‘And that’s the most important thing!’ cried the Italian, expressing his joy with those lively gestures characteristic of his southern origin. ‘I knew that you would help me. Corpo di Bacco!2 You are a poet, like myself, and there’s no denying that poets are excellent fellows! How can I express my gratitude? Wait… would you like to hear an improvisation?’
‘An improvisation!… can you manage without an audience, without music, without the thunder of applause?’
‘That’s all nonsense! Where could I find a better audience? You are a poet. You will understand me better than they do, and your gentle encouragement will be dearer to me than a whole storm of applause… Sit down somewhere and give me a theme.’
Charsky sat on a trunk (of the two chairs that stood in that wretched little hole, one was broken, the other piled with papers and linen). The improvvisatore took a guitar from the table and stood before Charsky, running his bony fingers over the strings and awaiting his command.
‘Here’s a theme for you,’ Charsky told him: ‘the poet himself selects subjects for his songs; the crowd has no right to direct his inspiration.’
The Italian’s eyes sparkled. He plucked a few chords, proudly raised his head, and the passionate lines, the expression of spontaneous emotion, harmoniously fell from his lips… Here they are, freely translated by one of our friends from the words memorized by Charsky:
Behold the poet, his eyes are staring,
But nothing does he espy;
And now the garment he is wearing
Is tugged by a passer-by.
‘Tell me why you aimlessly wander,
Having scaled the poetic heights;
All you do now is ponder
Your return to earth in downward flight.
Dimly the orderly world you see,
You are wearied by fever so sterile.
Sorely troubled and tempted you appear to be,
By trivial subjects all the while.’
To soar on high – that should be the poet’s desire;
That is the true genius’ duty;
To choose some lofty theme, filled with fire,
And astound us with its beauty.
Why does the wind whirl in the ravine,
Bearing away the leaves and dust,
When the ship on ocean so serene
Eagerly awaits the fleeting gust?
Why does the eagle, so grim, so free,
Fly from mountain and turret to the stump of a tree?
Him you must ask if you wish to know.
And why, on the young Arab all aglow
The young Desdemona bestows all her love.
Why the moon loves the mist of night.
Because a maiden’s heart knows no law from above –
Nor do eagle and wind in all their might.
Like Aquilon, the north wind, freely blowing,
The poet takes what he wills, full knowing,
That like the eagle, high in the air,
Of all mortals he is independent;
Choosing, like Desdemona so fair,
An idol for his heart’s contentment.
The Italian fell silent… Charsky, amazed and deeply touched, said nothing.
‘Well?’ asked the improvvisatore.
Charsky grasped his hand and pressed it firmly.
‘Well?’ asked the improvvisatore. ‘What do you think?’
‘Amazing,’ the poet replied. ‘Wonderful! Another’s thoughts have barely reached your ears, and they have already become your very own, as if you had ceaselessly nursed, cherished and developed them. So, for you there exists no toil, nor cooling-off, nor that restlessness which precedes inspiration?… Amazing, amazing!’
The improvvisatore replied, ‘Every kind of talent is inexplicable. How does the sculptor see a hidden Jupiter in a block of Carrara marble and, by chipping off its envelope with chisel and hammer, bring it into the world? Why does thought issue from the poet’s head already equipped with rhyming quatrains and harmoniously scanning feet? No one, except the improvvisatore himself, can understand that swiftness of response, that close link between his own inspiration and a strange, external will – vainly would I endeavour to explain it. However… we must think of my first evening. What do you suggest? What should I charge the public for a ticket which wouldn’t be too high and at the same time leave me out of pocket? They say La signora Catalani3 charged twenty-five roubles a ticket. That’s a good price…’
Charsky found it disagreeable suddenly to descend from the heights of poesy to the ledger clerk’s desk, but he understood the necessities of life very well and started discussing the financial arrangements with the Italian. Here the Italian displayed such savage greed, such ingenuous love of gain, that he disgusted Charsky, who hurried to take leave of him before the feeling of delight inspired in him by the brilliant improvvisatore was completely lost. The preoccupied Italian did not notice this change of mood and led Charsky along the corridor and down the stairs with low bows and with assurances of his eternal gratitude.
CHAPTER THREE
Tickets at 20 roubles; the performance starts at 7 o’clock.
Playbill
Princess*** salon had been placed at the improvvisatore’s disposal. A platform had been erected and chairs were arranged in twelve rows. On the appointed day, at seven o’clock, the salon was illuminated. An old, long-nosed woman in a grey hat with broken feathers on it and with rings on all her fingers sat at a small table at the door, selling and collecting tickets. Gendarmes stood near the entrance to the house. The audience began to assemble. Charsky was one of the first to arrive. He had played a major part in organizing the performance, and he wanted to find out from the improvvisatore if everything was to his satisfaction.
He found the Italian in a side-room looking impatiently at his watch. The Italian was wearing theatrical costume: he was in black from head to foot; the lace collar of his shirt was turned back; his bare neck, in its strange whiteness, contrasted sharply with his thick black beard; his hair had been combed forward, overshadowing his forehead and eyebrows. All this was highly displeasing to Charsky, who did not like seeing a poet dressed as a wandering clown. After a brief conversation he returned to the salon which was rapidly filling up.
Soon all the rows of chairs were occupied by glittering ladies; the men crowded on both sides of the platform, along the walls and behind the chairs at the back. The musicians with their stands occupied both sides of the platform. Upon a table in the middle of the platform stood a porcelain vase. The audience was a large one. Everyone impatiently waited for the performance to begin. At last, at half past seven, the musicians stirred themselves, prepared their bows and played the overture from Tancred.1 Everyone took their places and fell silent. The last strains of the overture faded away… And the improvvisatore, greeted with deafening applause from every corner of the room, approached the very edge of the platform, bowing low.
Charsky anxiously waited to see what impression the first minute would produce, but he noticed that the theatrical costume, which had struck him as so unbecoming, did not have the same effect on the audience. Charsky himself did not find anything ridiculous about it when he saw the Italian on the platform with his pale face brightly illuminated by numerous lamps and candles. The applause died down; the sound of voices ceased. The Italian, expressing himself in poor French, asked the gentlemen in the room to suggest some themes and write them down on separate slips of paper. At this unexpected invitation everyone silently glanced at each other and no one responded. After a pause the Italian repeated his request in a timid and humble voice. Charsky was standing directly under the platform; he was seized by anxiety; he could foresee that without him the performance could not proceed and that he would be compelled to write down a theme himself. In fact, several female heads turned towards him and they started calling out his name, first in hushed tones and then louder and louder. On hearing Charsky’s name the improvvisatore sought him out with his eyes and saw that he was standing
at his feet. He handed him a pencil and a piece of paper, with a friendly smile. To play a part in this comedy struck Charsky as very unpleasant, but there was nothing he could do; he took the pencil and paper from the Italian’s hands and wrote some words on it. Taking the vase from the table, the Italian stepped down from the platform and presented it to Charsky, who dropped his theme into it. His example had the desired effect: two journalists, in their capacity as men of letters, considered it their duty to write down each his own theme; the Secretary of the Neapolitan Embassy and a young man who had recently returned from his travels and who was simply raving about Florence, placed their folded slips of paper in the urn; finally, a rather plain-looking young lady, with tears in her eyes, wrote a few lines in Italian at her mother’s command and, blushing to her ears, handed her slip to the improvvisatore, while the other ladies looked on in silence, with barely perceptible smiles. After returning to the platform the improvvisatore placed the urn on the table and started taking out the slips of paper one by one, reading each out aloud:
La famiglia dei Cenci.
L’ultimo giorno di Pompeia.
Cleopatra e i suoi amanti.
La primavera veduta da una prigione.
Il trionfo di Tasso.2
‘What does my honourable audience command?’ asked the Italian humbly. ‘Will it give me one of the proposed themes itself or allow it to be decided by lot?’
‘By lot,’ cried a voice from the crowd.
‘By lot, by lot,’ the audience repeated.
The improvvisatore again stepped down from the platform, holding the urn in his hands. ‘Who will be good enough to select a theme?’ he asked, casting an imploring look along the front rows of chairs.
Not one of the brilliant ladies who were seated there budged. The improvvisatore, unaccustomed to this Northern indifference, was clearly suffering… suddenly he noticed to one side a small, white-gloved, uplifted hand. He eagerly turned and went up to the majestic young beauty seated at the end of the second row. Without the least embarrassment she stood up and with the utmost simplicity lowered her aristocratic hand into the urn and drew out a roll of paper.
‘Will you please unroll it and read it out,’ the improvvisatore asked her. The beautiful young lady unrolled the piece of paper and read out loud, ‘Cleopatra e i suoi amanti.’
These words were spoken in a soft voice, but such deep silence reigned over the salon that everyone heard them. The improvvisatore bowed low to the beautiful young lady with a look of deep gratitude and returned to his platform.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, turning to the audience. ‘The lot has shown me Cleopatra and her Lovers as the subject for improvisation. I humbly request the person who chose this theme to explain his meaning: which lovers does he have in mind, perché la grande regina n’aveva molto…’3
At these words many gentlemen laughed loudly. The improvvisatore was rather taken aback.
‘I should like to know,’ he continued, ‘to what historical event the person who chose this theme is alluding… I should be very grateful if he would be good enough to explain.’
No one was in any hurry to reply. Several ladies stared at the plain young lady who had written down the theme on her mother’s instructions. The poor girl noticed this hostile attention and became so embarrassed that tears hung from her eyes. Charsky could not bear this and, turning to the improvvisatore, told him in Italian:
‘It was I who suggested that theme. I had in mind the passage in Aurelius Victor where he writes that Cleopatra designated death as the price of her love and that there were adorers to be found who were neither frightened nor deterred by such a condition… However, it seems to me that the subject is rather difficult… would you care to choose another… ?’
But the improvvisatore already felt the approach of the god… He gave the musicians a sign to play… His face became dreadfully pale, he trembled as if he were in a fever. His eyes gleamed with a magical fire; with one hand he pushed back his dark hair, wiped his lofty sweat-beaded brow with his handkerchief… and suddenly he stepped forward and crossed his hands on his chest… the music stopped… The improvisation began:
The palace gleamed, the choir was singing,
Mingling with sound of flute and lyre;
To the rich feast the Queen was bringing
New life, with eyes that were filled with fire.
All hearts to the throne were turning,
When suddenly that wondrous head looked down;
And the Queen, o’ercome with sadness and yearning,
Leant o’er her golden cup with regal frown.
But the guests into sleep had drifted,
No more was there singing here;
The Queen, her head again uplifted,
Spake these words, loud and clear.
‘Does my love mean perfect bliss?
It is something that can be bought…
My love is there for none to miss
And all else is empty sport.
Who craves for love that can be bought?
This love I sell so gladly;
The price is a life: this is a thought
That now must tempt you madly.’
She spake – and all were filled with dread,
Each heart burning with passionate fire;
With cold disdain she turned her head,
Scorning those troubled murmurs of desire.
And she cast a contemptuous glance
At those admirers filled with awe;
When suddenly one seized his chance,
And was immediately followed by two more.
Bold their step, their eyes bright
As she goes to greet them all.
The deal is struck: they have bought three nights,
As they respond to death’s grim call.
And now from that fateful urn
By blessed priests the lots are taken,
And each of them awaits his turn,
It is life they have forsaken.
First was Flavius, warrior bold,
Famed for martial deeds untold;
His wife’s proud and lofty disdain
No longer could he bear.
He thus accepts the call to pleasure rare,
Like warriors of old glory to gain:
They conquer, only those who dare.
And then Kriton, young sage,
The Muses’ noble bard;
Born in Epicurus’ age,
Followed in his footsteps hard.
To the Muses he owed all his art,
And like a young flower in spring,
He delighted eyes and heart.
Soft down to his cheeks was clinging,
And delight to his eyes was springing.
Sadly wandered the proud Queen’s gaze,
Upon him, innocent of passion’s power.
But he looked at her with eyes ablaze
And waited to pluck love’s flower.
‘To thee I vow, mother of all delight,
To be thy faithful slave.
Never to let thee from my sight;
To give pleasure is what I crave.
Listen, Oh you goddesses above,
And kings in Hades’ bourn,
I shall give my eager love
Before the coming of the dawn.
Then with adoring and fervent caress
I shall satisfy my masters’ desire;
My lips to theirs I shall tenderly press,
And arouse them with my fire.
But when the early glow of dawn
Fills the sky with rosy light,
Their heads will fall – as I have sworn,
And thus will end their night.’
A JOURNEY TO ARZRUM AT THE TIME OF THE 1829 CAMPAIGN1
PREFACE
Recently I came across a book published in Paris last year (1834) with the title Voyages en Orient entrepris par ordre du Gouvernement Français.2 The author, giving a personal account of the campaign of 1829, concludes his observations
with the following words:
Un poète distingué par son imagination a trouvé dans tant de hauts faits dont il a été témoin non le sujet d’une poème, mais celui d’une satyre.3
Among the poets who were present during the Turkish campaign I knew only of A. S. Khomyakov and A. N. Muravyov.4 Both were with Count Dibich’s army.5 The first wrote at that time several beautiful lyrical poems, while the second was planning his Journey to the Holy Land, which made such a powerful impression. But I have not read any satires on the Arzrum campaign.
Not for one moment would I have thought that the writer was actually alluding to me had I not found in his book my own name amongst those of generals of the Independent Caucasus Corps.6
Parmi les chefs qui la commandaient (l’armée du Prince Paskewitch) on distinguait le Général Mouravief… le Prince Géorgien Tsitsevaze… le Prince Arménien Beboutof… le Prince Potemkine, le Général Raiewsky, et enfin – M-r Pouchkine… qui avait quitté la capitale pour chanter les exploits de ses compatriotes.7
I must confess that I was far more irritated by these lines written by that French traveller, despite the flattering epithets, than by the abuse of Russian journals. To go in search of inspiration has always struck me as a ludicrous and absurd fantasy: one cannot seek out inspiration – it must find the poet. To go off to war in order to celebrate future exploits in poetry would have been, on the one hand, too egotistical of me and, on the other, most improper. I do not meddle in military judgements. They are none of my business. Perhaps the daring crossing of Sagan-Lu,8 a manoeuvre by which Count Paskevich9 cut off the seraskier10 from Osman-Pasha, the defeat of two enemy corps in one day, the rapid advance on Arzrum – all this, crowned with complete success, might be exceptionally worthy of ridicule in the eyes of military gentlemen (such as, for example, Mr Commercial Consul Fontanier,11 author of the Journey to the Orient); but I would be ashamed to write satires on the renowned commander who warmly received me under the canopy of his tent and who found time, in the midst of serious worries, to flatter me with his attention. The man who has no need of the protection of the powerful, prizes their cordiality and hospitality, for there is nothing else he can ask of them. An accusation of ingratitude must not be left without riposte, as if it were worthless criticism or literary abuse. That is why I have decided to have this preface printed and to publish my travel notes as everything12 I wrote about the campaign of 1829.