In 1909 Merejkvski produced a little book on Lermontov as a counterblast to one by Solovyv in which Mart?nov was hailed as "Heaven"s weapon sent to punish blood-thirstiness and devilish l.u.s.t." It is a blessing indeed that Solovyv should have been led to attack Lermontov, for Merejkvski was thus brought to criticise Lermontov with an amazingly accurate insight. He loved the poet and so his appreciation is the more perfect. "Something like Solovyv"s att.i.tude towards Lermontov," he says, "must have been in the minds of the poet"s contemporaries and successors. Even Dostoievski mentions him as the "spirit of wrath." Nicholas I. expressed grim pleasure at his death. He has been up till now the scapegoat of Russian literature. All Russian writers preach humility, even those who began by heading revolts--Pushkin, Gogol, Dostoievski, Tolstoi ... here is the one single man who never gave in and never submitted to his last breath ... he is the Cain of Russian literature and has been killed by Abel, the spirit of humility. Solovyv"s cry of "Devilish superman" is only another proof of the fact that the struggle between superhumanism and deo-humanism is the eternal problem of life." Merejkvski"s idea is that Lermontov could remember the past of his eternity ... from the ordinary human mind this previous existence is excluded, we dwell on the eternity to come ... but Lermontov never did: his mind was concentrated on what he saw left behind him. From the very first his poetry attracts you uneasily: you may--Russian youths often are--be taught to hate him as a "spring of poison" ... he knew the harrowing threat of fruitless ages. Even as a boy he frequently said: "If only I could forget the unforgettable." His Demon is never permitted to forget the past. He lives by what is death to others.
Pechorin, in _The Hero of our Days_, speaks as Lermontov when he says: "I never forget anything--anything."
In one of his poems he laments that his despair is that no love lasts through eternity: he means _his_ eternity. He knows of a kind of existence which is neither this life, nor death as promised by Christianity. That existence is not deprived of love: his idea is that the less earthly, the deeper and greater the pa.s.sion becomes. The difference between Wordsworth"s _Ode on the Intimations_ and Lermontov"s is that Wordsworth speaks of these intimations coming to him from outside this world and Lermontov speaks from the outside world himself, as one belonging to it, while realising his temporary existence in this world to which he does not belong. This att.i.tude was a continual torment to him; it made him feel very much of a stranger.
"Usually," says Merejkvski, "artists find their creation beautiful because nothing like it has existed before." Lermontov feels the beauty just where it had been always. That is why there is something so individual and inimitable in him when he speaks of Nature: "For several moments spent among the wilderness of rocks where I played as a child I would give Paradise and Eternity."
"He is in love with Nature. He longs to blend in an embrace with the storm and Sh.e.l.ley-like catches of lightnings with his hands. It is the only non-earthly love for earth to be found in poetry. Christianity is a movement from here--thither: Lermontov"s poetry is from there--hither.
He was not-quite-a-man encased in a man"s sh.e.l.l. He tried to conceal this, because people do not forgive anyone for being unlike them. Hence his reticence, which people mistook for pride. They thought he was untruthful, posing ... while in reality it was his tragedy that he felt out of place here and tried to be like everyone else. This explains his escape into the sphere of dissipations, his cruel att.i.tude towards the girl he deserted ... when he could feel that at last he was like his contemporaries.
"The fourth dimension seemed to be squeezed into the three for a while, and the icy horror of eternity and the inane temporarily forgotten in the warmth of human vulgarity."
This, Merejkvski thinks, accounts for that amazing child-likeness in Lermontov which dwelt side by side with his pessimism, sadness, bitterness, flippancy and sarcasm. He could always play children"s games to the state of self-forgetfulness and had no fear of death, because he _knew_ that there was no death.
"His Demon never laughs and never lies; he has something of the child-like in him. He is always genuine, as far removed as possible from Gogol"s spirit of mischief or Dostoievsky"s wicked, sneering Devil.
Lermontov"s Devil is beautiful, because he is not thought out, but suffered out by the poet himself; he is hardly a devil at all."
There is a legend that once there was a fight between G.o.d and Satan and some of the angels were undecided which side to take. In order to help them to make up their mind they were sent to be born on earth, where they should dwell for a little in a limited world: the soul of Lermontov had been in his past one of these. That is why his duality was always such a burden to him. This explains many queer things about Lermontov: his amazingly deep pa.s.sion for a girl of nine when he was ten ("I did not know whence she came") and his having drawn a detailed picture of his death many times before his final duel: most strange of all is Merejkvski"s idea that Lermontov remembered the future of eternity.
Pushkin is the day-luminary of Russian poetry and Lermontov is the night-luminary: "It is high time to rise after our final stage of humility and start on our last revolt, and remember that besides Pushkin we have Lermontov and his message to the world.... Because in the end Satan will make peace with G.o.d."
He owed nothing to his contemporaries, little to his predecessors and still less to foreign models.
As a schoolboy he imitated Byron, merely echoes these, however, of his reading. Sh.e.l.ley urged him as Byron urged Pushkin to emulation, not imitation. His pride and obstinacy if nothing else would have made him carve out his own path: he chose the narrow path of romance, the Turner method rather than the Constable in his depictions of landscape, as may be seen in _Mtsysi_, the story of a Circa.s.sian orphan educated in a convent, who has ungovernable longings for freedom: he escapes, loses his way in the forest and is brought back after three days, dying from exhaustion and starvation. The greater portion of the poem is given up to his confession: he then tells how insatiable were his desires to seek out his own home and people: he describes his wanderings, hearing the song of a girl ... seeing at nightfall the light of a dwelling-place twinkling like a fallen star, but afraid to seek it. He then kills a panther and in the morning finds a way out of the woods and lies exhausted in the gra.s.s under the blinding sun of noon. He then fancies in his delirium that he is lying at the bottom of a deep stream; the fish sing to him in a voice so unearthly that he is enticed and allured as if the fish were the Erl-King"s daughter.
In _The Testament_ he rises to an unadorned realism that is little short of magic in its poignancy:
""I want to be alone with you, A moment quite alone.
The minutes left to me are few, They say I"ll soon be gone.
And you"ll be going home on leave, Then say ... but why? I do believe There"s not a soul who"ll greatly care To hear about me over there.
And yet if someone asks you there, Let us suppose they do-- Tell them a bullet hit me here, The chest--and it went through.
And say I died, and for the Tsar, And say what fools the doctors are:-- And that I shook you by the hand, And thought about my native land.
My father and my mother, too!
They may be dead by now: To tell the truth, it wouldn"t do To grieve them anyhow.
If one of them is living, say I"m bad at writing home and they Have sent me to the front, you see-- And that they needn"t wait for me.
We had a neighbour, as you know, And you remember, I And she ... How very long ago It is we said good-bye.
She won"t ask after me, nor care, But tell her everything, don"t spare Her empty heart; and let her cry:-- To her it doesn"t signify.""
It is such a poem that led Baring to apply to Lermontov what Arnold said about Byron and Wordsworth: "there are moments when Nature takes the pen from his hand and writes for him." When one pa.s.ses in review the vast output of his short life, we are struck by the lyrical inspiration, the strength and intensity, the concentration of his power, the wealth of his imagination, his gorgeous colouring and maintained high level.
It is as though he combined the temperament of a Thackeray with the wings of a Sh.e.l.ley, so exquisitely blended is his romantic sense and stern realism. So simple and straightforward is he that his style escapes notice in its absolute appropriateness, as in _The Testament_.
There is none of the misty vagueness of Keats or Coleridge; he never follows Sh.e.l.ley into the intense inane.
I propose to conclude this chapter with extracts from his masterpiece, _The Demon_, to ill.u.s.trate, if I can, the amazing achievement of this Lucifer-spirit. He opens with a description of his hero-devil ruminating over his past:
"When, thirsting for eternal knowledge, He keenly followed through the mist The caravans of wandering planets Thrown into vastness; when he list-- The happy first-born of creation-- To voice of Faith and Love, and knew No doubt or hatred; and there was No threat of ages fruitless, dreary, Awaiting him in even rows ..."
Now an outcast:
"He planted sin without enjoyance; His art has never met contest, Has quickly lost its charm and zest, And has become a mere annoyance."
We follow him in his exile over the world through the Caucasus to Gruzia:
"A blissful, brilliant nook of Earth!
"Mid stately ancient pillared ruins, Relucent, gurgling rivulets run And ripple over motley pebbles; Between them, rose-trees where the birds Sing love-songs, while the ivy girds The stems, and crowns the foliage-temples Of green chinara; and the herds Of timid red-deer seek the boon Of mountain eaves in sultry noon; And sparkling life, and rustling leaves, And hum of voices hundred-toned, The sweetly breathing thousand plants, Voluptuous heat of skies sun-laden, Caressive dew of gorgeous night, And stars--as clear as eyes of maiden, As glance of Gruzian maiden bright!
But all this brilliancy of Nature Awoke not in the Demon"s soul A moment"s joy, nor tender feeling."
We are now introduced to the heroine, Tamara, whose wedding feast is being prepared:
"Amid her friends, the whole day long Tamara spent in play and song.
The sun, behind a far-off mountain, Is half set in a sea of gold.
The maidens in a round are sitting And, to a lilting tune they"re singing They clap in time. Tamara takes Her tambourine, and nimbly shakes It o"er her head; with fleeting motion Now trips it lighter than a bird, Now holds a-sudden in her dance, And casts a shining, roguish glance From underneath the jealous lashes; Her eyebrow curves in coy expression, Her lithesome shape does swift incline, And o"er the carpet slides and flashes Her little foot of form divine....
The Demon did behold her.... Rapture And awe possessed him: and at once The silent desert of his spirit Rang suddenly with joyful tones; And once again the sacred grandeur Of Love and Good and Beauty shone Within his soul....
He felt a sadness strangely new-- As if the overwhelming shower Of feelings rang with words he knew.
Was this a sign of renovation?
Gone were the words of dread temptation, His mind no more in guile adept.
Will he forget his past?... But G.o.d Would never grant him this relief, Nor he forgetfulness accept."
Tamara"s bridegroom-elect is foully done to death on his way to the wedding. The bride, fallen on her bed, sobs with a lorn and piteous feeling until she suddenly hears a voice of magic sweetness urging her to cease.
""Forsooth, the destiny of mortals, Believe me, angel upon earth"" (sings the voice), ""Is not--not for a single moment Of thy dear child-like sorrow worth!""
He beseeches her to listen to his pleas:
""As soon as night throws silky veiling O"er Caucasus, and all the world Grows still and fairy-like, bewitched By Nature"s magic wand and word; As soon as zephyrs flutter shyly Across the faded gra.s.s, and gaily Flies out of it the lurking bird; As soon as under vine and maize The flowers of night find dew, and raise Unfolding petals with relief: As soon as from behind the mountains The golden crescent glides, and steals A glance upon thee furtively-- I shall fly down each night to thee, Shall guard till dawn thy virgin slumber, And on thy lashes dreams of amber I"ll waft, to woo them prettily....""
We are not surprised that fire began to flow along the maiden"s veins as she listened to so exquisite a speech. She decides to enter a nunnery to avoid both marriage and the h.e.l.lish spirit that a.s.sails her in dreams. The Devil follows:
"But, filled with fear of sanct.i.ty, He dared not boldly force an entrance And violate the sanctuary.
Then for a moment was he fain To give up his h.e.l.l-dark device."
He catches a glimpse of the glimmering lamplight in Tamara"s window and hears a song in the far distance, a song for earth in heaven born and nourished.
"Had, then, an angel flown in secret To meet him as his friend of yore, To sing the byegone joys they cherished, And soothe the sufferings he bore?
Then first the Demon knew he loved; Knew how he yearned and longed for love.
In sudden fear, he thought to fly ...
But in that first, heart-rending anguish His wing was stayed--he had no power!
And, marvel! from his veiled eye There dropped a tear.... This very hour There lieth by Tamara"s tower A stone burnt through by flame-like tear-- Inhuman tear: a sign for aye!..."
As he entered he was met by the guardian angel of the fair sinner, who reproaches the Demon, and bids him begone.
"The Demon"s face Lit up with smile of proud derision, His look flashed jealousy and scorn, And in his soul again awakened The former hatred"s poisonous thorn."
The guardian angel departs and the Demon is left victor of the field to plead his cause. In answer to Tamara"s question, ""But who art thou?
Who?... Answer me,"" he replies:
""I"m he whose voice has made thee listen Throughout the midnight"s calm and rest; Whose thoughts have reached thee like a whisper, Whose vision through thy dreams would glisten, Whose sadness thou hast dimly guessed....