde lo spirto anelo,
     E dispero; ma valida
     Venne una man dal cielo
     E in piu spirabil aere
     Pietosa il trasporto;
     E l'avvio, pei floridi
     Sentier della speranza,
     Ai campi eterni, al premio
     Che i desideri avanza,
     Dov'e silenzio e tenebre
     La gloria che passo.
     Bella Immortal! benefica
     Fede ai trionfi avvezza!
     Scrivi ancor questo, allegrati;
     Che piu superba altezza
     Al disonor de Golgota
     Giammai non si chino.
     Tu dalle stanche ceneri
     Sperdi ogni ria parola;
     Il Dio che atterra e suscita,
     Che affanna e che consola,
     Sulla deserta coltrice
     Accanto a lui poso.
     The impetuous and fearful
     joy of a great design,
     the anxiety of a heart that unsubserviently
     serves, aspiring to the crown,
     and attains the design and receives a prize
     that it was madness to hope for.
     Everything he experienced; the greatest
     glory, 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 idleness
     closed on such a small shore,
     a symbol of great envy
     and of deep pity,
     of inextinguishable hate
     and indomitable love.
     As over the head of the shipwrecked man
     a wave arches over and hangs,
     the wave from which
     a moment before the wretch's
     sight, as he was borne high on it,
     in vain sought the remote shore,
     it was upon that soul the heap
     of accumulated memories fall!
     Oh, how often to posterity
     he tried to tell his tale,
     and upon the eternal pages, tired,
     this weary hand fell.
     How often at the silent fall
     of 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 by
     besieged him.
     And he recalled the mobile
     tents, the resounding valley,
     the flashes of the infantry,
     the waves of horses,
     the excited command,
     and the quick obedience.
     Oh, perhaps after such toil
     his breathless spirit fell
     and despaired; but steadfast
     came a hand from heaven
     and full of pity
     bore him to more breathable air.
     And bore him away along the flowery
     paths of hope
     to the eternal field, to the prize
     that excels all desire,
     when the glory that was
     is but silence and darkness.
     The  ode  was  dedicated to  Napoleon.  As  far  as we  know,  Tyutchev
translated only stanzas 7-18.
     On the appearance of this poem in 1821, Goethe immediately published  a
German  translation  in  his  review  Uber Kunst  und  Altertum/On  Art  and
Antiquity. Manzoni was a Christian  for whom Providence had  much to do with
history, whose great protagonists are guided by it. A theme of his poetry is
the  ephemeralness of  human activity.  He was  fascinated  by Napoleon  and
certain images in the above work are reminiscent of Tyutchev's poem Napoleon
[162]. The idea of  a colossus such  as Napoleon  straddling  two centuries,
"like a symbol of a superior Will, though self-appointed, to  settle chaotic
turmoils" (B:25i/52) was the intellectual commonplace of the day and  is not
unknown in  Tyutchev.  In a  letter written in 1865 to E. De Amicis, Manzoni
wrote: "Religion and  Fatherland  are two great truths, in fact, in  varying
degrees,  two  holy  truths".  (ibid.). Such  words  smack  of  Tyutchev the
political 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 affliges
     Imitaient 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 formidable
     Repond 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 main
     Il lui fait dans le flanc une large blessure.
     De rage et de douleur le monstre bondissant
     Vient aux pieds des chevaux tomber en mugissant,
     Se roule, et leur presente une gueule enflammee
     Qui 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 Hippolyte
     Voit voler en eclats tout son char fracasse;
     Dans les renes lui-meme, il tombe embarrasse.
     Excusez ma douleur: cette image cruelle
     Sera pour moi de pleurs une source eternelle;
     J'ai vu, seigneur, j'ai vu votre malheureux fils
     Traine 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 antiques
     Ou 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 degouttantes
     Portent 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 expire
     N'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 guards
     all 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 proud
     and eager to obey his command,
     now with heads lowered and mournful eye
     appearing to match their gait to his own reverie.
     All of a sudden a horrible roar
     from the depths of the sea shocked the air
     and a loud voice from the earth's breast
     groaning 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 out
     before our eyes
     a 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 shot
     opened a large wound in the monster's side.
     In pain and rage, the leaping monster
     fell howling at the horses' feet,
     rolled over, showed them its fiery mouth
     and enveloped them in flame, blood and smoke.
     They fled in panic, deafened,
     heeding neither reins nor voice,
     while their master vainly struggled to stop them
     and they reddened their bits with bloody froth.
     Some say they saw in all the dreadful chaos
     a god goading their dusty backs.
     Their terror drove them across rocks.
     The axle screamed and broke. The bold Hyppolytus
     saw his chariot explode in bright slivers.
     The unfortunate prince fell tangled in the reins.
     Forgive my grief. This cruel picture
     will be a constant source of tears.
     I saw your son, Lord, your unfortunate son
     dragged by the horses he had fed and trained.
     He tried to stop them but his voice scared them even
     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 shrines
     where 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 dripping
     and bearing the bloody scraps of his scalp.
     I get to him, calling his name. Giving me his hand
     he 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 plaintive
     by treating his captive with gentleness
     and by restoring ...." With these words the dead hero
     left only a disfigured corpse in my arms,
     a sad victim of the gods' angry triumph
     whom not even his father would recognise.
     Phedre is  characterised by  a  sense of  fatality  which oppresses its
players, who are surrounded by  horror and  cruelty as well as  motivated by
their own guilty feelings  and instincts.  (B:34/91) In Phedre the gods play
with  man, as they do  in a  later poem  by Tyutchev,  Dva golosa/Two Voices
[179]. In  addressing  himself to this work,  Tyutchev  might well have been
facing  the  cosmic fear  which  haunts so  many  of  his  lyrics, making  a
Pascalian choice by translating  the death  scene. It is interesting to note
that Tyutchev, who may, of course, have translated more than the one extract
of Racine's Phedre, chose from the French play a scene about the sea and the
chaos which  that  particular  element  produced in  his  mind.  It is clear
throughout   his  oeuvre   that  the  constant,  turbulent  unpredictability
associated with the sea was an extremely potent poetic force.
     The notion of Fate is very Tyutchevian and recurs  throughout the poems
and letters.
     62. Late  1820s-NE  first third  1832.  TR Goethe: Nachtgendanken/Night
Thoughts (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 Stunden
     Eure Reihen durch den weiten Himmel.
     Welche Reise habt ihr schon vollendet
     Seit ich weilend in den Arm der Liebsten
     Euer 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 travel
     their ways across the wide heavens.
     What journeys you have already completed
     since in the arms of my beloved
     I have forgotten you and midnight.
     63.  Late  1820s-early 1830s. TR  Shakespeare (1564-1616): A  Midsummer
Night's Dream. Theseus's words and Puck's song from  Act V, Scenes  I and II
respectively. Both  translations are faithful to  the sense, rhyme and metre
of the originals.
     The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
     Are 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 to
     And, as imagination bodies forth
     The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
     Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
     A local habitation and a name.
     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 loud
     Puts the wretch that lies in woe
     In remembrance of a shroud.
     Now it is the time of night
     That the graves all gaping wide,
     Every one lets forth its sprite,
     In the church-way paths to glide.
     64. No  later  than early 1830. Quoting this work in  an article  about
Tyutchev, the  poet  and editor  Nekrasov (1821-78) wrote: "The final verses
are  amazing:  reading  them, you  sense  an  involuntary  shudder".  (B:29,
     65. 1830.  TR Victor  Hugo (1802-85): Hernani,  written from August  to
September, 1829, and set in the Spain of 1519. Don Carlos's monologue before
the  tomb  of  the   Holy  Roman  emperor,  Charles  the  Great  (IV,2).  At
Aix-la-Chapelle, Don  Carlos (Charles V) awaits news of the election  of the
new Emperor.

     Don Carlos, seul.
     Charlemagne, pardon! ces voutes solitaires
     Ne devraient repeter que paroles austeres.
     Tu t'indignes sans doute a ce bordonnement
     Que 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 pensee
     Que 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 terre
     Que pour eux et par eux. Un supreme mystere
     Vit 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 la
     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 ont
     Leur 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 blanc
     L'univers ebloui contemple avec terreur
     Ces 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-mele
     Royaumes, pour en faire une Europe nouvelle,
     Et tous deux remettant au moule de leur main
     Le 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 poussiere
     Que fait un empereur! Couvrez la terre entiere
     De bruit et de tumulte; elevez, batissez
     Votre 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 etages
     Etre la clef de voute, et voir sous soi ranges
     Les 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 nous
     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! -
     Base de nations portant sur leurs epaules
     La 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 reflux
     Roule, 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 vaults
     should echo only austere words.
     You must be annoyed at this buzzing
     that 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 fiefs
     kingdoms, 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 earth
     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 the
     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 exists
     on earth
     but for them and by them. A supreme mystery
     lives in them, and heaven, whence they take all their
     spreads a great feast for them of peoples and of
     and holds them under its skies where the thunder
     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 at
     the door,
     breathing in the aromas of the foodstuffs brought
     looking through the window, attentive, bored,
     straining up to see from tiptoe.
     The world beneath them is layered and in order of
     They make and unmake. One unties, the other cuts.
     One is truth, the other is power. They are right
     in themselves, they are because they are.
     When, both equal, they leave the altar,
     one in his purple, the other in the white of the
     the blinded universe observes with terror
     these two halves of God, the pope and the emperor.
     - The emperor! The emperor! To be emperor! Oh, the
     not 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 way
     kingdoms, in order to make of it all a new Europe,
     and both redoing in the mould of their hands
     the 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 ends
     his 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 dust
     that an emperor becomes! Cover the entire earth
     with noise and commotion; raise up, build
     your 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 me
     kings, 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!
     Bearing the base of nations on their shoulders, the
     enormous 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 you
     are but a man!
     To have the abyss there! ...................

     Hernani opened  on  February  25th., 1830. The  theme  of fatality runs
through the  play. In Tyutchev it is rarely far away, from the jocular lines
of an early verse  [6] to  the haunting  poem  on the death  of his  brother
[365].  One commentator says of Hernani: "... the way to light is blocked by
some fatality, crouched and lying wait."  (B:19/ii/81).  Tyutchev  certainly
berates Destiny  more than once and,  indeed, must often have considered his
life  to  be one  of pitfalls. Writing to Ernestine, about  to travel during
December (1853), he works himself up into a state  of  near  panic  that she
will not take care of herself: "And if you were to fall ill on the  journey?
And what if  that were  to be  the  trap  which  Fate had chosen  for me  as
punishment for my dissipations?" In  a letter to  the  widow Elena Bogdanova
(1822-1900), with whom  he enjoyed a probably  Platonic affair  in the final
half dozen years of his life,  he writes: "There  are things  in  life which
seem not to be the  making of man  ... fate itself, a  very obvious fate ...
With one blow a single word can kill  the Past  and the Present and you need
some  time to  recover from such a shock". A number  of images  from Hernani
recur in  later poems,  one of  the  most frequent  being that of a sense of
floating,  or in  some way being above  the world of  man.  In  a  letter to
Ernestine (Oct. 13th.,  1842), we read: "The young  princess made her  entry
the  day  before yesterday.  I  watched  from Bouvreuil's  window. It  was a
magnificent  sight, Ludwig  Street paved  from one  end to  the  other  with
people's heads, pressed so  close together  that they seemed motionless, and
then, when the princess's carriage approached, they were  set in motion, and
there was something  so strong and  so  stormy in  this oscillating movement
stamped upon the crowd, that I could not observe it without feeling giddy. I
have never seen anything like  it". Son na more/A  Dream at Sea [92] remains
the most famous example of this.
     66. 1830.  The  repetitive, galloping  rhythm,  suggesting  the awesome
power  of the  stormy waters,  is employed  in such  hypnotic  sea-lyrics as
     67.   1830.  TR  Goethe:  Der  Sanger/The  Singer,  from  Balladen  und
Romanzen/Ballads and Romances (1800). An earlier edition appeared in Wilhelm
Meister's Apprenticeship.
     "Was hor' ich drau?en vor dem Tor,
     Was auf der Brucke schallen?
     La? den Gesang vor unserm Ohr
     Im 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 Herrlichkeit
     Schlie?t, Augen, euch; hier ist nicht Zeit,
     Sich staunend zu ergotzen."
     Der Sanger druckt' die Augen ein
     Und schlung in vollen Tonen;
     Die Ritter schauten mutig drein
     Und 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 Angesicht
     Der Feinde Lanzen splittern!
     Gib sie dem Kanzier, den du hast,
     Und la? ihn noch die goldne Last
     Zu 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 Weins
     In 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 ich
     Fur diesen Trunk euch danke."
     "What do I hear outside the gates,
     what sounds on the bridge?
     Let the song before our ears
     resound 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 time
     to stand in amazed delight."
     The singer lowers his eyes
     and 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 knights
     for their bravery,
     for splitting lances with the enemy!
     Give it to your clerks,
     add it to their other burdens.
     I sing as the bird sings
     living in the trees;
     the song which leaves my throat
     is reward enough for me.
     Well, if I must ask, so be it:
     Tell them to pass me your best wine
     in a pure, gold goblet!"
     He raises it, he drank it down:
     "Oh, what sweet refreshment!
     Oh let this house be highly blessed
     where this counts as a meagre gift!
     Stay healthy and remember me,
     and thank God as warmly
     as I thank you for this drink."
     68. Late May, 1830. The poem reflects Tyutchev's impressions of part of
a return journey home.  He left  Munich on May 16th. Writing to Ernestine in
1847,  he says, "'s  a  great consolation, after  three  long years  of
plains and bogs ... to  see lovely, big,  real mountains  which don't become
clouds on  the horizon when you look more closely at them." Nonetheless, the
Russian poems are brilliant examples of negative nature description.
     69.  1830.  The natural  elements  in  many of Tyutchev's short  nature
lyrics  can be  actors, each having a small, clearly defined role in a poem.
In this lyric, the storm, the oak, the smoke "running"  (bezhal), as it does
through Hus's pyre [356]), then the "fuller", "more resonant" singing of the
birds  and finally the rainbow restfully leaning its  arc in the heights  of
the trees constitute  a marvellous, simple  picture  of  peace,  a precisely
chosen title.
     70.  1830.  Addressees  unknown.  Possibly  inspired  by  renewing  old
Petersburg acquaintanceships during the summer of 1830,  it could equally be
addressed  to his  wife's  sister,  Klothilde.  Klothilde  was  living  with
Tyutchev and Eleonore at about the time the poem was written and by then, as
Gregg rightly points out, "Nelly, four years her husband's senior and mother
of three (and perhaps four), was crowding thirty, whereas, Clothilde, a full
ten years  younger than her sister, was a lovely girl in her late teens.  As
for  Tyutchev,  his  conjugal  ardour  had already  cooled  enough to  allow
extramarital attachments." (A:14)
     71. 1830. Addressee unknown. Tyutchev may well have in mind a  youthful
"crush". I  cannot  accept Gregg's  "erotic attachment  to  the  prospect of
female suffering"  (A:14/64) While Tyutchev was in some ways a  very selfish
man, Gregg's psychoanalytical statement is too sweeping.
     72. NL 1830. A possible inspiration is the July revolution in France in
1830, with its tragic Polish repercussions. Poland suffered three partitions
(1772, 1793 and 1795), effectively ceasing  to exist as a nation-state until
1918 as Russia, Austria and Prussia split her up among themselves. Following
the French example, the Poles governed by Russia rebelled in 1830 and Russia
reacted with brutality.
     Tyutchev was  interested  in  Cicero  (106-43  BC).  The Roman  orator,
philosopher and statesman took cultural  and intellectual values to the rest
of  Europe. In Tyutchev's  book collection was  an  edition of  the  Roman's
letters in  a German  translation.  Lines 3-4 are a paraphrase from Cicero's
Brutus,  sive dialogus  de  claris  oratoribus/Brutus,  or  a Dialogue about
Famous Orators, XCVI/330): "I'm sad that, stepping for  the  first time onto
life's road, somewhat late, I was plunged into this republican night."
     73. 1830. This depiction of the Russian countryside, while replete with
warm,  almost  comforting  images,  is  nonetheless  about  death.  Lane has
indicated  Tyutchev's progression  from the religion of Horace (hedonism) to
an acceptance that suffering can be a fine thing. (A:18viii).
     74. 1830. The image of autumnal leaves is repeated in a later poem, the
emphasis reversed. Here,  as autumn closes, leaves flee it in an image  of a
light-hearted and youthful  desire  to  flee  death. In [194]  summer storms
repeat the  happiness  of  earlier  lyrics yet,  even though  summer 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 and
     ....The bloody time: the period when the German Order of the Knights of
the Sword governed (1202-1562).
     76.  October, 1830, returning  to  Munich.  The  last two lines  are  a
variation of lines 7-8, st. 1, from Goethe's Willkomm und Abschied/A Welcome
and 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 Gestrauche
     Mit hundert schwarzen Augen sah.
     My heart beat, the horse sped me on,
     it was done faster than thought.
     Already evening weighed down upon the earth
     and night hung in the mountains;
     the oak already stood dressed in cloud,
     a towering giant standing there,
     where darkness looked from the bushes
     looked out with a hundred black eyes.
     Describing such a  ride,  involving  several dark, eerie elements  of a
nocturnal landscape, Goethe wrote, "what fortune it is to have a light, free
heart!" (Letter  of June 27th. 1770). (B:13v,  vol.1/14) Tyutchev's attitude
to the dark  side of  nature,  especially  when associated with  Russia, was
quite the opposite.
     77. 1830. The beneficent  gods  of this deceptively simple poem and  of
Tsitseron/Cicero [72] offer man a share in nature  and history.  They do not
always act so, as in Dva golosa/Two Voices [179].
     78. 1830. N. Berkovsky considers the poem to be aimed at Schelling  and
his followers,  for whom  dowsers were "sacred people,  entrusted  by nature
herself". (A:3/37-39)
     79.  1830. The imagery reflects  that of the  lyric on the  Decembrists
[30], its slightly
     singsong rhythm setting it apart as a political poem under the guise of
a nonetheless accurate description of dawn breaking over the Alps.
     80. 1830. Influenced by the description of the environs of Rome in Mme.
de   Stael's  novel,   Corinne,   ou  l'Italie/Corinna,   or  Italy   (B:38,
pt.V,ch.3/124).  She  writes, "In  a manner  of  speaking, this bad air lays
siege to Rome; each year it advances by a few steps and people are forced to
abandon the most charming places  to its empire; undoubtedly the absence  of
trees in  the countryside surrounding  the town is one of the causes  of the
pollution of the air, and it may be due to that that the ancient Romans  had
dedicated  the  woods  to  goddesses, so  that the  people should be made to
respect them. The bad air is a  scourge  of Rome's  inhabitants, threatening
the  town  with complete  depopulation...  The maleficent  influence is  not
observable through any external  sign; you breath  an air which appears very
pleasant;  the  land  laughs  in  its fertility;  during  evenings, a  sweet
freshness offers you repose from the burning day, and all of this is death!"
     Mme. de Stael was the  influential  Swiss writer credited with  coining
the term "Romanticism".
     81. NL  1830. Creusa, the  wife  of Aeneas,  was not destined to  leave
Troy.  Falling  ever  farther  behind her  husband,  she was  taken  back by
Aphrodite, Aeneas's mother. When Aeneas returned to find her, he was met  by
her ghost.
     82. NL 1830. This lyric,  so imbued with rapture at  spring's approach,
was  described by  Nekrasov as "one of the best pictures" ever to come  from
Tyutchev's  pen.  (B:29/208) It  certainly shows  Tyutchev able  to  take an
incredibly  joyful  scene and  depict it  in  extremely simple  terms. Elzon
(A:10/198) considers that Turgenev's (1818-83) epigraph to his story Veshnie
vody/Vernal Waters (B:40ii, vol.11/7) is influenced by lines from Tyutchev's
poem. The epigraph is as follows:
     Vesyolye vody, Cheerful waters,
     Schastlivye dni- happy days -
     Kak veshnie vody like vernal waters
     Promchalis' oni. they have flashed by.
     83.  Probably no later than 1830. One  of Tyutchev's  best-known  poems
(the Latin title  his own) and Tolstoy's  favourite. While tending to adhere
to  traditional   metrical  patterns,   Tyutchev   occasionally  broke  with
tradition, in this case displeasing Turgenev (the editor).
     The  first  stanza is  as  follows  (the  acute accent  indicating  the
stressed 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.		- ? - ? - ? - ?

     Disliking  the change from iambs in lines  4 and 5, Turgenev amended as
     I vskhodyat i zaydut one, - ? - ? - ? - ?
     kak zvyozdy yasnye v nochi. - ? - ? - ? - ?
     Tyutchev's rhythm is wonderfully unexpected. While he began his writing
career as a poet,  Turgenev did not  possess a natural talent in this field,
although  he  was  ready nonetheless  to  take  a similar liberty  with  Kak
ptichka, ranneyu zaryoyu/The  whole  world starts as sunlight streams [110],
replacing Tyutchev's striking
O noch', noch', gde tvoi pokrovy	- ? ? ? - ? - ? -
	with the bland iambic pentameters of
	Noch', noch', o gde tvoi pokrovy?	- ? - ? - ? - ? -

     84. NL 1830. This fine precursor of his later work shares images common
to two such different lyrics as Dym/Smoke [320] and Gus na kostre/Hus at the
Stake [356] as well as the contemporary Sizhu zadumchiv i odin/I sit deep in
thought and alone [115]. At the age of 27, the awareness of the ephemerality
of  life  and  the speeding  up  of  time  is  appearing in  his  work  more
     85. NE 1830-NL early 1833.  Addressee unknown. The  poem's beginning is
similar to lines from Priznanie/A Declaration by A. Khomyakov (1804-60):
     Usta s privetnoyu ulybkoi
     Rumyanets barkhatnykh lanit
     Lips with a smile of greeting,
     the red of velvet lashes.
     Khomyakov was the best  known Slavophil, a poet, philosopher of history
and theologian.
     86.  Possibly September,  1831.  On  August 26th., 1831, Russian troops
took  Warsaw. In  connection  with  this, an anti-Russian  campaign had been
conducted in the Bavarian press. The Polish seim (the diet) had declared its
Revolution on December 20th., 1830.
     In the Aeneid, having angered the goddess Artemides, Agamemnon was told
to  sacrifice his  daughter, Iphigenia. His readiness  to  proceed with this
sacrifice earned him fair winds  for  Troy  and  placated  the goddess,  who
spared the daughter and took her  away to be  a priestess in the land of the
Taurians (present-day Crimea).
     The janissaries were elite Turkish soldiers, originally renegade slaves
and Christian children taken in tribute.
     87. Date unknown. Tyutchev undertook a sea voyage in the second half of
1833 when he was  despatched from Munich to Greece  on  diplomatic business.
This very effective poem,  one of  several which are never anthologised with
more famous works yet which show his talents as a master of metre, rhyme and
humour (see [346, 350]), may reflect his impressions  of an enforced stop on
the Dalmatian coast. Son na more/A Dream at  Sea  [92]  deals with a similar
subject,  sharing  the storm setting  and  unexpected metrical  changes, the
latter  in [87]  first noted  by Lane  (A:18viii). Tyutchev was conventional
when it  came  to  a  poem's layout and generally  narrow in his  choice  of
themes, so these similarities are too much of  a coincidence. Could  he have
made this up, or  did he have  an old story in  his  mind during  the storm?
Perhaps he heard or half-heard a tale. He was, after all, forever dozing off
or daydreaming and  waking  to half-hear something. Lane feels instinctively
that  it is a translation or a poem on a theme of another poet and I tend to
     A:18x/275 is a  discussion of this mission  to  Greece which, while  it
produced one of the most famous poems,  [92], did his career no good at all.
Indeed, Tyutchev the diplomat "acquired and retained the reputation of being
a failure - a judgement with which he heartily agreed".
     The Bavarian Prince  Otto was the first  king of the newly  independent
Greece (reigned 1833-62). Persistently inept, he  was finally ejected  after
an insurrection in 1862.
     88. NL early 1832. TR Uhland: Fruhlingsruhe/Peace in Springtime, [3] of
the 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 obenhin
     Die 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 floating
     the 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's
characterisation  of  the  emperor in  the  second  article of  Franzosische
Zustande/French Affairs in which Heine wrote: "Lafayette ... is not a genius
as Napoleon was, in whose  head the eagles of  inspiration had nested, while
in his heart the snakes of calculation writhed". (B:15iii, vol.3/95).
     Considering  Napoleon  a  monstrous  child  of  the  French revolution,
Chateaubriand  (1768-1848) went further  and played on the non-Frenchness of
the  emperor: "Each  nation  has  its  vices. Those of  the  French  are not
treason, blackheartedness, ingratitude. The murder of the Duke of Enghien...
the war in  Spain... reveal  in Buonaparte  a  nature  foreign  to  that  of
France". (B:8/70)
     The  French  author,  secretary  of the  French embassy  in  Rome under
Napoleon resigned on the execution  of the Duke  of Enghien. This "father of
Romanticism" in French  literature served the  cause of the  Bourbons  in De
Buonaparte, des Bourbons/About Bonaparte  and the  Bourbons  (B:8)  just one
year before Napoleon's final defeat.
     Pushkin  failed  to  have   the   poem  published  in   Sovremennik/The
Contemporary. Banning  it,  the censor concluded  that "the author's thought
was unclear and might well lead to a rather vague  understanding". In  1849,
Tyutchev included another part  of  the poem, On  sam na rubezhe  Rossii/And
there you  stood,  and  Russia  stood before  you [162], in  the synopsis of
Chapter 7  (Rossiya i  Napoleon/Russia and  Napoleon) of a treatise he would
have entitled  Rossiya i  Zapad/Russia and the West, had  he  completed  it.
Akskov believes this  section of  the poem to have been written in 1840. The
finished version  can be dated  NL March, 1850.  Napoleon's influence  as  a
symbol of change, of  a titan  bestriding two ages, cannot be underestimated
in  the works  of more  than one major author of  the time. Tyutchev's final
version owes more than a little to Manzoni [60].
     Chateaubriand  wrote  of  Napoleon: "Child  of our  revolution,  he  is
strikingly  similar  to  its  mother ...  Born largely in  order to destroy,
Buonaparte carries evil in his breast  as  a mother bears her fruit with joy
and a kind of pride". (ibid./88-89)
     In the notes  to Russia and the West, Tyutchev wrote: "All the rhetoric
concerning Napoleon has  pushed into  the background what actually happened,
the meaning of which has not been  comprehended  by poetry. It is a centaur,
one  half  of  whose body  is  Revolution".  (A:1/220)  The  last words  are
interesting  in  that Tyutchev names poetic  perception  and not  historical
study  as  the means of comprehending  the significance of Napoleon. In  his
Dnevnik  pisatelya/Diary of a Writer (B:11iii,vol.24/312), Dostoevsky echoed
Tyutchev's belief that politics is too important to be left to  politicians:
"Faithfulness to poetic truth can  communicate  incomparably  more about our
history than faithfulness to history alone".
     What fate has in store  for her, let it come to pass:  a quotation from
Napoleon's  command to his  army  at the crossing of  the  river Neman, June
22nd. 1812: "Russia is obsessed by fate: so, let it come to pass".
     another riddle: Tyutchev has in  mind words uttered by  Napoleon on St.
Helena: "In fifty years, Europe will be either in the grip of revolution, or
in the hands of the cossacks".
     at the East: by "East", Tyutchev means Russia.
     The Contemporary was for some time the  favoured  outlet of the radical
intelligentsia, eventually losing many of its subscribers as  more left-wing
people, such as  Chernyshevsky (1828-89) and  Dobrolyubov (1836-61),  became
involved.  After  1862  it  became  increasingly  intolerant of  anyone  not
representing extreme radical  views. After Karakozov's attempt on the tsar's
life in 1862, it was suspended.
     91. Mid-January, 1833. This mildly  ironic piece may have been inspired
by  the  statement of a  thinker for  whom  Tyutchev had  scant respect. The
italicised words support this. The  notion  of man eternally wondering how a
stone falls down a mountain side would  have amused Tyutchev, as the idea of
the  young  man  questioning the waves  entertained Heine  [32]. Before long
Tyutchev was to  state  that  spring  "obeys  her own laws"  and is  utterly
unaware of man's thoughts or actions: Spring does not know us/us, our grief,
our malice... Vesna/Spring [132]).
     92. 1833. In this incredible  lyric, the  poet is lifted  above reality
and allowed a  vision, divine or otherwise, but  whatever the  hallucinatory
vision  represents,  reality   fights  back.   Tyutchev   was  not  a   good
sea-traveller  and  might  well  have had  recourse  to  drugs to  ease  the
discomfort  he must  have  experienced during the storm, although as late as
July 1847, on arriving in Berlin, he wrote to Ernestine: "... I was ... prey
for the first time in my life to the distress of sea-sickness".
     The metre untypical, in  Tyutchev, as well as some  of the imagery, are
too similar  to lines from Schiller's William Tell to be coincidence and may
suggest  a source  of this nonetheless truly striking poem. The German lines
     Es donnern die Hohen, es zittert der Steg,
     Nicht grauet dem Schutzen auf schwindlichtem Weg,
     Er schreitet verwegen
     Auf 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 Wolken
     Erblickt er die Welt,
     Tief unter den Wassern
     Das grunende Feld.
     The heights are thundering,
     the bridge is trembling.
     Nothing terrifies the hunter
     on this giddy path.
     He paces unafraid
     over mountains of ice.
     Spring never blossoms there.
     No twig is ever green;
     and beneath his feet a foggy sea;
     and he does not recognise
     the cities of men.
     Only through tears in the cloud
     does he glimpse the world.
     Deep through the waters -
     the greening field.
     "The closeness  of man and nature in every aspect of this  play must be
apparent to every reader. It is manifest throughout in two modes; equally in
the way men are seen  to  belong to a natural environment, and  in the human
character of external nature itself." (B:36i/196)
     Whatever  the inspiration  behind  Tyutchev's  work, it  is a wonder of
rhythm and image.
     93.  NE 1833-NL April 1836. TR Beranger (1780-1857): Le Vieux Vagabond.
Air: "Guide mes  pas,  O  Providence!" Des "Deux  Journees"/The Old  Beggar.
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 vieillesse
     Parce qu'on ne meurt pas de faim.
     J'esperais voir de ma detresse
     L'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 pomme
     Qui murit au bord du chemin.
     Vingt fois pourtant on me verrouille
     Dans 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'instruire
     A 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 age
     because no-one dies of hunger.
     I'd like to see my distress
     finally 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 asked
     craftsmen 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 tree
     of the ripening apple by the roadside.
     Twenty times I've been locked up
     in 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 himself
     within 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.
     A  fervent admirer of Napoleon, Beranger's influence was significant in
1830 as  the revolution of that year got under  way. On  his death, Napoleon
III  did not  allow  people  to  attend  his  funeral.  His songs  made  him
throughout  his  life an extremely popular,  liberal  man of the people,  in
direct contrast to the authoritarian emperor. An extract  from his poem,  Le
cinq mai/The Fifth of  May (1821),  highlights the very elements encountered
in 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 terre
     Il apparait brillant sur cet eceuil
     Sa gloire est le comme le phare immense
     D'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 earth
     he appeared brilliant on this reef, his glory is there
     like 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) can  also  be  a  stumbling block  and  in this sense  is
reminiscent  of  Tyutchev's podvodnyi  kamen' very/the  hidden reef of faith
from 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 there
is none,  really, the  strings having  been "brushed" by  the moon's rays, a
door into the past appears. Such  a technique,  began  in Problesk/The Gleam
[27]  and employed  as  late as  a  poem  to E.  Annenkov [246]  is  one  of
Tyutchev's favourites.
     Skald: a Scandinavian bard.
     95. September, 1834.  In  this  elegaic  poem, the  Tyutchev who  would
perhaps like to believe  describes the trappings of belief sceptically. Like
the scene it describes, the poem is simple, almost bleak.
     96. NE 1834,  NL April, 1836. TR Heine from New Poems. In der Fremde/In
Foreign 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 Heu
     Nachsinnlich grubelt, welch von beiden
     Das allerbeste Futter sei.
     Which one should I fall in love with?
     They're both very fanciable.
     The mother is still a pretty woman
     and the daughter is a lovely girl.
     These white inexperienced limbs
     which look so touching!
     Charming, brilliant eyes
     comprehend affection!
     My heart is like our grey friend
     which, standing between two bundles of hay,
     ponders deeply about which of the two
     will make the best meal.
     The French philosopher and  scientist, Jean  Buridan (1300-58), decided
that, quantities and distances  being equal, a  dog placed between two bowls
of meat would choose which to eat at random. In later years, the dog  became
"Buridan's ass". It is unlikely that Tyutchev would have copied the dog. The
younger, fresher Klothilde would most assuredly have exerted a stronger pull
on him than his wife.
     97. NE 1834, NL April 1836. A variation on a theme from  Heine from New
Poems: 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 hast
     Sollst du nicht wiedersehn.
     From place to place you're rushed away,
     not knowing the reason why;
     a gentle word rings out in the wind
     and astonished you look around.
     That love which you left over there
     tenderly 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 much
     you will never see again.
     98. NE 1834, NL April, 1836. Addressed  to Baroness Amalia von Krudner,
nee  Countess  von  Lerchenfeld  (1808-88). Meeting her  in  1822,  Tyutchev
retained  a  lifelong amitie amoureuse/loving  friendship for this  Bavarian
girl descended  from the aristocratic Lerchenfeld-Kofferings. Amalia's first
husband, A. Krudner, was  First Secretary in the  Russian Mission  in Munich
whence in  the spring of 1836  he was transferred to St.  Petersburg. During
the years 1836-44  Amalia is said  to have  had  an affair of some sort with
Nicholas  I.  Tyutchev writes  in a letter  to  Gagarin  (July 22nd.  1836):
"Goodness, why did she have to become a constellation ... she  was so lovely
on this earth". (See [257])
     99.  Mid-1830s. Such memories  as expressed  in this poem encompass his
early love for Eleonore, the heady days of the first visit to the West, that
sense of the world being perfect before, as Heine put it in [31], everything
seemed to fall apart. From this point on Tyutchev is more than ever aware of
growing up, in a sense, and his  memories are there to haunt him in at times
self-pitying, at times quietly regretful lines.
     Elysium: the abode of blissful souls in the after life.
     100. 1830s. Written  about the  same  time  as he  translated  the  two
extracts from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Tyutchev may well have been spurred
by some of the lyrical lines of The Merchant  of Venice (V,i) to produce the
lushly lyrical poem:
     How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
     Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
     Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
     Become the touches of sweet harmony.
     101.  1830s.  Tyutchev sees Spring in  the  guise  of the Earth-Mother,
Spring as represented  in  [132], detached even from the transient joy which
man  finds in religion's consolations, love, May's bliss, golden dreams, all
terms used superficially, bearing none of the sense of the  profound, almost
pagan sense of well-being the lyric hero finds in this moment.
     102. 1830s. The sensuality of the moment is weakened in the second half
of the poem by a transparent nature  - woman comparison. Up till that point,
Tyutchev  has  produced  a  characteristically   condensed  picture   of   a
lightning-teased sky, nature's scents and sounds  intensified in the silence
before a storm.
     103. 1830s. The debt owed to one of Horace's odes ([3], bk. 2) has been
noted more than once.
     quo pinus ingens algaque populus
     umbram hospitalem consociare amant
     ramis? quid obliquo laborat
     lympha fugax trepidare rivo?
     Wherefore do the tall pine and the white poplar
     like to mingle their branches to give a hospitable shade?
     Why does the water flowing by
     seek to bicker against the curved bank?
     104.  1830s. Tyutchev  frequently depicts the moment just before  dawn,
the  moon  still supreme  during  those  minutes  before  sunrise.  In  this
rhythmic,  hypnotic  masterpiece,  he  holds  night in  place, as  if  in  a
freeze-frame, allowing the lark's  song  to reverberate  like the voice of a
lost soul, threatening madness to him who hears it at this time.
     105. 1830s. As in [104]  bird song represents  Nature, here indifferent
to  the  negatively  described  man-made  scene  below.  Formal  religion is
depicted in terms  of a body  being  lowered into one  abyss (a hole in  the
ground) while the religion of nature, if  religion it can be called, is seen
in terms of the endless "abyss" (bezdna) of the sky.
     106.  1830s.  Tyutchev  demonstrates  his  superb  ability  to   employ
repetition and  assonance  in  this lyric in  which one  of  this  favourite
devices comes into  play,  that of a woman's and the sky's changing moods in
terms of each other.
     107.  1830s.  The  ageing Tolstoy could  not read  this  without tears,
considering that it was one  of  the few true works  of art which is of such
quality that there is no yardstick with which to measure it. This wondrously
muted, musical poem does, indeed, deserve such high praise.
     108.  1830s.  A   similar,  less  inspired  poem   by  A.   Illichevsky
(1798-1837), Oryol i
     chelovek/The Eagle and the Man, 1827) suggests a common source.
     109. 1830s. The fast stream hurrying off to a house-warming conjures up
noise  below the  observer while the latter climbs  ever upward to seek  the
solitude of the peaks. In a later  poem  [234], the poet sits "above"  roots
and, even though he is at ground level, the same up-down movement is sensed.
There is  a similar sense of being alone, looking down on the world as water
pours towards it in sweltering heat.
     110. 1830s. Young as  he  was, Tyutchev  was already becoming  obsessed
with 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 which
old age  is said to bring.  In a letter to  Ernestine (Aug. 14th.  1846), he
wrote:  "Alas, is  it really  worth the trouble ageing if, with increasingly
debilitating forces, you remain a prey to the same agitations".
     Writing to Nikolay  Sushkov (1796-1871) with best wishes for the future
with his new  wife, Tyutchev's sister, Darya, the poet could not, it  seems,
resist the temptation to  broach  this subject: "For myself  especially this
thought  would be a torment, as tormenting as a reproach". (July  3rd. 1836)
He is  referring to  the  fact  that, the  two  brothers  having left  their
parents, the latter  would now have  to see out their last years without any
of their children. Such comments abound in Tyutchev's letters.
     111. 1830s. A light-hearted comparison  of an increasingly busy  Danube
with  the  river  from times  gone  by,  when mythical creatures reigned, is
interestingly done  from the  vantage  point  of an observer  far  above it,
although  the  narrator's  position is not described as  such. As in Utro  v
gorakh/Morning in the Mountains [48],  the poet is almost airborne while the
river snakes away below him, an interesting counterpoint to  Po  ravnine vod
lazurnoi/Across a  blue plain  of water [157] in which  he is on the deck of
the ship being observed from above.
     112. 1830s. The  poem could be seen as  a microcosm  of Heine's  Travel
Scenes,  the  German  describing  his  short  escape  from the unimaginative
academic life of Gottingen to wander through the Harz mountains in a lengthy
piece of  prose,  Tyutchev  encapsulating  the  entire  travel motif  in two
stanzas.  As in Tyutchev,  in  stanza  3  of  the introductory  poem  to the
Harzreise/Harz  Journey, Heine depicts  the mountains as allowing the  human
spirit 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 mountains
     where the huts of the pious stand,
     where one's breast opens up
     and the free air wafts.
     113. 1830s. Such  poems have given rise to a kind of Tyutchevian  chaos
theory.  As poetry they are  often far  less effective than those containing
the condensed images in  which the poet presents the reader with a scene and
makes no overt comment.
     114.  1830s.  This  winter lyric  is  an  effective description  of  an
ice-bound stream, the parallel between it and human experience in stanza two
skilfully  retaining natural  images, culminating  in a faint hint  of  life
existing still beneath  the ice of Nature and life. It is paralleled in  the
last  couplet he  ever  wrote  [393]),  evidence  that the  same few  poetic
preoccupations remained with him throughout his  life. Writing to  Bogdanova
early  in 1867, he says: "The cold is  an abyss where our poor individuality
is swallowed  and  obliterated". He finishes this short letter  by wondering
what it would be like to  "swell out"  (se dilater) in  the sun, "perhaps in
     115. 1830s.  The addressee is not known,  although she could be one  of
Tyutchev's conquests. The eternality  and indifference of  Nature are called
in defence of his misdemeanour since, no matter  how he behaves, Nature will
go her own way in  any case. One is reminded of  Dmitry Karamazov's interest
in learning that if there were no God anything would be allowed.
     116.  NL April, 1836. A hint of the  later "Russian"  nature  poems  is
imparted by the simple  image  of  the  myortvyi stebl'/dead stalk among two
eight-line stanzas more or less entirely devoted to vague, "European" nature
     117. 1830s. There  is a  fairytale  feel to  this poem  which  could be
Russian  or western,  although the  "washing in snow" (umylasya v snegu)  is
definitely Russian.
     118. NL April,  1836. This interesting poem mixes time-space imagery in
the second  stanza,  the poet-observer asking  which "age" is white upon the
summits, noting that dawn sows red roses on them.
     119. NL April, 1836. One of Tyutchev's less effective nature poems, the
formal two-stanza form  contributing to  a lack  of spontaneity. In Nochnoye
nebo tak ugryumo/Sad night creeps [298] the same structure produces a wonder
of uncontrived magic.
     120. NL April, 1836. The idea of hiding in the light of day, in natural
terms in the sky, is not unusual in Tyutchev. Here we have a version  of two
poems [57, 58] with the basic  idea reversed yet the basic concept remaining
the same.
     121.  NL  April,  1836.  Perhaps  Tyutchev's   pantheistic  ideas  were
considered not in keeping with the Orthodox  view of  nature as an entity in
which  everything  is subservient  to  the will  of God,  resulting  in  the
censored sections.
     122. NL April, 1836.  Tyutchev was a master of the short poem and had a
great command of the  epigrammatic form. This  not  only cleverly brief, but
profound, lacking only that flippancy we saw in the earlier [16].
     123. NL April, 1836. Nature is here called upon  to reinforce an openly
sexual poem. Masculine physical desire is described, framed by a quick flash
of lightning  around the skies. The  downward-movement  and sultry images of
stanza 2 make of this a marvel of brief sexual exultation.
     124.  Early 1836.  Tyutchev's poem has something  in common with  a  V.
Benediktov  (1807-73)  verse,  Prekrasna  deva  molodaya/The  young girl  is
beautiful. In comparison with Benediktov's less  subtle offering (considered
"vulgar" and  "cliche-ridden"  by Terras, C:1/233),  Tyutchev's  is cleverly
visual and erotic.
     125.  May-July,  1837. On the death of  Pushkin  and  influenced by the
gossip which the poet's misfortunes aroused in polite society.
     126. Dec. 1st. 1837. Inspired  by a meeting in Genoa with Ernestine von
Dornberg,  who became his second wife on July  17th. 1839. She had  been his
mistress since early 1833.
     127. December 1837. Probably linked with meeting Ernestine in Genoa.
     128. December,  1837. On returning  from Genoa  to Turin where Tyutchev
was serving in the Russian diplomatic  mission. the poem is an early example
of  the  north-south  contrast.  Here the Russian  winter  is an "omnipotent
sorceror"  and  lives "beyond this blizzard-kingdom". As a rule Tyutchev  is
less kind and there is generally  no hint of a pleasant  fairytale in  "this
interminable tunnel of a Russian winter". (LET.ERN. Aug. 16th. 1852)
     129.  Late 1837.  Probably connected with his departure  from Genoa and
Ernestine,  whom he  thought  he would  never see again. However, in October
1837 Tyutchev arrived in Turin to take up  his  post  as First Secretary. He
served as  Charge  d'Affaires from August 1838  to July  1839 before leaving
without permission in order to marry Ernestine (A:18v).
     130. April 4th. 1838. Addressed to the minor German poet, Baron Apollon
von Maltitz (1795-1870),  married  to  Eleonore's sister, Klothilde. Maltitz
replaced Tyutchev as First Secretary in the Munich  mission in 1837. Maltitz
was Tyutchev's  first translator. The poem is the  first evidence  that  the
French verse, while not as inspired as his greatest lines in Russian, can be
readable,  occasionally containing some of that profundity we associate with
the Russian poems.
     131. Early 1838. The political subtext may be too strong to resist. The
contrast between eastern and  western Europe certainly emerges more strongly
from now on.
     132.  NL 1838.  Tyutchev's  wife had  died,  partly as  a  result  of a
disaster  at  sea, in the summer  of this year. With her daughters and nanny
she had been on her way to  meet him in Munich. While he is reported to have
been grief-stricken,  there appears  to be no clearly  discernible change in
the "feel" of his  poetry from here on, although it might be considered that
a certain lightheartedness disappears. Considering Tyutchev's obsession with
ageing, however, this would be  understandable. He continues to write in his
uniquely 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 lost
his job.
     The novelist Turgenev published an essay  in  1883 entitled Un Incendie
en Mer/A  Fire  at Sea,  in  which  he  mentions  his acquaintance, Eleonore
Tyutcheva. Having described  in graphic  detail  the fire on board,  baring,
after many  years, his own panic, he wrote:  "Among those ladies who escaped
the wreck, there was one, a Mrs. T..., extremely pretty  and extremely nice,
but burdened by her four little girls and their maids".  (There was only one
maid - FJ).
     Turgenev describes  her  on  the beach,  barefoot, with  her  shoulders
barely covered (B:40,  vol.14/201;509) Schapiro  claims that  while on board
Turgenev formed a romantic attachment to Nelly and goes on to point out that
the novelist's correspondence with his mother "suggests that  he was in love
with her, or fancied himself to be so". (B:40i/18)
     Nicholas I sent  money to all  the survivors of the  tragedy.  Eleonore
died only four months after receiving her money from the tsar.
     133. NL  early 1839.  It  is  as  if between the  impulsion  to produce
spontaneous   and  brilliant  nature   poems  Tyutchev  felt  the   need  to
deliberately contrive a poem based quite clearly on some woolly Schellingian
premise. It is unfortunate that in doing so, a school of thought  making him
celebrated for a "cycle" of "Holy Night" poems should have sprung up.
     134. NL  early 1839. Whatever the motivation and whoever the addressee,
there can be no doubting the reality of the physical feeling.
     135.  October,  1840. Addressed  to  Grand  Princess  Maria  (1819-76),
daughter of  Nicholas  I. Tyutchev  met  her during the  autumn of  1840  at
Tegernsee, near Munich.
     136.  September  6th. 1841.  Prague.  Dedicated to  the Czech  patriot,
scholar and teacher,  Vaclav Hanka (1791-1861),  whom Tyutchev met in Prague
in  1841.  Hanka  believed  in  closer  links  between Czechoslovakia  (then
Bohemia) and Russia and went a long way to acquainting his  compatriots with
Russian  literature.  In  1819  he   published  the  so-called  Kraledvorsky
manuscript, presenting  it as a collection of the epic and  lyrical songs of
the Czech people. It turned out that he had  written  them  himself,  having
studied legends and chronicles. Nonetheless, the book played its part in the
development of Czech national consciousness.
     In 1867, Tyutchev wrote a postscript to the poem [323].
     137.  July 7th.  1842. Dedicated to the German  writer and  pamphleteer
Karl-August Varnhagen von Ense (1775-1858). Von Ense  served in the  Russian
army during the Napoleonic  wars. He contributed through his translations to
a greater awareness  of Russian literature in  Germany. Tyutchev visited him
in Berlin en route to Munich. He had  known the German since the late 1820s.
Von Ense was probably the most knowledgeable German of the time when it came
to Russian culture.
     138. September, 1842. The Polish poet, Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), was
the first professor of Slavic literature at  the College de France, where he
gave a series of lectures on the history and literature of the Slav peoples.
On  receiving copies of  extracts of the  lectures  from  Turgenev, Tyutchev
wrote  and  sent this  poem  to him. Mickiewicz  meant as  much to  Poles as
Pushkin  did  to Russians. Exiled  to  Russia  in  1824 for Polish patriotic
agitation, he  reached  poetic  maturity there, later  becoming  a  Catholic
mystic  and spending much of his life in Paris.  It is  ironic that Tyutchev
should  have sent  his  poem  to a man who  believed that among  all nations
Poland had a messianic  role to play, and who wished to lead a Polish legion
against Russia during the Crimean war.
     139.  October,  1842.  In   letters  to   Ernestine,  Tyutchev  returns
constantly to the theme of  separation. Images of  absence and space abound,
whether as  references to his separation  from those close to him, something
he always found hard to cope with, or as images of the geographical vastness
and emptiness of his native land. In 1843 he wrote to her of "the tremendous
plain,  the  Scythian plain, which so  often shocked you  on my  relief map,
where it forms an enormous sheet, no nicer there than it is in reality".
     In July  1847 he had technology to  thank  for protecting  him in  some
measure from  the emptiness  of  Russia's plains:  "Ah,  let's not curse the
railway, especially now that the network is joining up and closing in on all
sides. What is  particularly  beneficent for me  is  that  it  reassures  my
imagination against  my most  terrible  enemy - space  -  this  odious space
which, on ordinary roads, drowns and annihilates you, body and soul".
     Absence  is geographical  emptiness and distance between him and  loved
ones.  He begins and ends one virulent  letter  of 1851 thus: "To be sure, I
protest against your absence. I neither want to nor can tolerate it ... With
your company there disappears all... continuity in my life ..."
     Is there  anything  in the  world more ridiculous, more irritating  and
less  satisfying than writing? It's  of  use only  to people who get used to
absence and resign themselves to this abyss.  Ah, I  just can't put  up with
any of that!"
     140. Late September, 1844, when  Tyutchev resettled in St.  Petersburg.
There is undoubtedly a culture shock here. Still, the first two stanzas show
the  poet  of  Russia  malgre lui  beginning  to produce  some of  his  most
brilliant  work.  The remainder of  the poem  is as  insipid  as his  feeble
hearkening  back  to  the west in  the  superb Na vozvratnom puti/The Return
Journey [241].
     141.   1844.  A  variation  on  the  concluding  lines  of   Schiller's
Kolumbus/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 you
     and 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 lines  are  her words.
In a fairly  paltry  French poem, the  opposite  of the  dead leaf/myortvogo
lista [186] appears, dead  flowers, in a possible burst of  wish-fulfilment,
coming back to life.
     143.  1848,  the Year of Revolutions. Tyutchev was not the only Russian
writer to see Russia as a monolithic entity, unshakeable despite  the West's
constant, subversive attempts to  breach its defences. Zhukovsky's  Russkomu
velikanu/To the Russian Giant was  published shortly before. Tyutchev's poem
is 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.
Tyutchev  yet  again shows that he can  describe  with  rare  genius what he
really does not like in the least, that is his own native land in winter. He
uses the  same French  verb  (assieger/to besiege) in  a letter to Ernestine
(Oct.  15th. 1852), describing Ovstug, where she was staying  with her  thee
daughters, as a "horrible hole to which rain and snow lay siege".
     145.  Early January, 1849.  Dedicated to Eleonore, whose  death in 1838
had devastated him. In a  letter to Zhukovksy, he wrote: "There are horrible
periods  in  human existence...  To survive everything  by which we  lived -
lived for a whole twelve years... What is more normal than such a fate - and
what is more horrible? To survive and, all the same, to live!".
     146. 1848. Concerning the revolutions of that year.
     147. 1848-9. The  invisible interlocutor  pointing to life's shade, and
the poet-observer positioned between the  shades of earth, here equated with
death, make  of  this  characteristically short lyric,  with its  underlying
imagery of distance, a masterpiece of personal profundity.
     148. 1848-9.  Dobrolyubov quoted this poem in his article Kogda pridyot
nastoyashchii  den'?/When  will  the  real  day  come?  (B:10,   vol.6/137),
describing it as the "hopelessly sad,  soul-tearing premonition of a poet so
constantly  and  mercilessly justifying  itself  over  the  best,  the elite
natures of Russia".
     The social-critical nature  of  the poem may have caused  a  change  of
title to Moei zemlyachke/To My Countrywoman in the first edition.
     Dobrolyubov had no time for anything poetic for  its own sake. He was a
critic in the worst sense, once commenting that Tyuchev "is far from being a
first-rank poet, but I like his descriptions of nature very much, that is of
certain moments of its life". (ibid., vol.9/17)
     149. 1848 or  1849. Similar in content to his unfinished Russia and the
West, on which he was working at this time.
     Peter's town: Rome.
     ll.9-10: A hint at the biblical prophecy about  the kingdom which "will
never fall". (The Book of Daniel, II, 44)
     150.  1848-9  (final draft, 1850). In the face  of night  (about  which
there is nothing "holy", Tyutchev's Svyataya/holy being a  Romantic cliche),
"thought" itself  has  been "abolished", a straightforward repetition of his
earlier feelings about the universe as expressed in A. N. M. [13].
     151. June 6th. 1849. En  route from  Moscow  to his birthplace, Ovstug.
This  superb "Russian" nature poem employs  the best-known techniques of the
"western" nature  lyrics. The "crumpled", "frowning" earth, like that  of  a
new-born baby's face, under the  threat of storm is a striking scene,  as is
that  containing the colour-intensifier, the greening field becoming greener
still  as  the  thunder  storm  gathers.  It  is, in this  reader's opinion,
impossible  to find  anything in  a  single "western"  nature  poem  better,
lighter, more joyful in any way than the picture portrayed in this lyric.
     152. June 13,  1849.  Written during  his  second stay  in Ovstug after
returning to Russia. In a letter to his wife (Aug. 31st. 1846), on his first
visit to  his birthplace,  he writes: "...  during those first moments after
arriving, the enchanted world of childhood came vividly back to me, as if it
had been  revealed,  this world  which  had  disintegrated and vanished long
ago... In a word, for several moments I experienced what thousands before me
had  experienced in those very circumstances, what  many who follow me  will
experience and what, in the final analysis, is of value only for whoever has
lived through it all and then only as long as he is under its spell".
     In another  letter  to Ernestine in 1846, sent  shortly before visiting
Ovstug, he writes: "My life began later,  and everything which preceded that
life is as foreign to me as the day  before I was born. The reference to the
later life is the period after he left his birthplace for the West (1822).
     153. July  23rd.  1849. Ovstug. The incredibly warm, comforting feel of
this superb lyric is  shared by others depicting nocturnal scenes. (See, for
example, [167,  176]). I cannot  accept  Gregg's translation.  He interprets
kak/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 stillness
     their gilded waves shine,
     whitened by the moon.
     It seems to me that the kak simply moves the action on, as is often the
case in  folk  poetry,  the idea  being  that on a quiet night, something is
happening, with no emphasis, no full stop, not even a full sentence.
     154.  October  22nd.  1849.  Such  a  sense  of  depression  cannot  be
alleviated,  despite the poet's attempts, by a sense  of spring being wafted
over his soul, for the ubiquitous dead leaf, like the pied piper,  mockingly
runs before him all the way.
     155.   Autumn  1849.  Aksakov   recalls   the   circumstances  of  this
composition. Noting that it was only after Tyutchev's  daughters  were grown
up  and Ernestine  had  learned some Russian, he quotes  an example of their
need to write  down what Tyutchev sometimes  dictated:  "...once, one rainy,
autumn evening, being driven home by cab, almost soaked to the skin, he said
to his daughter who had come to meet him, 'I've made up a few verses'. While
they  helped  him out of  his clothes,  he  dictated the  following charming
poem". (A:1/84-5)
     156. 1849. Addressed to F. Vigel  (1786-1856),  the author  of the well
known  Zapiski/Notes  written  as if by Pyotr Chaadaev (1794 [?]-1856).  The
latter  was  the strange,  neurotic  writer  of  the  Lettres philosophiques
addressees  a  une  dame/Philosophical  Letters Addressed to a  Lady  which,
criticised Russia from a Roman Catholic  point of view. In Chaadaev's bitter
denunciation of Russia, he accused the country, among other things, of being
somewhere between the west  and the east, sharing neither the  ideas nor the
education  of  either.  His  work  brought  upon   him  society's  vitriolic
condemnation.  He was not the  only writer  of  his  age to  condemn  things
Russian, but unlike Gogol,  who got away  with it  because he was  seen as a
comic writer, his attacks were all too openly serious.
     In 1847 Chaadaev had lithographed portraits of himself commissioned  in
Paris and sent  to various people. Receiving a dozen to distribute, Tyutchev
wrote these verses on one and sent it to Vigel, a  stranger to both of them.
Vigel wrote a puzzled, grateful letter to Chaadaev  who wrote to  the writer
and music critic V. Odoevsky (Jan. 15th. 1850):  "Some stupid prankster  has
thought to send him my lithographed portrait on  his  name-day, accompanying
it with Russian verses which he attributes to me... It's a matter of urgency
to make sure there are absolutely no consequences".
     The prankster was  never  uncovered,  so Tyutchev and  Chaadaev did not
fall out. In a letter of the same year to  his sister, Tyutchev quipped: "By
the  way,  tell Chaadaev to get some  more copies of his lithograph ordered.
All the print shops are besieged by crowds,  and I can only guess that their
having  to wait so long might be the  cause of  some agitation in this mass,
and we could do with avoiding that".
     157. 1849. There are times when it appears that Tyutchev  forgets he is
an   original   poet  and   reproduces,   if   not  verbatim,  then   subtly
plagiaristically someone else's poem. Here, of course, it is  his version of
Heine, [34].
     158. November, 1849. On the  first manuscript there  is in brackets the
dedication "to  Fuad-Efendi",  the  latter  a Turkish  administrator  in the
Danube  region, poet  and pamphleteer, Mehmed Fuad-Pasha (1815-1869).  While
there  are  no hard facts relating to the reason  Tyutchev  wrote this,  the
political  events  of  the  time  make  his  motivation fairly  clear.  This
enlightened, liberal doctor of medicine,  grammarian, interpreter, diplomat,
commander and minister was  dispatched as a  special envoy to  the  Tsar  in
October 1849  as  a  result  of Russia's  insistence on the  extradition  of
Hungarian and Polish nationalists and Turkey's refusal to acquiesce. War was
imminent.  Fuad-Pasha  was instrumental in reaching  a peaceful  settlement.
Tyutchev  may well have met him, for the Turk had talks with various Russian
officials  during  his  visit  to   the   capital.  Both  men   were  fluent
French-speakers, the Turk a supporter of the Europeanisation of  his country
and a civilising influence in many ways in his circle, one of  his ambitions
being the emancipation  of women. Had it not been for their mutual paranoia,
Russia's on account of  what she saw as an aggressive  western Europe siding
with the infidel against  Orthodox Christianity, Turkey's resulting from her
equally  paranoid  perception of Europe  as  a  military and political power
expanding at  her own expense, the two educated, intelligent diplomats could
well have been  friends. While as liberal as one in  his position could  be,
Fuad Pasha was a foreign minister who, when sent to the Lebanon to deal with
internecine fighting between  Maronites and Druzes, employed savage  methods
to restore order. (See [326] and C:28.)
     159. 1849. Addressee unknown. The "southern glance" could refer  to one
of  many  women  he  will  have  known on his  trips to Southern  Europe, in
addition  to  being used in  symbolic contrast to  the "ugly  dream"  of the
"fateful north" of the final stanza.
     Cimmerian  night:  the joyless  night of  Homer's Odyssey. The Cimmerii
were a tribe fabled to have lived in perpetual darkness.
     A different land....: Italy.
     160. 1848 or 1849. Korolyova was the first  to establish that this poem
was   influenced   by   Lamartine's   Les  confidences/Confidences.   (B:22)
Larmartine's description of his home was echoed by  Tyutchev.  The Frenchman
wrote: "As for the garden  itself,  almost  all that's  left is the name. It
could count  only as a garden in those  primitive days  when Homer described
the modest holding of Laertes and the seven fields belonging to the old man.
Eight squares of vegetables lined by  fruit  trees  at right  angles to each
other and separated  by rows of fodder grass and yellow sand; at  the end of
these  rows, to the north, eight tortuous-trunked  old arbours on a bench of
     Writing   to   Ernestine  (Aug.  31st.  1846),  Tyutchev   produced  an
unidealised,  though  fundamentally  fond description of  his own home.  His
obsession with his own ageing comes through:  "The  room I'm writing  to you
from is my father's  study, the very room he died in. To one  side there  is
his bedroom, where he no longer went. Behind me is the settee, making up the
corner where he laid down never  to rise again. All around the room are old,
well-known portraits from my childhood  and which,  indeed, have  aged  less
than I. Opposite me is that old relic  of a house which we once lived in and
of  which  there  remains  the body  of  the  dwelling  which my  father had
maintained religiously  so that one day, on  returning to the country, there
would be  some trace, some scrap of  our former existence for me  to find...
Indeed, that first moment I arrived, I had a very vivid memory as if it were
a revelation of that enchanted world of childhood, destroyed and annihilated
for such a long time now. The former garden, 4 large limes, very well  known
in those parts, a  fairly puny  alley about a hundred paces long which to me
seemed immeasurable, all  this magnificent universe of my childhood, so full
of  life, so varied  - all of  that is  enclosed  within  an area of several
square feet".
     Lamartine was born in Savoy.
     161. Possibly 1849. In such  an  insignificant poem  written in French,
the  Tyutchevian  idea  of  something significant being poured  into the air
comes across.
     162. Final version NL early 1850. See note [90].
     163. Late 1840s-early 1850s. Lane was the first to deal in  detail with
the  Pascalian character of some  of Tyutchev's French poems, (A:18vii/321),
mentioning in particular  [130, 139, 163, 176]. He  begins his  treatment of
these poems with  [130], pointing  out that "the  first  seven  lines of the
following piece communicate anxiety and terror of the abyss of time".
     164. NL early 1850. this rather stilted poem is reminiscent of parts of
Uraniya [7].
     165. NL early 1850. The coldness of the  moonlight, the desertedness of
the scene,  the absolute sense  of man's being alone  and in an  unwelcoming
environment all come across forcefully in this "western" poem.
     166. NL early 1850.
     The first two  stanzas  refer to the annual  symbolic  betrothal of the
doges of Venice with the Adriatic sea, a tradition  lasting up till the late
eighteenth century.
     Three centuries, perhaps four: the republic of Venice blossomed between
the 12th. and 15th. centuries.
     The  shadow of the lion's wing:  a reference to the emblem of St. Mark,
the protector of Venice.
     The  links  of heavy  chains:  From 1814  up  to 1866  Venice was under
Austrian rule.
     167.  NL early  1850. This  is untypical of  Tyutchev. Nonetheless,  it
shares with Vous, dont on  voit briller, dans  les  nuits  azurees/Unsullied
gods of  light [176]  a sense of warmth, even security. Night, in so many of
Tyutchev's  spontaneous  poems,  is  a  comforting  thing.  Only in the more
formal, so-called  "Holy Night" lyrics  is night perceived  to be a fearsome
     168. March 1st. 1850. The tsar considered this poem, unpublished  until
the Crimean War had broken out, "untimely" and censored it himself.
     the fourth age: a reference to  the  400th. anniversary  of the fall of
the Byzantine empire (1453-1853).
     The ancient vaults of Sofia: Aia-Sofia is now a mosque in Istanbul.
     169. March  1st.-6th.  1850.  The words  in italics are taken  from  an
imperial  manifesto  of  March 14th. 1848, on  the  revolutionary events  in
Austria 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,  dealing  with the same
theme  as his translation of Beranger's cynical work [93], shows, perhaps, a
Tyutchev  pining for security, despite being in Russia  with his family, and
equally expressing a conservative attitude to the beggar, asking god to help
him through life while accepting from the outsider's point of view that  his
unenviable lot is a holy one.
     172.  July,  1850.  The  up-down  movement  of  the  river and apparent
sky-movement is typical of Tyutchev's poetic refusal to separate phenomena.
     173.  July, 1850.  This  is the first poem  about  his  mistress, Elena
Deniseva. Elena inspired some of the sharpest,  most touching love poetry in
nineteenth-century Russian literature.
     174.  July, 1850. His  epigrammatic style comes across yet again. As in
[16]  and [122], there are times when Tyutchev seems  to sit back and simply
let God get on with it, provided he, the poet, is not pestered.
     175. August, 1850.  In this incredible poem, as in [118], nature is  an
entity in which space and time merge.
     176. August 23rd. 1850. A nocturnal walk with Ernestine is the subject.
This  excellent work is  yet  another example of  the  warmth of  a  Russian
night-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 (nee  Sushkova, 1811-1858), some  of whose
popular love lyrics were set to music. She also wrote about the emptiness of
upper-class life. Tyutchev is said to have had a low opinion of her work.
     179.  1850.  One  of   the  favourites  of  the  poet   Alexander  Blok
(1880-1921), with  what he referred to as its "Hellenic, pre-Christian sense
of Fate", this enigmatic poem seems relatively mediocre, far from possessing
any of the pre-Christian, Hellenic freshness Blok  and his  peers were often
looking  out for  in  the poetry  of  previous  years. It  is  untypical and
difficult to date. It could well have been written considerably earlier than
the  fifties, though there is no hard evidence. Any reference to the  Greeks
immediately  suggests political  undertones.  The  theme  of  Fate  and  the
indifference of the gods  to man is Tyutchevian, but the  general  layout of
the  poem  most  certainly  is  not.  It  could  well  be a  translation  or
adaptation.    Indeed,    Kozyrev    (A:20,vol.1/88)   considers    Goethe's
Symbolum/Symbol to be the undisputed  source although, despite his claim, he
was not  the first to notice the link. (ibid.,  vol. 2, 47/129) The relevant
lines from Goethe (taken from stanza 3) are as follows:
     Ruhn oben die Sterne
     Und unten die Graber.
     the stars rest above
     and the graves below.
     There  are  other  references in Goethe's poem  to the basic  theme  of
toiling man and carefree gods.
     No  self-respecting   Soviet  commentator  could  have   resisted   the
temptation to deal  with this poem. Tvardovskaya (ibid., vol. 1/163)  writes
as follows about the first  stanza: "The lines... seem to  have been written
about those  and  for those  who,  at a time when  there was  no widespread,
national movement, began single-handed their struggle with autocracy".
     Atheistic  existentialism  is  brought into the picture  by  Kozyrev. I
cannot  agree  with  his  finding  that  there  are two creative periods  in
Tyutchev's work, a point he makes more than once forcefully, any more than I
accept  his philosophical links with Sartre and Heidegger in  his discussion
of Two  Voices: "The crucial moment between Tyutchev's two  creative periods
and, from  a certain point of view, perhaps, the  height  of his poetry,  is
represented by 'Two Voices'. Here you have the break with  the  'beneficent'
gods of  nature,  there  - a  majestic attempt  to  confirm man's dignity in
himself,  as in the highest being in  the Universe, but  in a solitary being
thrown  into  the  Universe,  where  Fate  conquers,  where  everything   is
subservient to death. The spirit  of this  poem is  akin, in all likelihood,
not only - and not  so much - to the tragic feel of the ancients, as much as
to  the  ethical  concepts  of  the  atheistic  existentialism of  Sartre or
Heidegger". (ibid., vol. 1/92)
     An echo of like  minds (pereklichka  golosov/an exchange  of voices) is
postulated by A.  Neusykhin (ibid. vol.2/542-547) in an unfinished report in
which  a  link  is  seen  between   this  poem  and  Holderlin's   Hyperions
Schicksalslied/Hyperion's  Song  of  Fate. The  idea that  the gods  live in
eternal  serenity and bliss, far from human  toil and sorrow is,  of course,
ancient  and  in  his study of the Classics,  the  young Tyutchev will  have
encountered  it   in   Homer.  I  do,  however,  feel  that   Neusykhin  was
over-cautious in stating  that  Holderlin's poem exerted no direct influence
on Tyutchev. The  song is from the  novel  Hyperion,  which deals  with  the
on-going Russo-Turkish conflict and was  one  of the few works by  Holderlin
relatively well known in his lifetime. The German text follows:
     Ihr wandelt droben im Licht

	   Auf weichem Boden, seelige Genien!
	      Glanzende Gotterlufte
	            Ruhren euch leicht,
	               Wie die Finger der Kunstlerin
	                  Heilige Saiten.
	Schiksaallos, wie der schlafende
	   Saugling, atmen die Himmlischen;
	      Keusch bewahrt
	           In bescheidener Knospe,
	               Bluhet ewig
	                  Ihnen der Geist,
	                     Und die seeligen Augen
	                        Bliken in stiller
	                            Ewiger Klarheit.
	Doch uns ist gegeben,
	   Auf keiner Statte zu ruhn,
	      Es schwinden, es fallen
	         Die leidenden Menschen
	            Blindlings von einer
	               Stunde zur andern,
	                  Wie Wasser von Klippe
	                     Zu Klippe geworfen,
	                        Jahr lang ins Ungewisse hinab.
	You wander above in the light
	on soft ground, blessed spirits!
	Gleaming, divine breezes
	touch you gently
	like the artist's fingers
	on sacred strings.
	Without Fate, like the sleeping
	infant, the heavenly ones breathe.
	Chastly preserved
	in the modest bud
	bloom eternally
	their minds,
	and their blessed eyes
	gaze in calm,
	eternal clarity.
	But to us it is given
	nowhere to rest.
	Dizzy and falling
	is suffering mankind
	blindly from one
	hour to the next,
	like water from one ledge
	to another ledge drops,
	year after year into uncertainty.

     Friedrich  Holderlin  (1770-1843) merged Christian and Classical themes
in German verse which attempted to naturalise Classical Greek poetry. He saw
the  gods of  Greece as real, living forces  in natural manifestations.  The
novel Hyperion is the story of a disillusioned Greek freedom-fighter. In his
poem  Die Heimat/Home,  Holderlin wrote: "For they who lend us the  heavenly
fire, the Gods,  give us sacred sorrow too. Let it  be so. A  son of earth I
seem; born to love and to suffer".
     Fundamentally,  Tyutchev's  poem  is probably  another example  of  his
eclecticism. All great  literature owes much to what has gone before and the
truly great writer is capable of using, borrowing as opposed to stealing, in
T.S. Elliot's  words, other people's work to his own original ends.  As with
his choice of Schiller's  Das  Siegesfest/The Victory Celebration  [181],  a
connection with the Eastern Question can never be ruled out.
     180. 1850. The two major political problems facing  Tyutchev  tended to
be  the relationship  between  the Slavonic  world  friendly  to  Russia and
Poland, and the age-old question of the position of Constantinople, occupied
by the Turks.
     181. Probably  1850-early 1851. TR Schiller: Das Siegesfest/The Victory
Celebration (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 Schiffen
	Langs des Hellespontos Strand,
	Auf der frohen Fahrt begriffen
	Nach dem schonen Griechenland.
	   Stimmet an die frohen Lieder,
	   Denn dem vaterlichen Herd
	   Sind 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 Freuden
	Mischten sie den Wehgesang,
	Weinend um das eigne Leiden
	In des Reiches Untergang.
	   Lebe wohl geliebter Boden!
	   Von der su?en Heimat fern
	   Folgen wir dem fremden Herrn,
	   Ach wie glucklich sind die Toten!
	Und den hohen Gottern zundet
	Kalchas jetzt das Opfer an.
	Pallas, die die Stadte grundet
	Und zertrummert, ruft er an,
	Und Neptun, der um die Lander
	Seinen Wogengurtel schlingt,
	Und den Zeus, den Schreckensender,
	Der die Aegis grausend schwingt.
	   Ausgestritten, ausgerungen
	  Ist 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 waren
	Einst in des Scamanders Tal.
	Und des Kummers finstre Wolke
	Zog sich um des Konigs Blick,
	Von dem hergefuhrten Volke
	Bracht' er wen'ge nur zuruck.
	   Drum erhebe frohe Lieder
	  Wer 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 Altaren
	Kann 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 Treue
	   Rein und keusch das Haus bewahrt,
	   Denn das Weib ist falscher Art,
	   Und die Arge liebt das Neue!
	Und des frisch erkampften Weibes
	Freut sich der Atrid und strickt
	Um den Reiz des schonen Leibes
	Seine Arme hoch begluckt.
	Boses Werk mu? untergehen,
	Rache folgt der Freveltat,
	Denn gerecht in Himmels Hohen
	Waltet des Chroniden Rat!
	   Boses mu? mit Bosem enden,
	   An dem frevelnden Geschlecht
	   Rachet Zeus das Gastesrecht,
	   Wagend mit gerechten Handen.
	Wohl dem Glucklichen mags ziemen,
	Ruft Oileus tapfrer Sohn,
	Die Regierenden zu ruhmen
	Auf 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 Tonnen
	   Die 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 Festen
	Der ein Turm war in der Schlacht.
	Da der Griechen Schiffe brannten,
	War in deinem Arm das Heil,
	Doch dem Schlauen, Vielgewandten
	Ward 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 Losen
	Hoher Vater, preis'ich deins.
	von des Lebens Gutern allen
	Ist der Ruhm das hochste doch,
	Wenn der Leib in Staub zerfallen,
	Lebt der gro?e Name noch.
	   Tapfrer, deines Ruhmes Schimmer
	   Wird unsterblich sein im Lied;
	   Denn das ird'sche Leben flieht,
	   Und die Toten dauern immer.
	Weil des Liedes Stimmen schweigen
	Von dem uberwundnen Mann,
	So will ich fur Hektorn zeugen,
	Hub der Sohn des Tydeus an; -
	Der fur seine Hausaltare
	Kampfend ein Beschirmer fiel -
	Kront den Sieger gro?e Ehre,
	Ehret ihn das schonre Ziel!
	   Der fur sein Hausaltare
	   Kampfend sank, ein Schirm und Hort,
	   Auch in Feindes Munde fort
	   Lebt ihm seines Namens Ehre.
	Nestor jetzt, der alte Zecher,
	Der drei Menschenalter sah,
	Reicht den laubumkranzten Becher
	Der 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 Labe
	   Und vergi? den gro?en Schmerz,
	   Balsam furs zerri?ne Herz,
	   Wundervoll ist Bacchus Gabe.
	Denn auch Niobe, dem schweren
	Zorn der Himmlischen ein Ziel,
	Kostete die Frucht der Ahren,
	Und bezwang das Schmerzgefuhl.
	Denn so lang die Lebensquelle
	Schaumet an der Lippen Rand,
	Tief versenkt und festgebannt!
	   Denn so lang die Lebensquelle
	   An der Lippen Rande schaumt,
	   Ist der Jammer weggetraumt,
	   Fortgespult in Lethes Welle.
	Und von ihrem Gott ergriffen
	Hub sich jetzt die Seherin,
	Blickte von den hohen Schiffen
	Nach 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 dust
	and the Greeks, drunk with victory,
	richly loaded with their spoils,
	sat on their high boats,
	travelling happily along
	the coast of Hellespont
	to beautiful Greece.
 	   "Let us sing joyful songs
	   for the ships are making
	   for 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 wailing
	with the wild celebration full of joy,
	bemoaning their own suffering
	caused by the fall of the empire.
	   "Goodbye, our cherished land!
	   We are following the foreign master
	   far away from our sweet homeland,
	   oh, how lucky are those who are dead!"
	And now Calchas is lighting a sacrifice
	to the gods above.
	He addresses Pallas, who founds
	and destroys cities,
	and Neptune, who casts his girdle
	of waves around lands,
	and Zeus, who induces fear
	and wields the aegis.
	   "The long, hard war is now
	   fought out and over.
	   The circle of time has been completed
	   and the great city has been conquered".
	The son of Atreus, warlord of the troops,
	looked at the numbers of people
	who once upon a time went with him
	to the valley of Scamander,
	and the dark cloud of sorrow
	gathered upon his brow.
	He was bringing back only a few
	of those who had followed him here.
	   "Therefore let those who are going to see
	   their native land again and whose lives
	   are still in bloom, sing
	   a happy song, for not all are going back".
	"Not all of those who are on their way home
	may rejoice about their homecoming,
	because even his own home
	could be stalked by murder.
	Many survivors of bloody battles fell
	through friends' treachery", Ulysses said
	with a warning look, inspired by Athena.
	   "Happy are those whose homes are pure and
	   chaste, protected by their wives' loyalty,
	   for a woman's nature is treacherous
	   and the bad ones like novelty".
	And the son of Atreus rejoices
	about the woman he has only just won in the war
	and, full of happiness, he puts his arms
	around her beautiful body's charms.
	"Evil doings must perish
	and any outrage is followed by revenge,
	because the council of Zeus
	rules with justice in the high heavens".
	   "Evil begets evil and those who offend
	   against the law of hospitality
	   are punished
	   by 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 destinies
	   blindly from its barrel.
	   Let those who won their lives
	   in the lottery be glad and shout for joy.
	Yes, war devours the best.
	You, brother, who were a tower
	in the battle, will be forever remembered
	by the Greeks on festive occasions.
	It was your arm that offered salvation
	when the ships of the Greeks were burning,
	and yet the beautiful prize went to him
	who was cunning and smart.
	   May your sacred ashes rest in peace!
	   You were not snatched away by the enemy.
	   Ajax fell through his own strength
	   Oh, anger destroys the best of men!"
	Now Neoptolem pours out wine
	for his great father:
	"Of all human destinies,
	exalted father, I consider yours
	to be best.  After all, glory is
	the greatest thing one can possess
	and the great name lives on
	after the body has turned to ash.
	   "Brave man, the brilliance of your glory
	   will be immortal in song,
	   because earthly life flees
	   and the dead last forever."
	"Since the vanquished are not mentioned
	in the song, I shall testify on Hector's behalf",
	the son of Tydeus began,
	"he who fell protecting his country and home
	while the victor has gained greatest honour,
	he is honoured,
	because he fell for a worthier cause.
	   The honour of the names of the fallen
	   protecting their home will live forever
	   in the memory of their enemies,
	   who will pay tribute to them."
	Now Nestor, the old reveller,
	who saw three generations, passes
	the garlanded cup
	to the tearful Hecuba:
	"Drink this refreshing drink
	and forget the great pain.
	The gift of Bacchus is wonderful,
	a balm for the torn heart.
	   Drink up this refreshing drink
	   and forget the great pain.
	   The gift of Bacchus is wonderful,
	   a balm for a torn heart!
	For Niobe, who was the object
	of the gods' heavy anger,
	also tasted the fruit of the vine
	and overcame the feeling of pain.
	For as long as the source of life
	is bubbling at the lips, the pain
	is submerged deeply in Lethe's waters
	and held there.
	   For as long as the spring of life
	   is bubbling at the lips, woes
	   are dreamt away, washed away
	   in Lethe's water."
	And now the prophetess rose,
	inspired by her god,
	and looked from the tall ships
	towards the smoke of her native land:
	"All that is earthly is smoke;
	all that is great on earth,
	vanishes like a column of smoke
	and only the gods are permanent.
	   The horse of the rider, the ship
	   are surrounded by cares, therefore
 	   let us live today, because
	   tomorrow we'll not be able to."

     182.  NL Spring, 1851. From the point of view  of man's thought being a
transient insignificance, as expressed in Vesna/Spring [132], this is one of
several very un-Pascalian poems.
     183.  NL first months of  1851. Tyutchev  ironically compares a woman's
beauty with the brief northern summer, clearly borrowed from Pushkin's lines
from 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, the  poet exclaiming that as we age,
we love "more  murderously", more  surely "ruining" what is  dear to us, yet
already  in the  second  stanza,  then  rapidly  as  the poem  progresses, a
lighter,  no less regretful tone appears, reminiscent of some of the earlier
poems with their "cheeks'...roses", "magical  voice" and  "youthfully lively
     184. April 12th. 1851. Addressed  to  Ernestine. Less inspired than the
previous poem, in these lines Tyutchev allows himself to float as it were on
the memory of childhood as recounted by his wife. (See A:20, vol.2/99-103.)
     185. 1851. Addressed  to  Ernestine. Written during the  second year of
his  love  for Elena (she had been pregnant since September 1850), the  poem
stayed in  a  herbarium album, undiscovered by  his wife until May  1875. On
first reading this poem, Aksakov wrote to Tyutchev's daughter, Ekaterina, in
1875: "These verses  are  remarkable  not so much as poetry, as for the fact
that they throw some light on the most treasured, intimate ferment his heart
sensed  for  his wife... But what is especially striking and what  grips the
heart  so is the  circumstance... that she had not  the  faintest idea  that
these Russian verses existed... In  1851... she did not  know enough Russian
to be able to understand Russian verse nor to  decipher the  Russian writing
of F.(yodor)  I. (vanovich)... What must have been her surprise, her joy and
her grief on reading this  greeting from beyond  the grave, such a greeting,
such an act of gratitude  for her work as  a wife, her  acts of love!"  (See
     186. May, 1851. Trees dream, even hallucinate about spring  in an image
which recurs throughout the poetry.
     187. 1851. Addressed to Elena  shortly after the birth of  their eldest
daughter, Elena (May 20th. 1851-May 2nd. 1865).
     Your unnamed cherub:  could refer either to the fact that  the poem was
written before  the child's christening  (the opinion of  E. Kazanovich)  or
that the baby was illegitimate (G. Chulkov), a fact that the poem was writen
before the child's  christening  (the opinion of  E. Kazanovich) or that the
baby 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. The  image of ebb and flow is common in Tyutchev,
whether it be the literal forward-retreating movement of the  sea ([143]) or
the  figurative incursion-exiting  movement of different levels  of  reality
constructed around a sea-image [92].
     190. July 14th. 1851. En route from Moscow to St. Petersburg. This poem
is cleverly constructed to allow a superb image of a Jly, star-filled sky to
merge with a sense of threat, hinting back at a poem about a woman's eyes as
she is kissed ([123]).
     191.  August 6th. 1851. In this cynical comparison of love with a brief
dream, Tyutchev employs his epigrammatic style to great effect. There is, of
course, more to any poem employing  any form or interpretation of the  nodal
son/sleep,  dream,  as  the  opening  of  a   letter  to   his  wife  (1852)
demonstrates: "... I had  expected a  letter from you today  to give  myself
just  a tiny bit of a sense of reality. For it often happens that I perceive
my real life as a dream".
     192. NL  October 27th. 1851. TR Goethe:  Mignon from Wilhelm  Meister's
Apprenticeship  (bk.3). First edition 1795, published  separately in Ballads
and Romances (1800).

	Kennst 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! Dahin
	Mocht' 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! Dahin
	Mocht' 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! Dahin
	Geht 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, there
	would I go with you, my darling.
	Do you know that house?  Its roof rests on
	its hall gleams, its chamber shimmers
	and mosaics look down upon me:
	poor child, what have they done to you?
	Perhaps you know it?
	There, there
	would 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, there
	lies our path!  Oh father, let us go!

     Tyutchev alters  Goethe's stanza order for some reason, interchanging 2
and 3.
     193. November 1st. 1851. The third stanza was quoted by Turgenev in his
story entitled Faust/Faust (1856) as well as by Chernyshevsky in his Povesti
v  Povesti/Tales within  in a Tale,  which he wrote  in the Peter  and  Paul
Fortress in 1863.
     194.  1851.  There are  many  echoes of the  earlier  Vesenyaya groza/A
Spring Storm [38],  the chief difference being the yellow  (i.e. dying) leaf
     195. 1851. TR  Schiller: Wilhelm Tell/William Tell (1805). The  song of
the 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 ringing
	   floating so sweetly,
	   like the voices of angels
	   in 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.

     William  Tell  contains scenes of  the  natural beauty  of Switzerland,
rebellion and two lake storms which help the fugitives to escape. There is a
strongly expressed "bond  between man and nature, nature both within him and
around  him". (B:36i/196) 196. 1851. Addressed to one  of  his daughters who
had accidentally  crushed a canary. Tyutchev cannot resist  a certain  black
humour at the arbitrariness of Fate.
     197. 1851 early 1852. His love for Elena is once again seen as a duel.
     198.  1851-early  1852.  Written   from  Elena's   point  of  view.  An
interesting treatment of this and the following  poem  deals with Tyutchev's
adoption of Elena's persona,  a  "gender shift". Pratt sees  the lyric as "a
struggle  between  entropy  -  the  terrifying  tendency  towards  emotional
inertness  caused by  the impending  loss of the beloved  - and energy,  the
cohering force supplied by the person's  single-minded  devotion to the love
relationship". (C:21/228)
     Discussing   [199],  she  continues:  "As  opposed   to  the  sense  of
fragmentation created by the alternately halting  and rushing  speech of his
female counterpart. Tyutchev's male persona exudes a sense of  coherence and
control as  he  uses each line to express  a complete  thought smoothly  and
rationally. His is  the rhetoric of  logic; hers  the rhetoric of  passion".
     Irrespective  of one's reaction to psychoanalytical  interpretations of
Tyutchev's work, Pratt's treatment of the dramatic qualities of this and the
following 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 it  conveys adequately the
sense of anger  and frustration experienced by  him at society's shunning of
his mistress.
     201. NL early  1852.  Chulkov  considers  the  use of  the  past  tense
throughout to suggest that the poem might not be  addressed  to Elena. There
is indeed a hint of light-heartedness, almost flippancy, which characterises
none of Tyuchev's poems to  his mistress. This poem is far more likely to be
addressed to an old flame or possibly his wife or former wife.
     202. NL early 1852. Various interpretations could easily flow from this
poem where Death is equated with Sleep and Suicide with Love,  though in the
case of the latter pair, while Tyutchev himself would  experience  the love,
the idea of suicide would most  likely be transferred  to Elena, most of the
suffering having been hers.
     203. April, 1852. The image  of something precious being buried on  the
bed 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, chtoby
dusha 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 lived
there from  early June  to  the end of  September. All  his  letters of this
period are franked "Stone Island". It was renamed "Workers Island" after the
Revolution and is  one  of the island areas of St. Petersburg. In Tyutchev's
day, the wealthy had country homes there.
     206. December 31st. 1852. Ovstug.  One  of many superb "Russian" nature
poems,  the  favourite  sleep-dream  formula appears  in the central stanza,
Tyutchev's preoccupation with the limbo  world  between external reality and
his own inner reality never being far from the surface.
     It  is  interesting that  in  proportion  as her husband  disliked  the
Russian countryside, or often had people believe  he disliked it, in July of
this  year  Ernestine  could  write  the  following:  "I  love  the  Russian
countryside;  these  vast  plains  swelling like  wide  seas, this limitless
expanse which the glance cannot take in, all this  is full  of  grandeur and
endless sadness. My husband drowns in melancholy when he's here. I, however,
feel  at peace and trouble-free right out  here.  I always have something to
think about  or, rather,  something to  remember  (...)  I'd willingly spend
winter in the  country, but my husband  has announced  categorically that he
will never agree to this, and I still don't know what we'll decide".
     207.  NE first  half 1852-NL  early 1854.  Connected with his love  for
Elena. In such a nostalgic and tender love poem, an image  of the last  glow
appearing  in  the western sky cannot fail to be interpreted  as a symbol of
his equally strong love for  western Europe. Lane describes the  reason  for
this journey abroad. (A:18, vol.2/464-470) Acting almost  as a secret agent,
Tyutchev is described thus  by the French ambassador to St. Petersburg: "The
Russian Cabinet  senses the need  to  combat  the English, French and German
press, which have crushed her with unanimous reprobation. As a result ... it
has sent to Paris one Mr. Tyutchev... so that  he  may meddle  in the French
press! He's some poor  diplomat, though attached to the Russian Chancellery,
and  a pedantic and  Romantic literary type ... Keep an eye on Mr. Tyutchev,
no matter how harmless his empty dreams may be!"
     In  a  later  communication,  it  was  decided  that  Tyutchev was  not
particularly hostile to France  and was "as un-Russian as he  could possibly
     208.  Sept.  5th.-7th. 1853. Crossing  at Kovno  (present-day  Kaunas).
Written en route from the west  to Petersburg. On  the evening  of September
2nd. Tyutchev left Warsaw. The "fatigue and horrible boredom" experienced by
him during forty eight house in a stage-coach forced  him to spend two and a
half  days in Kaunas.  Sending the poem to his wife, Tyutchev  wrote: "These
verses  I told  you about are entirely imbued with  the  Neman. In order  to
understand them, you would have  to re-read Segur's page from his history of
1812 where  he talks about the crossing of the  river by Napoleon's army, or
at  least  remember the  pictures  depicting  this  event  so often seen  in
coaching inns".
     southern demon: a reference to Napoleon's Corsican origins.
     Philippe  Paul Segur  (1780-1873) was one of Napoleon's generals and  a
writer on military  matters. His Histoire de  Napoleon et de la Grande Armee
pendant l'annee 1812/History of Napoleon and the Great  Army during the Year
of 1812 (vols. 1-2) is referred to in Tyutchev's letter.
     209.  Autumn 1852-Spring 1854. Tyutchev  hopes for a speedy, victorious
outcome to the Crimean  War. Russia declared war  on Turkey on November 1st.
1853, Turkey  reciprocating  on October 4th.  Nicholas  I  took  war to  the
British-French-Turkish  alliance on  April 23rd. 1854. The war  manifesto of
Nicholas I reads like one of Tyutchev's political poems: "Is Orthodox Russia
to fear such threats? Ready to confound the audacity of the enemy, shall she
deviate  from the sacred  aim  assigned to  her by almighty Providence?  No!
Russia has not forgotten  God! It is  not for worldly interests that she has
taken  up arms; she  fights for the Christian faith, and for the defence  of
her co-religionists oppressed by implacable enemies". (C:5/539)
     210.  Early  1854. On February  13th. 1854 Darya Tyutcheva wrote to her
friend,  O. Smirnova:  "If I  had  any  poetic talent, I'd  have written you
something in the spirit of this charming verse my father sent to Alex(andra)
     Darya then quoted  this.  Alexandra Dolgorukaya was eighteen, and, like
Darya, was a maid of honour  to  the heir to the throne, Maria Alexandrovna.
Tyutchev  frequently met  Alexandra  at his  daughter's house. In his diary,
Tyutchev described Alexandra as being "irresistibly fascinating", mentioning
her  "intelligence  and  grace" and, above  all, the surprising  "enigmatic"
quality of her nature. Years later, Anna wrote: "At first glance, this tall,
thin girl, with her  awkward gait and somewhat rounded shoulders, whose face
was leaden-pale, with colourless, glassy eyes which looked at you from heavy
lids,  produced  an impression of  repellent  ugliness. But as soon  as  she
became animated  by  conversation,  dancing or  a  game, the  most  complete
transformation  was  affected  throughout  her  being.   Her  slender  build
straightened  up,  her  movements  became  more  rounded  and  acquired  the
magnificent, almost feline grace of  the young  tiger, her face glowing with
tender  rosiness, her glances and  smile taking on a thousand tender charms,
crafty and  insinulating. Her entire being was  imbued  with  elusive, truly
mysterious charm".
     Alexandra was, in addition, extremely intelligent, sharply witty with a
fine sense  of irony. Anna  Tyutcheva,  however, concludes  by  adding  that
beneath this trenchant charm there was  sometimes something "predatory". She
describes her friend  as going out of her  way to attract the tsar (C:19/83)
and clearly a liaison of some sort did take place.  Having met  the novelist
Turgenev, Alexandra served  as the  prototype for  the heroin  of Dym/Smoke,
Irina Ratmirova.
     211.  About August 11th.  1854. On  August 5th.  he wrote to  his wife:
"What days! What nights! What a  wondrous summer! You  feel  it, breathe it,
are penetrated  by it and can scarcely believe it yourself. What  strikes me
as being particularly wonderful  is the way these lovely days are just going
on and on, inspiring  a 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. An  epigrammatic profundity, the simple  act
of saying good bye becomes an "abyss" (bezdna).
     213.  December,  1854.  The  poem fell foul of  censor  for  its "vague
thought"  and "a certain sharpness of  tone". Addressed to G. Popova, one of
Tyutchev's acquaintances.
     214. 1855-59.  Late 1850s. The Jeu  de secretaire/Secretary's  Game was
fashionable in  the  St. Petersburg salons.  This quatrain was written in  a
book of questions and answers used in the game and might be a quotation from
something else.  It seems to  be a reply to the question  put to Tyutchev: A
quoi bon un crayon?/What's a pencil for?
     215.  March  1st. 1855. The Austrian archduke  was in St. Petersburg on
February  27th.  1855. Austria had  refused to declare its neutrality during
the Crimean War.
     216.  July  10th. 1855. Addressed to  Elena.  There are echoes of  many
poems here: billow after billow flow on as do thoughts and waves in Volna  i
duma/The  Wave  and the  Thought [189];  in  Teni  sizye smesilis'/Blue-grey
mingling [107], sounds, shapes, colours and aromas merge synaesthetically to
produce a dreamlike existence in which the poet can pour himself, as happens
when smoke from the fire engulfs  him and his  mistress; more  ominously, in
Gus  na  kostre/Hus at the Stake [356],  flame  crackles and spreads like an
animal through the kindling.
     217.  Probably  July,  1855.  Tyutchev  forgets  himself  and  whatever
problems life  has created for  him, or that he has created for himself, the
exhortation  to  time to wait containing a hint of  pathos made all the more
powerful  by  the  reference to that  which is vile and  false, for the less
pleasant aspects of life  in St. Petersburg high  society were Elena's daily
social lot and, while after this moment Tyutchev must return to them, he was
never shunned for his part  in the  illicit  romance. Unlike Elena he  could
escape the vile and false at any time.
     218. August  13th.  1855.  Roslavl in  the  Smolensk province.  One  of
Tyutchev's most  oft-quoted poems, it lends itself to easy interpretation by
commentators  of various  persuasions. From  being a spontaneous reaction to
the sight of  the down-trodden serfs, observed by Tyutchev more than once on
his  own  estate, to a reflection on the courage of the ordinary privates of
the  serf-army  defending Sevastopol, it was notably quoted by Dostoevsky in
The  Brothers  Karamazov,  the  section  called  The  Legend  of  the  Grand
Inquisitor. (B:11iii, vol.14/226).
     Ivan  Karamazov's  strange  prose poem  concerns the  re-appearance  of
Christ during the Inquisition, a Christ who had finally heeded man's prayers
and  in his immeasurable compassion once  more come down to offer succour to
suffering humankind. The  inquisitor informs Christ that he  is to be burned
the  next  day,  although  after  a  lengthy justification of his  decision,
relents and finally releases him, warning him that he must never return. The
contradiction  inherent in the existence  of a Church which is Christian but
which,  like any ruling political party, needs  to stay in power to survive,
is one  of many aspects  of  the problem of  faith  and religion brilliantly
exploited by Dostoevsky. Tyutchev's meaning may be more ambiguous.
     219.  August  13th.  1855.  Roslavl.  Inspired  by  the  poet's  gloomy
presentiments  during  the  siege  of  Sevastopol.  The  fall  of  the  town
overwhelmed  and stunned Tyutchev. In her  diary Anna  wrote: "My father had
just  returned from  the country, not  suspecting anything of  the  fall  of
Sevastopol. Knowing  his  passionate patriotic  feelings,  I  was very  much
afraid of the first explosion of his anger, and it was a great relief to see
him not irritated; only, from  his eyes, quietly, great tears rolled; he was
deeply  moved, when I told him that only the second day after receiving  the
dreadful news of this blow which had befallen us,  the tsar and the  tsarina
had wanted to go out to the people to raise their spirits". (C:19/49-50)
     The Crimean defeat had more  than the straightforward effect of wounded
national pride on Tyutchev. "The deafening collapse of the imaginary granite
structure made the poet glance around him, look at Russia not only  from the
window  of the high-society salon". (A:20, vol.1,fn.9/166) While it did not,
as Soviet commentators have sometimes tried to demonstrate, make him  in any
way anti-monarchist,  it  reinforced  that contempt he had  always  felt for
inefficiency among those whose role was to rule.
     220. October 16th. 1855. The poetess Rostopchina, about whose return to
Petersburg the  poem  is written, published  her ballad  Nasil'nyi  brak/The
Forced  Marriage,  a  portrayal of Russo-Polish relations.  It  incurred the
displeasure of Nicholas,  who forbade  her to appear in St.  Petersburg. She
returned to the  city only  after the  tsar's death. Tyutchev was constantly
involved in the works of other poets. Two days after writing  this verse, he
was appointed  to a  committee  whose  brief was an examination of  those of
Zhukovsky's works unpublished during his lifetime.
     221. December  31st. 1855. St. Petersburg.  Concerning the war and  the
then    fashionable     spiritualism,    ironically    referred     to    as
Stoloverchenie/table-turning,  Anna wrote  (ibid./147-8): "July 10.  Yum the
table-turner has arrived. Seance in the great hall in the company of  twelve
of  the emperor's entourage.... We were  all sitting  around a large  table,
hands  on the table; the magician  sat  between  the empress and Grand  Duke
Konstantin.  Suddenly  from various corners of the room  there came  knocks,
produced by spirits and corresponding to the letters of the alphabet".
     The  spirits  decided they did  not like  Anna  and asked for her to be
banished to the neighbouring room, from  which she heard  all the goings on,
including the table being raised into the air.
     222. 1855. Tyutchev being  the literary magpie he was,  line 1 is taken
straight 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's  destiny,  that  of  a  brilliant  artist  dependent  on
powerful masters, might well have struck sympathetic  chords in Tyutchev. In
writing this quatrain, the Italian probably had in mind the  loss of freedom
of  Florence, in the designing  of  whose  defences he  played a part.  In a
letter  of  1870,  Tyutchev, incensed  at  the stupidity of Russia's rulers,
quoted lines 2-3 of Michelangelo's poem.
     The  quatrain is a reply to  some verses by  Strozzi, inspired  by  the
famous  sculpture  of  Night  on the  sarcophagus  of  Julian de  Medici  in
Florence. Enraptured by Michelangelo's work of genius, Strozzi wrote that if
Night could be awoken she would begin to speak:

	La Note che tu vedi in si dolci atti
	dormir, fu da un Angelo scolpita
	in questo sasso e, perche dorme, ha vita:
	destala, se nol credi, e parleratti.
	The Night that you see sleeping in such a
	graceful attitude, was sculpted by an Angel
	in this stone, and since she sleeps, she must have life;

     wake  her,  if  you  don't  believe  it,  and  she'll  speak   to  you.
     Filippo Strozzi (1489-1538) was  a merchant banker  and  speculator who
basked in the glow of the favours abounding at the court of the De Medicis.
     224.  1855.  This  French version of  [223]  is more  faithful  to  the
     225. 1855. An epigrammatic epitaph for Nicholas I, who died on February
18th. of this year, undoubtedly inspired by the fall of Sevastopol. Tyutchev
wrote to Ernestine:  "in order  to create  such a desperate position,  you'd
need the monstrous stupidity of this ill-starred man". (Sept. 17th. 1855)
     226.  January  4th.   1856.  St.   Petersburg.  Sent  to  Abram   Norov
(1795-1869), an education minister from 1854 up till 1858. Norov was wounded
during 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 been
persuaded to  take  part  in  an amateur  production  of Alfred de  Musset's
(1810-1857)  comedie-proverbe/proverb-comedy,  Il  faut  qu'une  porte  soit
ouverte ou fermee/A door  should  be open or closed. De Musset was extremely
good at  what he  called le spectacle  du  fauteuil/armchair  theatre. These
popular comedies were written to be read. They tended to involve a couple of
people, no external events, sentimental dialogue and the kind of theme which
would go down well at soirees,  "a  scene with people of wit, in a real-life
situation,  and  presented  as faithfully  as  to  suggest  nature  itself".
     This particular comedie-proverbe was  first published  in  La Revue des
Deux Mondes/The Journal of Two Worlds, November 1st. 1845.
     229. February 04th  1857. St. Petersburg. Nikolay  Shcherbina (1821-69)
was a talented  poet  who  grew up in Taganrog  on the Black Sea in  a Greek
community of a Greek mother. Nature and classical  themes are predominant in
his  imagist  work.   There   are   a  few  parallels  between  his   poetic
preoccupations and  Tyutchev's.  He  wrote contrasting verses  about western
blueness  and eastern European bleakness, some fairly mediocre philosophical
and some poor civic  poetry. He was an  ultra-conservative  minister without
portfolio  to  the  Associate  Minister  of  Education  and Tyutchev's great
friend, the poet  P.  Vyazemsky. In  the  1860s, a  period  of  demands  for
socially relevant literature, he unashamedly proclaimed the lofty mission of
the poet. He died of a throat tumour.
     E.   Petrova  (A:20,   vol.1/33)  considers   this  to   be   a   "very
characteristic,  very 'Tyutchevian' poem".  She  goes on  to say  that  "the
poetic world  of Shcherbina, this talented  poet who tried to feel, to think
like the  harmonious person  of Hellas, is seen by Tyutchev as an attempt to
escape   the   over-burdensome   impressions  of  existence,  the  'Scythian
blizzard', to see refuge  in  a country  where 'golden freedom' reigns in  a
land of reverie. But it's a "sickly" "dream".
     Petrova  rightly, I  believe,  takes Freiburg  to task. Tyutchev is not
rebuking Shcherbina's "honeyed antiquity" (ibid.), rather showing  awareness
of a need to escape in fantasy.
     230.   NL  April  2nd.   1857.  TR   Schiller:   Das   Gluck   und  die
Weisheit/Fortune and Wisdom (Poems, 1805).
     Entzweit mit einem Favoriten

	Flog einst Fortun' der Weisheit zu:
	"Ich will dir meine Schatze bieten,
	Sei meine Freundin du!
	Mit meinen reichsten schonsten Gaben
	Beschenkt' 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 favourite
	once 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 greedy
	and 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 words
	and 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.  Written  on the  fly-leaf  of  Volume  10  of
Zhukovsky's works and presented to Darya.
     232.  August,  15th.  1857.  Ovstug.  Written  on   the  Feast  of  the
Assumption. Tyutchev also had  in mind the impending reform  of  serfdom. He
expressed a reservation about Alexander II's reform programme in a letter of
September 28th. 1857, to A. Bludova, considering the system of serfdom ready
to  be taken over by  another  system in reality even  more despotic, for it
will be invested with the outward form of Law".
     233. August 22nd. 1857. En route from Ovstug to Moscow. One of the most
anthologised  poems,  beloved  of  Tolstoy, this  wonderful  scene  suggests
restfulness after a day of hard labour.
     234. End of August, 1857. On leaving Ovstug  for Moscow. This is a less
frivolous,  equally  happy  and  sensation-replete  version  of  the earlier
Polden'/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 memory  of Eleonore.  Despite his
philandering,  Tyutchev  was capable on more  than one  occasion  of writing
poems to Eleonore and Ernestine which demonstrate  his genuine affection. It
should not, of course, be forgotten that in so many, if not  all of his love
poems, he thinks primarily about himself. He does not say anything about the
positive effect of  his love on a woman,  rather of the way the relationship
made him feel.
     238.   NL  April,  1858.  Possibly  in  memory  of  Eleonore.   Gregg's
mistranslation is unfortunate. The souls in question look down on the corpse
they  have abandoned,  not  "from a height  at a body they  themselves  have
hurled  down".  (A:14/171)  Discussing  the  Russian  eschatological sermon,
Fedotov points out that "The last striking image, familiar in Russian poetry
from the religious  folksongs  to  Tyutchev,  originates in  Plato".  He  is
referring to  the following: "..... with a terrible pain the soul will issue
from the body, as someone who has taken off his vestment  and stands looking
at it". (C:31) The poem contains echoes of Heine's Wiedersehen/Meeting Again
[13] of  the Lazarus poems,  which  Tyutchev will have read as Heine died in
1856 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 beisammen
	Zum letzten Male hier gesessen;
	Die zartlichen Gluten, die gro?en Flamme,
	Sie waren erloschen unterdessen.
	Einsilbig sa? ich.  Die Plaudertasche,
	Das Weib hingegen schurte bestandig
	Herum in der alten Liebesasche.
	Jedoch kein Funkchen ward wider lebendig.
	Und sie erzahlte: wie sie die bosen
	Gedanken bekampft, eine lange Geschichte,
	Wie wackelig schon ihre Tugend gewesen -
	Ich machte dazu ein dummes Gesichte.
	Als ich nach Hause ritt, da liefen
	Die 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 about
	Persistently in the old love's ashes.
	But not a spark was still alight.
	She told a long tale - how she's won
	Her 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 trees
	Seemed in the brilliance to run past
	Like spirits - a sense of mournful cries -

     But we, the dead and I, ride fast.
     239.  August 15th.  1858. A variation on  a theme from Lenau's Blick in
den  Strom/A Glance  into the River (Lyrische Nachlese/Lyrical Late Harvest,

	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 Vergessenheit
	Des Herzens Wunde schlie?en;
	Die Seele sieht mit ihrem Leid
	Sich selbst voruberflie?en.
	If fortune passes you by
	it will never return.
	It's good, then, to glance into the river
	where 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 stream
	till your tears become
	a warm downpour
	pouring into a flood.
	Oblivion, dreaming, will close up
	the heart's wound;
	with your grief, the soul sees
	itself fly by.

     240.  October  22nd. 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.  This
superbly   descriptive,  lyric  work   is  so   typical  of   the  brilliant
Russian-nature poems of  this period which go hand in hand with his constant
dislike of the bleaker aspects of eastern Europe, that "sad thing" which  is
"a country where there  are  only clouds to  simulate mountains".  (LET.ERN.
Sept. 14th. 1853)  One commentator considers  it to be  a political poem and
writes  of Tyutchev's "total  inability to  create in his political  verse a
living  image of his 'chere patrie' - except in the most superficial  sense,
i.e. the externals of Russian imperial power". (A:9/64) To consider a nature
poem to be political because it was written in  Russia as Conant appears  to
do,  is  strange  enough. To miss the  wondrous  qualities of this  poem  is
     Tyutchev began a short letter to Darya with the poem, concluding: "Here
are a few  poor verses, my dear daughter, which helped  me pass the  time on
this  dreadfully boring journey... To be fair, however, I  ought to tell you
that right now there's a lovely sun shining,  not on rose bushes  and orange
blossom, true, but on fresh, newly blossoming icicles".
     242. December  20th. 1859. On December  20th 1859, Tyutchev received  a
packet containing  some spectacles and bearing the words, "To His Excellency
Fyodor Ivanovich  Tyutchev  from Grand Prince  the Admiral-General  for  the
coming  ball". Puzzled, Tyutchev finally assumed  that this was by way of  a
reproach for not having  paid  his  compliments  to Grand  Prince Konstantin
Nikolaevich at the Annenkovs'  ball  two days previously. Irritated, he sent
the verses to the  prince,  his daughter Maria hoping nothing would  come of
this.  Tyutchev  discovered  that  at a forthcoming fancy-dress ball in  the
Mikhailovsky Palace, he and the prince were to appear in identical costumes,
a domino (a long  cloak of silk  with a hood).  Being short-sighted and  not
wanting to be immediately recognised by his spectacles, the prince  had sent
a  whole variety of  guests spectacles to  wear  at  the ball.  The poem was
interpreted positively by the prince,  clearly considering that stanza 1 did
not refer to him, but that lines 18-19 were obviously directed at him.
     243.  Late  1850s.  Addressed to the wife of Alexander  II, the Empress
Maria  Alexandrovna  (1824-80). Aksakov wrote,  "It is  hard to  imagine any
courtier  smacking  less  of  the  court  than  Tyutchev".  (A:1/261)  As  a
chamberlain, it  fell  within Tyutchev's  duties  to  attend court and other
social gatherings. As a  result of his dreadful writing,  something to which
he referred frequently, he was once mistaken by "some stupid Englishmen" who
saw his entry in a  hotel register as the tsar himself,  on the strength  of
"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 Mikhailovsky
palaces, are  characterised by the refined courtesy and courtly gallantry of
the French madrigal. "Living pictures" (Zhivye kartiny)  were  minor amateur
theatricals. (See [255].)
     244. Late 1850s. See previous  note. Addressed to  Grand  Duchess Elena
Pavlovna (1806-73),  wife of  Grand Duke Mikhail  Pavlovich,  the  uncle  of
Alexander  II. Elena  Pavlovna,  nee Princess  Frederika-Charlotta-Maria von
Wurttemberg, was one  of the founders of the  Exaltation  of  the Holy Cross
community  of the Sisters of  Mercy and the Russian Musical Society. She was
patron  of  a variety  of  educational and medical institutions, used  great
initiative to put into practice  the Reforms  on her own estate and extended
her patronage to many liberal thinkers and writers.
     In a letter to  his wife (July 25th. 1851), Tyutchev describes spending
"a good hour tete-a-tete with her on her balcony on Stone Island". He refers
to  her as a woman of grace  and "imperishable charm" with an open, flexible
nature and inner joy and serenity. He dined with  her more than once on this
"poetic balcony" and the two clearly had a good, friendly relationship.
     245.  December,  1859.  A  note  on the manuscript reads: "December.  8
a.m.". The image of the moon, unaware of the early sun, and the spider-like,
timid  groping  over the  horizon  of the sun's first rays  impart a hint of
apprehension 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 Ewigkeit
     Und Ewigkeit wie Zeit,
     Der ist befreit
     Von allem Streit.
     He for whom Time is like Eternity
     and Eternity like Time
     is free
     of 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, to
translate this verse of the great, self-taught German  philosopher. Tyutchev
held  Bohme in  high esteem, considering him "one of the greatest minds ever
to cross  our  world ... standing  at an intersection point between the  two
opposed doctrines  of  Christianity and  Pantheism. You could call  him  the
Christian  Pantheist,  if  these  two words did  not  shriek  at  being  put
together. To reproduce his ideas in Russian, in true  Russian, you'd have to
acquire that language, so idiomatic and so profoundly expressive, of certain
members of our sects".
     Bohme's view  of God's ways  is often considered idiosyncratic  and his
writings  can  be considered confused, even chaotic.  There is a striving in
his work to reconcile  the dualities of Good and Evil to produce harmony. He
believed  that they were  equally important in God's universe. His  work  is
also  pantheistic.  Interest  in  the philosopher,  which flagged  after his
death, was revived during the Romantic movement. This poem served as Bohme's
motto and the theosophist would write it in friends' albums. (B:5/10)
     Bludov  (1785-1864)  was  an  important  state  and  literary   figure,
President of the Academy of Sciences, Chairman of  the State Council and the
Committee of Ministers. He and the Tyutchevs were very close.
     248. Possibly 1850s, possibly early sixties. Pigaryov does not consider
that  it was  written during  this  period, although  Tyutchev  had  serious
misgivings about these reforms (A:33ii, vol.2/370). The latter  were complex
in structure and, far from  revolutionary, the result of  a long thought-out
process.  Indeed, Nicholas I had set up secret committees to look  into  the
whole matter  of  serfdom well before it was  finally abolished. The Crimean
disaster played  a  significant part,  highlighting  Russia's  economic  and
technological backwardness, related to her military ineptitude.
     249.  1860s. There is  some  small doubt as to the  authorship of  this
poem, but there  are  enough indicators to  suggest that it  was  written by
Tyutchev,  possibly to Gorchakov's niece, N.  Akinfeva. The manuscript bears
the  initials  "O.T."  Pigaryov points  out that  in  the  pre-revolutionary
orthography, the Russian "F" was "("  and, this being very similar to "O", a
copying  error could  well be possible. He further considers that the poem's
"rhythmic-stylistic characteristics allow one to attribute it  to Tyutchev".
     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 recalls  meeting her in Vevey on  Lake Leman
in September of the previous year.
     252.  Possibly October  1860  in Geneva.  Pigaryov casts doubt on 1861,
postulated  earlier, as Tyutchev  was  in  St.  Petersburg then. It  is,  of
course,  perfectly possible  that  having visited Switzerland  the  previous
year, Tyutchev was reliving a favourite  experience in imagination, that  of
being among his beloved mountains and lakes.
     253. Feb. 23rd. 1861. Addressed to Maria,  whose dog,  Hecuba, seems to
have enjoyed a special wash and brush-up.
     254. About February  25th.  (re-worked early  March  1861).  Prince  P.
Vyazemsky  (1792-1878)  and  Tyuchev were old friends.  P.  Pletnyov, having
re-read Vyazemsky's work with  Tyutchev  one day, wrote to Vyazemsky that he
and Tyutchev agreed  that in  proportion as  the burden  of  his days became
heavier, so his verse  became younger and  more playful. While  Tyutchev did
not always  see eye to  eye  with Vyazemsky, he placed  great value on their
friendship.  Whether or  not, as  Mirsky  suggests, Vyazemsky "grew  into an
irritating  reactionary  who  heartily detested  anyone  born  after  1810",
(C:2/82) Vyazemsky was his  own man and unafraid to speak out. His verse was
somewhat along  the  lines of Batyushkov's, sometimes  convoluted.  In later
life, he produced some very mature poetry.
     255. Early March,  1861.  Tyuchev's son, Ivan,  confirms  that this was
written  as if by Maria, in connection with Vyazemsky's fiftieth jubilee. In
December 1853 Maria played the role of  a major in  an amateur production of
the sort known as  "living  pictures". A propos of this,  Vyazemsky wrote  a
verse for her:  Lyubezneishii maior, teper' ty chinom  mal /My very  dearest
major, right now  you're  of lowly rank. Later on  Maria's engagement  to N.
Birilev (February 05. 1865), Vyazemsky recalled the event in Ya znal maiorom
vas 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'e
     Chto budesh' ty, v stroyu krasavits, general,
     A v ozhidanii pobed svoikh i balov
     Uchis', 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 rank
     but, if you're patient, promotion will come along.
     I see in your eyes that confidence
     that, 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 unexpectedly
     among the ranks of illiterate, though conspicuous generals.
     256. March 25th. 1861. In connection with the abolition of serfdom.
     257.  March  27th.  1861. Addressee  unknown. This  work  is  a  gentle
masterpiece.  The  final  stanza  could be no more than  a belated  Romantic
cliche were it not  for the remarkable music of the entire poem  (as Kozyrev
points out in A:20, vol.1/122). Tyutchev  alternates on "a" rhyme with other
rhymes in the first two stanzas, the final stanza's five lines all ending in
a stressed "a". There is throughout the poem an almost imperceptible merging
of the woman with the sky making of the two  entities one being,  the  rhyme
reinforcing this. Kozyrev  rightly  sees  a truly  superb effect, Tyutchev's
"linguistic freshness"  playing an  equally  important  role.  He  indicates
Tyutchev's uses  of dorassvetnyi in place of the more  usual predrassvetnyi,
both  meaning "occurring before dawn". (ibid.) The nuance is not possible to
translate into English.
     Tyutchev knew many women, the exact degree of intimacy not always known
to us. Kozyrev claims that  the poem  is written  in memory of  "some pretty
girl  who  died  young".  (ibid.)  Pigaryov considers  the  addressee  to be
unknown.  (A:33ii, vol.1/416)  However,  in  a letter to Gagarin (July 22nd.
1836)  Tyutchev  refers to Amalia Krudner as having become a "constellation"
when she used to be "so beautiful on  earth", a reference to her affair with
Nicholas  I, imagery  suggestive of this poem. It  is impossible to be  sure
about  the identity of the woman in  question, but I feel Amalia is a strong
     258. March, 1861. Addressed to the  German journalist, Wilhelm Wolfson,
invited   by  the  Academy  of  Sciences  to   attend  Vyazemsky's   jubilee
celebrations. Wolfson was a Jew from Odessa who went some way to acquainting
the western European reader with Russian literature.
     259.  1861.  The  first  two  lines  relate to the celebration  of  the
fiftieth anniversary of Vyazemsky's literary career. The  celebrations  took
place on March 2nd. 1861.
     260. July  25th.  1861.  Addressee unknown.  The poem  is replete  with
dream-forgetfulness  imagery and the addressee would certainly seem to  be a
woman who has appeared in more than one lyric up till now.
     261.  1861.  Addressed  to his eldest daughter,  Anna,  whose  work  as
lady-in-waiting and tutor in the royal household is described,  stripped  of
any idealisation, in her diary and notes, Pri dvore dvukh imperatorov/At the
Court  of Two  Emperors (C:19). Anna was an honest, devout woman  of  strong
mind and her own opinions. In her diary entry for May 19th. 1855 she writes:
"The  courtier's profession is not at all as easy as people think, and to do
it properly one needs a talent not  possessed by everyone. You need to  know
how to find the point of departure of support,  so that you actually want to
play with dignity the role of friend and lackey, so that you can  easily and
gaily go from the living room to the  servants' area, always ready to listen
to  the most  intimate confidences of the lord  and carry his coat and boots
for him. Pascal's words,  applied to man  in general, are applicable to  the
courtier". She then quotes Pascal's pensee [163]:
     S'il se vante, je l'abaisse
     S'il s'abaisse, je le vante
     Et je contredis toujours
     Jusqu'a ce qu'il comprenne
     Qu'il est un monstre incomprehensible.
     If he boasts, I put him down,
     if he puts himself down, I build him up,
     and I always contradict
     until he understands
     that he is an incomprehensible monster.
     262. December 6th. 1861. A telegram sent to  his brother, Nikolay,  and
brother-in-law, Nikolay Sushkov (1796-1871), on their name day.
     263. 1861. Aimed at Grigory Fillipson (1809-1883), the administrator of
the  St.  Petersburg  education  authority and written  on  account  of  his
measures against students  during the  unrest of 1861.  Filippson had been a
cossack chieftain.
     A  pun on the literal translation  of the  German name, Fillipson, into
Russian  Syn Filippa/Son  of Phillip. Alexander  the Great was  the  son  of
Phillip of Macedonia.
     264. April 14th. 1862. This and the following poem were sent to Fet  on
the latter's  request  that  Tyutchev  send  him  a  portrait.  Afanasy  Fet
(1820-92)  had a great deal of  respect for Tyutchev  and  the two were good
friends. Of this champion  of the rights of pure poetry whose melodic nature
lyrics and imagist style and classical themes  gave way, in his later years,
to  more  philosophical and metaphysical verse, Mirsky writes:  "The highest
summits  of Fet's later poetry are reached  in his love poems, certainly the
most extraordinary and concentratedly passionate love poems  ever written by
a man of seventy (not excepting Goethe)". (C:2/236)
     265.  April 14th.  1862.  See previous note. The  poem would be  better
understood  if directed at  Tyutchev himself.  Fet's talent notwithstanding,
this should be seen as a polite, certainly sincere compliment, but one which
perhaps over-states Fet's abilities as poet of nature.
     266. May,  1862. Tyutchev  re-works  verses  by his daughter, Anna. The
Holy  Mountains are a monastery on the  northern Donets in the Izyumsky uezd
(an administrative  region) of the Kharkov province. Anna was rather unhappy
with  her  father's meddling in  her  own poetic  attempts.  Writing  to her
sister, Ekaterina, she says, "I'm  sending you some new verses which I wrote
about the Holy  Mountains and which dad has re-worked  in his  own style. It
goes without  saying that his are incomparably better than mine; however, he
has  not  put  across  my  thoughts exactly  as I understood them". Her poem
     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 stenoi
     Psalmopen'e, zvon svyatoi
     Do zautreni molchat
     Pod ogradoyu tolpoi,
     Osvyashchyonnye lunoi,
     Bogomol'tsy mirno spyat.
     I s krestom tam na chele
     Belym prizrakom vo t'me
     Nad Dontsom utyos stoit.
     I, kak dukh minuvshikh dnei,
     On molitvoyu svoyei
     Bogomol'tsev storozhit.
     Vo skale toi svyashchenoi
     Iskoni chernets smirennyi
     Podvig very sovershal,
     I v dukhovnom sozertsan'e
     Skol'ko slyoz i vozdykhanii
     Pered Bogom izlival.
     Ottogo, kak dukh blazhennyi,
     Velichavyi i smirennyi
     Nad Dontsom ytyos stoit,
     I v tishi poroi nochnoi
     On molitvoi vekovoi
     Spyashchii 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 dwelling
     psalm-singing and sacred ringing
     are silent until prime.
     Crowding together behind their enclosure,
     illuminated by the moon,
     the holy monks sleep peacefully.
     And there with the cross on its brow
     like a poor spectre in the mist
     above the Donets the cliff stands.
     And, like a spirit of bygone days,
     with its prayer
     it stands guard over the monks.
     In this sacred mountain
     since time immemorial a humble monk
     carried out his task,
     and in spiritual contemplation
     so many tears and lamentations
     did he pour out before God.
     This is why, like a sacred spirit,
     majestic and humble
     the cliff stands above the Donets
     and in the still of the night
     with its eternal prayer
     revives the sleeping world.
     267.  February,  1863.  The  epigram  is  aimed   at  Tolstoy's  story,
Kazaki/The  Cossacks.  The  writer,  Evgeniya  Tur, while  acknowledging the
story's  artistic  mertis,  nonetheless  saw   in   it  a  poeticisation  of
"drunkenness, brigandage,  thieving, blood lust". Tyutchev's epigram appears
to echo her feelings.
     Tur was a writer of prose and literary criticism, a  journalist and was
best  known as a  writer of children's stories. Her work  is very much along
Christian moralistic lines. Among her many tutors was Raich.
     268.  August,  1863. Moscow.  The verse is  a reaction to the  combined
diplomatic  move on the  part  of England, France and  Austria in connection
with the Polish uprising.
     Stanza 3 contains a hint at the part played  by the Catholic  clergy in
the uprising.
     269.   November  12th.   1863.   Dedicated   to  the   St.   Petersburg
Governor-General,  Prince A. Suvorov  (1804-1882),  grandson of  the  famous
commander. Suvorov was a relatively liberal administrator. While this earned
him  the  sympathies  of the St. Petersburg  population,  it gained him  the
animosity of the more conservative elements in society. The poem was written
on  account  of  Suvorov's  refusal to  sign the welcoming  address  to  the
Governor-General of the north-western region, M.  Muravyov, renowned for his
savage reprisals  against Polish  and  Lithuanian insurgents.  His Draconian
tactics earned  him  the  sobriquet  Veshatel'/Hangman. Tyutchev  and  other
Pan-Slavists supported Muravyov's measures.
     270. Possibly 1863 and probably written to N. Akinfeva. The  poem hints
at A. Gorchakov's feelings for N. Akinfeva.
     271. Possibly some time after 1863. Nikolay Krol' (1823-71) was a minor
poet and dramatist and, with Polonsky, one of the few people who were linked
with democratic cricles with whom Tyutchev had any dealings.
     272. February, 19th.-21st. 1864. On the death of Count  Dmitry  Bludov,
February 19th. the third anniversary of the publication of the manifesto  on
the reform of serfdom.
     273. April 12th. 1864. Sent to Darya on her birthday.
     274. October, 1864. Geneva. As so often, Tyutchev  encompasses many  of
his  poetic  themes  in  one  very  short poem.  Here,  within  the  natural
framework, there is the sea-movement of Na Neve/On the Neva [172], the lush,
leaf-rustling,  sunny feel of  so many,  and  the anguish of the  memory  of
Elena's death.
     .... one grave less: a reference to Elena.
     275. Late 1864. Nice. Dedicated to the memory of Elena's final hours.

     276.  November  3rd.  1864.  Nice.  Dedicated  to  the  Empress,  Maria
     277. November  21st. 1864. Tyutchev lived in Nice from October 18th. of
this  year  to March 4th.  1865.  Leaving  the town  in  the spring of 1865,
Tyutchev wrote to Anna: "Italy has played a strange role in my life... Twice
it has appeared before me like some fateful vision, after  the  two greatest
sorrows  I have ever been fated to experience... There  are  countries where
they wear the mourning of bright flowers. Obviously, this is my lot ...."
     The  two  sorrows  were  the   deaths  of  Eleonore   and   Elena.  His
characteristic impatience with anything which prevented him from being among
people  is described  in a letter Anna wrote  to her sister, Ekaterina (Dec.
4th.  1864):  "Just imagine what poor dad  is like when the  weather's  like
this. When it's  raining in Nice, no-one  goes  out, social  life comes to a
halt, the cabs vanish, the streets become impassable. Poor dad is thoroughly
     278. November, 1864. Nice. Inspired by his meeting with the Empress.
     279. November, 1864. Written in connection with the promulgation of the
encyclical  of  Pius  IX, condemning, among other  "aberrations of the age",
freedom of conscience.
     Stanza 1  contains  a reference  to the destruction  of the  temple  of
Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 A.D.
     280.  1864.  Addressed  to  Prince  Alexander  Gorchakov (1798-1883), a
conspicuous figure in government, from 1856 occupying the  post  of Minister
of  Foreign  Affairs.  He  replaced  the  Austrophil,  Count  K.  Nesselrode
(1780-1862).   While   Tyutchev  considered  it  his  duty  to  support  the
nationalist  motives behind Gorchakov's policies, to  which numerous letters
and verses  bear  witness,  nonetheless  he  caustically  mocked  the  man's
ambition and  self-love,  calling him "the  narcissus  of  his own inkwell".
Gorchakov was inordinately proud of his prose style. His vanity even came to
the attention of Bismarck, who  once remarked  that Gorchakov was "incapable
of stepping  over  a  puddle without  examining his own reflection  in  it".
     There is an allusion here to Gorchakov's diplomatic activity during the
Polish uprising and to the rebuff thrown him by the foreign powers.
     Aksakov  points to  the veiled  suggestion  that  "new  constraints are
threatening the Russian press". (A:1/281)
     281. January,  1865. The poem was distorted when Darya copied it and it
appeared in  print in such  a  manner that  Tyutchev was extremely  annoyed,
claiming they had published without informing him and presented the poem "in
its ugliest form". He further complained to the editorial board in February:
"God knows, I place very little value on my  verses, even less now than ever
before, but I see no reason to take responsibility for poetry which does not
belong to me".
     282.  January  12th. 1865.  Dedicated to Darya. The  text ends with the
following  words:  "My  dear daughter, keep  this in  memory  of yesterday's
stroll  and our  conversation,  but  don't show  it to  anyone.  Let  it  be
meaningful  only to  us two.... I embrace and bless you  with all  my heart.
     We do  not know what they talked about, although the first  stanza does
appear to have something in common with the following lines from a letter he
wrote to Darya in September, 1864: " .... if there were anything which could
lift my spirits,  could create at least an outward appearance of  life, then
it is to  preserve myself for you, to dedicate myself to you, my poor, sweet
child, you, so loving and so alone, outwardly so apparently lacking in sense
and  so  deeply  sincere,  to you I have, perhaps, bequeathed this frightful
capacity which has  no  name, which  destroys all  equilibrium in life, this
thirst for love which in you, my poor child, has remained unassuaged".
     283. January, 1865.  Written on account of the address to  Alexander II
by the Moscow  nobility  concerning the convocation of the Zemskaya duma  (a
representative district council in Russia in the last half of the century up
till  the Revolution).  Tyutchev's  frequent reactionary outbursts must have
irritated  many less capable of expressing their feelings than he.  However,
on this  occasion, he appears to have got almost as good  as he gave, as the
following anonymous reply to his epigram demonstrates:
     Vy oshibaetesya grubo,

	I v vashei Nitstse dorogoi
	Slozhili, vidno, vmeste s shuboi
	Vy 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 Konstantin
	I gdye slilis' v odno svetilo,
	Valuev, Reitern, Golovnin?
	Net, nam parlamenta ne nuzhno,
	No pochemu zh nas proklinat'
	Za to, chto my derznuli druzhno
	I gromko karaul krichat'?
	You made a coarse mistake,
	and in your dear Nice
	you'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 land
	where right now Constantine rules
	and where, into one luminary, there have merged
	Valuev, Reitern and Golovnin?
	No, we don't need a parliament,
	but why curse us
	for daring in a friendly manner
	to loudly sound the alarm?

     The references are to Grand Duke Konstantin, from 1865 Chairman  of the
State  Council; Pyotr  Valuev (1816-1890),  home  affairs minister;  finance
minister,  Mikhail  Reytern (1826-1886)  and  education minister,  Alexander
Golovnin (1821-1886).
     In the exclusive  English  club, high-ranking civil servants  and those
with  whom  it was  important  to  be seen would  gather to play  cards  and
billiards, converse and  take part in  readings. Tyutchev's brother, Nikolay
was  in the club when he died  suddenly  on  December 8th. 1870. He suffered
from a heart condition.
     284. Late March, 1865. Petersburg.  Dedicated to  the memory  of Elena.
Lines from  Tyutchev's  letter  of  October 1864  to her brother-in-law,  A.
Georgievsky (1830-1911), are  his epistolary  variant of this poem:  "I just
can't get  on with life.... I can't get  on... The  wound is  festering  and
won't heal. Call it faint-heartedness, call it impotence, I don't care. Only
in her  company and  for her was  I an individual, only in her  love, in her
limitless  love  for  me was I  aware  of  myself...  Now I'm some  sort  of
unthinking living thing, some living, tormented nothing...".
     285.  Early  April,  1865.  Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  100th.
anniversary of the death of  Lomonosov,  marked on April 4th. of  that year.
Sending the first draft of his  poem to A. Maykov, Tyutchev wrote: "Here, my
friend  ...  are a  few poor rhymes for our festival.  I  can manage nothing
better  thanks to  my  present disposition". While  Maykov took part in  the
proceedings, Tyutchev's verses were not read out for some reason.
     On  his  death  bed, 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 at
dawn  that  his night-long  struggle  had been  with  God. (Genesis,  XXXII,
     286. April 8th. 1865. St.  Petersburg. The eldest son of  Alexander II,
Nikolay (1843-1865), died on April 12th.
     287. April 12th. 1865. On the death of Grand Duke Nikolay.
     288. April  30th.  1865.  The  epigram  is  directed  at  Count  Sergei
Stroganov, entrusted with the care of the heir to  the throne, and refers to
rumours that  the count's  ukhod/care might have  been the ukhod/ruin of the
young man. The verb ukhodit' can mean  "to wear out" and colloquially "to do
in".  In  a  diary  entry (April  17th. 1865),  A. Nikitenko tells  us  that
Tyutchev was convinced that  the heir  had been "worn out by the  ridiculous
education he had received, especially by the kind that Stroganov had imposed
on  him in recent years. His physical condition was completely ignored; they
exhausted him  dreadfully by forcing him to  study  and  perform  beyond his
capacity  and  by ignoring the  salutary  warnings of  certain  level-headed
doctors.... The Emperor was kept in complete ignorance  of his condition. So
not  until  several days  before  the  heir's death  did  the Emperor  learn
accidentally from a state messenger about the imminent tragedy". (C:24/297)
     289. May  11th. 1865.  When  Aksakov  wrote  that  he did not  like the
barbarism protest in the final stanza,  Tyutchev deleted  the entire stanza.
Tyutchev,  as is  well known, tended to  lose sight all together of his best
lyrics once he had written  them. Since the immediate inspiration was of the
first  importance in the composition of so many of  his poems, I have chosen
to  reinstate  the  final stanza. The  epigraph  comes from  the Epistolarum
liber/Book  of  Letters (B:1/282)  of the Roman poet Ausonius  (4th. Century
     est et harundineis modulatio musica ripis
     cumque suis loquitur tremulum coma pinea uentis.
     There is musical harmony in the reeds along river banks
     and  the hair (i.e. leaves) of  pine  trees  speaks tremulously to  its
     The  epigraph shows a clear parallel  with the  poem on Goethe's  death
     ...  the thinking reed: le roseau pensant of Pascal's  famous aphorism,
"Man is no more than the  weakest  reed  in nature - but  he  is a  thinking
reed". (Pensees [231])
     290. May 30th. 1865. Yakov Polonsky (1819-98) was a poet and  friend of
Tyutchev, with whom he served on the  censorship  committee. He  shared with
many poets  the distinction of having  his lyrics rubbished by Belinsky  for
lack of civic feeling.
     291. June  5th.  1865.  Dedicated to  N. Akinfeva and  written  at  her
request to compose something for her album.
     292. June  28th.  1865. A  greetings telegram  sent to Vyazemsky on his
name-day. Appended are the words, "Here are some fairly bad verses to please
the 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 stanza  recalls Elena, we are not
sure as to the  poem's addressee. Alexander Georgievsky (1829-1911), Elena's
brother-in-law, is a possibility.
     295. July 25th. or 29th. 1865. Once  again, allegorical interpretations
are 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 and  Molchit somnitel'no Vostok/The east is
doubtful, silent [295] share structure with the following poem [298], though
each,  like  Fontan/  The  Fountain  [119],  is  too  clearly  aiming  at  a
philosophical or political statement.
     298. August 18th. 1865. The  previous day Tyutchev had left Ovstug  for
Dyad'kovo, returning the following day. The poem was written en route.
     299.  November 23rd.  1865.  The  old  separation  theme returns  in  a
striking  image.  Tyutchev's  anguish   about  the  past  is  rarely  absent
throughout his life.
     300.  December  21st.  1865.  This  clearly concerns  Nadezhda Akinfeva
(1839-91), nee Annenkova,  the  great-niece of Prince A.  Gorchakov, and was
inspired by gossip caused by her divorce and proposed marriage to her uncle.
     301.  March 1st.  1866. Dedicated to Countess A.  Bludova,  daughter of
Count D. Bludov.
     302. Written after the abortive attempt by Dmitry Karakozov on the life
of  Alexander II (April  4th. 1866).  The  terrorist was  a  young, neurotic
member of a tiny group calling itself Hell. Karakozov shot at and missed the
tsar, was interviewed by him in person and hanged.
     303.  April  12th. 1866. St.  Petersburg. The  previous poem  may  have
elicited some official reaction and these lines could be a response to that.
     304. April,  1866.  Addressed  to  A. Suvorov.  The  relatively liberal
Suvorov was  held partly responsible for the attempt on the  Tsar's life and
was removed from office. The sharp  tone  of  Tyutchev's  poem reflects  the
dislike  felt for the  prince among  the  more  conservative  St. Petersburg
     305.  May 11th. 1866. In connection with the intention  of the Ministry
of Internal Affairs to suspend the journal Moskovskie vedomosti/Moscow  News
for three months. Tyutchev was close to the editorial board at the time.
     306. June  3rd.  1866. When Samuil Greig (1827-87), who had once served
in the horse guards, was moved  from the Admiralty to become deputy  finance
minister, Tyutchev pointed that that if they had given Reitern,  the finance
minister, command of a regiment of  horse guards, Russia  would be shaken to
its foundations by the howls of protest, despite the fact that administering
the  finances  of  the Russian  Empire  was  somewhat  more  difficult  than
commanding a regiment.
     307. July 1866. Tsarskoe Selo.  Time and the  physical presence of swan
voices are joined as reflections in water.
     308. September 2nd. 1866. Count Mikhail Muravyov died on August 31st.
     309.   September   1st.-3rd.   1866.   Vyazemsky's   satirical   poems,
Vospominaniya iz Bualo/Recollections from Boileau and Khlestakov/Khlestakov,
were directed at  the  editor of  the Russkii vestnik/The Russian Herald and
The  Moscow  News. The  openly  nationalistic editor,  M. Katkov believed in
lecturing the authorities, a trait Vyazemsky hated.  Tyutchev's poem appears
to  be a  defence of Kakov.  It is  also  an oblique  attack  on Vyazemsky's
dislike of anything new. Tyutchev once compared Vyazemsky's attitude to  the
younger  generation  to  that  of the  "prejudiced,  hostile  explorer first
stepping foot on foreign soil of which he has no knowledge. (LET. ERN., Jan.
3rd.  1869). In  order to maintain an  old friendship intact, Tyutchev asked
for the poem not to be published.
     310. September 17th. 1866. Petersburg.  On the occasion of  the arrival
in St.  Petersburg of the Danish Princess Dagmar  (1847-1928), bride of  the
heir  to  the  throne,   the  future  Alexander  III.  Dagmar,  later  Maria
Fyodorovna,  had, in  fact, been the  fiancee of  Alexander's elder brother,
Nikolay Alexandrovich. (See [286].)
     311.  November  28th. 1866.  The  poem  encapsulates the  idea of  many
Slavists (indeed,  of many  Russians through the ages  up till the  present)
that Russia was  a land  with  a  way of life  all  its  own,  significantly
different to European states.
     314.  Late December,  1866. TR of a  French poem  which I  have yet  to
     315. July  1867. Connected with  the Cretan  rebellion  of  1866. Marya
mentions  Lady Georgina Eliza Buchanan, wife  of the British Ambassador, Sir
Andrew Buchanan (1807-82, Ambassador Extraordinary to Russia), making a quip
about  un  bal  pour  les  cretins/a   ball  for  cretins,  instead  of  for
chretiens/Christians. Such British aristocratic arrogance cannot have failed
to anger Tyutchev. On the other hand, Lady Buchanan's father, 11th. baron of
Blantyre,  had  been  killed by a  stray bullet  during an  insurrection  in
Brussels in September 1830, so  her attitude towards revolutionary movements
would  have  been somewhat coloured. She  was  the third daughter of  Robert
Walter Stuart  and  the second wife of the  ambassador. Andrew  Buchanan had
been a paid attache in St. Petersburg in the late 1830s  and Tyutchev  might
have met him. Buchanan's first diplomatic duties took him to Constantinople.
(See [326].)
     Ironically, some  years  earlier, Tyutchev  himself had played with the
French word cretins, as  Anna mentions in a letter to Vyazemsky (1854): "Dad
is  now like an  animal throwing itself  around its  cage.  He is  extremely
disheartened at the way events have  turned and finds that people are pretty
stupid and the world is  absurd.  He says that this is  a war of  scoundrels
against cretins (c'est la guerre des gredins contre les cretins - FJ)".
     316. Summer, 1867.  In  1897,  a  book was published entitled Bratskaya
pomoshch'  postradavshim  v  Turtsii/armyanam Armenii/Fraternal Aid  to  the
Armenians  Suffering in  Turkey.  Tyutchev's poem  appeared on  p.128 (A:20,
     317. 1866-67. Directed at  Prince Pyotr  Shuvalov (1827-1889). Chief of
police  and head of  the Third Section (the political police), Shuvalov  was
nicknamed "Alexander IV" and "Arakcheev II". Arakcheev was a petty noble who
rose to high rank under Paul I (reigned  1796-1801), finding favour with the
tsar  by  relentless drilling  of his troops and various  ruthless  measures
taken against dissidents.
     318. March 1st. Addressed to Countess A. Bludova.
     319. April,  1867.  On  Tyutchev's  first reading  of Turgenev's novel,
Dym/Smoke. The novel  was considered "lamentable" by many and  considered to
be  the beginning of the decline of the novelist's artistic career. Tyutchev
was extremely  displeased with  it,  especially  its  "moral feel"  and  the
absence  of any "national  feeling": "Smoke is still  being read, and people
have not yet formed an opinion on it. Yesterday, I visited F.I. Tyutchev, he
had just read  it and  was very displeased. While  admitting the skill  with
which the main character was depicted, he deplored bitterly the ethical mood
pervading  the  novella  and  the  total   lack  of   patriotic  sentiment".
     320. May,  1867. The main  image of  the poem compares the "mighty  and
beautiful", "magic, kindred"  forest of the  1850s, i.e.  Turgenev's earlier
novels, with his  later  work, whose  title suggests that the  educated  and
intellectuals  of  Russia  are so much  smoke. Tyutchev genuinely  respected
Turgenev'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 location  marks the place of
the battle  at which the Turks, led by Murad II, defeated the Serbs in 1389.
The Serbian Prince Lazar was  killed. At  that time the Turks were advancing
rapidly through the Balkans. The battle is one  of  those in  any  country's
history which takes on symbolic importance to its people, here the Serbs.
     White Mountain: a hilly area near Prague. The  defeat of the  Czechs by
the  German Emperor Ferdinand II on  November 8th. 1620  led  to the loss of
Czech political independence.  After that  point Bavarian Catholic  elements
took over from the former  Protestant German and Czech nobility and employed
terror to attempt to oust Protestantism.
     322. May 11th. 1867. The epigraph is the words of the Austrian Minister
of  Foreign Affairs, Count Friedrich von Beust,  who conducted an  anti-Slav
policy ("The Slavs must be pressed against the wall"). At the  Slav Congress
of this year, the poem was read twice to rapturous applause.
     323. 1867.  In this postscript  to the earlier  poem, K Ganke/To  Hanka
[136], Tyutchev refers  to  the first so-called All-Slav festival, having in
mind the Slavonic Congress which took place in 1867. It  followed on from an
Ethnographic Exhibition  in Moscow, there  being a Slavonic section. In  May
1867, eighty  one  representatives  of various Slav nations arrived  at  the
exhibition and celebrations followed  in St. Petersburg from May 8th. to May
15th. and  in Moscow for a further twelve days. Petrovich (C:26)  points out
that this "congress" (s''ezd) was more a get-together than  a real congress.
Despite the aspirations of the guests, such conferences and celebrations had
no hard political significance.
     324. May, 1867. St. Petersburg. Tyutchev was ever irritated by what  he
saw as a haughty lack of nationalist feeling on  the part of the powers that
be and a polite society which followed fashionable fawning after Europe.
     325. June 13th.  1867.  On  the  fiftieth anniversary of A. Gorchakov's
entry into public life.
     326. Mid-July, 1867. On the occasion of Queen Victoria's  acceptance of
the Sultan as her guest. Sent  to Lady Buchanan. (See [315].) In a letter to
Aksakov  (Aug. 23rd.  1867),  Tyutchev continues sniping  at  Turkey:  "Fuad
Pasha's embassy  to Levadeia  (a major town in eastern Greece  - FJ) Livadia
was confined to an exchange of banalities, and the order they  awarded him -
going against  Prince  Gorchakov's view  - was no  more than routine ritual,
significant only in the sense  that  such absurdity demonstrates how  little
today's mood is understood, or how little value is placed on it".
     Having unsuccessfully tried  to  persuade the Turks to return  Crete to
Greece, although union was, indeed, vetoed by Britain, Alexander II saw fit,
nonetheless,  to award  Mehmet Fuad  Pasha  the Order  of  Alexander Nevsky.
Tyutchev was characteristically incensed by the entire affair, not  least by
what he perceived as the constant stupidity of Russian diplomacy.
     327. October 14th. 1867.  During  a session of the Chief Council of the
Management  of  Press  Affairs,  Count  P.  Kapnist (1830-98)  noticed  that
Tyutchev  "was  extremely  vacant-looking  and  was  scribbling  or  drawing
something on  a sheet  of paper on the  table in  front of  him".  (A:33/ii,
vol.1/430)  After the meeting he left,  looking very thoughtful, leaving the
paper.  Kapnist  retrieved  the  paper "with which to remember  a  favourite
     328. October  27th. 1867.  On the struggle between Garibaldi's patriots
and the papal forces, the result being the unification of Italy in 1870.
     ... and whoever.... a reference to  the assistance the French gave  the
     Lines 9-12 are addressed to Pius IX (1792-1878).
     329.  December 5th. 1867. In connection with  Russia's refusal to agree
to  the guaranteed integrity of the Turkish Empire. Tyutchev's hope that the
Slav  peoples would rise against the Turks came  to  nothing. The Journal de
St. 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 the
St. Petersburg vicinity. Writing to Ekaterina, Tyutchev describes with  some
humour the situation in which "... I'm choking not only from the suffocating
heat of the town (Staraya Russa -  FJ), but as  well  from the smoke of  the
fire which, for several miles all around, envelops all of Petersburg, thanks
to the  burning peat which is  being allowed to burn quite  quietly.... They
tell us it will make  excellent soil. Well, let's suffer for the sake of the
     332. August 2nd.1868. On a farmstead at Gostilovka, near Ovstug.
     333. Late August, 1868. Pogodin was an undergraduate friend of Tyutchev
and the two remained close throughout their lives.
     334. September 21st.  1868. Egor Kovalevsky was a student of the Middle
     335. Mid-April, 1868.  Tyutchev expressed a similar view in a letter to
his brother, Nikolay (April 13th. 1868), claiming that all the officials  of
the  Ministry of Internal  Affairs were "more  or  less a  set of rogues and
looking at  them is enough to make you feel sick, though our trouble is that
this nausea never actually comes to throwing up".
     336.  1868-early  1869.  A  variation  on  a  theme  from  Heine's  The
Homecoming [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 bed
     and the young nightingale sings in it,
     singing about honourable love,
     I hear it as if in a dream.
     337.   Mid-January,    1869.   Aimed   at   Vladimir   Skaryatin,   the
ultra-reactionary, anti-Slavophile  editor  of the aristocratic, short-lived
newspaper Vest'/The News. Line 8 is a reference to the  closure of Aksakov's
Moskva/Moscow in 1868, after which the Slavophils  had no  separate voice in
the press.
     szlachta: the Polish petty nobility.
     338. February 5th. 1869. To A. Gorchakov.
     339.  1869.  First  printed  in  the  pamphlet  entitled   Prazdnovanie
tysyacheletnei pamyati pervosvyatitelya slavyan sv. Kirilla 14 fevralya 1869
g. v S.-Peterburge i Moskve/A Celebration of the One  Thousandth Anniversary
of the High Prelate of  the Slavs, the Great Saint Cyril,  April 14th. 1869,
in  St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow.  St.  Cyril  was one of  the  teachers and
converters  of  the  Slavs, the  conversion of whom, in the south, took real
form in the 9th. century. He and  St. Methodius are credited with giving the
Slavs their Cyrillic alphabet.
     340. February 27th. 1869. If further evidence were needed of Tyutchev's
ability to say a lot in  a very  small space,  this poem provides it. One of
his favourite  ideas, that of blagodat'/grace  (also "abundance"),  seen  as
something   which  "comes  naturally"  to  us  (dayotsya),  is  joined  with
sochuvstvie/sympathy,  but there  is no evidence  as to what  or to whom the
"sympathy" might refer.
     341.  March,  1869.  This  is a longer, more considered  poem  than the
shorter 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 reference  is  to the gardens laid out by  Peter I
around the Ekaterinintal palace, built by him near Tallin.
     344.   July  11th.  1869.  Otrada,  Serpukhov  uezd,  Moscow  province.
Addressed to the wife of a well known public figure, Count V. Orlov-Davydov.
Tyutchev visited the  family  at their estate, Otrada,  famous for its  fine
collection of rare books (C:15/247) and was there on his hostess's name day.
Aksakov describes  Orlova-Davydova as  a "curious phenomenon and  remarkable
character" (A:20, vol.1/181) who spent most of  her time in the country, had
a hospital built on their estate, opened schools for peasant women and did a
very great deal to alleviate the situation of the Otrada peasants.
     In their own  way,  many aristocrats  and members of the petty nobility
acted  philanthropically, vaguely aware of  the condition of the vast masses
of  peasants in  their country.  Tyutchev, of  course, could not  resist the
temptation to look  cynically at their  efforts, while enjoying the results.
In the winter  of 1867-8 famine struck parts of northern and central Russia.
He wrote  to  Anna  (February  1868);  "Right now  we're  up  to our ears in
festivals,  balls and  concerts ... thanks to  the famine... This  method of
showing how to  be charitable towards people is the equivalent of an amusing
task dreamed  up  for the teaching of children, and the result is the  same.
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 display
of  making subscriptions, what will never  be established, even as a warning
for the future, is the part played by the administration's lack of foresight
and negligence in the disaster striking the country".
     With  such  words  Tyutchev  shows  yet  again  his  genuine  anger  at
administrative ineptitude, his contempt for  the society of  which  he was a
member,  and his equally  strong desire  to be a conspicuous  part  of  that
     345.  August, 1869.  Written  after  a  meeting  in  Kiev  with  Andrey
Muravyov. (See [13].)  In  a  letter of August 16th.  1869, Muravyov  thanks
Tyutchev for his verses, quoting some lines from Schiller:
     Die Konige und die Poeten
     Wohnen auf Menschen-Hohen.
     Kings and poets
     live on humanity's heights.
     The temple is the Andreevsky cathedral in Kiev, built in the eighteenth
century according to a Rastrelli design.
     346. August 16th. 1869. Written on one his last  visits to the  village
of Ovstug.  The dog is  Romp, the family pet, who, true to  his breed,  swam
backwards and forwards chasing fowl during a walk.
     347. August, 1869. Ovstug. The absence  of a  riddle  is,  perhaps, the
absence of any kind of faith.
     348. August,  1869. On the five-hundredth anniversary of  the  birth of
the reforming Czech preacher and martyr, Jan Hus  (1369-1415), a patriot and
religious leader  who led  his people in a revolt against  Papal and  German
domination. Some considered Hus  to have  been put to death by  anti-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.  First  half  of  October,  1869.  On  the  celebrations in  Egypt
following the opening of the Suez Canal. The shrewd Khedive Ismail succeeded
in staging a major public relations exercise by  touring Europe and inviting
as  many countries as  possible to attend the opening. From General Ignatiev
of   Russia  (ambassador  to  The   Porte)   to  Henrik  Ibsen   of  Norway,
representatives  flocked  to Egypt. The festival described by Tyutchev  took
place over several weeks, including trips up the Nile to Assuan for selected
celebrities. While Tyutchev  attacks  the  "pasha"  for  spilling  Christian
blood, the Khedive, technically  a vassal of The Porte,  was exploiting  the
waning  influence  of  Turkey  in  Egypt  and,  aiming  at eventual Egyptian
independence, was somewhat more in charge  of events than Tyutchev gives him
credit for.
     The poem is remarkable for the final two stanzas,  a  favourite formula
Tol'ko tam, gde.../Only there, where ...., contrasting two locations, one of
riotous happiness, the other  of horror and fear.  In [111] Tyutchev employs
the same structure to refer to mountains disappearing into the distance in a
light-hearted poem with a fairytale feel to it. The same structure used here
imparts an eerie, nocturnal atmosphere of dread.
     351.  December  17th. 1869. Addressed to the  renowned  Jewish  Slavist
philologist,  ethnographer and  compiler  of legends from the Onega  region,
Alexander Hilferding  (1831-1871). Chosen as a junior member  of the  second
section  of the Academy of  Sciences, a  meeting of the conference failed to
elect him a full member. It was said that the  German members of the academy
considered him  a renegade,  having renounced  his  German roots to become a
Russian. His family had moved  from Germany in the early eighteenth century.
Hilferding and Tyutchev were good friends.
     352.  December 22nd. 1869. Dedicated to the musician  and singer  Yulia
Abaza, nee Stubbe. She was  friendly with Gounod and  Liszt and participated
in the foundation of the Russian Musical Society.
     353. The 1860s. Nothing is known about the theme nor the addressee.
     354.  Possibly  November  27th. 1869.  Although Ernestine  has  written
"Hilferding" on the manuscript,  Pigaryov has his doubts in view of the high
esteem in which Tyutchev held this scholar.
     355. February, 1870. TR Goethe: Clarchen's song from Egmont (III,2).
     Und leidvoll,
     Gedankenvoll sein,
     Und bangen
     In schwebender Pein,
     Himmelhoch jauchzend,
     Zum Tode betrubt;
     Glucklich allein
     Ist die Seele, die Liebt.
     To be full of joy
     and full of sorrow
     and of thought,
     to get by
     and to fear
     in hovering agony,
     rejoicing to the skies,
     depressed to death;
     happily alone
     is the soul which loves.
     Egmont  was written over about  seven years during  the  1780s and is a
drama of  revolutionary  nationalism set in the Netherlands in 1566-8 on the
eve  of the country's rebellion  against  Phillip II  of Spain.  Egmont is a
charismatic count.
     356.  March, 1870. Composed  to  be read  at  an  evening with  "living
pictures" in aid of the Slavonic Charitable Committee.
     The perfidious kaisar was the German  Emperor, Sigismund. When  Hus was
summoned  to  the  church  council  in  Constanz,  Sigismund  gave   him   a
safe-conduct pass but, under pressure from the council, declared it null and
     According to legend, one old lady threw a handful of brushwood onto the
pyre,  calling  forth the  words, Sancta simplicitas!/Holy simplicity!  from
     357. Early July, 1870. Written as he  was travelling to  take the baths
at Karlsbad via Vilnius, just south east of Kaunas on the Neman. In a letter
written from the  spa,  he  complained bitterly to Elena Bogdanova that  the
waters  were only making him  feel worse. Bogdanova (1823-1900) was a  widow
(nee Baroness  Uslar,  Frolova by  her  first  marriage) with  whom Tyutchev
engaged in a affair of some sort during the last six years of his life, much
to the annoyance of his patient family and long-suffering wife.
     The Polish uprising of 1863 is referred to here.
     358. July 26th. 1870.  According  to Polonsky,  the  reversed  initials
("K.B.") stand for "Baroness Krudner",  whom Tyutchev met  in Karlsbad  with
her second husband,  Count N.  Adlerberg.  More recently, however, Lane  and
Nikolaev have established that  the  addressee  is more probably  Tyutchev's
sister-in-law, Klothilde. (A:24)
     359. A telegram  sent to Ernestine  on September  14th. 1870,  en route
from Ovstug to Moscow.
     360.  Late  September, 1870. This poem deals  with  the Franco-Prussian
War.  While  Tyutchev believed that Germany had right on her  side, he could
not help but experience "a pang of anguish" (Letter to Bogdanova, August) at
the "final collapse of this great and beautiful  France, whose name has been
so glorious in the history of the world".
     Unity....: Bismarck's words.
     361. October  27th.  1870.  Written into  the  album  of  Platon  Vakar
(1820-99), a member of the Foreign Censorship Committee.
     362. NL  early November,  1870.  Dedicated  to Alexandra Pletnyova (nee
Shchetinina, 1826-1901). Her husband, the minor poet and critic, P. Pletnyov
(1792-1865), had been a friend  of Pushkin and was an editor of the latter's
magazine,  The Contemporary. Nekrasov  and  Panaev  (1812-62),  both men  of
Belinsky's  party,  bought  the  magazine  in  1864.  Princess  Shchetinina,
Pletnyov's second  wife,  was "a woman  of rare spiritual qualities. She  is
somewhat  like  Tyutchev's poetry,  in  which  there is  depth  and original
charm". (C:20, vol.1/77)
     363. November, 1870. Provoked  by the promulgation  of State Chancellor
Prince N. Gorchakov's declaration that the  13th. been abrogated.  Following
Russia's  defeat  in the  Crimean War, Article XIII of the  Peace  Treaty of
Paris (March 30th. 1856), stated: "The Black Sea being neutralised according
to the terms  of Article XI, the maintenance or establishment upon its Coast
of  Military-Maritime  Arsenals  becomes  unnecessary  and  purposeless;  in
consequence, His Majesty the Emperor of All  the Russia's,  and His Imperial
Majesty the Sultan,  engage not to establish or to  maintain upon that Coast
any Military-Maritime Arsenal..." (C:5, vol./606)
     The content of  the  final stanza can be clarified by a letter Tyutchev
wrote  to  Aksakov  on the 22nd.,  in  which he  contrasts the "hard, worthy
stance of the cabinet" to the "pitiful and even loathsome  behaviour  of the
Petersburg  salons",   ingratiating  themselves   into  the  favour  of  the
     364. November-early December, 1870. Inspired by  Maria's desire to work
as a Sister of Mercy in the Georgievsky commune.
     365.  December  11th. 1870.  Dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Tyutchev's
brother, Nikolay (1801-1870), who had died three days earlier.  According to
Aksakov, 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 thoughts
and secrets with any one of them in particular, who would not choose any one
of  them for that  exclusively  close  relationship of  sincere  friendship.
Nikolay  Ivanovich Tyutchev loved his brother  not  only with fraternal, but
with  paternal  tenderness,  and with  no-one else was  Fyodor  Ivanovich so
intimate,  so  closely  linked  by  his  own  personal  fate  from his  very
childhood". (A:1/307)
     Tyutchev and his brother fell out more  than once but  always  remained
the  friends  Aksakov said they were. Sending  this  verse  to Ekaterina  on
December  31st. Tyutchev  wrote  of  "this terrible year"  (in July his  son
Dmitry died) and in  particular of "one image... odious and horrible: It  is
seeing  him fallen, on  the premises of this club  I  know so well,  him, so
frail and fearful,  who  had always been afraid of this fall, lying  on  the
ground, injured, fatally stricken and asking people to get him up".
     As a P.S. to the letter, Tyutchev mentions that the poem was written in
a state of "half-sleep" on the way back from Moscow after the funeral.
     366. Late December, 1870. The  only extant text is engraved on a silver
serviette 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, on
sending the  verses: "Here's  a quatrain  which dad  composed 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, K
moryu/To the Sea, written on leaving Odessa in 1825:
     Proshchai, svobodnaya stikhiya!
     V poslednii raz peredo mnoi
     Ty katish' volny golubye
     I bleshchesh' gordoyu krasoy.
     Farewell, free element!
     Before me, one last time,
     you roll your blue waves
     and glitter in proud beauty.
     Lines 39-40: the grave of Nicholas I.
     370. Early July,  1871. On the anniversary of the proclamation of papal
infallibility (1st. Vatican Council, 1869-70; Pius IX).
     371.  Second  half of August,  1871. Tyutchev records  his  reflections
during a visit to Vshchizh,  a former  princedom where  barrows may still be
seen. Bloody legends are associated with the area's history.
     372. December 29th. 1871. Dedicated to M. Pogodin.
     373.  NL March 3rd.  1872. Written  on  the death of  the authoress and
translator, M. Politkovskaya.
     374.  April 16th.  1872 (Easter Sunday).  Sent to  Tyutchev's  youngest
daughter, Maria, who was dying of tuberculosis in Bad Reichenhall, Bavaria.
     375. April  21st. 1872. Sent to Anna on her birthday,  which  coincided
with the poet's name day, hence the final verse of this telegram.
     376.  November 23rd  1872.  Written  in the  album  of Maria  Peterson,
married to Count Montgelas and the grand-daughter of Tyutchev's first wife.
     377. NL 1872.  A  social compliment to Ekaterina Zybina (1845-1923) one
of 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.  The  couplet  is  the start  of an  arrangement  of  the
Orthodox  canticle,  sung  at matins  on the first three days of the seventh
week of Lent.
     379. Possibly December, 1872. At this time, Tyutchev was "nailed to his
bed by illness". An improvisation addressed to Bogdanova.
     380. December 30th. 1872. On the death of Napoleon III. Dictated to his
wife, though having  suffered his first  stroke on December 4th. it cost him
great effort. The poem copied by Ernestine was so incomplete  that A. Maikov
edited it at  the request of the editor of the Grazhdanin/Citizen. According
to Aksakov, "There is no doubt that Fyodor Ivanovich would have corrected it
quite  differently". As it is,  we  are not sure how much of the poem we are
left with is actually Tyutchev's.
     One of Napoleon III's priorities had been to  release France from  what
he saw as the restrictions imposed upon her  by the Congress of Vienna. Tsar
Nicholas  was incensed when  the  French  ruler  took on  the title Emperor.
Napoleon was authoritarian and anti-parliamentarian, though certainly shrewd
enough  to realise that  his universal  plebiscite would  keep  the  largely
rural, anti-republican vote in his camp.
     381. January, 1873. Dedicated to Evgeniya  Shenshina  (1833-1873),  nee
     382.  Late  January, 1873. Tyutchev  based this  verse  on  an  article
published on January 23rd. in the  Journal de St. Petersbourg. It dealt with
the  Russian  campaign to  take the central Asiatic town of Khiva.  From the
khanate of Khiva, sorties to capture Russian workers on the eastern coast of
the  Caspian  sea  and  use  them  as  slaves  had  long  irritated  Russia.
Characteristically agitated by Russian foreign policy, Tyutchev followed the
news in the papers  from the beginning. The entire matter of the Great Game,
the  cat-and-mouse  play between Russia and Britain  in  that part of  Asia,
could  not fail to  spur him  to the series  of  abrasive  swipes at Britain
encountered in the poem. Russia established a base on the  eastern shores of
the  Caspian  in  1869  and  from  there  proceeded  to  subjugate  much  of
Transcaucasia, ultimately  pushing across to the Pacific.  The insane Paul I
had nursed  grandiose plans to  join up an army with the French and head via
Khiva and other khanates for India, thereby undermining the British position
on the sub-continent. The project remained a wild dream.
     383. January 30th. 1873. The governor of Moscow, Pyotr Durnovo, and the
head of the Moscow council, Ivan  Lyamin,  inspired this amusing  piece.  It
seems that Durnovo  was so incensed  that  Lyamin  had  visited him in tails
rather than in full dress uniform, that throughout the visit he  treated his
guest as  subservient. Tyutchev wrote to Anna: "I'd like you to let me  have
further  details of this  incident. I  can't  imagine what  good it  does  a
government to be represented by badly brought up people".
     From  the middle  of  the XIII to  the early XIV centuries, the baskaks
collected the Golden Horde's taxes.
     384. January 30th. 1873. There is a play on words here. Tyutchev  says,
"Of course, they  would not  have sent Durnovo",  which sounds  the same  as
saying,  "...  they  wouldn't  have  sent  a  fool" (both  words  pronounced
     385. 1873.  Addressed  to  Ernestine.  On  his  death  bed, Tyutchev is
characteristically  economical with  his language.  God  has, he  complains,
taken away his "health", which  prevents  him from enjoying the  "air" (that
which for  him  is "a condition of life", he tells Bogdanova  in  1870), his
"will power", which  he never had a great deal of to begin with,  so perhaps
there  is a macabre  joke here, and  his  "sleep" and ability to "dream". Of
course, the  most important thing  remains, "love",  embodied  by his  wife,
allowing him to cling on to the faith he played with all his life.
     386. February, 1873. Tyutchev offers a final combination of observation
and, 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 out
that  this  poem, one  of several he  refers to as senilia,  demonstrates  a
return to the childhood style of Lyubeznomu papen'ke/Dear Dad! [1].
     389. April 17th. 1873.  On  the  55th.  anniversary  of  the  birth  of
Alexander II. Tyutchev recalls how he and his father were visiting Zhukovsky
in Moscow at the time.
     390. April, 1873. Alexander II intended visiting the  Tyutchevs,  never
having  been  to  their  house  before,  and,  on hearing  of  it,  Tyutchev
characteristically noted that  it would be extremely indelicate if, the very
day after such a visit, he did not make a point  of dying. It is not certain
whether or not the visit actually took place.
     391. April, 1873.  Despite  an inevitable looseness of structure  as  a
result 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 to  have  been written by Tyutchev and
sent  to  Alexander  Nikitenko,  professor  of  Russian  literature  at  the
University  of St. Petersburg  and  a member of  the  censorship  committee.
Written after the text are  the words: "When shall I see you, my friend, I'm
frightfully depressed and sad".



     No  complete  edition of Tyutchev's letters  has yet appeared, although
before  his death Pigaryov  was working on such a  project. To  date, in the
region of 1,330 letters written have been located.  When referring to them I
give only dates and addressees.


AN SSSR	Akademiya nauk SSSR
KL		Khudozhestvennaya literature
L		Leningrad
M		Moscow
ML		Moscow-Leningrad
RAN		Rossiiskaya akademiya nauk
RL		Russkaya literatura
PS		Polnoe sobranie
SS		Sobranie sochinenii
SSt.		Sobranie stikhotvorenii
SP		Sovetskii pisatel'
TR		Translated by
UP		University Press

     In  the case of anthologies and collections, the first name  after  the
title  is that of the editor-in-chief or  principal  contributor. Titles not
given in English are  of works which, to the best of  my knowledge, have not
been translated into English.

     Most  works  about Tyutchev are in the form of  the thesis, article  or
essay. Far from being exhaustive, Section A contains materials I have either
quoted 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": Textology  and
Exegesis of the Bogatyrev Manuscript. SEEJ, No.3, 1986. (pp.420-430)
     3. Berkovsky, L.
     Stikhotvoreniya. BP, ML, 1962.
     4. Bilokur, D.
     A Concordance to  the Russian Poetry of Fedor I.  Tiutchev. Providence,
     5. Bryusov, V.
     F.I. Tyutchev: Letopis' ego zhizni. Russkii arkhiv 3 (1903, 1906).
     6. Bukhshtab, B.
     Russkie poety: Tyutchev, Fet, Kozma  Prutkov, Dobrolyubov. KL, L,  1970
     7. Chulkov, G.
     Letopis' zhizni i tvorchestva F. I. Tyutcheva. ML, 1933.
     8. Coates, W.
     Tiutchev  and  Germany:  the  Relationship  of  his  Poetry  to  German
Literature 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. Wigzell
     Fet on Tiutchev in Russian Writers on Russian Writers, Berg, 1994.
     13. Ginzburg, L.
     O lirike. SP, ML, 1964.
     14. Gregg, R.
     Fedor  Tiutchev:  The Evolution of a  Poet. Columbia University  Press,
     15. Grekhnyov, V.
     Vremya  v   kompozitsii  stikhotvorenii  Tyutcheva.   AN  SSSR,  Seriya
literatury 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's
period in Turin (October 1837 - October 1839). New Zealand Slavonic Journal,
1989- 90.
     ii. Bibliography  of works by  and about F.I. Tyutchev to  1985.  Astra
Press, 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's  Diplomatic  Career  in  Munich  (1822-37). Irish
Slavonic Studies, 15, 1994. (pp.17-43).
     v. F.I. Tyutchev's Service Absenteeism and Second Marriage in the Light
of Unpublished Documents (1839). Irish Slavonic Studies, No. 8, 1987. (pp.6-
     vi. Hunting Tyutchev's  Literary Sources  in Poetry,  Prose and  Public
Opinion. In Memory of Nikolay  Andreyev. Ed. W. Harrison. Avebury Publishing
Company, 1984. (pp.43-68).
     vii. Pascalian and Christian Existential Elements in Tyutchev's Letters
and Poems. Forum  for Modern  Language  Studies, Vol.  XVIII,  No.4, October
     viii. The Life and Work of F.I. Tyutchev. Ph.D. Cambridge, 1970.
     ix.  Tyutchev in the  1820s-1840s.  An  Unpublished  Correspondence  of
1874-5. Irish Slavonic Studies, No.3, 1982. (pp.2-13).
     x.   Tjutcev's  Mission  to   Greece  (1833)  According  to  Diplomatic
Documents. Russian Literature XXIII. North-Holland, 1988. (pp.265-280).
     xi.  Zagranichnaya  poezdka Tyutcheva  v  1853  g.  LN,  vol.97: Fyodor
Ivanovich Tyutchev, bk.2, "Nauka", 1988. (pp.464-470)
     19. Liberman, A.
     On the Heights  of Creation:  The Lyrics of  Fedor Tyutchev.  JAI  Inc.
Russian & European Studies, vol. 2, 1991.
     20. Literaturnoe nasledstvo. T.97:  Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev, "Nauka",
     21. Maimin, E.
     Russkaya  filosofskaya  poeziya:  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.
     23. Murtagh, F.
     Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev:  Translations and Adaptations, Durham, 1983.
     24. Nikolaev, A.
     Zagadka   "K.B.".  "Neva",   No.5.  1985.  This  article  was  actually
co-written by R. Lane.
     25. Ozerov, L.
     Poeziya Tyutcheva. M, 1975.
     26. Pigaryov, K.
     Zhizn' i tvorchestva  F. I. Tyutcheva. AN SSSR, M, 1962, republished in
1978 as F. I Tyutchev i ego vremya..
     27. Pratt, S.
     Russian  Metaphysical   Romanticism:  The   Poetry   of  Tiutchev   and
Boratynskii. Studies of the Russian Institute, Columbia University, Stanford
University Press, 1984.
     28. Sagner, O.
     The  Semantics of Chaos in Tjutcev. Slavistische Beitrage, 171, Munich,
     29. Savodnik, V.
     Chuvstvo prirody v poezii Pushkina, Lermontova i Tyutcheva. M, 1911.
     30. Slavica Hierosolymitana. Slavic Studies of the  Hebrew  University.
The Magnes Press, Jerusalem, 1979. (pp.36-69)
     31. Stremooukhoff, D.
     La Poesie et l'ideologie de Tiouttchev. Dissertation. Paris, 1937.
     32. Surina, N.
     Tyutchev  i Lamartin.  "Poetika" 1-5. Heraus. von Dmitrij Tschizevskij.
B. 104. Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Munchen, 1970.
     33. Tyutchev, F.
     i.  La Papaute  et la  Question Romaine;  La  Russie et  la Revolution;
Lettre  a M. le Docteur Gustave Kolb, Redacteur de la 'Gazette Universelle';
Lettre sur  la Censure  en 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. Ausonius
     Decimi Magni  Ausonii Burdigalensis Opuscula. Ed. Sextus Prete. BSB BG.
Teubner Verlagsgesellschaft, 1978.
     2. Batyushkov
     PSSt. N. Fridman, ML, 1964.
     3. Baudelaire
     Oeuvres  Completes. Bibliotheque de  la Pleiade. Texte etabli et annote
par Y.- G. le Dantec. Librairie Gallimard, 1954.
     4. Beranger
     One  Hundred  Songs  of Pierre-Jean de  Beranger  with Translations  by
William Young. Chapman & Hall. London, 1847.
     5. Bohme
     Jacob  Bohme   (1575-1624):  Studies  in  his  Life  and  Teaching.  H.
Martensen. Translated by T. Rhys Evans. Notes and Appendices by S. Hobhouse.
Rockliff, London, 1949.
     6. Byron
     Lord Byron. The Complete Poetical Works. Ed. J.J. McGann. Oxford, 1980.
     7. Chaadaev, 1989.
     8. Chateaubriand
     Grands  ecrits  politiques. T.I.  Presentation et  notes  par Jean-Paul
Clement. Imprimerie nationale Editions, 1993.
     9. Derzhavin
     Stikhotvoreniya. SP, L, 1957.
     10. Dobrolyubov
     SS. v 9 tomakh. M, 1952.
     11. Dostoevsky
     i. 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 "Dnevnik
pisatelya". D. Grishin, Melbourne University, 1971.
     iii.  F.M.  Dostoevsky.  PSS  v 30 tomakh.  Brat'ya  Karamazovy (t.14),
"Nauka", L, 1976.
     12. , 1963.
     13. Goethe
     i. Essays on Goethe. Ed. W. Rose. Cassell & Co. Ltd. 1949.
     ii. Goethe:  A  Critical  Introduction.  R. Gray. Cambridge  University
Press, 1967.
     iii.  Goethe:  The  Poet and  the  Age.  Vol. 1 The  Poetry  of  Desire
(1749-1790). N. Boyle. Clarendon Press. Oxford, 1991.
     iv.  Johann Wolfgang Goethe.  Samtliche Werke.  Briefe, Tagebucher  and
Gesprache. Vierzig Bande.  Deutscher  Klassiker Verlag. Heraus  von  Hendrik
Birus et al. Frankfurt am Main, 1987.
     v.  Notes  to  Goethe's  Poems.  J. Boyd.  Blackwell, Oxford. (2 vols.:
1749-86; 1786-1832).
     14. Gray
     The Complete Poems  of Thomas Gray. Ed. H.W.  Starr & J.R. Hendrickson.
Oxford, 1966.
     15. Heine
     i. 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. Winkler Verlag Munchen, 1969-72.
     16. Herder
     i. Johann  Gottfried  Herder. Samtliche  Werke.  Heraus. von B. Suphan.
Georg Ulms Verlagsbuchhandlung. Hildesheim, 1968.
     ii. Johann Gottfried Herder. Werke  in zehn Banden. Deutscher Klassiker
Verlag. Frankfurt am Main, 1990. B.3 Volkslieder, Ubertragungen, Dichtungen.
     iii. Vico and Herder:  Two Studies in the History of Ideas.  I. Berlin.
The Hogarth Press, London, 1976.
     17. Holderlin, F.
     i. Samtliche Werke und Briefe. Deutscher Klassiker Verlag. Frankfurt am
Main, 1992.
     ii. Holderlin. D. Constantine. Clarendon Press. Oxford, 1988.
     18. Horace
     The Odes of Horace. Translated by James Michie. Penguin Books, 1964.
     19. Hugo
     i.  Theatre complet de  Victor  Hugo. I. Bibliotheque  de  la  Pleiade.
Purnal, Thierry, Meleze. Editions Gallimard, 1963. (pp.1262-1265)
     ii. The Perilous Quest:  Image, Myth and  Prophecy in the Narratives of
Victor Hugo. R.B. Grant. Duke University Press, 1968.
     20. Kalidasa
     Dramas  of  Kalidasa. Ed.  C.R.  Devadhar.  Motilal Banarsidass. Delhi,
     21. , 1966.
     22. Lamartine
     i. Alphonse de  Lamartine:  A Political Biography. W.  Fortescue. Croom
Helm. London & Canberra, 1983.
     ii. Oeuvres  de Lamartine.  Les  Confidences. Libraire Hachette. Paris,
1924. Livre IV, 5. (pp67-72).
     iii. Oeuvres  poetiques  completes  de  Lamartine.  Bibliotheque  de la
Pleiade. Marius-Francois Guyard, 1963.
     23. Lenau
     Werke und  Briefe. Heraus. von Antal Madl.  Deuticke Klett-Cotta. Wien,
     24. Lomonosov
     i. Izbrannye proizvedeniya. A. Morozov, SP, 1965.
     ii. , 1961.
     iii. Russia's  Lomonosov. Boris N.  Menshutkin.  Princeton, New Jersey,
     25. Manzoni
     i.  Manzoni,  Alessandro. Gian  Piero  Barricelli.  Twayne  Publishers.
Boston. 1976.
     ii.  Tutte le  opere  di  Alessandro Manzoni. Alberto  Chiari.  Arnolod
Mondadori Editore, 1957.
     26. , 1958.
     27. Michelangelo Buonarroti
     i.  Rime.  G. Testori  & E.  Barelli.  Biblioteca  Universale  Rizzoli.
Milano, 1975.
     ii.  The Poetry of Michelangelo: An Annotated Translation.  J.  Saslow.
Yale University Press, 1991.
     28. de Musset.
     Theatre complet. Edition  etablie par  Simon Jeune. Editions Gallimard,
     29. Nekrasov
     SS v 8 tomakh: Russkie vtorostepennye poety, (t.7), KL, M,1967.
     30. Norse
     Old  Norse Poems: the Most Important  Non-Skaldic Verse not Included in
the Poetic Edda. L. Hollander. New York, Columbia UP, 1936. (chap.1: The Old
Lay of Biarki, pp.3-11)
     31. Pascal
     Pensees  precedees   des  principaux  opuscules.  G.  Lewis.  La  Bonne
Compagnie. Paris, 1947.
     32. Pushkin
     SS v 10 tomakh. KL, M, 1975.
     33. Raich
     Rassuzhdenie o didakticheskoi poezii. "Vestnik Evropy",  1822, Nos.7-8.
(pp.190-208, 242-283).
     34. Racine
     i.  Classical  Voices:  Studies  of  Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere, Mme.
Lafayette. P. Nurse. George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd., 1971.
     ii. Oeuvres completes. I. Theatre-poesies. Presentation et commentaires
par Raymond Picard. Editions Gallimard, 1950. (pp. 799-800).
     35. Schelling
     i. Ideas for a  Philosophy of Nature as  Introduction to  the  Study of
this Science. Trans. E. Harris & P. Heath. Intro. R. Stern. CUP, 1988.
     ii. Schellings Einflu? in der russischen Literature  der  20er und 30er
des XIX Jahrhunderts. W. Setschkareff. Leipzig, 1939.
     iii. Schelling's  Idealism  and Philosophy  of  Nature. J.S.  Esposito.
Associated University Presses, 1977.
     36. Schiller
     i.  Schiller's  Drama:  Talent and Integrity. I. Graham. Methuen &  Co.
Ltd., London, 1974. (chap.4: Health: Heiliger  Dankgesang eines Genesenen an
die Gottheit.
     ii. Werke und Briefe.  Deutscher  Klassiker  Verlag. Frankfurt-am-Main,
     37. Shakespeare
     The Complete Works. Ed. C.J. Sisson. Odhams Press Ltd., London, 1954.
     38. de Stael
     i. Corinne, ou l'Italie. Londres, chez Dulau et Comp., Libraires, 1834.
     ii. The Birth of  European Romanticism: Truth and Propaganda in Stael's
'De l'Allemagne', 1810-1813. J.C. Isbell. Cambridge University Press, 1994.
     39. Tolstoy
     Tolstoy's  Diaries.  Edited and translated by R. Christian. Vol. 1. The
Athlone Press, London, 1985.
     40. Turgenev
     i. Turgenev: His Life and Times. L. Schapiro. Oxford UP, 1978.
     ii. PSS  i  pisem  v 20 tomakh., 1960-68. Un Incendie  en  mer: vol.14,
     41. Uhland
     Werke. (Samtliche Gedichte: B.1). Winkler Verlag Munchen, 1980.
     42. Vergil
     The Pastoral  Poems. Translated by E.V. Rieu.  Penguin  Classics, 1972.
     43. Vico
     The New Science of  Giambattista  Vico. Translated  by T. Bergin  &  M.
Fisch. Cornell University Press, 1968.

     1.  A Handbook of Russian Literature. Ed.  V. Terras.  Yale  University
Press, 1985.
     2. A History of  Russian Literature from its Beginnings  to 1900.  D.S.
Mirsky. Ed. F.J. Whitfield. Vintage Books. New York, 1958.
     3.  Anglo-Russian Rivalry  in  Central  Asia 1810-1895. Gerlad  Morgan,
Frank Cass & Co. Ltd., 1981.
     4. Arkhaisty I novatory. Slavische Propylaen. Yu. Tynyanov. Heraus. von
D. Tschizewskij. B. 31. Wilhelm Fink Verlag Munchen, 1967.
     i. Vopros o Tyutcheve. (pp.367-385).
     ii. Pushkin i Tyutchev. (pp.330-366).
     iii. Tyutchev i Geine. (pp.386-398).
     5. A Source Book of Russian  History. From Early Times  to 1917. Ed. G.
Vernadsky. New Haven & London. Yale University Press, 1972.
     6. Barricades and Borders. Europe 1800-1914. R. Gildea. OUP, 1987.
     7. Bismarck: The White Revolutionary. Vol. 2. 1871-1898. L. Gall. Allen
& Unwin. London, 1986.
     8.  Du   romantisme  au  symbolisme:  l'age  des   decouvertes  et  des
innovations. 1790-1914. H. Lemaitre. Pierre Bordas et fils, 1982.
     9. Essays  in  Literature  and Society. E.  Muir.  The  Hogarth  Press,
London, 1965.
     10. F. I. Tyutchev:  Kto prav? Romany, povesti, rasskazy. G. V. Chagin,
"Sovremennik", M, 1985.
     11. German Literature of  the Eighteenth  and Nineteenth  Centuries. E.
Stahl & W. Yuill. The Cresset Press. London, 1970.
     12. History of  Nineteenth Century Russian  Literature.  D. Chizhevsky.
Translated by R. Porter. Vanderbilt UP, 1974. (pp.150-157).
     14. Latin  Literature: A History. Gian Biagio Conte. Translated  by  J.
Solodow. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994.
     15. Mir russkoi usad'by. RAN, "Nauka", M, 1995. (p.61-78).
     16. Pobedonostsev: His Life and Thought. R. Byrnes. Indiana UP, 1968.
     17. Poet as Nature. Oxford German Studies, No.15, 1984 16.
     19. Pri  dvore dvukh imperatorov. Dnevnik 1855-1882.  A. F.  Tyutcheva.
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