ANTHOLOGY OF
RUSSIAN LITERATURE

From the
Earliest Period
to the Present
Time

BY
LEO WIENER
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF SLAVIC LANGUAGES AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY

In Two Parts

8^o with Photogravure Frontispieces

Part I.—From the Tenth Century to the Close of the
Eighteenth Century
Part II.—From the Close of the Eighteenth Century to
the Present Time

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON

Lomonosow

Anthology of Russian Literature
From the Earliest Period to the Present Time

By
Leo Wiener
Assistant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University

IN TWO PARTS

From the Tenth Century to the Close of the Eighteenth Century

G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1902

Copyright, 1902
BY
LEO WIENER

Published, June, 1902

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

TO MY FRIEND AND COLLEAGUE
ARCHIBALD CARY COOLIDGE
THIS WORK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED

PREFACE

The time is not far off when the Russian language will occupy the same place in the curriculum of American universities that it now does in those of Germany, France and Sweden. A tongue that is spoken by more than one hundred million people and that encompasses one-half of the northern hemisphere in itself invites the attention of the curious and the scholar. But the points of contact between the Anglo-Saxon and Slavic races are so many, both in politics and literature, that it is a matter of interest, if not yet of necessity, for every cultured person of either nationality to become well acquainted with the intellectual and social life of the other. In Russia, the English language is steadily gaining in importance, and not only the universities, but the gymnasiums as well, offer courses in English. In England and America there are many signs of a similar interest in their Russian neighbour, though at present it expresses itself mainly in the perusal of Russian novels in translations that rarely rise above mediocrity. There is also a growing demand for a fuller treatment of Russian Literature as a whole, which even Prince Wolkonsky’s work cannot satisfy, for the reason that only a small fraction of the nineteenth-century writers, and hardly anything of the preceding periods, is accessible to the reader for verification. It is the purpose of this Anthology to render a concise, yet sufficient, account of Russian Literature in its totality, to give to the English reader who is not acquainted with any other language than his own a biographical, critical and bibliographical sketch of every important author, to offer representative extracts of what there is best in the language in such a manner as to give a correct idea of the evolution of Russian Literature from its remotest time. The selections have been chosen so as to illustrate certain important historical events, and will be found of use also to the historical student.

In the preparation of this work, I have availed myself of many native sources, to which I shall express my indebtedness by a general declaration that I have with profit perused the monumental works of Pýpin and the authors on whom he has drawn in the preparation of his history of Russian Literature. To give variety, I have reproduced such of the existing translations as are less objectionable. In my own translations, for which alone I am responsible, I have attempted to render minutely the originals, with their different styles, not excepting their very imperfections, such as characterise particularly the writers of the eighteenth century. Only where the diction is inexpressibly crude, as in Pososhkóv’s writings, or the text corrupt, as in the Word of Ígor’s Armament, have I made slight deviations for the sake of clearness.

Russian words are transliterated differently by every translator: some attempt to give English equivalents, which, even if they were correctly chosen (they seldom are), cannot possibly give an idea of the phonetic values in Russian; others follow the simpler method of an etymological transliteration of letter by letter, but needlessly encumber the words with diacritical marks and difficult consonant combinations. The method pursued here, though far from ideal, recommends itself for its simplicity. Where the Russian and English alphabets are practically identical, the corresponding letters are used; in the other cases, the combinations are made with h, for which there is no corresponding sound in Russian; for the guttural vowel y is used, which does also the duty of the English y in yes. There can be no confusion between the two, as the guttural y before or after a vowel is extremely rare. It is useless for anyone without oral instruction to try to pronounce Russian words as the natives do. The nearest approach will be attained if the consonants be pronounced as in English (g always hard, zh as z in azure, r always rolled, kh, guttural like German ch in ach), and the vowels always open as in Italian (a as a in far, e as e in set, o as o in obey, or a little longer when accented, u as oo in foot, or a little longer when accented, y between consonants is guttural, which it is useless to attempt and had better be pronounced like i: i. e., like i in machine or bit, according to the accent). The accents are indicated throughout the work. Accented é is frequently pronounced as yó, but it would be useless to indicate all such cases. It has not been found practicable to spell Russian names uniformly when their English forms are universally accepted.

It will not be uninteresting to summarise all that Englishmen and Americans have done to acquaint their countrymen with the language and literature of Russia.

When Russia was rediscovered by England in the middle of the sixteenth century and the Muscovy Company established itself at Moscow, there was naturally a demand for Englishmen who could speak Russian. There are frequent references in native reports to Englishmen who spoke and wrote Russian fluently and who were even used as ambassadors to the Muscovite Tsars. It was also an Englishman, Richard James, who, in 1619, made the first collection of Russian popular songs. In 1696, the first Russian grammar was published by the Oxford University Press, though its author, Ludolf, was not an Englishman by birth. In the eighteenth century, there seems to have been in England no interest in Russia except as to its religion, which received consideration from certain divines. An exception must be made in the case of W. Coxe, who in his Travels in Poland, Russia, Sweden and Denmark, 1st edition, London, 1784, gave an excellent account of Russian Literature from German and French sources. In 1821, Sir John Bowring startled his countrymen with his Specimens of the Russian Poets, which for the first time revealed to them the existence of a promising literature. Though his knowledge of Russian was quite faulty, as his translations prove, yet he put the poems into such pleasing verses that they became deservedly popular. A second edition followed the same year, and a second part two years later.

The impulse given by Sir John Bowring found a ready response in the periodic press of that time. In 1824 the Westminster Review brought out an article on Politics and Literature of Russia, which gave a short review of eighteenth-century literature. In 1827, R. P. Gillies gave a good sketch of Russian Literature in vol. i of the Foreign Quarterly Review, based on the Russian work of Grech. The same year, the Foreign Review brought out a short account, and the next year an elaborate article on Russian Literature and Poetry, also after Grech, which for some decades formed the basis of all the articles and chapters dealing with the same subject in the English language. The Foreign Quarterly Review brought out similar matter in vol. viii, xxi, xxiii, xxix, xxx. But more interesting than these, which are nearly all fashioned after some Russian articles, are the excellent literary notes in every number, that kept the readers informed on the latest productions that appeared in Russia. There seems hardly to have been a public for these notes in England, and indeed they get weaker with the twenty-fourth volume, and die of inanity in the thirtieth. This early period of magazine articles is brought to an end by Russian Literary Biography, in vol. xxxvi (1841) of the Westminster Review.

The example set by Sir John Bowring found several imitators. We have several anthologies, generally grouping themselves around Púshkin, for the first half of the century: W. H. Saunders, Poetical Translations from the Russian Language, London, 1826; [George Borrow], The Talisman, with Other Pieces, St. Petersburg, 1835; W. D. Lewis, The Bakchesarian Fountain, and Other Poems, Philadelphia, 1849. The Foreign Quarterly Review brought out in 1832 translations from Bátyushkov, Púshkin, and Rylyéev, and in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine for 1845 T. B. Shaw gave some excellent translations of Púshkin’s poems. Other articles, treating individual authors, will be mentioned in their respective places.

While these meagre accounts of Russian Literature, at second hand, and the scanty anthologies were appearing, there was published in the Biblical Repository of Andover, Mass., in 1834, the remarkable work by Talvi, the wife of Dr. Edward Robinson, entitled: Historical View of the Languages and Literatures of the Slavic Nations, and this was republished in book-form, and enlarged, in New York, in 1850. Though there existed some special works by Slavic scholars, Talvi’s was the first to encompass the whole field in a scholarly and yet popular manner. It is authoritative even now in many departments that have not been overthrown by later investigations, and it is a matter of surprise that none of the later English writers should have based their Russian Literatures on this important work, or should have proceeded in the path of Slavic studies which she had so beautifully inaugurated. There is no excuse for G. Cox’s translation of F. Otto’s History of Russian Literature, with a Lexicon of Russian Authors, which appeared at Oxford in 1839, and adds a number of its own inaccuracies to the blunders of the German original. Nor is there any notice taken of Talvi in [C. F. Henningsen’s] Eastern Europe and the Emperor Nicholas, London, 1846, which gives a chapter on Russian Literature, mainly on Púshkin.

In the sixties W. R. Morfill began to translate some poems from the Russian, and towards the end of that decade, but especially in the next, Ralston published his excellent studies on the Folksongs and Folktales and Krylóv, and in the Contemporary Review, vols. xxiii and xxvii, two articles on the Russian Idylls. The magazines that in the seventies reviewed Russian Literature got everything at second hand, and are of little value: National Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv (1872); Catholic World, vol. xxi (1875); Harper’s Magazine, 1878. Of books there were issued: Sutherland Edwards’s The Russians at Home, London, 1861, a very useful work for contemporary literature, and F. R. Grahame’s The Progress of Science, Art and Literature in Russia, London [1865], which contains a great deal of interesting material badly arranged and ill-digested. The chapter on Literature in O. W. Wahl’s The Land of the Czar, London, 1875, is unimportant.

Since the eighties there have appeared a number of translations from good foreign authors bearing on Russian Literature: Ernest Dupuy, The Great Masters of Russian Literature in the Nineteenth Century, translated by N. H. Dole, New York [1886]; E. M. de Vogüé, The Russian Novelists, translated by J. L. Edmands, Boston [1887]; Dr. George Brandes, Impressions of Russia, translated by S. C. Eastman, New York, 1889; E. P. Bazán, Russia: Its People and its Literature, translated by F. H. Gardiner, Chicago, 1890.

The following more or less original works will be found useful: W. R. Morfill, Slavonic Literature, London, 1883, and The Story of Russia, New York and London, 1890; also his The Peasant Poets of Russia (Reprint from Westminster Review), London, 1880; C. E. Turner, Studies in Russian Literature, London, 1882, and before, in Fraser’s Magazine for 1877; Ivan Panin, Lectures in Russian Literature, New York and London, 1889; Memorials of a Short Life: A Biographical Sketch of W. F. A. Gaussen (chapter on The Russian People and their Literature), London, 1895; Prince Serge Wolkonsky, Pictures of Russian History and Russian Literature (Lowell Lectures), Boston, New York and London, 1897; K. Waliszewski, A History of Russian Literature, New York, 1900, but this work must be used with extreme caution, on account of the many inaccuracies it contains. W. M. Griswold’s Tales Dealing with Life in Russia, Cambridge, 1892, is a fair bibliography of all the prose translations that have appeared in the English language before 1892. But few anthologies have of late seen daylight: C. T. Wilson, Russian Lyrics in English Verse, London, 1887; John Pollen, Rhymes from the Russian, London, 1891 (a good little book); E. L. Voynich, The Humour of Russia, London and New York, 1895. The periodical “Free Russia,” published in London since 1890, contains some good translations from various writers and occasionally some literary essay; but the most useful periodic publication is “The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,” published in London since 1892, and containing valuable information on literary subjects, especially modern, and a series of good translations from contemporary poets. Nor must one overlook the articles in the encyclopedias, of which those in Johnson’s Cyclopedia are especially good.

Very exhaustive statements of the modern literary movement in Russia appear from year to year in the Athenæum. More or less good articles on modern literature, mainly the novel, have appeared since 1880 in the following volumes of the periodical press: Academy, xxi and xxiii; Bookman, viii; Chautauquan, viii and xxii; Critic, iii; Current Literature, xxii; Dial, xx; Eclectic Magazine, cxv; Forum, xxviii; Leisure Hours, ccccxxv; Lippincott’s, lviii; Literature, i; Living Age, clxxxv; Nation, lxv; Public Opinion, xx; Publisher’s Weekly, liv; Temple Bar, lxxxix.

In conclusion, I desire to express my gratitude to my friends and colleagues who have aided me in this work: to Prof. A. C. Coolidge, for leaving at my disposal his collection of translations from the Russian, and for many valuable hints; to Dr. F. N. Robinson, for reading a number of my translations; to Prof. G. L. Kittredge, to whom is largely due whatever literary merit there may be in the introductory chapters and in the biographical sketches. I also take this occasion to thank all the publishers and authors from whose copyrighted works extracts have been quoted with their permission.

CONTENTS

A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE

I.—THE OLDEST PERIOD

Of the many Slavic nations and tribes that at one time occupied the east of Europe from the Elbe and the headwaters of the Danube to Siberia, and from the Ionic Sea to the Baltic and White Seas, some have entirely disappeared in the ruthless struggle with a superior German civilisation; others, like the Bulgarians and Servians, have paled into insignificance under the lethargic influence of the Crescent, to be fanned to life again within the memory of the present generation by a breath of national consciousness, which is the result of the Romantic Movement in European literature; others again like the Bohemians and Poles, rent asunder by fraternal discord and anarchy, have forfeited their national existence and are engaged in an unequal battle to regain it. Of all the Slavs, Russia alone has steadily gathered in the lands of the feudal lords, to shine at last as a power of the first magnitude among the sisterhood of states, and to scintillate hope to its racial brothers as the “Northern Star.”

The unity of the Russian land was ever present to the minds of the writers in the earliest days of the appanages. The bard of the Word of Ígor’s Armament and Daniel the Palmer made appeals to the whole country and prayed for all the princes in the twelfth century, and for upwards of four centuries Moscow has been the centre towards which the outlying districts have been gravitating. Yet, in spite of so continuous and well-defined a political tendency, Russia is the last of the Slavic nations to have evolved a literature worthy of the name. Bohemia had a brilliant literature of the Western stamp as early as the thirteenth century; Bulgaria had made a splendid start three centuries before, under the impulse of the newly introduced religion; the Servian city of Ragusa, receiving its intellectual leaven from its Italian vicinage, invested Petrarch and Dante with Servian citizenship in the fifteenth century, and, shortly after, gloried in an epic of a Gundulić, and in a whole galaxy of writers; Poland borrowed its theology from Bohemia, took an active part in the medieval Latin literature, and boasted a golden age for its native language in the sixteenth century. Russia produced an accessible literature only in the second half of the eighteenth century, became known to Western Europe not earlier than the second quarter of the next, and had not gained universal recognition until within the last twenty-five years.

In the case of the Western and Southern Slavs, a community of interests, whether religious or social, has led to an intellectual intercourse with their neighbours, from whom they have received their models for imitation or adaptation. Without a favourable geographical position, or some common bond with the external world, no nation can have a healthy development, especially in the incipient stage of its political existence. Blatant Slavophiles of fifty years ago heaped reproach on the reforms of Peter the Great, on the ground that they were fashioned upon Western ideals, and that he had retarded the evolution of Russia according to its inherent Slavic idea. There still survive men of that persuasion, though a comparative study of Russian literature long ago demonstrated that every step in advance has been made by conscious or unconscious borrowings from abroad. If there was a Russian literature previous to the introduction of Christianity, it certainly stood in some kind of relation to the literatures of the neighbours. The few extant treaties with the Greeks for that period show unmistakable Byzantine influences, and the Russian Code of Yarosláv, with its purely Norse laws, dates from a time when the Varyágs had not yet disappeared in the mass of the Slavic majority.

With the introduction of Christianity, Russia, instead of entering into closer communion with the rest of the world, was separated from it even more securely than before, and soon after, an intellectual stagnation began that lasted very nearly to the end of the seventeenth century. Various causes combined to produce this singular effect. Chief of these was its geographical position. Living in the vast eastern plain of Europe, which in itself would have been productive of a larger life, the Russian tribes had civilised neighbours on one side only. On the north they were separated from the Swedes by rude Finnish tribes; on the south, they had for centuries to contend against all the nomads, Pechenyégs, Cumanians, Khazars, who slowly proceeded from Asia to central Europe to become lost in the nations to the south of the Carpathians and in the Balkan peninsula; in the east the Finns of the north met the Tartars of the south, and behind them lay unprofitable Asia. On the north-west, it is true, was the civilised Teutonic Order, but the inveterate hatred between these Germans and the Slavs prevented any intercommunication from that quarter. There was left Poland, through which Russia might issue into Europe; but savage Lithuania was wedged in between the two, so as to reduce still more the line of contact with the West. When Lithuania became civilised, and a part of Poland, the latter had grown suspicious of the youthful Ilyá of Múrom who “had sat thirty years upon the oven,” and enunciated a political maxim that either Russia would have to become Polish, or else Poland Russian. Knowing that there was no other exit for Russia, Poland permitted no light to reach it from the West. When England began to communicate with Russia in the sixteenth century, King Sigismund made an earnest appeal to Queen Elizabeth to stop sending skilled mechanics, lest the Colossus should awaken and become a danger to Europe.

These external causes of Russia’s aloofness were still more intensified by a systematic determination of Russia to keep out the Catholic contamination that would come from intercourse with Europe. This was a direct outgrowth of its adoption of Christianity from Byzantium, instead of Rome. Cyril and Methodius, the apostles to the Slavs, were themselves Bulgarians from Macedonia. When they first carried the new religion to Moravia and later to Bulgaria, they, no doubt, preached and wrote in the dialect with which they were most familiar. This innovation of preaching the gospel in another than one of the three sacred languages was a necessary departure, in order to win over the troublesome Slavs to the north of Byzantium. Though at the end of the ninth century the various dialects were already sufficiently dissimilar to constitute separate languages, yet they were not so distant from each other as to be a hindrance to a free intercommunication. When, a century later, Christianity was introduced into Russia from Constantinople, Bulgarian priests and bookmen were the natural intermediaries, and the Bulgarian language at once became the literary medium, to the exclusion of the native tongue. Soon after, the Eastern Church separated from Rome, and the Greek-Catholic clergy inculcated upon their neophytes an undying hatred of the Latins, as the Romanists were called. In Moscow, the slightest deviation from the orthodox faith was sufficient cause for suspecting a Romanist heresy, and anathemas against Roman-Catholics were frequent, but at Kíev, where the contact with Poland was inevitable, the disputes with the Latins form a prominent part of ecclesiastical literature. To guard the country against any possible contagion, the punishment of Russians who crossed the border, in order to visit foreign parts, was so severe, that few ever ventured out of the country. The seclusion of Russia was complete.

Even under these difficulties, literature and the arts might have flourished, if Constantinople had been able to give to the new converts even its degraded Byzantine culture, or if there had not been other powerful causes that militated against a development from within. In the west of Europe the Latin language of the Church did not interfere with an early national literature. Latin was the language of the learned, whether clerical or lay, and mediated an intellectual intercourse between the most distant members of the universal faith. At the same time, the native dialects had received an impulse before the introduction of Christianity, often under the influence of Rome, and they were left to shift for themselves and to find their votaries. The case was quite different in Russia. The Bulgarian language, which was brought in with the gospel, at once usurped on the native Russian to the great disadvantage of the latter. Being closely related to the spoken Russian, Bulgarian was easily acquired by the clergy, but it was not close enough to become the literary language of the people. On the one hand, this new gospel language could at best connect Russia with Byzantium by way of Bulgaria; on the other, Russian was looked down upon as a rude dialect and was discouraged, together with every symptom of the popular creation which was looked upon as intimately connected with ancient paganism.

This Bulgarian language was not long preserved in its purity. Detached from its native home, it was immediately transformed in pronunciation, so as to conform to the spoken Russian; thus, for example, it at once lost its nasals, which were not familiar to the Russian ear. In the course of time, words and constructions of the people’s language found their way into the Church-Slavic, as the Bulgarian was then more properly called. Naturally, many words, referring to abstract ideas and the Church, passed from the Bulgarian into the spoken tongue. Thus, the two dialects, one the arbitrary literary language, the other, the language of every-day life, approached each other more and more. At the present time, the Russian of literature contains a large proportion of these Church-Slavic words; the language of the Bible and the liturgy is the Church-Slavic of the sixteenth century, which differs so much from the original Bulgarian that, though a Russian reads with comparative ease this Church-Slavic, he has to study Bulgarian as a German would study Old German. This Church-Slavic of the Russian redaction has also been, and still is, in part, the ecclesiastical language of the other Greek-Catholic countries of the Slavs.

Some time passed before Russia could furnish its own clergy. All the leading places in the Church were at first filled with Bulgarians and Greeks who were steeped in Byzantine religious lore. The Church at Constantinople stood in direct opposition to the classical traditions of Greece. These were not separated from the old heathenism, and to the luxury and voluptuousness of medieval Greece, which was ascribed to classical influences, the Church opposed asceticism and self-abnegation. Monasticism was preached as the ideal of the religious life, and arts and sciences had no place in the scheme of the Church. Theology and rhetoric were the only sciences which the hermit practised in his cell, in the moments that were free from prayer and self-castigation. And it is only the Church’s sciences that ancient Russia inherited from Byzantium. The civil intercourse between the two countries was very slight, and the few Russian ecclesiastics who visited Mount Athos and the Holy Land brought back with them at best a few legends and apocryphal writings. The Byzantine influence at home showed itself in a verbal adherence to the Bible and the Church Fathers, and an occasional attempt at pulpit oratory in the bombastic diction of contemporary Greece.

Not a science penetrated into ancient Russia. Historically the rest of the world did not exist for it, and geographically it was only of interest in so far as it came into contact with Russia: Russia knew more of Tartars and Cumanians than of Germany or France. Arithmetic, not to speak of mathematics, and physics, medicine and engineering, were unknown before the sixteenth century, and then only when a few foreigners practised these arts in the capital and at the Court. The only literature that reached Russia was the legendary lore of the South and West, through Bulgaria and Poland, generally at a time when it had long been forgotten elsewhere: thus, the Lucidarius and Physiologus were accepted as genuine bits of zoölogical and botanical science, long after sober knowledge had taken possession of the universities of the world. The literature of Russia before Peter the Great is by no means meagre or uninteresting, but it lacks an important element of historical continuity; in fact, it is devoid of every trace of chronology. What was written in the twelfth century might with equal propriety be the product of the sixteenth, and vice versa, and the productions of the earliest time were copied out as late as the seventeenth century, and relished as if they had just been written. Where a certain literary document has come down to us in a later copy, it is not possible to date it back, unless it contains some accidental indication of antiquity. In short, there was no progress in Russia for a period of six or seven centuries, from the tenth century to the seventeenth.

In this achronism of literary history, there may, however, be discerned two periods that are separated from each other by the first invasion of the Tartars. Previous to that momentous event, Kíev formed the chief intellectual and political centre of the Russian principalities. Here the Norse traditions, which had been brought by the Varyág warriors, had not entirely faded away in the century following the introduction of Christianity, and the Court maintained certain relations with the rest of the world, as in the case of Yarosláv, who was related, by the marriage of his children, to the Courts of Norway, France, Germany and Hungary. On the other hand, Vladímir’s heroes were celebrated abroad, and Ilyá of Múrom is not unknown to German tradition and the Northern saga. Not only its favourable geographical position, but its climate as well, inspired the inhabitants of Kíev with a greater alacrity, even as the Little-Russians of to-day have developed less sombre characteristics than the Great-Russians of the sterner north. It is sufficient to compare the laconic instructions of Luká Zhidyáta in the commercial Nóvgorod with the flowery style of Serapión’s sermon, or the dry narrative of the northern chronicles with the elaborate adornment of the stories in the chronicles of Néstor and Sylvester, to become aware of the fundamental difference between the two sections of Russia. The twelfth century, rich in many aspects of literature, including that beautiful prose poem of popular origin, the Word of Ígor’s Armament, gave ample promise of better things to come. Similarly, the bylínas of the Vladímir cycle, the best and most numerous of all that are preserved, point to an old poetic tradition that proceeded from Kíev.

The fact that these bylínas have been lately discovered in the extreme north-east, in the Government of Olónetsk, while not a trace of them has been found in their original home, has divided the scholars of Russia into two camps. Some assert that all the Russians of Kíev belonged to the Great-Russian division, and that the Tartar invasion destroyed most of them, and caused the rest to migrate to the north, whither they carried their poetry. The Little-Russians that now occupy the south of Russia are supposed by these scholars to have come from Galicia to repeople the abandoned places. The Little-Russians themselves claim, with pardonable pride, to be the direct descendants of the race that gave Russia its Néstor and the bard of the Word of Ígor’s Armament. There are weighty arguments on both sides, and both the Great-Russians, with whom we are at present concerned, and the Little-Russians, or Ruthenians, who have developed a literature in their own dialect, claim that old literature as their own.

The terrible affliction of the Mongol invasion marks, on the one hand, the beginning of the concentration of Russia around Moscow, and, on the other, accentuates more strongly the barren activities of the Russian mind for the next few centuries. Historians have been wont to dwell on the Tartar domination as the chief cause of Russian stagnation, but the calmer judgment of unbiassed science must reject that verdict. It is true, the Tartars carried ruin to all the Russian land, but after every successful raid, they withdrew to their distant camps, ruling the conquered land merely by exacting tribute and homage from its princes. The Tartars in no way interfered with the intellectual and religious life of the people; on the contrary, they mingled freely with the subject nation, and intermarriages were common. It has already been pointed out that the germ of unprogressiveness was older than the invasion, that the Byzantine religious culture was the real cause of it. That Moscow was even less progressive than Kíev is only natural. All its energies were bent on political aggrandisement, on throwing off the hated Tartar yoke, and it was farther removed from Europe than the more fortunate southern metropolis. All these conditions were unfavourable to the practice of the gentler arts.

The religious lore of ancient Russia was derived from the gospel, which was hardly ever accessible in continuous form, but only as an aprakos, i. e., as a manual in which it was arranged according to the weekly readings. This was supplemented by two peculiar versions of the Old Testament, the palæas, in which passages of the Bible were intermingled with much apocryphal matter, and which originally had served as controversial literature against the Jews, and to prove the coming of Christ; there was no translation of the whole Old Testament, and as late as the eighteenth century a priest referred to the palæa as to Holy Writ. Prayers to saints, lives and legends of saints, with moral instructions, complete the list of the religious equipment that Russia received from Byzantium. One of the oldest Russian manuscripts, the Collection of Svyatosláv, made for Svyatosláv of Chernígov in 1073, is a copy of a similar production, translated from the Greek for Simeón of Bulgaria. It is an encyclopedia of ecclesiastic and moral themes, culled from the Church Fathers, among whom John Chrysostom is most prominent. Later, there were many similar collections, known under the names of The Golden Beam, Emerald, Golden Chain, and so forth.

By the aid of this literature and such Greek models as were accessible to the priests, were produced the sermons that have come down to us in a large number, and a few of which, like those of Cyril of Túrov and Serapión, do not lack literary polish, and are not inferior to Western pulpit oratory of the same period. Whenever the preachers turned to praise the princes, as in the case of Ilarión who eulogised Vladímir, they had in mind only their orthodox Christianity, for religion was the all-absorbing question. Similarly, when Vladímir Monomákh wrote his Instruction to his children, he composed it according to the model given in Svyatosláv’s Collection. Sermons and Instructions, from the introduction of Christianity to the middle of the eighteenth century, form one of the most important ingredients of Collections, and served as models for Spiritual Testaments even in the eighteenth century. Sylvester’s Domostróy belongs to the same type, though what in Vladímir was the enthusiasm and earnestness of the new faith, has in this later document become a series of external observances. Formalism and adherence to the dead letter characterise the whole period of Russian unprogressiveness, and remained the characteristic of the Church at a much later time, in spite of the enlightened labours of a Feofán or Platón; and it was the same formalism that caused the schism of the raskólniks, who saw in Nikón’s orthographical corrections of the corrupt Bible text an assault upon the orthodox religion.

Only a small proportion of the literature of ancient Russia was produced outside the ranks of the clergy. There were few literate persons who were not priests or monks; for there hardly existed any schools during this whole period, and even princes could not sign their names. The influence of the lettered priest was paramount, and if he was at all equal to the task of composing readable sermons, these were eagerly sought for by all who could read them. When, in the sixteenth, and still more in the seventeenth century, rays of light began to penetrate into Moscow, the chief and most dangerous task of instruction fell to the share of those preachers who had come in contact with Polish learning at Kíev; in the days of Peter the Great, Feofán Prokopóvich was an important factor in the civilisation of Russia, and in the beginning of the nineteenth century the sermons of Platón still form an integral part of literature.

To the student of comparative literature the semi-religious lore, which finds its expression in the apocrypha, is of vastly greater interest. The poetical creative activity of the people, combining with the knowledge of religious lore, has ever been active in producing spurious legendary accounts of matters biblical. The book of Enoch and the Talmud disseminated such legends in regard to the Old Testament long before the birth of Christianity. The Russian apocryphal literature is rich in legendary accounts of the creation of the world, the confession of Eve, the lives of Adam, Melchisedec, Abraham, Lot, Moses, Balaam, the twelve patriarchs, David, and particularly Solomon. Much more extensive is the store of legends from the New Testament. The birth of the Holy Virgin is dilated upon in the gospel of Jacob, the childhood of Christ is told in the gospel of Thomas, while a fuller story of Pilate’s judgment of Christ and of Christ’s descent into Hell is given in the old gospel of Nicodemus. Lazarus, Judas, and the twelve apostles have all their group of legends, but the Assumption of the Virgin Mary and the Judgment-day were the most popular. The list is far from being exhausted, and only a small part of the material has been scientifically investigated and located. Most of these stories travelled by the customary road over Bulgaria from Byzantium. As they have also reached the west of Europe, the investigator of their Western forms has to look into Byzantine sources; but as many of the legends have been preserved in the Slavic form, and when they have disappeared from the Greek, or as fuller redactions are to be met with in the North, he cannot well afford to overlook the Slavic sources. The index librorum prohibitorum of Russia, fashioned after the Greek, includes all such apocrypha as were current at the time of the composition of the first index. The clergy were continually preaching against them, yet their efforts were useless, especially since they themselves were at the same time drawing extensively on the apocryphal accounts of the palæas, lives of saints, etc.

There is this vast difference in the literature of this kind as it was current in Russia and in the West. Elsewhere the legends were early seized upon by the fancy of the poets, were clothed in the conventional garb of verse, remodelled, combined, beautified, until they became the stock in trade of literature, while the memory of the unadorned story had entirely faded from the popular consciousness. Dante’s Divine Comedy is an illustration of how transformed the legends had become at a very early date. In Russia nothing of the kind has taken place. With the usual achronism of its literature, legends of the eleventh and eighteenth centuries live side by side, or mingle in the same version, and they have undergone no other change than corruption of misunderstood passages, transposition of motives, modernisation of language. The religious songs that a mendicant may be heard singing at the present time in front of a church are nothing but these old legends, almost in their primitive form.

Nearly allied to the apocryphal stories are the profane legends that form the subject-matter of so much of European medieval literature. The stories of Alexander the Great, the Trojan War, Digenis Akritas, Barlaam and Josaphat, Calilah-wa-Dimnah, are as common in Russian literature as in that of France or Germany. Byzantium is the immediate source of most of these legends both for the East and the West, but there are also many motives in the Russian stories that were derived from the West through Servia and Bulgaria. It is not yet quite clear how these stories came to travel in a direction opposite to the customary route of popular tales; no doubt the crusades did much to bring about an interchange of the oral literature of the nations. In the West, these stories have furnished the most beautiful subjects for medieval poetry, but as before, the Russian stories have not found their way into polite literature. They have either remained unchanged in their original form, or, being of a more popular character than the religious legends, have adapted themselves to the style of folktales, as which they have been preserved.

It is not unlikely that many of these tales were brought back from Palestine, the common camping-ground of the Christian nations during the crusades. Pilgrimages to the Holy Land began soon after the introduction of Christianity into Russia, and in the twelfth century we have the first account of such a journey, from the pen of the abbot Daniel. None of the later accounts of Palestine and Constantinople compare in interest with the simple narrative of Daniel the Palmer, after whose Pilgrimage they are fashioned and whose very words they often incorporated in their Travels. The purpose of all these was to serve as incitements to religious contemplation. There is but one account of a journey to the west of Europe. It was undertaken by the metropolitan Isidor who, in 1437, attended the Council of Florence. A few years later Afanási Nikítin described his journey to India, which was one of the earliest undertaken by Westerners in the same century; but while Vasco de Gama and Columbus were revolutionising the knowledge of geography, and were making the discovery of a route to India the object of mercantile development, Nikítin’s report, important though it was, had absolutely no effect upon dormant Russia.

As there existed no external geography, so there was no external history. But fortunately for Russia, a long series of chronicles have saved historical events from oblivion. The earliest chronicle, that of Néstor, was the model for all that followed. Excepting the history of Kúrbski, who had come into contact with Western science through the Polish, and Krizhánich, who was not a Russian, there was no progress made in the chronological arrangement of historical facts from Néstor to Tatíshchev, while in style and dramatic diction there is a decided retrogression. The promise held out by the historian of the twelfth century was not made good for six hundred years. Néstor and Sylvester, the continuator, were of the clerical profession, and naturally the religious element, richly decked out with legend, folktale and reports of eye-witnesses, is the prevailing tone throughout the whole production. The Bible and the Byzantines, Hamartolos and John Malalas, serve as models for the fluent style of this production, but the vivid, dramatic narrative bears witness to considerable talent in the author. At first only the cities of Kíev, Nóvgorod and Súzdal, and Volhynia seem to have possessed such chronicles; but those that are preserved show traces of being composed of shorter accounts of other individual places. In the following centuries, most of the larger cities and monasteries kept chronological records of important events, and with the centralisation of Russia about Moscow there also appeared a species of Court chroniclers whose dry narration is often coloured in favour of the tsarate.

All this mass of literature is essentially ecclesiastic, and hardly any other could raise its head against the constant anathemas of the Church. No prohibition of the priests was strong enough to obliterate the craving for a popular literature, for no school, no science, was opposed to the superstition of the people, which therefore had full sway. The best the Church was able to do for the masses was to foster a “double faith,” in which Christianity and paganism lived side by side. We shall see later how this state of affairs has been favourable to the preservation of an oral tradition up to the present time. Yet, but for the Word of Ígor’s Armament, and its imitation, the Zadónshchina, no one could have suspected that the elements of a natural, unecclesiastic literature were present in ancient Russia.

This Word of Ígor’s Armament is unique. It was composed at a time when Russia was already well Christianised, yet the references to Christianity are only sporadic, whereas the ancient pagan divinities and popular conceptions come in for a goodly share of attention. There are some who are inclined to see in this production a forgery, such as Hanka concocted for Bohemian literature, or Macpherson for Celtic, for the absence of any later works of the kind seems to be inexplicable. But this absence need not surprise us, for no such work could have been written at a later time outside the Church, which alone was in possession of a modicum of learning. It must be assumed that the bard of the Word represents the last of a bygone civilisation that had its firm footing in the people, but stood in a literary relation to the singers of the Norsemen; for there is much in the Word that reminds one of the Northern sagas. The tradition of the bard came to an end with this last production, but his manner, corrupted and twisted by a wrongly understood Christianity, lived on in the folksong of the people; hence the remarkable resemblance between the two.

But for the inertia of the Russian Church and people, it would not have been necessary to wait until a Peter the Great violently shook the country into activity, for long before his time glimpses of European civilisation reached Moscow. In the fifteenth century, we have found metropolitan Isidor travelling to the Council of Florence, to cast his vote in favour of a union of the Churches under Rome. In the same century foreigners began to arrive in Moscow to practise medicine or architecture, or to serve in the Russian army; in the time of Iván the Terrible there was already a considerable foreign colony in Moscow, and its influences upon individual Russians were not rare. Iván the Terrible himself made several attempts to get skilled mechanics from the West, but his efforts were generally frustrated by Poland and the Germans of the Baltic provinces.

The most important points of contact with the West were in the Church itself, through Kíev and Western Russia. These outlying parts of Russia had early come into relation with Poland, and their unyielding orthodoxy had been mellowed by the prevailing scholasticism of the Polish theology. In the academy of Kíev, Greek and Latin grammar, theology and rhetoric were taught, while these sciences—especially grammar, even though it were Slavic grammar—were looked upon at Moscow as certain expressions of heresy. The correction of the corrupt church books, which in itself was advocated by priests who had imbibed the Kíev culture, made the presence of learned men—that is, of such as knew grammar enough to discover orthographical mistakes—an absolute necessity. In the reign of Alexis Mikháylovich, Kíev monks were called out for the purpose of establishing a school, and only in 1649 was the first of the kind opened. This innovation divided the churchmen into two camps,—those who advocated the Greek grammar, and those who advocated the Latin,—that is, those who would hear of nothing that distantly might remind them of the Latins, and those who were for a Western culture, even though it was to be only the scholastic learning already abandoned in the rest of Europe. The battle between the two was fought to the death. Those who were in favour of the Latin were generally worsted, and some of the most promising of them were imprisoned and even capitally punished; but men like Medvyédev, and later Simeón Pólotski, laid the foundation for an advancement, however gradual, which culminated in the reforms of Peter the Great.

Where a few individuals gained some semblance of Western culture, they could not write freely at home, and had to develop their activities abroad. Kúrbski, who for a long time stands alone as an historian, wrote his History in Poland, and it remained without any influence whatsoever at home; its very existence was not known before our own times. The same thing happened with Kotoshíkhin, whose description of Russia was known to the learned of Sweden, but the original of which was unknown until its accidental discovery by a Russian scholar of the nineteenth century. So, while the ferment of reform began much earlier than the eighteenth century, it would have been indefinitely delayed, causing many a bloody battle, if the Gordian knot had not been cut by Peter the Great in favour of the West.

II.—THE FOLKLORE

In the Russian terminology, the people includes all the elements of society that are not covered by the term intelligence. This latter is a comprehensive designation of all the classes that have some education and can give intelligent opinions on social, political and cultural themes. The vast majority of the nation are the people in the narrower sense, and it is essentially the characteristic of the democratic nineteenth century to regard the intellectual life of this people as worthy of consideration. This is true of the world at large, but, in Russia, preoccupation with the people, down to the lowest strata of society, has become a dominating note in literature. Whatever other causes may have been active in creating this strong sentiment,—and they will be discussed in a later chapter,—the strongest impulse to such a people—worship was received from the unexpected and undreamt-of wealth of that popular literature which has been unearthed by the diligent labours of a few investigators.

In the eighteenth century, the term people had a wider significance. All those who did not belong to polite society, that is, all those who were not dignitaries or functionaries of a higher order, were the people, and at first the literati were included in that general appellation. Literature was entirely in the service of the higher classes, whom it was intended to amuse and eulogise; there was no other audience, and writers had to direct their attention to filling the demand, as hirelings of princes, and as pamperers of the pseudo-classic taste and Voltairism which held sway in refined society. Though frequently originating from the people, these writers dissevered all connection with it, for they had no longer any interests in common. With a few occasional exceptions, the people had no place in literature, and the inflated style that prevailed in prose and poetry was so far removed from the language of the people that the written literature could exert little influence upon the popular mind, and if there existed anything of a traditional nature among the lower classes, it was little, if at all, contaminated by literary influences. Whatever it had received from bygone ages was transmitted to the nineteenth century and collected just in time, before its certain disintegration.

This disregard for the enormous majority of the people was an inheritance of ancient Russia, before the reforms of Peter the Great. We have already seen with what unintelligent severity the Church persecuted every creation of a popular nature. As the nation consisted of the Church and the people, so, also, everything that was not directly of a Christian tendency was un-Christian and therefore tabooed. True Christianity could never take possession of the people that was not intelligent enough to discern what was religion and what not, and the result was that “double faith” in which, in spite of the persistent endeavours of the clergy, the old heathenism showed through the varnish of the new faith. The anathemas of the Church against “pagan rites,” which included the singing of harmless songs, continue down to the eighteenth century.

In the general unprogressiveness of the whole country, the agricultural classes, that constituted the bulk of the people, have remained unchanged for centuries. Russia was as much a country of raw products in the eighteenth century as in the twelfth, and barter and tribute in kind were common until a very late time. The life of the peasant has always moved in the same primitive conditions. Nothing whatsoever has been added to his physical and intellectual existence since the introduction of Christianity, and the latter itself did not much affect his spiritual life. He has remained essentially the same through the ages. The love of singing and story-telling that characterises him to-day has, no doubt, been his characteristic for centuries, and as the memory of the untutored man is much better than that of the lettered, he has been able to transmit orally to our own day the stock of his ancient songs and tales. The folklore of Russia, more than that of any Western nation, bridges over the chasm between the most distant antiquity and the present. It is an inheritance of the past, the more precious because it has been transmitted by an unsophisticated class, whereas in the West the people has come to a great extent under the influence of the literary caste.

When the folklore of Russia first became accessible to scholars, the adherents of the mythological theory of the origin of popular tales and songs, which had been enunciated by Grimm, set out at once to expound the epic songs and fairy tales as purely mythical symbols of a pre-Christian era. It was assumed that the songs and stories had come down to us in an almost unchanged text from the most remote antiquity, and that they were the representatives of a distinctly Russian conception. In the meantime, Benfey and his followers have pointed out that the fairy tales of Europe are traceable to their Indian home, whence they have wandered to the most remote regions, crossing and recrossing each other, and mingling in a variety of ways. Even the casual song that bears every appearance of native origin is frequently identical with similar songs in distant quarters; so, for example, Professor Child has brought together a vast number of similar motives from the whole world in his monumental work on the English and Scotch Ballads. Under the stress of these discoveries, the greater part of the mythological ballast had to be thrown overboard, and Russian folklore was brought into direct relations with the rest of the world.

It has been a rude disappointment to those who believed in an autochthonous development of the bylínas, to discover that they are often variations of similar accounts in foreign literatures; that, for example, the story of Sadkó the Merchant has been found to be identical with a French story; similarly, the ceremonial songs are not all of native growth. The study of comparative literature is of recent development, at least so far as Russian sources are concerned, and only a small part of the material has been properly located; but this much can even now be asserted,—that the folklore of Russia is much more intimately connected with that of Europe and Asia than is the written literature of the old period. Much of the apocryphal matter came through the South Slavic countries; many stories and songs must have wandered by way of Poland to White-Russia, and hence farther into the interior. Anciently there could have been an interchange of motives between Germany and Russia in the cities of Nóvgorod and Pskov, which stood in commercial relations with the towns of the Hansa, while earlier the Northern saga may have left some traces during the domination of the Norse. But one of the investigators, Stásov, and after him Potánin, have stoutly maintained that most of the stories of the Russian epic cycle came with the Tartars directly from Asia.

If we admit all possible borrowings from the West and the East, Russian folklore is still of unique interest to the student of literature on account of the evident traces of great antiquity which it has preserved. The same cause that kept the written literature of Russia at a low level and destroyed all appreciable chronology has been active in the traditional literature, and has saved it from violent transformations. It cannot be asserted that any one song has come down to us in its original shape. The change of the spoken language naturally affected the stories and songs, and many a word that has become obsolete has been superseded, or preserved in an unrecognisable form. Contemporary facts of history have been introduced in the place of older ones, as when the heroes of the cycle of Vladímir are made to fight the Tartars. Motives have become mingled by superposition of related stories, or by accretion of foreign material. But never has the people wilfully transformed, corrupted, added or taken away. Though individuals continually produced new songs and stories, yet they moved in narrowly prescribed traditional limits, and the moment these passed to the people and became its common possession, they suffered only the accidental changes just spoken of. The task of separating later and adventitious elements from the bulk of this literature has only begun, and when that is accomplished, the past of Russia will be reproduced much more clearly than that of other countries of Europe, because an achronous period separates the last two centuries from the tenth.

Only one epic, the Word of Ígor’s Armament, has survived from antiquity. That others existed, the bard assures us when he tells of princes, for a period of a whole century, whom Boyán, an older singer, had celebrated. This precious relic is not only interesting for its intrinsic poetical merit, permitting us to guess the possibilities of the Russian untutored mind before the introduction of the repressive Byzantinism, but it serves as a guide in redating much of the oral literature of the present day. In the bylínas, the ceremonial songs, the fairy tales, we continually come upon passages that are constructed in the same manner as in the Word, and the popular poetry of to-day and the writings of the whole old period contain many identical phrases and illustrations.

The epic songs, or bylínas, have been discovered in out-of-the-way places in the swampy region of the Government of Olónetsk. It has puzzled all the investigators to explain why the memory of Vladímir and his heroes should have lived so long in these distant regions when every recollection of them has entirely disappeared in Kíev, the scene of all their deeds. Throughout these epic songs there is evidence of their southern origin, yet nothing whatsoever is known of them in the south of Russia. Various explanations have been attempted, but the most wide-spread is that the Great-Russians of the south had been exterminated by the Tartars, and that the few who survived had taken refuge in the north, while the present inhabitants of the south have come from the south-east and represent a different tribe. There seems, however, to be a more plausible explanation. Considering that the Word of Ígor’s Armament has not survived except in writing, and that there are no old epics living in the mouths of the people, except in inaccessible regions, it is natural to assume that no longer poem, nor a cycle of poems, which demanded a great amount of mental exertion and a special class of singers, could outlive the persecution of the Church, and that only where the people were separated from the rest of the world by impassable swamps and forests, and where, therefore, the influence of the Church was of necessity weakest, was it possible for the class of traditional bards to maintain itself.

There is ample evidence that these epics were based on historical events, and that they belong to the same category as the historical songs, of which a number have been recorded from the seventeenth century and later. The oldest are those that Richard James had written down in 1619; they were composed by some popular bard immediately after the incidents which they relate. Later historical songs deal with Peter the Great, while the song collections contain many others that range in time from Iván the Terrible to the nineteenth century. The manner of all these is identical, and strongly reminds us of the epic songs. From this it may be inferred that the bylínas were separate songs, composed by contemporary bards, and that their present condition is merely due to that series of corruptions to which all orally transmitted literature is subject.

In the Word, Germans, Venetians, Greeks and Moravians are made to sing the glory of Svyatosláv. This is certainly not a mere adornment of speech, but rests on the actual fact of a lively intercommunication between the East and the West before the introduction of Christianity and in the first century following it. Thus, the chief hero of the Vladímir cycle, Ilyá of Múrom, was known to German song and the Northern saga, where he is often mentioned. It has also been found that many of the heroes are real personages whose names are recorded in chronicles. Yet, though Vladímir is made the centre of the Kíev cycle, his heroes seem to range over two or three centuries; from this we may conclude that poetical activity continued for a long time, and that it is only a later tradition that has grouped all the interesting events around the famous Vladímir. Originally, there must have been a number of cities of prominence around which separate epics centred, but in time they were transferred to the three great cities, Kíev, Nóvgorod and Moscow, where the national life had its fullest development.

In the ceremonial songs, antiquity is even better preserved than in the epics, and quite naturally. The epics arose on special occasions, were adapted to transitory historical incidents, and only the most favourable conditions of seclusion could save them from entire oblivion. Not so the ceremonial songs. These belonged to a heathen religion, contained a mythological element, and were part and parcel of the people’s belief and customs. The chief labour of the Church consisted in battling against the survivals from heathenism; but all it accomplished was to ensure an existence for the Christian tenets by the side of the traditional customs. The pagan festivities were merged in the corresponding holidays of the Church, but the old games, rites and songs went on as before. In time, the meaning of all the customs connected with the seasons, marriage, death, was forgotten, but the simple ditties were easily remembered, though frequently transferred to other occasions. Had there existed in the Russian Middle Ages any incitement to the introduction of new songs, the old ones would have been abandoned long ago; but city life was weakly represented in the country, most of the towns hardly differing from agricultural settlements, and the city song, which always plays havoc with the country tunes, had little chance to spread. City life is of quite recent growth in Russia, and industrialism, which is only now developing under our very eyes, draws many forces away from the plough; when these return to the village, they bring with them the refrains of the modern opera, and degraded street ballads. The same lowering of the popular poetry has been caused in the nineteenth century by the soldiers who have come in contact with the city. The result of this is the complete disappearance of popular song from some districts, and its gradual dying out in others. Should this tendency continue with any regularity, a new kind of folksong will result, but in the meanwhile there is produced an uninteresting chaos.

The freer form of the prose story and the fairy tale, which are bound by neither verse nor tune, makes them more subject to change than the ceremonial song. Whatever their original meaning may have been, they have been preserved as mere stories to amuse. Though they frequently deal with mythical beings who had some special meaning, they have all an equal value, and one tale is as good as another; consequently they easily combined with each other, and new elements were continually added to them. The prose story is, therefore, less local and even less national: it travels far and wide, and may turn up in any corner of the globe. The Russian peasant is a good story-teller, witty and dramatic; hence he has added much local colouring to all the flotsam of fairyland, and the folktales of Russia have a distinct flavour of their own, and are relished even more than the popular tales of the West. The absence of a book influence on these stories shows itself in simplicity of narration and lack of moral; the latter is particularly the case in the animal tales, which, contrary to the usual stories of the kind, contain no explicit instruction.

In the nineteenth century, the popular element enters more and more into the literary productions, but a proper beginning has hardly been made in utilising the extremely rich store of Russian folklore. When the Romantic spirit held sway over the West, Russia had not yet collected its songs and popular stories, and a Zhukóvski had to imitate Western models, in order to make Romanticism accessible. Púshkin divined more correctly the value of the native stories, and made excellent use of the tales of his nurse. Otherwise, only sporadic use has been made of the folktale in literature. One of the best literary rifacimentos is the collection of all the stories told about the Fox, which Mozharóvski has brought together in one long, connected series.

III.—THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

The Court at Moscow had come into contact with foreign ideas ever since the days of Iván the Terrible. The “German Suburb,” as the foreign colony was called, was itself a piece of the West, transplanted into the semi-barbarous capital, and foreigners of necessity occupied various posts in the Government. Germans, Greeks, and especially Englishmen were employed as ambassadors and foreign agents, and in the seventeenth century it was not rare to find Westerners as teachers of Russian youths. At the same time, clergymen from Kíev carried ever more and more the Polish scholasticism and rhetoric to the most orthodox city, and with it came the weak reflection of Western culture. Alexis Mikháylovich became fascinated by the theatre, and a German troupe and even English comedians played before the Tsar; among these early plays was a crude rifacimento of Marlowe’s Tamerlane. Sophia went one step further, and had a Russian translation of Molière’s Médecin malgré lui performed in her apartments. Even poetry of an European type had made its appearance before Kantemír, though only in the mediocre syllabic versification of a Karión Istómin and a Simeón Pólotski. Yet the progress was very slow, and the historian of Peter’s time, Tatíshchev, had figured out that at the rate at which it was proceeding, it would take Russia seven generations, or more than two hundred years, to be equal in civilisation to the rest of Europe.

Then Peter appeared. He found around him weak tendencies to reform, but hardly any men to help him carry them out, and no institutions of any kind on which to engraft the new knowledge he had brought with him from Holland and Germany. There was no native scientific literature whatsoever; there were no terms in which to express the truths which he and his disciples had learned; there was no established language even for educated people. Peter united in his person the extreme of practical sense with the idealism of youth; while bent on introducing mechanical sciences for the advancement of his country, he at the same time carried on a correspondence with the philosopher Leibniz, and favoured the introduction of every branch of literature. With an indomitable will he wanted to merge savage Russia into the liberal West, and he frequently used savage means to attain his end.

Peter’s idea of conviviality consisted in getting drunk in a room filled with tobacco smoke, as he had known it in the taverns of Holland, and the whole aspect of literature of his period is that of a crude democracy, such as he advocated in his own circle. In whatever he or his followers wrote there is a tone of rough simplicity, practical liberalism, and the ardour of manful youth. Everything that could be useful to the State and nation received his equal attention. He familiarised his people with the German and Dutch jurists, who were translated under his care, and with text-books on the most necessary sciences and arts; he corresponded with German, French and English scholars on the subject of establishing universities and academies; he invited actors from Slavic Austria to play in his theatre; and superintended the translation of Ovid, of encyclopedias, and of romances. In this burning activity there could be no such a thing as a literary school; everything was welcome, provided it advanced his cherished reforms.

There was no time to waste on the mere externals of language. The authors of the day had to grope their way as best they could. Some interlarded their style with hybrid words from all the tongues of Europe; others wavered between a purely Slavic and a more or less Russianised language, and Peter the Great, though he was fond of a display of Dutch words, could use a very idiomatic style. While Stefán Yavórski and Feofán Prokopóvich charmed their congregations with elegant sermons in which Byzantine rhetoric and Western eloquence had the fullest sway, Tatíshchev laboured to find the proper expressions for the historical truths which he had well learned in the West, and the peasant Pososhkóv dimly guessed the economic problems that presented themselves to the country, vainly trying to clothe them in an intelligible language.

Peter did not live to see the fruition of his endeavours in literature. The time was too short to produce any good writers, and though belles-lettres were encouraged, the whole attention of the best minds was absorbed in the acquisition of the most-needed information. Knowledge was the watchword of Peter’s time, and the desire for knowledge was so great that even later Lomonósov and Tredyakóvski thought no hardships too great, to gain the coveted instruction. It is characteristic of the times, that these two poets in the new style walked to Moscow to enter school, one from the extreme north, the other from the extreme south. A mighty task fell to the lot of the generation that had been born in the days of the great Tsar. They had to transfer the whole European culture to Russian soil and to discover a means of expressing it. Kantemír, whose education was of an European type, chose the ready model of French verse in which to write his satires, wrestling to say in Russian what he thought out in French. Tredyakóvski discovered the proper versification for his native tongue, but his diligence and good sense did not make up for his barren poetical talent. Sumarókov, single-handed, created the drama, while Lomonósov fostered the ode, settled grammar and created Russian science.

The intermediate period between the death of Peter the Great and the accession of Catherine II. was not one that would in itself have encouraged people to take to literature, which was looked down upon as the handmaid of the mighty, if the writers had not inherited an insatiable love of knowledge. The rough and sincere manner of the Tsar had given way to a flimsy imitation of the Court at Versailles. With the introduction of Western civilisation, the Empresses Anna and Elizabeth took over only the mere external appearance, the love of pleasure, a luxury that was incompatible with their rude surroundings. Literary men had no public to write for, except the degraded courtiers who might flatter themselves that they were the Mæcenases of that literature for which, in their hearts, they cared very little. Odes by which one might gain a favour, solemn addresses written to order, tragedies to be furnished by such and such a date, epigrams of a flippant turn,—these were the verses that the courtiers wanted, and they were furnished in sufficient quantity. Though Lomonósov was more intimately acquainted with Günther than with Boileau, yet he, like his contemporaries, found himself compelled to favour the introduction of the French pseudo-classic style, which was the only one that high society knew anything about. From chaos and no literature at all, Russia was of necessity forced to cultivate the unnatural imitation of what was supposed to be classic antiquity, before it knew anything about that antiquity, and before it had tried itself in simpler fields. The literature of that period was consequently unreal, stilted, distant.

This pseudo-classicism continued to flourish to the end of the century, though a new spirit had taken possession of men’s minds in the reign of Catherine. This Empress had educated herself in the school of the great philosophers who, in the second half of the eighteenth century, were the dominating spirits in European literature. She corresponded with Voltaire, had not only studied Montesquieu, but embodied his Esprit des Lois in her famous instruction for a new code of laws, invited d’Alembert to be her son’s tutor,—in short, she was in sympathy with the humanitarian movements of the encyclopedists. She planned reforms on a magnificent scale,—though but few of them were executed, as her theories were only academic and had little reference to existing conditions. Though she planned, with the help of Diderot, a complicated educational system, yet there were no more schools at the end of her reign than at the beginning, and the freedom of the press was curtailed much more in the second half of her rule than in the first. So long as there were no disturbing elements at home, and things went to her liking, she was pleased to favour the liberalism which had spread over Europe, and had found its advocates at other Courts. Her idealism was of a purely intellectual character, and her humanitarian views as she had expressed them in her Instruction were good and harmless so long as they remained on paper. The moment she was disturbed in her philanthropy by the rebellion of Pugachév at home, and when, later, she was still more startled by the events of the French Revolution, which it became the fashion to ascribe to the philosophy of Voltaire, she recanted her liberalism, and tried to crush all intellectual progress that had grown strong in the earlier part of her reign. The best authors were ruthlessly persecuted: Radíshchev was banished to Siberia for his advocating the very theories which she had propounded in her Instruction; Nóvikov’s philanthropic activity was sufficient cause for his imprisonment, and it was fortunate for Knyazhnín that he was dead when his Vadím of Nóvgorod made its appearance.

Yet, Russian literature owes much to Catherine, who, at least in the first part of her enlightened absolutism, encouraged a healthy development of Letters, often through her own example. Her own writings familiarised her people with the best thought of Europe, and as before her Racine and Boileau, so now Voltaire, Beccaria, Montesquieu, were upon the lips of all. Literature had begun in imitations of foreign models, and hardly a trace of anything original is to be found in the eighteenth century; but even a superficial Voltairism was preferable to the more distant pseudo-classicism of the preceding reigns, for, though most of its humanitarianism was spurious and its culture skin-deep, it led a few more gifted individuals to a clearer perception of actualities, to a fuller interest in that which was immediate and around them, and, in the end, to true culture.

The most promising influence on Russian literature was the one which Addison and the English satirical journals began to exert on Catherine and on nearly all the writers of the day. The Spectator, the Guardian, and the Tatler had found a host of imitators in continental Europe, and satirical journals sprang up in astonishing abundance. It is not likely that Catherine became acquainted with the English originals. Her knowledge came rather through German and French translations; and the many passages from these English journals that found their way into Russia after the fifties were likewise generally derived at second hand. In any case, Addison and the satirical journals took deep root in Russian soil, and a long series of similar productions, from 1769 to 1774, had a very salutary effect on the drama and on those writings in which contemporary manners are held up to the scorn and ridicule of the people. Catherine herself, the founder of the first of these journals, had only the intention of practising this kind of literature for purposes of good-natured banter, and she was rather shocked when she discovered that her example had given Nóvikov and his adherents a weapon for attacking all the negative sides of contemporary civilisation. Without having wished it, Catherine gave into the hands of the disaffected a means of concentrating themselves around a name, a standard,—and public opinion became a factor in literature.

Patronage of the mighty was as much a goal towards which authors aimed in the days of Catherine as in the previous half-century, and the Empress regarded it as her privilege and duty to draw literary talent to the Court, by giving them government positions and lavish gifts. Derzhávin, Fon-Vízin, Bogdanóvich, Kostróv, Petróv, all were attracted to her as the central luminary. Felítsa was the keynote of what Derzhávin purported to be a new departure in the writing of odes, but it was in reality an old laudatory theme with an application of fashionable liberalism, and Felítsa remained the watchword of a generation of poets that gyrated around the throne. At the same time, Catherine made a seeming appeal to public opinion by her comedies and satires. If Nóvikov took her in earnest, and responded to her invitation by making a stand against her lukewarm satire by a systematic arraignment of vice in every form, he soon found it necessary in his next literary venture, the Painter, to appease her suspicion and anger by a fulsome praise of the Empress. Underneath this outward dependence upon the Court’s opinion, literary coteries were, however, beginning to come into existence, and the dramas of the day received their impulse from their writings, and in their turn were beginning to look to others than the Court for their approval.

These coteries were concentrated around the Masonic lodges, where, under the pledge of secrecy, an exchange of ideas could take place, and which, consequently, Catherine hated more and more. This Freemasonry was in itself under English influence, whence were taken the ceremonial and the organisation. It is said that Freemasonry first made its appearance in Russia under Peter the Great; later it came also under German influence, had its wide-spread connections in Europe, and, under the guise of mysterious practices, discussed the means of spreading popular education, doing unstinted charity, and ensuring freedom of thought. In the uncertain and superficial state of culture which then prevailed in Russia, much that these men did was unreal and irrelevant: they lost themselves in the mystical speculations of the Martinists and the Rosicrucians, and wasted their time in an unprofitable symbolism. But it is sufficient to read the biography of a Nóvikov to perceive that their efforts for the advancement of science and useful knowledge were more real than those of the cultivated and more materialistic Catherine. If Catherine had made the press free, she also persecuted those who had availed themselves of the privilege against her pleasure; if her mouth spoke fine sentiments, her heart was closed against their realisation. But Nóvikov, in the silence of his mysticism, made Russia’s past accessible to the scholar, founded the book trade, and took a practical interest in the common people by giving them useful books to read. This Nóvikov, and the unfortunate Radíshchev, whose book is even now prohibited in Russia, and Shcherbátov, who preferred the rough old times to the flighty manners of the day,—that is, the writers who were at outs with existing conditions,—were the carriers of a new spirit which, though not characteristically Russian, was akin to it in that it devoted itself with ardour to the treatment of burning questions from a native standpoint. Two of these writers, Shcherbátov and Nóvikov, were Slavophiles in the best sense of the word.

We shall now make the balance-sheet of the eighteenth-century literature in the separate departments, and see what residuum it bequeathed to the nineteenth century.

In the scholastic style of the Middle Ages it became a settled practice to dedicate books to powerful persons, and to address them with eulogies on all solemn occasions. Polish influence had made this kind of poetry popular at Kíev, and Simeón Pólotski introduced it in Moscow in time to sing the glory of the new-born Peter. Lomonósov’s activity began with an ode, and Tredyakóvski, Sumarókov, Petróv and a host of minor poets, if that name can be applied to writers of soulless rhymed adulation, proceeded in the beaten track of “ecstatic” poetry, until Dmítriev gave it the death-blow by his What Others Say. The only positive value lay in the odes of Lomonósov in which he described phenomena of nature, and those of Derzhávin, who, following his example, made similar use of them as, for example, in his Ode to the Deity. His Felítsa, which marked the disintegration of the “ecstatic ode,” left its effect in the lighter epistolary poetry of his contemporaries, like Kostróv, and may even be traced in the playful productions of the next generation.

The epic is akin to the ode, in that it is a kind of rapturous eulogy on some momentous event in history. In the mad intoxication with foreign pseudo-classic ideals there could be no place for a proper understanding of native history; hence the flatulent epics of Kheráskov, admired though they were, could be of no lasting merit. The other epics dealt with foreign subjects. Tredyakóvski’s Telemachiad could only amuse as a piece of poetical ineptitude, and a pleasure-loving public of the times of Catherine II. was more inclined to go into raptures over Apuleius’s Golden Ass which, having passed through a French transformation, appeared as a species of mock-heroic in Bogdanóvich’s Psyche. Púshkin still took delight in it, and his earlier productions of this kind have something of Bogdanóvich’s manner. Máykov’s Eliséy, which is really superior to the Psyche, was not so well received because he introduced too freely the popular element, for which at that time there could be no appreciation.

Lyrics (in the narrower sense of poems expressing the individual emotion of the writer) can have a place only where the conditions are favourable to the formation of individual feelings, where well-defined conceptions of nature and man are common to a certain class of society or to the whole nation. Nothing of the kind could exist in Russia throughout the greater part of the eighteenth century, when everything was only external veneer, and no lyrics made their appearance until the last quarter, when, under the influence of a thorough acquaintance with Horace and the French lyricists, some fine verses were produced by Bogdanóvich, Kapníst, Derzhávin, Dmítriev, Neledínski-Melétski. Most of these poems only appeared in the nineteenth century, and all belong to that intermediate stage of literature which was represented by Karamzín and Dmítriev and which, in spirit, no longer continues the tradition of the days of Catherine.

Krylóv’s fables are justly celebrated as among the best literature that Russia evolved in the last century; but they are only the culmination of a series of fables, most of them adaptations from La Fontaine and Gellert, in which nearly all the poets tried their skill. By 1700, there had been current in Russia three translations of Esop’s Fables, and Pólotski had imitated a number of such as he knew. Here again we see the utter inability of the writers of the eighteenth century to make use of a popular motive. Nothing is more common in the oral literature of the people than fables, especially animal fables, yet they had to borrow their themes from abroad. Sumarókov’s fables make, with rare exceptions, unprofitable reading; Máykov struck a few times a proper note, and Khémnitser alone, though he followed Gellert closely, is still read with pleasure on account of the simplicity of his tales. Dmítriev, as before, belongs to another period.

Modern Russian poetry practically begins with the satires of Kantemír, and satires, with their adjunct, comedy, have remained down to our day the most prominent part of belles-lettres; only, whereas their usual purpose is to provoke laughter, in Russia tears are their more appropriate due. Under the systematic, though arbitrary and capricious, persecution of the censorship, writers have evolved the art of telling a bitter truth by means of satire which by its outward appearance generally escapes the scrutinising attention of the usually dull censor, but the esoteric meaning of which is quite comprehensible to the whole class of readers. In the days of Peter the Great, with his violent reforms, direct command was more effective than a satire which but few could unravel, and Kantemír’s Satires, in spite of their literary value, are mere exotics. Catherine thought this species of essays a good medium for a gentle reproof, but Nóvikov more correctly divined their office, and much later Gógol and Shchedrín brought them to great perfection along the path indicated by him.

The same causes which prevented the formation of a Russian epic and of lyric poetry throughout the greater part of the eighteenth century militated against the evolution of a native tragedy. Theatrical performances had been given ever since the days of Alexis, but these were mainly Mysteries and Moralities that had long been forgotten in the West, or crude plays and harlequinades by German, Italian and English travelling comedians. Thus, a taste had been formed for the drama when Sumarókov was ordered to organise the first Russian theatre, though there did not exist the elements for a native stage. Sumarókov furnished pseudo-classic tragedies as readily as he manufactured any other kind of poetry, and his conceit of being the Russian Racine indicates whence he took his models. Neither Knyazhnín’s nor Ózerov’s borrowing of incidents from Russian history could make their tragedies real: they were accessible only to those who were steeped in French culture. Not so comedy. Comedy stands in direct relation to satire, and it has taken firm root in Russian soil. Catherine herself wrote a number of dramatised satires, and Fon-Vízin’s Brigadier made its appearance just as satire began to occupy an important place in the public eye. Fon-Vízin, Griboyédov and Gógol are only the greatest of the long series of dramatists, who in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries used comedy as a weapon for attacking the corruption of officials, superficiality in education and the brutality of the serf-owners. Here was an opportunity to introduce a native element, which becomes for the first time prominent in Ablesímov’s comic opera.

Though Western novels reached Russia in indifferent translations long before the end of Catherine’s reign, yet there was no proper soil for them until Radíshchev came under the influence of the English writers, especially of Sterne, and Karamzín, on the verge of the century, introduced sentimentalism into literature. Throughout the whole eighteenth century, little earnestness was shown in literary pursuits. Prose suffered more than poetry, for prose demands a more assiduous and constant attention than verse. It was left for the nineteenth century to settle the prose diction appropriate to the Russian language. In this neglect of cultivating an elegant prose style is to be found the main reason for a very extensive literature of memoirs which were not originally meant for publication, but were intended as mere records for the use of posterity. The restriction of free speech was another powerful factor in encouraging this species of historical revelation. In these memoirs, the student of manners and history and literature will find much better material for a correct appreciation of the eighteenth century than in the exotic literature of the upper classes. The emptiness of the superficial French culture, which was prevalent in Russia, became apparent only to those who, like Tatíshchev, Shcherbátov, and Nóvikov, busied themselves with the study of native history. The progress which history made from Tatíshchev to Karamzín is the most prominent feature in the evolution of the native literature. By the historians was laid the real foundation for a native science and interest in the people. It was quite natural for these men to turn away from the disheartening corruption of manners which was introduced from abroad, and to find inspiration in their own past. They, consequently, were the first Slavophiles, though as yet in the gentler sense of the word. They did not preach a turning away from European culture, as did their later spiritual descendants, but a more organic welding of the new life with the Russian reality.

THE OLDEST PERIOD

Treaty with the Greeks (911)

Néstor’s Chronicle contains three treaties made with the Greeks in the tenth century. It is evident, from the manner of their composition, that the chronicler quoted some extant documents which were probably translated by some Bulgarian from the original Greek. These treaties are interesting as being the earliest specimens of writing in Russia and as having been composed before the introduction of Christianity.

We of the Russian nation, Karly, Inegeld, Farlof, Veremud, Rulav, Gudy, Ruald, Karn, Frelav, Ryuar, Aktevu, Truan, Lidulfost, Stemid, who were sent by Olég, the Russian Grand Prince, and the illustrious boyárs who are under his rule, to you, Leo and Alexander and Constantine, the Greek Emperors and great autocrats by the grace of God, to confirm and proclaim the amity which has existed for many years between the Christians and Russians, by the will of our princes and by the order of all those in Russia who are under his rule. Our illustrious Prince has often thought, more persistently than the others who have desired to maintain and proclaim the amity in God which has been between Christians and Russia, that not only with mere words, but also in writing and with a solemn oath made over our armour, ought such amity be proclaimed and confirmed, according to our faith and law. The following are the articles that we wish to establish in the faith of God and in love:

In the first place, we will make an agreement with you Greeks to love each other with our souls and as much as is in our power, and we will not permit, as far as is in our power, that harm or damage be done to any of you by those who are under the rule of our illustrious princes, but we will try, according to our ability, to preserve for ever and ever, unbroken and undisturbed, the amity which we profess both in words and in writing under oath. Likewise you Greeks shall preserve the same love to our illustrious Russian princes and to all who are under the rule of our illustrious Prince unpolluted and unchanged for ever and all time.

Under the head which is called damages we will agree as follows: Whatever may be made manifest in regard to a grievance, let the information of such grievance be accurate, and let not him be believed who begins the action; and let not that party take an oath if he deserve no belief; but if one swear according to his religion, let there be a punishment if perjury be found.

If a Russian kill a Christian, or a Christian a Russian, let him die where the murder has been committed. If he who has committed murder run away, then if he be possessed of property, let the nearest in kin to the murdered person receive that part which is his by law, and let the wife of the murderer have as much as belongs to her by law. If he who has committed the murder be destitute and have run away, let the case stand against him until he be found, and then he shall die.

If anyone strike another with a sword or beat him with a drinking vessel, let him for such striking or beating pay five litras of silver according to the Russian law. If the offender be destitute, let him pay as much as he can, and let him take off his upper garment which he wears, and besides let him swear according to his religion that there is no one to help him, and let the case against him forthwith be dropped.

If a Russian steal something from a Christian, or a Christian from a Russian, and the thief at the time when he commits the theft be caught by him who has lost the article, and the thief struggle and be killed, let not his death be avenged by either Christians or Russians, but let him who has lost take back what belongs to him. If a Russian despoil a Christian, or a Christian a Russian, by torture or by a show of force, or if he take anything away from a member of the druzhína, let him pay back threefold.

If a boat be cast by a great wind upon a strange shore, where there be any of our Russians, and someone come to furnish the boat with its belongings, we will take the boat through all dangerous places until it has smooth sailing. If such a boat cannot be returned to its place, on account of storm or impassable places, we Russians shall see the oarsmen off safe with their goods, if the accident happens near Greek land. But if the same happen near Russian land, we will take the boat to Russian territory, and let them sell the belongings of the boat and what else of the boat they can sell, and when we Russians shall go to Greece, with merchandise or with an embassy to your Emperor, the proceeds from the sale of the belongings of the boat shall be forwarded without hindrance. Should any man of the boat be killed, or beaten, by us Russians, or should anything be taken away, the wrongdoers shall be punished as above.

Should a Russian slave be stolen, or run away, or be sold by force, and a Russian make complaint of it, and the fact be ascertained in regard to the slave, then let him be returned to Russia. And if the merchants should lose a slave and make complaint thereof, let them search for him and let him be returned; should anyone prevent making such a search, then the local magistrate shall be responsible for him.

If a criminal should return to Greece from Russia, let Russia institute a complaint to the Christian Empire, and let the same be returned to Russia, even against his will.

All these things the Russians are to do to the Greeks, wherever such things may happen. To make the peace established between the Christians and Russians firm and lasting, we ordered this document to be written by John upon two charts and to be signed by the Emperor’s and our own hand before the blessed cross and in the name of the holy Trinity and our one, true God, and to be proclaimed and to be delivered to our ambassadors. And we have sworn to your Emperor according to the law and custom of our nation, as being God’s own creatures, not to depart, or let anyone else of our land depart, from the established treaty of peace and amity. This document we gave to your Empire in order to confirm the treaty on both sides and to confirm and proclaim the peace in your country, September the second, the fifteenth week, in the year from the creation of the world 6024 (911).

Luká Zhidyáta. (First half of XI. century.)

Luká Zhidyáta or Zhiryáta, was bishop of Nóvgorod from 1036-1060. All we have from him is his Instruction, which is written in a coarse, unadorned style, and is nothing more than a sententious statement of gospel teachings. The Nóvgorod style, as it appears in its chronicles, is always laconic and businesslike. Zhidyáta was evidently instructing a congregation that had not long been converted and that was not yet firm in the fundamental teachings of Christianity.

INSTRUCTION TO HIS CONGREGATION

Above all, brothers, we Christians must keep the command to believe in one God who is worshipped in the Trinity, in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, as the holy apostles have taught, and the holy fathers have confirmed. I believe in one God, and so forth. Believe also in the resurrection, and the eternal life, and the everlasting torment of the sinful. Be not slow in going to church, and to the morning, noon and evening masses. When you are about to lie down in your room, make your obeisance to God. Stand in church in the fear of the Lord, speak not, nor think of worldly matters, but pray to God with all your thought that He may forgive you your sins. Live in friendship with all men, but particularly with your brothers, and let there not be one thing in your hearts, and another upon your lips. Dig not a grave under your brother, lest God throw you into a worse one. Be righteous, and flinch not from laying down your head for the sake of truth and God’s Law, that God may count you among the saints. Be patient with your brothers and with other men, and do not repay evil for evil; praise each other that God may praise you. Cause no strife that you may not be called a son of the devil, but make peace that you may be a son of God. Judge your brother neither in speech, nor in thought, but think of your own sins, that God may not judge you. Be thoughtful and merciful to strangers, to the poor and to prisoners, and be merciful to your servants. It is not proper for you, O brothers, to have devilish games, nor to speak unseemly words. Be not angry, and rail not at anyone; in danger be patient and rely upon God. Rave not, be not haughty; remember that to-morrow we shall be stench and worms. Be humble and gentle, and obediently do the commands of God, for in the heart of the proud sits the devil, and the word of God will not stick to him. Honour old people and your parents. Swear not in the name of God, nor curse anyone else, nor swear by him. Judge rightly, receive no reward, give not in usury. Fear God, honour the Prince; first serve the Lord, then your master. With all your heart honour the priest of God, and honour the servants of the Church. Kill not, steal not, lie not, bear not false witness, hate not, envy not, calumniate not ..., drink not out of season to intoxication, but in measure. Be not angry, nor harsh. Rejoice with those who rejoice, and be sad with the sad. Do not eat abominations; celebrate the holy days. The peace of the Lord be with you. Amen!

The Russian Code. (XI. century.)

The first draught of the Russian Code, or the Rússkaya Právda, as it is called in Russian, is ascribed to Yarosláv the Wise, the son of Vladímir, Grand Prince of Kíev. He is supposed to have given it to the Nóvgorodians, whose Prince he had been, for their active participation in the war that he waged against Svyatopólk in order to maintain himself on the Kíev throne. This Code is the oldest extant among all the Slavs. It was evidently borrowed from the laws of the Scandinavians, and in most points almost coincides with the old English laws of the same period. This is not surprising, for the druzhína was originally composed of Norsemen; besides, Yarosláv stood in direct communication with the west of Europe: thus, one of his daughters was married to Harald of Norway; another was the wife of Andrew, King of Hungary; a third was married to Henry of France; and two of his sons had taken German princesses for wives.

If a man[1] kill a man, let him be avenged by his brother, or father, or son, or nephew. If there is no one to avenge him, let the price on his head be 70 grívnas,[2] if he be a prince’s man, or a prince’s thane’s[3] man. If he be a Russ,[4] or henchman, or merchant, or a boyár’s thane, or swordsman,[5] or hapless man,[6] or Slovene,[7] let the price on his head be 40 grívnas. After Yarosláv, his sons Izyasláv, Svyatosláv, Vsévolod, and their men Kusnyáchko, Perenyég, and Nikifór, came together and did away with the blood revenge, but substituted weregild for it, but in everything else his sons left as Yarosláv had decreed.

If one strike another with the unsheathed sword, or with the haft, the prince’s fine[8] for the offence is 12 grívnas. If one strike another with a rod, or cup, or horn, or the blunt edge of a sword, also 12 grívnas; but if the offence be committed in warding off a sword blow, he shall not be fined. If one strike a man’s hand, and the hand fall off, or dry up, or if he cut off a foot, or eye, or nose, the fine is 20 grívnas, and 10 grívnas to the maimed man. If one cut off another man’s finger, 3 grívnas fine, and to the maimed man one grívna of kúnas.

If a bloodstained or bruised man comes to the court, he need not bring any witnesses, but the fine shall be 4 grívnas; but if he have no marks upon him, let him bring a witness. If both parties complain, let him who has begun pay 6 kúnas. If the bloodstained man be he who has begun the quarrel, and there are witnesses to the quarrel, let his bruises be his reward.[9] If one strike another with the sword, but kill him not, the fine is 3 grívnas, and to the sufferer a grívna for his wound for medicaments; if he kill him, there is the usual weregild. If a man pushes another, either to him, or from him, or strikes him in his face, or beats him with a rod, and there are two witnesses, the fine is 3 grívnas.

If one mounts another man’s horse, without having asked permission, the fine is 3 grívnas. If one loses his horse, or arms, or wearing apparel, and announces his loss in the market-place, and later recognises his property in his town, he may take it back, and the fine of 3 grívnas is paid to him. If one recognises what he has lost, or has been stolen from him, either a horse, or apparel, or cattle, let him not say: “This is mine!” but let him go before the judge who will ask: “Where did you get that?” and the fine will be on him who is guilty; and then he will take that which belongs to him, and the fine shall be likewise paid to him. If it be a horse-thief, let him be turned over to the prince for banishment; if it be a shop-thief, his fine shall be 3 grívnas.

If one gives money on interest, or money as a loan, or grain, let him have witnesses, and then receive as has been agreed.

If a hired servant runs away from his master, he becomes a slave; but if he goes to collect his money, and does so openly, or runs to the prince or the judges on account of injury done him by his master, he is not enslaved, but gets his right.

If a master has a farm servant, and his war horse be lost, the servant shall not pay for it; but if his master gives him, who receives his measure of grain, a plough and harrow, he shall pay for any damage to them. But if the master sends him on his own business, and they be damaged while he is away, he shall not pay for them.

If a free peasant assault another without the prince’s permission, the fine is 3 grívnas to the prince, and one grívna of kúnas for the wounds. If he assault a prince’s or boyár’s man, the fine is 12 grívnas, and a grívna for the wounds. If one steal a boat, the fine is 6 kúnas, and the boat is to be returned; for a seafaring boat, 3 grívnas, and for a warboat, 2 grívnas; for a smack, 8 kúnas, and for a barge, a grívna.

If ropes be cut in somebody’s hunting-ground, the fine shall be 3 grívnas, and a grívna of kúnas for the ropes. If one steal in the hunting-ground a falcon, or hawk, the fine is 3 grívnas, and to the owner one grívna; for a dove—9 kúnas, for a chicken—9 kúnas, for a duck—20 kúnas, for a goose—20 kúnas, for a swan—20 kúnas, and for a crane—20 kúnas. And if hay or timber be stolen—9 kúnas, and the owner receives 2 nogátas for each waggonload stolen.

In one puts fire to a barn, he is to be banished and his house confiscated; first the damage is to be made good, and then the prince shall banish him. The same, if he put fire to a house. And who maliciously injures a horse or beast, the fine is 12 grívnas, and for the damage one grívna.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] That is, an older member of the prince’s druzhína, also called boyárs; the younger members were called hrid, i. e., Norse “hirđr,” henchman, or youth, or simply druzhína.

[2] A grívna was originally a unit of weight, about a pound, then only half a pound, and less. About seven grívnas of kúnas were equal to one grívna of silver; a kúna means “marten’s skin,” which formed the smaller denomination of money; one grívna was equal to twenty nogátas.

[3] The Russian is tiún, which is the Norse tjonn; the Old English thane is of the same origin and has almost the same significance.

[4] A Russ was a Scandinavian who did not bear arms; a Scandinavian who bore arms was a Varyág.

[5] The prince’s guardsman and inspector of the sword trial.

[6] A “hapless man” was more particularly applied to a son of a priest who could not read, a freedman, an indebted merchant, all Russians at the death of a prince.

[7] Inhabitants of Nóvgorod.

[8] The fine was paid to the prince’s treasury.

[9] That is, if the bruised man make complaint, and it be found that he had started the quarrel, he receives no monetary reward for his bruises, but has justly been punished by his wounds.

Ilarión, Metropolitan of Kíev. (XI. century.)

Hilarion (in Russian Ilarión) was made metropolitan of Kíev in 1050. An extant sermon, to which is added the Eulogy on St. Vladímir and Exposition of Faith, witnesses to his acquaintance with classical Greek, and is one of the best examples of ancient Russian pulpit eloquence.

EULOGY ON ST. VLADÍMIR

Rome sings the praises of Peter and Paul, through whom it believes in Jesus Christ, the Son of God; Asia, Ephesus and Patmos praise John the Theologue; India, Thomas; Egypt, Mark. All countries and cities and men honour and glorify their teacher who has taught them the orthodox faith. Let us also, according to our power, praise with humble praises our teacher and instructor, who has done great and wondrous things, the great Khan of our land, Vladímir, the grandson of old Ígor, the son of the glorious Svyatosláv, who ruling their days in courage and valour have become famous in many lands, and are remembered and honoured even now for their victories and power, for they did not rule in a poor and unknown country, but in Russia, which is known and celebrated in all the corners of the earth.

A good testimony to your piety, O blissful one, is that holy church of St. Mary, the Mother of God, which you have builded on an orthodox foundation, and where your valiant body now resteth, awaiting the archangel’s trumpets. A very good and fine testimony is also your son George whom God has made an heir to your power, who does not destroy your institutions, but confirms them; who does not diminish the benefactions of your piety, but increases them; who does not spoil but mend, who finishes what you have left unfinished, as Solomon has completed the works of David; who has builded a large and holy God’s temple to His All-wisdom, to sanctify your city; who has embellished it with all beautiful things, with gold and silver and precious stones and sacred vessels, so that the church is a wonder to all surrounding lands, and so that no like can be found in all the north, from east to west; who has surrounded your famous city of Kíev with grandeur as with a crown; who has turned over your people and city to the holy, all-glorious Mother of God; who is ever ready to succour Christians, and for whom he has builded a church with golden doors in the name of the first holiday of the Lord of the Holy Annunciation, so that the kiss which the archangel will give to the Virgin may also be on this city. To Her he says: “Rejoice, blissful one, the Lord is with you!” but to the city: “Rejoice, faithful city, the Lord is with you!”

Arise, honoured dead, from your grave! Arise, shake off your sleep, for you are not dead, but sleep to the day of the common resurrection. Arise! You are not dead, for it is not right for you to die, who have believed in Christ who is the life of the whole world. Shake off your sleep, lift your eyes, that you may see with what honours the Lord has showered you above, and how you live unforgotten upon earth through your son! Arise! Look at your son George, see your entrails, your beloved one, see him whom God has brought out of your loins, see him adorning the throne of your land, and rejoice, and be glad! Then also see your pious daughter-in-law Iréna, see your grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, how they live and are cared for by God, how they keep your piety according to your tradition, how they partake of the sacrament of the holy church, how they praise Christ, how they bow before His name! See also your city beaming in its grandeur! See your blossoming churches, see the growing Christianity, see the city gleaming in its adornment of saintly images, and fragrant with thyme, and re-echoing with hymns and divine, sacred songs! And seeing all this, rejoice and be glad, and praise the good God, the creator of all this.

Vladímir Monomákh (Monomachos). (1053-1125.)

Vladímir was Grand Prince of Kíev from 1113-1125. As his Instruction to his Children shows, and as the chronicles witness, he was a very learned man for his time. From the letters of the metropolitan Nikifór to the Prince we also learn that he strictly carried out the rules which he brought to the attention of his posterity: he often slept on the ground, discarded sumptuous garments, and only on rare occasions wore the insignia of his office. He was well versed in Byzantine literature, for his Instruction is not only after the fashion of older Byzantine Testaments, but many passages are taken directly from the writings of Basil the Great. This Instruction is one of the most remarkable productions of early Russian literature, especially on account of the liberal spirit that pervades it, as compared, for example, with a similar, somewhat earlier document by St. Stephen of Hungary. This latter fact has served the Slavophiles as an important argument for the superiority of the Slavic spirit over that of the west of Europe. The Instruction is included in Néstor’s Chronicle under the year 1096, but it has been conclusively proved that it is the work of Vladímir. Parts of the Instruction are translated in A. P. Stanley’s Lectures on the History of the Eastern Church, London, 1861 (and often afterwards), and in N. H. Dole’s Young Folks’ History of Russia, Chicago, 1895.

HIS INSTRUCTION TO HIS CHILDREN

Being ill and about to seat myself in the sleigh,[10] I have considered in my soul and have praised God for having preserved me, sinful man, to this day. Do not make light of this instruction, my children, or anyone else who may hear it, but if it please any of you children, take it to heart, and give up indolence, and begin to work.

Above all, for the sake of the Lord and your own souls, have the fear of the Lord in your hearts by doing unstinted charity, for that is the beginning of all good. If this instruction should not please any of you, be not angry but say thus: “Starting out on a distant journey and about to seat himself in the sleigh, he spoke this insipidity.”

My brothers’ messengers met me on the Vólga and said: “Hasten to us that we may drive out the sons of Rostisláv,[11] and take away their patrimony, and if you go not with us, we shall stand alone, and you will be alone.” And I said: “Even though you may be angry, I cannot go with you and transgress the cross.” And having sent them away, I picked up a psalter in my sorrow, opened it, and these words were before me: “Why are you sad, my soul? Why are you grieved?” and so forth. And then I picked out words here and there, and put them in order, and I wrote: “If the latter things do not please you, accept the former....”

Forsooth, my children, consider how kind and overkind God, the lover of men, is. We men, who are sinful and mortal, wish to avenge ourselves and immediately to spill the blood of him who has done us any wrong; but our Lord, who rules over life and death, suffers our transgressions above our heads, nay to the very end of our lives, like a father, now loving, now chastising his child, and again fondling it. Our Lord has likewise shown us how to be victorious over our foe, how to assuage and conquer him with three good acts: with repentance, tears and charity. It is not hard, my children, to keep this command of the Lord, and you can rid yourselves of your sins by those three acts, and you will not forfeit the kingdom of heaven. And, I beg you, be not slack in the performance of the Lord’s commands, and do not forget those three acts, for neither solitude, nor monkhood, nor hunger, such as many good people suffer, is hard to bear, but with a small act you may gain the favour of the Lord. What is man that Thou shouldst remember him?

Thou art great, O Lord, and Thy works are wonderful, and human understanding cannot grasp all Thy miracles! And again we say: Thou art great, O Lord, and Thy works are wonderful, and Thy name be blessed and praised for ever and through all the earth! For who would not praise and glorify Thy power and Thy great miracles and goodness that are evident in this world: how by Thy wisdom the heaven is builded, how the sun, the moon, the stars, darkness and light, and the earth is placed on the waters, O Lord! How the various animals, birds and fishes are adorned by Thy foresight, O Lord! And we also wonder at the miracle, how that He has created man from the dust, how different the forms of human faces are, how if you look at the whole world, you will not find all made in one image, but the face of each according to God’s wisdom. And we wonder also how the birds of the sky come from the south, and do not remain in one country, but both the weak and the strong fly to all lands, by the will of God, in order to fill the woods and fields. All these God has given for the use of man, for food and enjoyment.

Listen to me, and if you will not accept all, heed at least half. If God should mollify your hearts, shed tears over your sins and say: “As Thou hast shown mercy to the harlot, the murderer and the publican, even thus show mercy to us sinners.” Do this in church and when you lie down to sleep. Fail not to do so a single night. If you can, make your obeisance to the ground; if your strength gives out, do it thrice; in any case, be not slack in it, for with this nightly obeisance and singing man conquers the devil and frees himself from the sins he has committed during the day.

When you are riding and have no engagement with anyone, and you know no other prayer, keep on repeating secretly: “Lord, have mercy upon me!” for it is better to say this prayer than to think idle things. Above all, forget not the destitute, but feed them according to your means, and give to the orphan, and protect the widow, and allow not the strong to oppress the people. Slay neither the righteous, nor the wrongdoer, nor order him to be slain who is guilty of death, and do not ruin a Christian soul.

Whenever you speak, whether it be a bad or a good word, swear not by the Lord, nor make the sign of the cross, for there is no need. If you have occasion to kiss the cross with your brothers or with anyone else, first inquire your heart whether you will keep the promise, then kiss it; and having kissed it, see to it that you do not transgress, and your soul perish. As for the bishops, priests and abbots, receive their benediction in love, and do not keep away from them, but love them with all your might, and provide for them, that you may receive their prayers to God. Above all, have no pride in your hearts and minds, but say: “We are mortal, alive to-day, and to-morrow in the grave. All that Thou hast given us, is not ours, but Thine, and Thou hast entrusted it to us for but a few days.” Put away no treasure in the earth, for that is a great sin.

Honour the elders as your father, and the younger ones as your brothers. Be not slack in your houses, but watch everything: Do not rely upon your thane, nor your servant, lest those who come to see you should make light of your house and of your dinner. If you start out to a war, be not slack, depend not upon your generals, nor abandon yourselves to drinking and eating and sleeping. Put out the guards yourselves, and lie down to sleep only after you have placed the guards all around the army, and rise early. Do not take off your armour in haste, without examination, for man perishes suddenly through his negligence. Avoid lying and drunkenness and debauchery, for body and soul perish from them.

Whenever you travel over your lands, permit not the servants, neither your own, nor a stranger’s, to do any damage in the villages, or in the fields, that they may not curse you. Wheresoever you go, and wherever you stay, give the destitute to eat and to drink. Above all honour the stranger, whencesoever he may come, whether he be a commoner, a nobleman or an ambassador; if you are not able to honour him with gifts, give him food and drink, for these travellers will proclaim a man to all the lands, whether he be good or bad. Call on the sick, go to funerals, for we are all mortal, and pass not by a man without greeting him with kind words. Love your wives, but let them not rule you.

But the main thing is that you should keep the fear of the Lord higher than anything else. If you should forget this, read this often; then shall I have no shame, and all will be well with you. Whatever good you know, do not forget it, and what you do not know, learn it; just as my father had learned, staying at home, five languages,[12] for this makes one honoured in other lands. Indolence is the mother of all vices: what one knows, one forgets, and what one does not know, one does not learn. While doing good, be not negligent in any good act, first of all in regard to the Church. Let not the sun find you in bed. Thus my father of blessed memory did, and thus do all good, perfect men. Having prayed to God at daybreak, he, noticing the rising sun, praised God in joy and said: “Thou hast made me see, Christ, O Lord, and Thou hast given me this beautiful light!” and again: “Lord, add years to my years that I may repent my sins and, improving my life, may praise God.” And thus he did when he seated himself to take counsel with the druzhína, or to judge people, or when he went on the chase, or out riding, or laid himself down to sleep: but sleep has been intended by the Lord for the afternoon, when both beasts and birds and men rest themselves.

And now I shall tell you, my children, of my labours which I have performed either in my expeditions or on the chase these thirteen years. First I went to Rostóv[13] through the country of the Vyátiches,[14] whither my father sent me when he himself went to Kursk; next I went to Smolénsk [follows an account of his expeditions].... Altogether I have made eighty-three long journeys and I cannot recall how many shorter ones. I have made peace with the Pólovtses twenty times lacking one, both with my father and without him, giving away much of my cattle and garments. I have liberated from their shackles royal princes of the Pólovtses as follows....

I have undergone many hardships in the chase. Near Chernígov I have with my own hand caught ten or twenty wild horses in the forests, and I have besides caught elsewhere many wild horses with my hands, as I used to travel through Russia. Two aurochses threw me and my horse with their horns; a stag butted me with his horns; an elk trampled me under his feet, and another butted me with his horns. A boar took away the sword at my side; a bear bit me into my knee covering; a grim animal [wolf] leaped at my loins and threw me with my horse; and yet God has preserved me. I have often fallen from my horse, I twice injured my head and frequently hurt my hands and feet in my youth, being reckless of my life and not sparing my head. Whatever there was to be done by my servants, I did myself, in war and in the chase, in daytime and at night, in the summer heat and in winter, without taking any rest. I depended neither on the posádniks[15] nor the heralds, but did all myself, and looked after my house. In the chase I looked myself after the hunting outfit, the horses, the falcons and the sparrow-hawks. Also have I not permitted the mighty to offend the poor peasants and the destitute widows, and I have myself looked after the church property and the divine service.

Think not ill of me, my children, nor anyone else who may read this, for I do not boast of my daring, but praise God and proclaim His goodness for having preserved me, sinful and miserable man, for so many years from the hour of death, for having made me, miserable one, active in the performance of all humane acts. Having read this instruction, may you hasten to do all good acts and praise the Lord with His saints. Fear neither death, my children, nor war, nor beast, but do what behooves men to do, whatever God may send you. Just as I have come out hale from war, from encounters with animals, from the water, and from my falls, even so none of you can be injured or killed, if it be not so ordained by God. And if death come from the Lord, neither father, nor mother, nor brothers can save you. Though it is good to take care of oneself, yet God’s protection is better than man’s.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Karamzín remarks that the dead were always taken away in sleighs, whether in winter or summer.

[11] Volodár; Prince of Peremýshl, and Vasílko, Prince of Terebóvl.

[12] Karamzín surmises that he knew Greek, Norse, Pólovts (Cumanian) and Hungarian, besides Russian.

[13] In the Government of Yaroslávl.

[14] A Slavic tribe settled on the river Oká.

[15] Burgomasters.

Abbot Daniel, the Palmer. (Beginning of XII. century.)

Pilgrimages to the Holy Land began in Russia soon after the introduction of Christianity, but Daniel the abbot is the first who has left an account of his wanderings. Nothing is known of the life of this traveller, but from internal evidence it may be assumed that he visited Palestine soon after the first crusade, from 1106-1108. From his mention of none but princes of the south of Russia it is quite certain that he himself belonged there. In a simple, unadorned language, Daniel tells of his wanderings from Constantinople to the Holy Land and back again. Characteristic is his patriotic affection for the whole Russian land and his mention of all the Russian princes in his prayers,—a rather surprising sentiment for the period when Russia was nothing but a heterogeneous mass of appanages. None of the Western accounts of pilgrimages to Palestine surpass in interest that of the Russian palmer of that period, if they at all equal it.

OF THE HOLY LIGHT, HOW IT DESCENDS FROM HEAVEN UPON THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

Here is what God has shown to me, His humble and unworthy servant, Daniel the monk, for I have in truth seen with my own sinful eyes how the holy light descends on the life-giving grave of the Lord our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Many pilgrims do not tell rightly about the descent of the holy light: for some say that the Holy Ghost descends to the Sepulchre of the Lord in the shape of a dove, and others say that a lightning comes down and lights the lamps over the Sepulchre of the Lord. But that is not true, for nothing is to be seen, neither dove, nor lightning, but the divine Grace descends invisibly, and the lamps over the Sepulchre of the Lord are lit by themselves. I shall tell about it just as I have seen it.

On Good-Friday after vespers they rub the Sepulchre of the Lord clean, and wash the lamps that are above it, and fill them with pure oil without water, and put in the wicks which are not lit, and the Sepulchre is sealed at the second hour of night. And not only these lights, but those in all the other churches in Jerusalem are extinguished.

On that very Good-Friday I, humble servant, went in the first hour of the morning to Prince Baldwin and made a low obeisance to him. When he saw me making the obeisance, he called me kindly to him and said to me: “What do you wish, Russian abbot?” for he had known me before and loved me much, being a good and simple man, and not in the least proud. And I said to him: “Sir Prince, I beg you for the sake of the Lord and the Russian princes, let me also place my lamp over the Holy Sepulchre for all our princes and for all the Russian land, for all the Christians of the Russian land!”

The Prince gave me permission to place my lamp there and readily sent his best man with me to the œkonomos of the Holy Resurrection and to him who has charge of the Sepulchre. Both the œkonomos and the keeper of the keys to the Holy Sepulchre ordered me to bring my lamp with the oil. I bowed to them with great joy, and went to the market-place and bought a large glass lamp which I filled with pure oil without water, and carried it to the Sepulchre. It was evening when I asked for the keeper of the keys and announced myself to him. He unlocked the door of the Sepulchre, told me to take off my shoes, and led me bare-footed to the Sepulchre with the lamp which I carried with my sinful hands. He told me to place the lamp on the Sepulchre, and I put it with my sinful hands there where are the illustrious feet of our Lord Jesus Christ. At his head stood a Greek lamp, on his breast was placed a lamp of St. Sabbas and of all the monasteries, for it is a custom to place every year a Greek lamp and one for St. Sabbas. By the grace of God the lower lamps lighted themselves, but not a single one of the lamps of the Franks, which are hung up, was lighted up. Having placed my lamp upon the Sepulchre of our Lord Jesus Christ, I bowed before the worshipful grave, and with love and tears kissed the holy and glorious place where lay the illustrious body of our Lord Jesus Christ. We came out of the Holy Sepulchre with great joy, and went each to his cell.

Next day, on the Holy Saturday, in the sixth hour of the day, people gather before the church of the Resurrection of Christ; there is an endless number of people from all countries, from Babylon and Egypt and Antioch, and all the places about the church and about the crucifixion of the Lord are filled. There is then such a crowd inside and outside the church that many are crushed while waiting with unlit candles for the church doors to be opened. Within, the priests and people wait until Prince Baldwin’s arrival with his suite, and when the doors are opened all the people crowd in, and fill the church, and there is a large gathering in the church and near Golgotha and near Calvary and there where the Lord’s cross had been found. All the people say nothing else, but keep repeating: “Lord, have mercy upon us!” and weep aloud so that the whole place reverberates and thunders with the cries of these people. The faithful shed rivers of tears, and if a man’s heart were of stone, he could not keep from weeping, for then everybody looks within himself, remembers his sins, and says: “Perchance on account of my sins the Holy Ghost will not descend!” And thus all the faithful stand with tearful countenances and contrite hearts. Prince Baldwin himself stands there in great fear and humility, and a torrent of tears issues from his eyes; and his suite stand around him, opposite the grave and near the great altar.

In the seventh hour of the Saturday Prince Baldwin started with his suite from home for the Sepulchre, and they all walked barefooted. The Prince sent to the abbey of St. Sabbas for the abbot and his monks. And I went with the abbot and the monks to the Prince, and we all bowed before him. He returned the abbot’s greeting. The Prince ordered the abbot of St. Sabbas and me, humble servant, to come near him, and the others to walk before him, but the suite behind him. We arrived at the western doors of the church of the Lord’s Resurrection, but such a mass of people barred the way that I could not enter. Then Prince Baldwin ordered his soldiers to drive the crowd away by force, and they opened a way through the mass of the people up to the very Sepulchre, and so we were able to pass by.

We arrived at the eastern doors of the Sepulchre. The Prince came after us, and placed himself at the right side, near the partition of the great altar, opposite the eastern doors, where there was a special elevated place for the Prince. He ordered the abbot of St. Sabbas and his monks and orthodox priests to stand around the Sepulchre, but me, humble servant, he ordered to stand high above the doors of the Sepulchre, opposite the great altar, so that I could look into the doors of the Sepulchre: there are three of these doors and they are locked and sealed with the royal seal. The Latin priests stood at the great altar. At about the eighth hour of the day the orthodox priests above the Sepulchre, and many monks and hermits who had come, began to sing their vesper service, and the Latins at the great altar chanted in their own way. I stood all the time they were singing and watched diligently the doors of the Sepulchre. When they began to read the prayers of the Holy Saturday, the bishop walked down with his deacon from the altar and went to the doors of the Sepulchre and looked through the chinks, but as he did not see any light, he returned to the altar. When they had read the sixth prayer, the bishop went again with his deacon to the door of the Sepulchre, but he did not see anything within. Then all the people sang in tears: “Kyrie, eleison!”

When it was the ninth hour of the day, and they had begun to sing, “To the Lord we sing,” a small cloud suddenly came from the east and stopping over the uncovered middle of the church, came down in a rain over the Holy Sepulchre and gave us who were standing around the tomb a good drenching. And then suddenly the holy light glimmered in the Sepulchre, and then a mighty, bright brilliancy burst forth from it. Then the bishop came with four deacons and opened the doors of the Sepulchre and, taking a candle from the Prince, went inside the tomb and lighted it. After coming out again, he handed the candle to the Prince. The Prince remained standing in his place, and held the candle with great joy. From that candle we lighted all our candles, and from ours all the other candles were lighted.

This holy light is not like any earthly fire, but quite different: it burns with a bright flame like cinnabar. And all the people stood with their burning candles and wept for great joy all the time they saw the divine light. He who has not seen the great joy of that day cannot believe one who is telling about it, although good and faithful men believe it all and with pleasure listen to the account of this divine light and of the holy places, for the faithful believe the great and small things alike, but to an evil man truth is crooked. But to me, humble servant, God, and the Holy Sepulchre, and my whole suite, Russian men from Nóvgorod and Kíev, are my witnesses: Syedesláv Ivánkovich, Gorodisláv Mikhálkovich, the two Kashkíchs and many others know me and my narration.

But let us return to our story. When the light shone up in the Sepulchre, the singing stopped, and all cried aloud: “Kyrie, eleison!” Then they all went out of the church in great joy and with burning candles, watching them carefully against gusts of wind, and going home they all lighted the candles in their churches with that holy light, and finished the singing in their own churches. But in the large church of the Sepulchre the priests end the singing without the people. We went with the abbot and the monks to our monastery, carrying the burning candles, and after finishing our vesper singing, we went to our cells praising the Lord who had shown us His grace....

After three days I went to the keeper of the keys of the Holy Sepulchre and said to him: “I should like to take away my lamp!” He received me with much kindness, took me alone into the Sepulchre, and walking in, I found my lamp still burning with the holy light. I bowed before the Holy Sepulchre and kissed the glorious place where once lay the illustrious body of our Lord Jesus Christ. Then I measured the length, the width and the height of the Sepulchre, for one is not allowed to measure it in presence of others. After having honoured the Lord’s Sepulchre as much as I could, I gave the keeper a little something and a blessing. He, seeing my love for the Holy Sepulchre and kindness to himself, removed a little the boards at the head of the Sepulchre and broke off a small piece of rock from it which he gave to me after I had solemnly sworn to him that I would not tell anyone in Jerusalem about it. I bowed to the Sepulchre and to the keeper, took my lamp which was still burning, and went away with great joy, having been enriched by the grace of God, carrying in my hand a gift from the holy place and a token from the Holy Sepulchre. And thus rejoicing at the treasures which I had acquired, I went back to my cell.

EPILOGUE

I made my pilgrimage in the reign of Grand Prince Svyatopólk Izyaslávich, the grandson of Yarosláv Vladímirovich of Kíev. God is my witness, and the Holy Sepulchre, that in all those holy places I did not forget the Russian princes and their wives and children, nor the bishops, abbots, boyárs, nor my spiritual children, nor all the Christians, but that I remembered them everywhere. And I also thank God that He has enabled me, humble servant, to inscribe the names of the Russian princes in the monastery of St. Sabbas, where they are mentioned even now in their services....

May the benediction of the Lord, of the Holy Sepulchre and of all the holy places be on all who read this message with faith and love! For they will receive their reward from God equally with those who have made pilgrimages to the holy places. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe! Abraham came into the promised land through faith, for indeed faith is equal to good deeds. For the Lord’s sake, brothers and fathers, do not accuse my simplicity and rudeness, and do not make light of this writing; not on my account, but on account of the holy places, honour it in love, that you may receive your reward from the Lord our God, and our Saviour Jesus Christ, and may the God of peace be with all of you unto eternity. Amen!

Cyril, Bishop of Túrov. (XII. century.)

Little is known of the life of this remarkable preacher. He was born at Túrov, Government of Minsk, about the year 1130, where his parents were wealthy people. Having become a monk, he distinguished himself by his austere asceticism and great piety. At the request of the Prince of Túrov he was made bishop. Eight or nine of his sermons and some prayers have come down to us in manuscript. His eloquence stands alone in the whole ancient period of Russian literature. Though other preachers followed Byzantine models in their sermons, yet none carried the flowery Greek symbolism so far, or wrote in so fluent a language.

FROM A SERMON ON THE FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

The Church needs a great teacher and a wise orator to properly celebrate the holiday, but we are poor in words and dim in mind, not having the fire of the Holy Ghost,—the enjoyment of words useful to the soul; yet for the love of my brethren who are with me, we shall say something about the renewal of the Lord’s resurrection. In the past week of the Easter there was joy in heaven, and terror in the nethermost regions, a renewal of life and liberation of the world, a destruction of hell and victory over death, a resurrection of the dead, and annihilation of the enticing power of the devil; a salvation of the human race by the resurrection of Christ; an impoverishment of the Old Testament and enslavement of the Sabbath; an enrichment of the Church of Christ, and enthronement of the Sunday.

Last week there was a change of all things, for the earth was opened up by heaven, having been purified from its satanic impurities, and the angels with their wives humbly served at the resurrection. All creation was renewed, for no longer are the air, the sun, the fire, the springs, the trees, thought to be gods; no longer does hell receive its due of infants sacrificed by their fathers, nor death its honours, for idolatry has come to an end, and the satanic power has been vanquished by the mystery of the cross. The Old Testament has become impoverished by the rejection of the blood of calves and sacrifices of goats, for Christ has given Himself to the Lord as a sacrifice for all. And with this, Sunday ceased to be a holiday, but the Sunday was sanctified on account of the resurrection, and Sunday is now supreme, for Christ arose from the dead on that day....

To-day the heavens have been cleared from the dark clouds that enshrouded them as with a heavy veil, and they proclaim the glory of God with a clear atmosphere....

To-day the sun rises and beams on high, and rejoicing warms the earth, for there has arisen for us from the grave the real sun, Christ, and He saves all who believe in Him. To-day the moon descends from its high place, and gives honour to the greater lights. The Old Testament, as had been prophesied, has stopped with its Sabbath, and with its prophets gives honour to the Testament of Christ with its Sunday. To-day the winter of sin has stopped in repentance, and the ice of unbelief is melted by wisdom. To-day spring appears spruce, and enlivens all earthly existence; the stormy winds blow gently and generate fruits, and the earth, giving nurture to the seed, brings forth green grass. For spring is the beautiful faith in Christ which, through baptism, produces a regeneration of man, and the stormy winds are the evil, sinful thoughts that, being changed to virtue through repentance, generate soul-saving fruits; but the earth of our being, having received the Word of God like a seed, and, passing through an ecstatic labour, through the fear of Him, brings forth a spirit of salvation.

To-day the new-born lambs and calves frisk and leap about joyfully and returning to their mothers gambol about, so that the shepherds, playing on their reeds, praise Christ in joy. The lambs, I say, are the gentle people from among the pagans, and the calves—the idolaters of the unbelieving countries who, having accepted the Law through Christ’s incarnation and the teachings of the apostles and miracles, and having returned to the holy Church, suck the milk of its teachings; and the teachers of Christ’s flock, praying for all, praise Christ, the Lord, who had collected all the wolves and sheep into one herd.

To-day the trees send forth buds and the fragrant flowers bloom, and behold, the gardens already emit a sweet odour, and the workers labouring in hope acclaim Christ the giver of fruits. We were before like the trees of the forest that bear no fruit, but to-day the faith of Christ has been grafted on our unbelief, and those who already held to the roots of Jesse have burgeoned with the flowers of virtue and expect through Christ a regeneration in heaven, and the saints who labour for the Church expect a reward from Christ. To-day the ploughman of the Word leads the oxen of the Word to the spiritual yoke, sinks the plough of baptism into the furrows of thought and deepening them to furrows of repentance plants in them the spiritual seed and rejoices in the hope of future returns. To-day everything old has taken an end, and all is new for the sake of the resurrection. To-day the apostolic rivers are full, and the pagan fish let out their broods, and the fishermen, having examined the depth of the divine incarnation, drag in full nets into the Church.... To-day the industrious bees of the monastic order show their wisdom and set all to wonder, for living in the wilderness and providing for themselves, they astonish both angels and men, just as the bee flies upon the flowers and forms combs of honey in order to furnish sweetness to man and what is needed in the church....

To-day there is a feast of regeneration for the people who are made new by the resurrection of Christ, and all new things are brought to God: from heathens, faith; from good Christians, offerings; from the clergy, holy sacrifices; from the civil authorities, God-pleasing charity; from the noble, care for the Church; from the righteous, humility; from the sinners, true repentance; from the unhallowed, a turning to God; from the hating, spiritual love.

Néstor’s Chronicle. (XII. century.)

Néstor was born about 1056, and at the age of seventeen entered the monastery of the Grottoes at Kíev. In 1091 he was commissioned to find in the Grottoes the mortal relics of Theodosius, the founder of the monastery. Having performed this task he wrote a life of the founder. He died about 1146. To this Néstor has been ascribed the authorship of the chronicle which in one of the manuscripts of the fourteenth century bears the title: The stories of bygone years, whence the Russian land began, who first reigned at Kíev, and how the Russian land was formed. It has, however, been proved that only a small part of the chronicle belongs to him, and that the last editor of the whole was the abbot Sylvester, the continuator of Néstor’s Chronicle for the twelfth century.

The chronicle contains the reports of important facts in the life of the princes, arranged in chronological order. The author, or authors, being of the clerical profession, the influence of Christianity shows itself throughout in the use of a biblical diction. This is especially the case where Byzantine chronographers, whose influence on all the early Russian chronicles is unmistakable, and church and monastery notes are the source of the historical narrative. But popular stories, legends and accounts of eye-witnesses also play an important part in the composition of the work, and in these the diction is more dramatic and natural. The chronicle covers the period from 862 to 1110, and is exceedingly valuable as the chief source for the history of Russia for the time described. It has not come down to us in the original, but has reached us in copies of the fourteenth century, of which the Laurentian manuscript, copied by the monk Laurentius for Dimítri Konstantínovich, Prince of Súzdal, is the most important.

THE BAPTISM OF VLADÍMIR AND OF ALL RUSSIA

In the year 6495 (987), Vladímir called together his boyárs and city elders, and said to them: “There have come to me Bulgarians who said: ‘Accept our religion!’ Then came the Germans, and they praised their religion; after them came the Jews.[16] But after them came the Greeks, who spoke slightingly of all the other religions, but praised their own. They spoke much about the beginning of the universe and the existence of the whole world. They are cunning of speech, and talk so pleasantly that it is a pleasure to hear them. They say that there is another world, and that if anyone enters into their faith, he would live after his death, and would not die for eternity; but that if he accepts any other faith, he would burn in the other world. Now, what counsel do you give me? What is your answer?”

And the boyárs and elders said: “You know, O Prince, that nobody detracts his own, but praises it. If you are anxious to find out the truth, you have men whom you can send out to see how they all serve God.”

And the speech pleased the Prince and all people. They selected good and clever men, to the number of ten, and said to them: “Go first to the Bulgarians and inquire into their religion!” And they went, and saw their abominable deeds and worshipping in shrines, and returned to their land. Vladímir said to them: “Go now to the Germans, find out there also, and thence go to Greece!”

And they went to Germany and, having seen their divine service, they came to Constantinople, and went to the Emperor. The Emperor asked them what they had come for, and they told him all as it was. Having heard this, the Emperor was glad, and gave them a banquet on that very day. Next morning he sent to the Patriarch saying: “Some Russians have come to find out about our faith; so have the church and clergy in order, and yourself don the holy garments, that they may see the glory of our God.”

Having heard this, the Patriarch called together the clergy to celebrate the day according to the custom, and he had the censers lighted, and arranged the singing and the choir. The Emperor went with them to church, and they were placed in a prominent place where they could see the beauty of the church, hear the singing and archiepiscopal ministration, and watch the attendance of the deacons in the divine service. They were surprised, and marvelled, and praised their service. And the Emperors Basil and Constantine called them and said to them: “Go to your land!” and they sent them away with many gifts and honours.

They came back to their country, and their Prince called together his boyárs and old men. Said Valdímir: “The men we have sent away have come back. Let us hear what has happened!” And he said: “Speak before the druzhína!” and they spoke: “When we were in Bulgaria, we saw them worshipping in the temple, where they talk in the shrine and stand without their girdles. Having made their obeisance, they sit down and look around hither and thither like madmen, and there is no joy among them, only sadness and a great stench: their religion is not good. And we came to Germany, and we saw many ceremonies in their temples, but of beauty we saw none. We went to Greece, and they took us where they worship their God, and we do not know whether we were in heaven or upon earth, for there is not upon earth such sight or beauty. We were perplexed, but this much we know that there God lives among men, and their service is better than in any other country. We cannot forget that beauty, for every man that has partaken of sweetness will not afterwards accept bitterness, and thus we can no longer remain in our former condition.” And the boyárs answered and said: “If the Greek religion were bad, your grandmother Ólga, who was the wisest of all men, would not have accepted it.” And Vladímir answered and said: “Where shall we receive our baptism?” But they answered: “Wheresoever it may please you!”

Next year, the year 6496, Vladímir went with his warriors against Korsún,[17] a Greek city, and the Korsúnians shut themselves up in the city. Vladímir was encamped at the side of the city nearest the harbour, at one shot’s distance from it, and they fought valiantly in the city, and Vladímir beleaguered it. The townspeople were weakening, and Vladímir said to them: “If you do not surrender, I shall stay here, if need be, three years.” They paid no attention to it, and Vladímir drew up his soldiers, and ordered them to build a rampart to the city. While they were asleep, the Korsúnians undermined the city wall, and, stealing the dirt which they had thrown up, carried it into the city, and deposited it there. The soldiers again filled up the rampart, and Vladímir remained there.

A Korsún man, by the name of Nastás, shot an arrow upon which was written as follows: “It is by the wells that are behind you in the east, that the water is led by pipes into the city; dig them up, and stop the supply!” Hearing this, Vladímir looked to the heavens and said: “If it shall come to pass, I will be baptised,” and immediately he ordered the pipes to be dug up, and the water was intercepted. The people were exhausted with thirst, and they surrendered themselves. Vladímir entered the city with his druzhína, and he sent word to the Emperors Basil and Constantine: “I have taken your famous city. I hear you have a sister who is still a maiden. If you will not give her to me for a wife, I shall do unto your city as I have done unto this.”

And they heard the tsar, and were sad, and gave the following answer: “It does not behoove Christians to give in marriage to a pagan. If you will receive the baptism, you shall get her, and you will receive the kingdom of heaven, and will be of one faith with us. If you do not wish to do so, we cannot give you our sister.”

Hearing this, Vladímir said to the messengers of the Emperors: “Tell your Emperors that I will be baptised, that I have inquired before these days into your faith, and am pleased with your belief and divine service, from what the men that had been sent by us have told me.”

Which when the Emperors heard, they were glad and persuaded their sister, by the name of Anna, and sent to Vladímir saying: “Receive the baptism, and then we will send our sister to you.”

But Vladímir answered: “Let them come with your sister to baptise me!”

The Emperors obeyed, and sent their sister and a few high officers and presbyters. She did not want to go: “It is as if I were going into captivity,” she said. “It were better if I died here.” And her brothers said to her: “Perchance God will through you turn the Russian land to repentance, and free Greece from a dire war. Do you not see how much evil the Russians have caused to the Greeks? If you will not go, they will do even thus to us.” They persuaded her with difficulty. She boarded a boat, kissed her relatives under tears and went across the sea. She arrived at Korsún, and the Korsúnians met her with honours, and led her into the city and seated her in the palace.

By God’s will, Vladímir was at that time ailing with his eyes, and he could not see, and was much worried. The empress sent to him saying: “If you want to be rid of your disease, be baptised at once. If not, you will not be rid of it.”

Hearing this, Vladímir said: “If it will be so in truth, then indeed your Christian God is great.” And he ordered to baptise him. The bishop of Korsún with the priests of the empress received Vladímir as a catechumen and baptised him, and the moment he laid his hands upon him, he regained his eyesight. When Vladímir saw this sudden cure, he praised God and said: “Now have I for the first time found the real God!” When his druzhína perceived this, many were baptised. He was baptised in the church of St. Basil, and that church is situated in Korsún, there where the Korsúnians have their market-place. Vladímir’s palace by the church is standing up to the present day. The palace of the empress is beyond the altar. After the baptism he led the empress to the betrothal. Those who do not know right say that he was baptised in Kíev; others say in Vasilév; others again say otherwise.

After that, Vladímir took the empress and Nastás, and the Korsún priests with the holy relics of Clement and Phœbus, his disciple, and church vessels, and images, for his own use. He built a church in Korsún on the hill which they had thrown up in the middle of the city from the dirt they had carried away, and that church is still standing there. Going away, he took along with him two brass statues and four brass horses which stand to-day behind the church of the Holy Virgin, and which the ignorant think to be of marble. He gave as a marriage price Korsún back to the Greeks, for the sake of the empress, and went back to Kíev.

Upon his return, he ordered the idols to be cast down, and some to be cut to pieces, and others to be consumed by fire; but Perún he had tied to the tail of a horse, and dragged down the hill over the Boríchev[18] to the brook, and placed twelve men to strike him with rods, not as if the wood had any feeling, but as a scorn to the devil who had in that way seduced people, that he might receive his due punishment from men. As he was dragged along the brook to the Dnieper, the unbelievers wept over him, for they had not yet received the holy baptism, and he was cast into the Dnieper. Vladímir stood by, and said: “Should he be carried anywhere to the banks, push him off, until he has passed the rapids, when you may leave him!” They did as they were told. When he passed the rapids, and was let loose, the wind carried him on a sandbank, which is named from this “Perún’s Bank,” and is called so to this day.

After that Vladímir proclaimed throughout the whole city: “Whosoever will not appear to-morrow at the river, whether he be rich or poor, or a beggar, or a workingman, will be in my disfavour.” Hearing this, people came gladly and with joy, and said: “If this were not good, the Prince and boyárs would not have accepted it.” Next morning Vladímir went out with the priests of the empress and of Korsún to the Dnieper, and there came together people without number. They went into the water, and stood there up to their necks, and some up to their breasts, but the younger nearer the shore, and others held the younger ones, while the grown people waded into the water. And the priests stood there and said the prayers; and there was a joy in heaven and upon earth at the sight of so many saved souls, but the devil groaned, and said: “Woe to me! I am driven away from here. Here I had intended to have my habitation, for here are no apostolic teachings, and they do not know God, and I rejoiced in the worship with which they served me. And now I am conquered by ignorant people and not by apostles and martyrs. I shall no longer reign in these lands.”

Having been baptised, the people went to their houses. Vladímir was happy for having, himself and his people, found God, and looking up to heaven he said: “God, Thou hast created heaven and earth! Guard these Thy new people, and let them, O Lord, find out the real God, such as the Christian people know Him. Strengthen the true and constant faith in them, and help me, O Lord, against my foe, that relying upon Thee and Thy power, I may escape his ambush!”

The people having been baptised, they all went to their homes, and Vladímir ordered churches to be built, and to place them there where formerly stood the idols. He built the church of St. Basil on the hill where stood the idol Perún and the others, to whom the Prince and others used to bring sacrifices. And he began to locate churches and priests over the towns, and to lead people to baptism in all towns and villages. He sent out men to take the children of noblemen, and to put them out for book instruction; but the mothers of those children wept for them, for they were not yet firm in their faith, and they wept for them as for the dead.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] The Khazars, a Tartar tribe that professed the Mosaic Law.

[17] The ancient Tauric Chersonese; this later city was not built on the ancient site, but near Sebastopol.

[18] A suburb of Kíev.

The Kíev Chronicle. (XII. century.)

The Kíev Chronicle is a continuation of Néstor’s Chronicle, from 1111-1201, and describes mainly the acts of the principality of Kíev. The best manuscript of this chronicle is from the monastery of St. Ipáti, near Kostromá, and dates from the end of the fourteenth, or the beginning of the fifteenth, century. The passage given below is selected to illustrate the historical account of the same incident contained in the Word of Ígor’s Armament.

THE EXPEDITION OF ÍGOR SVYATOSLÁVICH AGAINST THE PÓLOVTSES[19]

In the year 6693 (1185). At that time Ígor, the son of Svyatosláv, the grandson of Olég, rode out of Nóvgorod on the 23rd of April, which was on a Tuesday, having taken with him his brother Vsévolod from Trubétsk, and Svyatosláv Ólgovich, his nephew, from Rylsk, and Vladímir, his son, from Putívl, and Yarosláv had sent him, at his request, Olstín Oléksich, the grandson of Prokhór, with Kovúans[20] from Chernígov. They proceeded slowly, collecting their druzhína, for their horses were very fat. As they were going towards the river Donéts, Ígor looked one evening at the sky, and he saw the sun standing there like a moon, and he said to his boyárs and druzhína: “Do you see this omen?”

They looked up, and having noticed it, hung their heads, and said: “Prince, this is not a good omen!”

But Ígor said: “Brothers and druzhína! Nobody knows God’s mystery, and God is the creator of mystery, as well as of all His world; but we shall find out in time whether God means our good or our evil.”

Having said this, he forded the Donéts and came to the river Oskól, where he waited for two days for his brother Vsévolod who was marching by another road from Kursk; thence they proceeded to Sálnitsa. There came to them the guards whom they had sent out to reconnoitre; they said: “We have seen the army of the enemy; they were riding rapidly: either you ride fast, or we had better return home, for the time is not propitious.”

But Ígor consulted his brothers and said: “If we return without fighting, our shame will be greater than death. Let us proceed with God’s aid!”

Having said this, they travelled through the night, and the next day, which was a Friday, they met the army of the Pólovtses at noontime. When they saw them, they were without their tents, for they had left them behind them, but the old and young were all standing on the other side of the river Syuurlí. The Russians arranged their six troops as follows: Ígor’s troop was in the middle, to his right was the troop of his brother Vsévolod, and to the left that of his nephew Svyatosláv; in front of him was placed his son Vladímir, and Yarosláv’s Kovúans, and a third troop of archers was in front of them, and they were selected from the troops of all the princes; that was the position of their troops.

And Ígor spoke to his brothers: “Brothers! We have found what we have been looking for, so let us move on them!” And they advanced, placing their faith in God. When they came to the river Syuurlí, the archers galloped out from the troops of the Pólovtses, sent each an arrow against the Russians, and galloped back again, before the Russians had crossed the river Syuurlí; equally the Pólovtses who stood farther away from the river galloped away. Svyatosláv Ólgovich, and Vladímir Ígorevich, and Olstín with his Kovúans, and the archers ran after them, while Ígor and Vsévolod went slowly ahead, and did not send forward their troops; but the Russians ahead of them struck down the Pólovtses. The Pólovtses ran beyond their tents, and the Russians, having come as far as the tents, plundered them, and some returned in the night with their booty to the army.

When the Pólovtses had come together, Ígor said to his brothers and men: “God has given us the power to vanquish our enemy, and honour and glory to us! We have seen the army of the Pólovtses that it is large, and I wonder whether they have all been collected. If we now shall ride through the night, what surety is there that all will follow us next morning? And our best horsemen will be in the meantime cut down, and we will have to shift as best we can.”

And Svyatosláv Ólgovich spoke to his uncles: “I have driven the Pólovtses a long distance, and my horses are played out; if I am to travel on to-day, I shall have to fall behind on the road,” and Vsévolod agreed with him that it was best to rest.

Ígor spoke: “Knowing this, it is not proper to expose ourselves to death,” and they rested there.

When the day broke on the Saturday, the troops of the Pólovtses began to appear like a forest. The Russian princes were perplexed, and did not know whom to attack first, for there was a numberless host of them. And Ígor said: “See, I have collected against me the whole land: Konchák, Kozá, Burnovích, Toksobích, Kolobích, Etebích, and Tertrobích.” And seeing them, they dismounted from their horses, for they wished to reach the river Donéts by fighting, and they said: “If we remain on horseback, and run away, and leave our soldiers behind, we will have sinned before God; but let us die or live together!” And having said this, they all dismounted and fought on foot.

By the will of God, Ígor was wounded, and his left arm was disabled, and there was a great sorrow in his troop; and they captured his general, having wounded him in front. And they fought that day until evening, and many were the wounded and killed in the Russian army. They fought till late into the night, and when the Sunday began to break, the Kovúans became confused and ran away. Ígor was at that time on horseback, for he was wounded, and he followed them up, trying to bring them back to the army. Seeing that he had gone far away from his people, he took off his helmet so that they might recognise him and might return to the army, and he rode back to his troop. But no one returned, except Mikhálko Gyúrgevich who had recognised the Prince. The trouble was, no one, except a few of the rank and file and boyárs’ youths, had thoroughly mingled with the Kovúans, for they were all busy fighting on foot; among these, Vsévolod excelled in bravery. As Ígor was approaching his troop, the Pólovtses crossed his path and made him prisoner within an arrow’s shot from his troop. While Ígor was held captive, he saw his brother fighting mightily, and in his heart he implored for his own death that he might not see his brother fall dead; but Vsévolod was fighting until he had no weapons left in his hands, and they were fighting around a lake.

It was on the day of the holy Sunday that the Lord brought down His anger upon them, and changed joy into weeping, and instead of pleasure gave them sorrow, on the river Kayála. And Ígor spoke: “I now recall my sins before the Lord my God, for I have caused much slaughter and bloodshed in the Christian land, and did not spare the Christians, but took by storm the town of Glyébov near Pereyáslavl. Then innocent Christians suffered no small measure of evil, for fathers were separated from their children, brother from brother, friend from friend, wives from husbands, and daughters from their mothers, and all was confused in captivity and sorrow. The living envied the dead, and the dying rejoiced because they had like holy martyrs received their trial by fire in this life; old men were killed, young men received fierce and inhuman wounds, men were cut to pieces. All this I have done, and I am not worthy to live; to-day the revenge of the Lord has reached me. Where is now my beloved brother? Where is now the son of my brother? Where is the child of my loins? Where are the counselling boyárs, where are the brave men, the ranks of the soldiers? Where are the horses and costly weapons? Am I not separated from all that, and has not the Lord given me fettered into the hands of the pagans? The Lord has repaid me for my lawlessness and my meanness, and my sins have this day come down upon my head. The Lord is just, and His judgments are right, and I have nothing in common with the living. I see to-day others receiving the crown of martyrdom, but why can I not, guilty one, suffer for all of them? But Lord my God! Do not reject me to the end, but as Thy will, O Lord, is done, so also is Thy mercy to us, Thy slaves!”

The battle being over, the Pólovtses scattered, and went to their tents. Ígor was captured by the Targólans, by a man named Chilbúk; his brother Vsévolod was taken by Román Kzich, Svyatosláv Ólgovich by Eldechyúk of the Boburchéviches, and Vladímir by Kópti of the Ulashéviches. Then Konchák took care of Ígor on the battlefield, for he was wounded. Of the many prisoners taken but few could run away, God being willing, for it was not possible for anyone to escape, being surrounded on all sides by the Pólovts army as with mighty walls; and yet there escaped about fifteen of us Russians, and fewer Kovúans, but the rest were drowned in the sea.

At that time Grand Prince Vsévolod’s son Svyatosláv had gone to Koráchev[21] to collect warriors in the upper lands, wishing in the summer to go to the Don against the Pólovtses. When Svyatosláv returned and was at Nóvgorod Syéverski, he heard that his brothers had gone against the Pólovtses, without his knowledge, and he was displeased. Svyatosláv was travelling in boats, and when he arrived in Chernígov, Byelovolód Prosóvich came to him and told him what had happened with the Pólovtses. When Svyatosláv heard that, he sighed much and, wiping off his tears, he said: “O beloved brothers and sons and men of the Russian land! Oh, that God would grant me to crush the pagans! But they, impulsive in their youth, have opened the gates into the Russian land. The will of the Lord be on everything! However sorry I was for Ígor, I am more sorry for Ígor, my brother!”

After that Svyatosláv sent his son Olég and Vladímir into the Posémie,[22] for when the cities of the Posémie heard of the disaster, they were disturbed, and there was a sorrow and heavy anguish upon them, such as had never before been in the whole Posémie, in Nóvgorod Syéverski and in the whole district of Chernígov. They had heard that their princes had been taken prisoners, and the druzhína had been captured, and killed; and they became restless, as if in turbid water, and the cities revolted, and many had no care for their relatives, but they renounced their souls, weeping for their princes. After that Svyatosláv sent to David of Smolénsk, saying: “We had intended to go against the Pólovtses, and pass the summer on the Don; but now the Pólovtses have vanquished Ígor, and his brother with his son; now come, brother, to protect the Russian land!” And David came to the Dnieper, and there arrived also other help, and they stopped at Trepól, but Yarosláv collected his troops at Chernígov.

The pagan Pólovtses, having conquered Ígor and his brothers, were filled with great conceit, and they gathered all their tribes against the Russian land. And there was a strife among them, for Konchák said: “Let us march against Kíev, where our brothers and our Grand Prince Bonyák were cut down!” But Kza said: “Let us go against the Sem, where their wives and children are left, an easy booty for us; we shall sack their cities without danger!” And thus they divided into two parts. Konchák went against Pereyáslavl. He besieged the city, and they fought the whole day. At that time Vladímir Glyébovich was the Prince of Pereyáslavl. He being bold and a mighty warrior, rode out of the city and rushed against the enemy, and then a few men of his druzhína were emboldened, and they fought valiantly. Many Pólovtses surrounded them. Then the others, seeing their Prince hard pressed, rushed out of the city, and saved their Prince, who was wounded with three spear thrusts. This good Vladímir rode back into the city heavily wounded, and he wiped the sweat from his brave face, having fought doughtily for his country.

Vladímir sent word to Svyatosláv, and to Rúrik, and to David: “The Pólovtses are at my gates, help me!” Svyatosláv sent word to David, who stood at Trepól with his Smolénsk troop. The men of Smolénsk held a council, and said: “We have marched to Kíev to fight in case there is a war there; but we cannot look for another war, for we are worn out.” Svyatosláv hurried to the Dnieper with Rúrik and other troops, against the Pólovtses, and David went away with his Smolénsk men. When the Pólovtses heard this, they went away from Pereyáslavl, but on their way they attacked Rímov. The Rímovans shut themselves up in the city; having climbed the rampart, two wicker structures gave way with all their men, God having so willed, and broke in the direction of the enemy. Terror fell upon the city people. Some of them sallied from the city and kept up a running fight into the Rímov swamps, and thus escaped capture; but those who remained in the city were all taken prisoners. Vladímir sent again to Svyatosláv Vsévolodich and Rúrik Rostislávich, imploring them to come to his aid. But they were tardy in coming, having waited for David with his Smolénsk troop, and thus they did not get there in time to meet the Pólovtses. Having taken the city of Rímov, the Pólovtses returned to their homes, loaded down with booty. The princes went back to their homes, and they were very sad, and they were sorry for Vladímir Glyébovich, for he was struck down with mortal wounds, and they were sorry for the Christians that had been taken prisoners by the pagans....

The other Pólovtses were going by another road to Putívl. Kza had a large host with him; they laid waste the country, burnt the villages, and also burnt the castle near Putívl, and returned home again.

Ígor Svyatoslávich was that year with the Pólovtses, and he said: “According to my deserts have I received defeat at Thy hands, my Lord, and not the daring of the pagans has broken the might of Thy servants. I do not complain of my suffering, for I have been punished for my misdeeds.” The Pólovtses, respecting his leadership, did not do him any harm, but placed over him fifteen guards of their sons, and five lords’ sons, in all twenty. They gave him permission to go where he wanted, and he went a-hunting with the hawk, and there were with him five or six of his servants. His guards obeyed him and honoured him, and whithersoever he sent them, they did his command without grumbling. He had brought with him a priest from Russia, with all the divine service, for he did not know the divine will, and he thought he would have to stay there for a long time. But the Lord delivered him for the many prayers of the Christians which they sent up to heaven, and the many tears which they shed for him. While he was among the Pólovtses, there was a man there, himself a Pólovts, by the name of Lavór; he having a blessed thought said: “I will go with you to Russia!” At first Ígor had no confidence in him, but had a high opinion of his own manliness, for he did not intend to take the man and run with him into Russia; he said: “For glory’s sake I did not then run away from my druzhína, and even now will I not walk upon an inglorious road.”

But there were with him the son of the thousand-man and his equerry, and they pressed him and said: “Go, O Prince, back to Russia, if the Lord will deliver you!” But the time was not propitious. As we said before, the Pólovtses returned from Pereyáslavl, and Ígor’s advisers said to him: “You harbour a proud thought and one that is not pleasing to God; you do not intend to take the man and run with him, but why do you not consider that the Pólovtses will return from the war, and we have heard that they will slay all the princes and all the Russians, and there will be no glory for you, and you will lose your life.” Prince Ígor took their advice to heart, being afraid of the return of the Pólovtses, and bethought himself of flight. He was not able to run away either in daytime or at night, for the guards watched him, but he found an opportune time at the setting of the sun. And Ígor sent his equerry to Lavór, saying: “Cross on the other side of the Tor with a led horse,” for he intended to fly to Russia with Lavór. At that time the Pólovtses were drunk with kumys; and it was towards evening when his equerry came back and told him that Lavór was waiting for him. Ígor arose frightened and trembling, and bowed before the image of the Lord and the honourable cross, and said: “Lord, knower of hearts! If Thou, Master, wilt save me, unworthy one,”—and he took the cross and the image, lifted the tent’s side, and crawled out. His guards were gambling and feasting, for they thought that the Prince was asleep. He arrived at the river, waded across, and mounted the horse; thus they both rode by the tents.

This deliverance the Lord granted on a Friday, in the evening. He then walked eleven days to the town of Donéts, and thence he went to his Nóvgorod, and they were much rejoiced. From Nóvgorod he went to his brother Yarosláv in Chernígov, to ask for help in the Posémie. Yarosláv was glad to see him, and promised him aid. Ígor travelled thence to Kíev to Grand Prince Svyatosláv, and Svyatosláv was glad to see him, as was also Rúrik.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] For notes consult the Word of Ígor’s Armament (p. 80 et sqq.).

[20] A Finnish tribe.

[21] Town in the country of the Vyátiches.

[22] The country along the river Sem.

The Word of Ígor’s Armament. (End of XII. century.)

No other production of Russian antiquity has roused so much interest in Russia and abroad as this version of Ígor’s expedition by an unknown poet of the end of the twelfth century. Thirty-five translations into modern Russian, numerous translations into Little-Russian, Polish, Bohemian, Servian, Bulgarian, Hungarian, German, French, witness to the enormous popularity this production has attained. The historical background of the poem is found in the recital from the Kíev Chronicle, which is given on pp. 71-80. The disasters which befell Ígor and his army are probably told with better effect in that prosaic version; but the superior value of the Word lies in its being a precious relic of the popular poetry of the end of the twelfth century, such as no other nation can boast of. The Nibelungenlied and the Chanson de Roland are chiefly productions of a literary character, while the Word bears every evidence of representing the untutored labour of a popular bard.

Who the author was, when he lived, for whom he sang, are all unanswered questions, but from internal evidence we glean that he sang for his contemporaries while Ígor was still alive. From his apostrophe to Yarosláv Osmomýsl, who died in 1187, we may infer that the poem was written before that year, and it is not unlikely, from his vivid description of the battle at the Kayála, that he was an eye-witness of the expedition which took place in 1185. From the absence of biblical references it is generally assumed that the author was not a member of the clerical profession. Here, however, various difficulties arise. It is quite incomprehensible why there should be so many references to pagan divinities at a time when Christianity had been deep-rooted in Russia for fully two centuries; why, except for the evident imitation of many passages in the Zadónshchina, there should be no reference to the poem by any medieval writer, and why only one copy of so remarkable a work should have been preserved. If this poem came so very near being lost to posterity, how many other remarkable productions of that early period have disappeared? It is not at all impossible that there existed an extensive popular poetry, of which only the barest traces have come down to us. This suspicion is strengthened by the emphatic mention by the author of the Word of a poet Boyán who had lived before his days.

A copy of the poem was discovered by Count A. I. Músin-Púshkin, Procurator-General of the Holy Synod, in 1795. He it was who in rummaging St. Petersburg bookstalls had discovered the manuscript of Néstor’s Chronicle. From a monk he procured a collection of eight pieces, the fifth of which was this poem. He published the Word, as this poem is called in the manuscript, in 1800, with a modern Russian translation. The manuscript itself was burnt in the Moscow conflagration of 1812. The poem has since been edited a countless number of times, and equally large is the mass of critical essays to explain the many dark and corrupt places of what now must pass for the original. When we consider that there are not less than six versions of the Word in French, it seems strange that it is now first rendered into English in its entirety. There is an imperfect translation of a small part of it in H. H. Munro’s The Rise of the Russian Empire, Boston and London, 1900.

I

Were it not well for us, O brothers, to commence in the ancient strain the sad story of the armament of Ígor,[23] Ígor son of Svyatosláv? And let the song be told according to the accounts of the time, and not according to the cunning of Boyán[24] the Wise, for Boyán the Wise, when he wished to make a song, soared with his thoughts in the tree, ran as a grey wolf over the earth, flew as a steel-grey eagle below the clouds. When he recalled the strife of former time, he let loose ten falcons o’er a flock of swans, and every swan each touched sang first a song: to old Yarosláv,[25] to brave Mstisláv[26] who slew Redédya before the Kasóg army, to fair Román Svyatoslávich.[27] But Boyán, O brothers, did not let loose ten falcons on a flock of swans, but laid his inspired fingers on the living strings, and they themselves sounded the glory to the princes.

Let us begin, O brothers, this tale from Vladímir[28] of old to the late Ígor who strengthened his soul by his valour, and sharpened it by the courage of his heart, and having filled himself with a manly spirit, led his valiant army for the land of Russia into the country of the Pólovtses.[29]

II

Then Ígor looked up to the bright sun, and saw that he had covered in darkness[30] all his warriors. And Ígor spoke to his druzhína: “O brothers and druzhína! It is better to be cut to pieces than to be made a captive! Let us, O brothers, mount our swift horses that we may behold the beautiful Don!”

A strong desire filled the Prince’s soul to drink from the great Don, and his eagerness blinded him to the evil omen.

“For I wish,” he said, “to break the spear on the border of the Pólovts land together with you, sons of Russia! I want to lay down my head, and drink with my helmet from the Don!”

O Boyán, nightingale of ancient time! It were for you to spell this army, soaring like a nightingale over the tree of thought, flying like an eagle below the clouds, stringing together words for the deeds of that time, racing over Troyán’s[31] footsteps over fields to the mountains. You ought to have sung a song to Ígor, his grandson: “Not a storm has driven the falcons over the broad fields: flocks of crows hasten to the great Don.”... Or you might have sung thus, inspired Boyán, grandson of Velés[32]:

“The horses neigh beyond the Sulá[33]; glory resounds in Kíev; trumpets blare in Nóvgorod[34]; the standards are at Putívl[35]; Ígor waits for his beloved brother Vsévolod. And Vsévolod, the Grim Aurochs, spoke to him: “My only brother, my only light, glorious Ígor, we are both sons of Svyatosláv! Saddle, O brother, your swift steeds, for mine are ready for you, having been saddled in advance at Kursk! My Kurians are tried warriors, nurtured by the sound of trumpets, rocked in helmets, fed at the point of the spear. The roads are known to them; the ravines are familiar to them; their bows are drawn; their quivers open, their swords—whetted. They race over the fields like grey wolves, seeking honour for themselves, and glory for their Prince.”

III

Then Prince Ígor stepped into the golden stirrup and galloped over the clear field. The sun barred his way in darkness; night groaning with the cries of birds awoke him; beasts howled, and Div[36] called in the top of a tree, sending the news to the unknown land, to the Vólga, the Sea border,[37] the Sulá country, Surózh[38] and Korsún,[39] and to you, idol of Tmútorokan![40] But the Pólovtses hastened by untrodden roads to the great Don; the carts creaked at midnight, like swans let loose.

Ígor leads his soldiers to the Don: the birds in the thicket forbode his misfortune; the wolves bristle up and howl a storm in the mountain clefts; the eagles screech and call the beasts to a feast of bones; the foxes bark for the crimson shields. O Russian land, you are already beyond the mound![41] Night is long and murky; the dawn withholds the light; mist covers the fields; the nightingale’s song is silent; the cawing of the crows is heard. The Russians bar the long fields with their crimson shields, seeking honour for themselves and glory for the Prince.

IV

Early in the morning, on the Friday, they crushed the pagan Pólovts host, and, spreading like arrows over the field, seized fair Pólovts maidens, and with them gold and gold-worked stuffs and costly velvet; with cloaks and coats and Pólovts lace they bridged their way over bogs and muddy places. A red flag, white pennon, red panache, silver cross-beam, for the brave son of Svyatosláv!...[42] Olég’s valiant brood has flown afar and dreams in the field! They thought not to offend the falcon, gerfalcon, nor you, black raven, pagan Pólovts! But Gza ran like a grey wolf, with Konchák[43] in his track, to the great Don.

V

Very early the next morning a bloody dawn announces the day. Black clouds come from the sea and try to veil four suns,[44] while blue lightnings quiver through them. There is to be a mighty thunder, and the rain is to go down in arrows by the great Don! There spears will be broken; there swords will be blunted against Pólovts helmets on the Kayála,[45] by the great Don. O Russian land, you are already beyond the mound!

Behold the winds, Stribóg’s[46] grandchildren, blow arrows from the sea on Ígor’s valiant army. The earth groans, the rivers flow turbid; dust covers the fields; the banners whisper. The Pólovtses come from the Don, and from the sea, and from all sides: the Russian army recedes. The devil’s children fill the field with their cries, but the brave Russians line it with their crimson bucklers.

Grim Aurochs Vsévolod! You stand in the van; you pour arrows on the warriors; you thunder with steel swords against their helmets. Wherever you, Aurochs, lead, gleaming with your golden helmet, there fall the heads of the pagan Pólovtses, their Avar[47] helmets cloven by your tempered swords, Grim Aurochs Vsévolod! What wound does he brook, O brothers, having forgotten his honours and manner of life, and Chernígov town, his paternal golden throne, and the caresses of his sweetheart, Glyeb’s fair daughter,[48] and the habits and customs of his home?

VI

Troyán’s age is past, gone are the years of Yarosláv; past are the expeditions of Olég,[49] the son of Svyatosláv. That Olég had fostered discord with his sword, and had sowed arrows over the land. In Tmútorokan city he stepped into the golden stirrup. Great Yarosláv, that was, heard the tocsin,[50] and Vsévolod’s son Vladímir closed his ears all the days at Chernígov.[51] But Glory brought Borís,[52] the son of Vyachesláv, before the judgment seat and bedded him, brave young prince, on the green feather grass of the steppe, through Olég’s offence....

Then, in the days of Olég Gorislávich,[53] feuds were sown and grew, and Dazhbóg’s[54] grandchildren perished, and the years of men were shortened by the discord of the princes. In those days the warriors rarely walked behind the plough in the Russian land, but the ravens croaked as they divided the dead bodies, and crows chattered, flying to the banquet. Such were the wars and expeditions then, but the like of this war was never known.

VII

From early morning until evening, from evening until daylight fly tempered arrows, thunder the swords against the helmets, resound the steel spears in a strange field, within the country of the Pólovtses. The black earth beneath the hoofs was sown with bones, and watered with blood, and a harvest of sorrow went up in the Russian land.

What noise is that, what din, so early in the morning before dawn? Ígor leads his army; he is sorry for his beloved brother Vsévolod. They fought a day, they fought another[55]; upon the third at noon fell the standards of Ígor. The brothers separated on the bank of the swift Kayála. Here there was not enough of bloody wine; here the brave Russians ended the feast: they gave their host their fill to drink, and themselves fell for the Russian land. The grass withered from sorrow, and the trees in anguish bent down to the earth.[56]

VIII

There befell a hapless hour, O brothers! Already had the wilderness covered Russia’s hosts, when Mischief arose in the hosts of Dazhbóg’s grandchildren: she walked as a maiden in Troyán’s land,[57] splashed her swan pinions in the blue sea,[58] and splashing them in the Don, recalled heavy times.

Through the feuds of the princes ruin came from the pagans, for brother spoke to brother: “This is mine and that is mine also,” and the princes said of trifling matters, “They are important,” and created discord among themselves; and the pagans came from all sides victorious into the Russian land.

Oh, far has the falcon[59] flown, driving the birds by the sea, but Ígor’s brave army will rise no more! Konchák called, and Gza raced over the Russian land, hurling fire from a flaming horn.[60] Russian women wept, saying: “No longer will our thoughts reach our dear ones, nor shall we ever see them with our eyes, nor be adorned with tinkling gold and silver!”

And Kíev groaned under its sorrow, and Chernígov on account of its misfortunes. Sadness spread over the Russian land, and a heavy gloom. The princes fostered discord among themselves, and the pagans victoriously overran the country, receiving tribute, a squirrel[61] from each house.

It is Ígor and Vsévolod, Svyatosláv’s brave sons, who through their discord had wakened dishonour which their father, Svyatosláv[62] of Kíev, the great, the mighty, had put to sleep: he had invaded the Pólovts land and had carried terror to them, with his mighty armies and tempered swords; had levelled their hills and ravines, ruffled their rivers and lakes, dried up their streams and swamps; and, like a whirlwind, had snatched pagan Kobyák[63] away from his mighty, steel-clad Pólovts army by the Ázov Sea, until Kobyák fell in Kíev city, in the council-room of Svyatosláv. Germans, Venetians, Greeks and Moravians sing the glory of Svyatosláv, but blame Prince Ígor who had merged his wealth in the Kayála, the Pólovts river, and had filled it with Russian gold. Here Ígor was unseated from his golden saddle and placed upon the saddle of a slave.

IX

The city walls were silent, and merriment was dead. Svyatosláv saw a troubled dream: “In Kíev on the mount you enveloped me last night,” he said, “in a black shroud on a bed of yew; they poured out to me blue wine mixed with bitterness; from empty quivers they showered large gems upon my lap, and tried to comfort me. Already are there boards without a cross beam in my hall of gold, and all night have the devilish crows been cawing.”[64] ...

The boyárs spoke to the Prince: “Prince, sorrow has enthralled your mind. Two falcons flew from their paternal throne of gold to find the city of Tmútorokan, and anxious to drink from the Don with their helmets. The falcons’ wings have been clipped by the pagan swords, and they have been enmeshed in iron fetters. On the third day it was dark: two suns were dimmed,[65] two red torches went out, and with them two young moons, Olég[66] and Svyatosláv, were shrouded in darkness. On Kayála river darkness veiled the day: the Pólovtses had invaded the Russian land, like a litter of lynxes.... Fair Gothic[67] maidens sing upon the shore of the blue sea, tinkling with the Russian gold: they sing the times of Bus, recall Sharokán’s[68] revenge. But we, your druzhína, are anxious for the feast.”

Then great Svyatosláv uttered golden words, mingled with tears: “Oh, my nephews, Ígor and Vsévolod! Too early did you begin to strike the land of the Pólovtses with your swords, and to seek glory for yourselves. You were vanquished ingloriously, for ingloriously have you spilled the blood of the pagans! Your brave hearts are forged with hard steel and tempered in daring exploits. See what you have done with my silvery hair! I no longer see with me my mighty, warlike brother Izyasláv with his Chernígov druzhína.... They overwhelmed their enemies with dirks, not bearing bucklers, but raising a warcry and resounding the glory of their forefathers. But you spoke: ‘We alone will vanquish! Let us ourselves gain the future glory, and share the glory of our fathers!’ Why should not an old man feel young again? When the falcon is moulting, he drives the birds far away, and allows not his nest to be hurt. But alas, the princes will not aid me! My years have turned to nothing. At Rim[69] they cry under the swords of the Pólovtses, and Vladímir[70] groans under his wounds. Bitterness and sorrow has befallen the son of Glyeb!”

X

Grand Prince Vsévolod![71] Fly from afar not only in thought, but come to protect your paternal throne: for you could dry up the Vólga[72] with your oars, and empty the Don with your helmets. If you were here, a Pólovts slave-girl would be worth a dime, and a man-slave—half a rouble.[73] And you know, together with the brave sons of Glyeb, how to hurl the Greek fire on land.

You, Grim Aurochs Rúrik and David![74] Did not your golden helmets swim in blood? Did not your valiant druzhína bellow like aurochses, when they were wounded by tempered swords in a strange field? Put your feet, O lords, into your golden stirrups to avenge the insult to the Russian land, the wounds of Ígor, the valiant son of Svyatosláv!

Yarosláv Osmomýsl of Gálich![75] You sit high upon your throne wrought of gold, propping with your iron-clad army the Carpathian mountains, barring the king’s path, closing the gates of the Danube, hurling missiles higher than the clouds, sitting in judgment as far as the Danube. Your thunders pass over the land, and you hold the key to the gates of Kíev; sitting on your paternal throne, you slay the sultans in their lands. Slay, O lord, Konchák, the pagan villain, to avenge the Russian land, the wounds of Ígor, the valiant son of Svyatosláv!

And you, valiant Román[76] and Mstisláv! A brave thought carries you into action.[77] You fly high in your onslaught, like a falcon circling in the air, about to swoop down upon the birds. You wear iron hauberks under Latin helmets, and the earth has trembled from you in many a pagan land: the Lithuanians, Yatvyágans, Deremélans and Pólovtses threw down their warclubs and bent their heads under those tempered swords. But now, O Prince, Ígor’s sun is dimmed,—the tree, alas, has shed its leaves. Along the Ros[78] and the Sulá the Pólovtses have sacked the towns, but Ígor’s brave army will rise no more. The Don calls you, O Prince, and the other princes to victory!

Olég’s sons have hastened to the war. Íngvar and Vsévolod,[79] and the three sons of Mstisláv,[80] a mighty winged brood! Not by the lot of war have you acquired power. Of what good are your golden helmets, and Polish warclubs and shields? Bar the enemy’s way with your sharp arrows, to avenge the Russian land, the wounds of Ígor, the valiant son of Svyatosláv!