mm : ..*:i -.■..•;.f»V. c . -i ; ; : ---i • . ■ . : ' : : :":'V ; : ■ : ■ ■ <«C= !8fr ^p^fs^fe^fi^^^^^^ Feodor "Vladimir J^jirrovitch ANAPPRECIATIONOFHISLIFEyWORKS m ."■ ■'■ ' : ' " ' ■ '.: ' . ' . .'. . ■ Quntell llmiicraity ffiihrarjj 3tl)ara, New Qattt L* .WSftAirtUWl.. Cornell University Library PS 2152.J64F3 Feodor Vladimir Larrovitchjan appreciatl 3 1924 022 063 279 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022063279 A portrait of Larrovitch, a pressed flower from his grave at Yalta and a page of the Ms. of "Crasny Baba" framed and on the walls of the Authors Club 4>§ g» Feodor Uladimir J^arrovitch AN APPRECIATION OF HIS LIFE AND WORKS EDITED BY WILLIAM GEORGE JORDAN AND RICHARDSON WRIGHT The ^Authors Qlub NEW YORK I918 X Copyright, 1918, by The Authors Club DEDICATED TO THE QUICKLY KINDLED AND LASTING SYMPATHY BETWEEN THE GREAT PEOPLES OF ^America and Russia Contents Preface J^arrovitch CLINTON SCOLLARD, A. B. A Prolegomenon to J^arrovitch FRANKLIN H.GIDDINGS, A. B., PH. D.,LL.D. The Personal Side of J^arrovitch WILLIAM GEORGE JORDAN J^arrovitcK s Place in Literature M'CREADY SYKES, A. B. Some Translations from J^arrovitch RICHARDSON WRIGHT Three Incidental Poems by J^arrovitch GEORGE S. HELLMAN, A. B. Five Xjirrovitch Letters THOMAS WALSH, PH. D., LITT. D. The True and the False About Jtjzrrovitch RICHARDSON WRIGHT Talks with J^arrovitch TITUS MUNSON COAN, A. M., M. D. Qontents Toward a fjirrovitch Foundation JAMES HOWARD BRIDGE Bibliography of J^arrovitch ARTHUR COLTON, A. B., PH. D. Bibliographical Notes ARTHUR COLTON, A. B., PH. D. References GUST AVE SIMONSON, A. M., M. D. Illustrations Authors Club J^arrovitch Memento The Mother and Father of J^arrovitch Ms. from "Crasny Baba" J^arrovitch as a Young Man Invitation to J^arrovitch Centenary Celebration Program of J^arrovitch Centenary Celebration Room in which J^arrovitch Died The Tomb of J^arrovitch at Yalta Relics of J^arrovitch 'Preface 1 he purpose of assembling between covers these commentaries on the life and work of Feodor Vladimir Larrovitch was to preserve in permanent form the first American tribute to that finely discerning interpreter of Russian life and ideals. Between America and Russia there has been a great gulf fixed for many years. Neither America nor Russia has striven very hard — despite several historic manifestations of interest — to foster an abiding friendship. Both nations have suffered from geographic separation. Both have felt acutely the intervention of pernicious influences. There has really been only a meager showing of that sympathy and sentiment which, in other instances, has bred a camara- derie vital, advantageous and enduring. What was true of our diplomatic relations has also been true of our mutual literary interests. American writers are read in Russia and Russian writers in America, but in neither case are they totally typical of either people. Current public demand has much to do with this. Jack London, for example, is a favorite with the Russian read- ing public, and in America Artsibasheff has enjoyed a cer- tain measure of popularity. Yet who would say either en- tirely represented his respective country? Again, the popularity of a foreign author may be due to the fact that he is "discovered" by some well-known critic, and on the recommendation of that critic translations of his works are devoured by an unreflecting public. These methods of transplanting a foreign author to a strange soil are, indeed, unfair both to author and reader. They are even more unfair to the great mass of the "undis- covered" who enjoy popularity at home but are without honor abroad. In creating amity between peoples it is ne- cessary to preserve more than a balance of trade; we must establish and maintain a balance of the arts. The path to peace is a road along which all manner of folk can walk [ii] Feodor "Vladimir JTarrovitch and exchange ideas of art, letters and music. These are the abiding expressions of a people. Our separation from Russia has been due mainly to a blind prejudice which even the overthrow of Tsardom can- not entirely dispel. True, we attend the Russian ballet, and have learned that the bear which walked like a man was actually a man who danced like a satyr. In the chaotic tones of Tschaikowsky, Scherabin and Rimsky-Korsakqff, we have found widened casements that look on Heaven. In the pages of Turgeniev, Tolstoi, Gorky, Dostoievsky, and Tchekqff, we read phases of the Russian soul that open to us magnificent vistas of understanding. But even these are not enough. Our art and letters have trodden different paths. If ever they can hope to converge in the broad road of understanding, it must be through a complete acquaint- ance. We cannot depend for our appreciation of Russian authors upon the chance recommendation of an enthusias- tic critic or the shrewd discrimination of a clever publisher who gives the people what. he thinks they want. In short, America has still to discover literary Russia. Before we can know the great Russian people we must know some- thing, at least, of all the influences that have come to bear on them through the printed page. In the interests of establishing a literary balance, an amity of the pen between the great peoples of America and Russia, the Authors Club arranged for a celebration of the centenary of Larrovitch's birth. This was held on the evening of April 26, 1917, in the Club Rooms. It was one of the largest gatherings of the year, an indication of the respect felt to be due the great Russian. The contributions which have been gathered together in this volume were read on that occasion. Lantern slides of places intimately as- sociated with Larrovitch were shown and there was ex- [12] Prefc ace hibited a collection of Larrovitch relics loaned by M. Lenin of Moscow. A portrait of Larrovitch together with a page from the Ms. of'Crasny Baba," and a pressed flower from the author's grave at Yalta, were presented by a member of the Club and have been given permanent place on our walls. WILLIAM GEORGE JORDAN RICHARDSON WRIGHT For the Authors Club. [13] «og &» JParrcPoitch <*?CLINTON SCOLLARD yes, even I have been guilty of verse. But who has not? Verse is the natural mode of ex- pression for exalted moments. Its rhythm is an echo of the rhythm of higher things. From a letter to S. G. Bonstin What I shall say of Larrovitch shall be As though one spoke of twilight in the spring, Of vernal beauty come to blossoming Too soon, to fade and be but memory — The memory of a something to which we In our exalted moments fain would cling, Frail and ephemeral as the white moth's wing, Or as the prismy spindrift of the sea. Let us forget the chill Siberian snows, The stark Caucasian heights let us forget; These girdled and oppressed him, and his woes Wake in our hearts a passionate regret; So be there strewn above his long repose Sweet sprays of the Crimean violet! Clinton Scollard [17] A PROLEGOMENON TO cQarrovitch •^FRANKLIN H. GIDDINGS Oay this of me: That I never robbed the poor; that I never fled from foe; that I never failed to pro- tect the young and weak; that I have loved beauti- ful women and good things to eat and drink; that I have bowed me in the presence of great forest trees and stood uncovered beneath the stars. What does it matter that my name is writ in blood across three provinces? Men shall remember Ivan Soronko who did evil only that he might do good. From "Ivan Soronko." Fellow Members of the Authors Club : W e are assembled to celebrate the one hundredth birthday of an author. We do not do it often. To the philosophers of the cosmic relations, as to the Eternal Mind, a thousand years may be as one day and one day as a thousand years, but authors in general cannot be so free with time, before or after death. Indeed, it is un- usual when, after a rounded century, an author is re- membered by authors; and it is extraordinary, as all will agree, when one is so remembered after having been for- gotten. Larrovitch, whom we honor, enjoys the distinction of having been brought to life. With Shakespeare and Na- poleon he is of the immortals whose existence has been questioned. For more than fifty years his name has been unknown, not only to the general reader, but even to the well-informed. In these rooms I have seen the eyelash lifted at mention of Larrovitch. Tonight, we present the evidences and resolve all doubts. On that table are the relics. There is a lock of his hair, and there are the lock and key of his prison. Behold with what embroideries that shirt is adorned. On yonder wall is the portrait, with its haunting suggestion of features somehow familiar. To the story that these silent witnesses bring we shall add testimony. Dr. Titus Munson Coan is here, and he knew Larrovitch and talked with him repeatedly, as he will tell you. Others will tell you of Larrovitch's qualities, of his struggles and achievements. They will offer their ap- preciations of his genius. May I make one small con- tribution of fact, upon which I am perhaps qualified to speak? It was Larrovitch who discovered, or invented, the history of civilization. He foresaw the rise and fall of Kultur, and in discoursing of it he anticipated Her- Feodor "Vladimir JParrovitch bert Spencer's famous definition of cosmic evolution. "Kultur," said Larrovitch, "is the integration of Ho- henzollerns, accompanied by the differentiation and the segregation of nations, and the concomitant dissipation of Teutons." He warned of impending war between Potsdam and civilization, but also he foretold the success- ful and glorious end. Franklin Henry Giddings [22] THE PERSONAL SIDE OF J^arrovitch ^WILLIAM GEORGE JORDAN 1 detest him!" Katia seemed in earnest. "I detest the way he cuts his beard." "Oh dear, if you've never gotten beyond his beard," sighed Maria Sergevitch, "you have a lot more to learn about him." From "Propre et Ordonnije." In the little village of Tsubskaia in the Caucasus on the 26th of April, 18 17 (old style, April 13th) was born Feodor Vladimir Larrovitch, whose work has shed un- dying glory on Russian literature. From his father's side he inherited Tatar blood, his grandfather being pure Tatar; on his mother's side he fell heir to Polish blood, his mother's people — the Olanskis — being among set- tlers who came from Poland to Kiev in the early years of the Eighteenth Century. His father's lineage seems to have been rather com- monplace; in fact it was due solely to the maternal side that Feodor inherited the intellectual power that flow- ered into genius. His father, Vladimir Serge Larrovitch, was a captain in the army, and while stationed at Kiev met and mar- ried the young and beautiful Sophia Feodorovna Olan- ski. On being ordered to take command of the local bar- racks at Tsubskaia, Larrovitch took his bride thither and it was there that Feodor Vladimir, the sole issue of the marriage, was born. Life in this little village in the hills would have been rather dull had it not been for the idyllic love of the young people who, as their son said later, in talking with Lanatiere in Paris in 1861, "would have made their Paradise even in a desert if they had had but each other." They were better off in worldly goods than most of their associates, for Sophia inherited, from her father, prop- erty which yielded an income that to the husband and wife seemed wealth. Their home, humble though its exterior, was within its walls tastefully furnished. The principal duties of Captain Larrovitch and his small command were to keep in subjection the brigands that infested the region of over a hundred versts around. They were not exterminated, as the government did not deem it wise to put too much pressure on the activities [25] Feodor "Vladimir JFarrovitch of those so closely allied with the people, who rather sym- pathized with the brave reckless bands that relieved the rich of their superfluous wealth. The stories of their raids, their secret haunts and their courage stirred and thrilled the imagination of Feodor as Homer's Iliad did the boys of ancient Greece. At night, after he had gone to bed, he listened to his father telling of his experiences with the brigands to his mother who did not know that the boy, supposed to be sleeping, really had his little curly head well away from the pillow, drinking in every word and trembling with excitement and the intensity of his interest. His mother, a cultured woman, well versed in French, German and Continental literature, undertook the early training of the boy, who at that time was so delicate that it was feared that he could never be a soldier. She confided her fears to the good, kind friend of the family, the local "pope" who conspired with her to convince the elder Larrovitch of the importance of giving Feodor more than a mere military education. In 1825 when the boy was eight years old, the revolt of the Decembrists broke out. Although this revolt did not reach the Caucasus, and Feodor was too young to realize it, it greatly stirred his mother. The revolt was the first one led by the aristocrats, mostly Polish; it gave color to the revolts that followed and set the cus- tom for revolts against the existing order being led by the intellectual and aristocratic people. Feodor, a ner- vous, sensitive, imaginative child, heard much of this and of the revolts that followed and though he under- stood little of the details, it somehow was a vital, in- tensifying influence in his life. As a child, he was loved by all and, in his play hours, [26] ■: >* ~-.--'.' .'.-. '*-- " ; ^ tA ,/ 'fSsJP «^< V- Yv ^feft ,,{*"»;• ! ' ;^y- ' _ jiK^^l ft 5 ^ ^ g =5 fe < «, 3 The 'Personal Side of \Carrovitch was usually the center of a group of boys of the village, telling them stories of brigands, of soldiers and of patri- ots. The name by which the older folk usually greeted him, with a smile or a kindly pat on the head as he passed them on the road, was "Malinki Tsoube," which being translated means "the little well-beloved." His mother often told him (as he relates in a letter to Dostoievsky, dated May 19, 1864), of his Polish ances- tors. "Remember, Feodor, that your ancestor Ivan Olanski saved the life of his king, Sigismund I, in 15 19, as he led his army at the battle of Poldo. The fighting blood of more than ten generations of Poles flows in your veins. Remember ever that you must fight. Should ill- health keep you from fighting with your sword, fight with your mind, fight with your heart, fight with your soul, fight for freedom, for right, for truth, for justice. Let it never be said that an Olanski knew fear or hesita- tion in the face of wrong or oppression." "It was not until years afterward," added Larrovitch, "that I real- ized that I could fight for freedom with my pen." Two other influences in the boyhood of Feodor were virile formative elements in shaping his genius, in mak- ing the child the man, big with power, purpose and pos- sibility to do the work that will be undying in the his- tory of Russia. Some of his biographers have treated his father rather slightingly. They have failed to recog- nize his great sense of justice, so intense that it seemed an obsession, and for many versts around Tsubskaia, the people, who came to him as arbiter of their differ- ences instead of going to law, called him "Vladimir, the Supremely Just." In the light of this, the passion for justice that guided and inspired the son need cause no wonder as to whence it came. From the "little pope," [27] Feodor 'Vladimir JParrovitch there was instilled into his heart and soul, a great spirit- uality; it persisted and it inspired, in the later years, the bitterness of his scourging of the bigotry, graft and superstition of the church. I have given in some detail the formative forces of his childhood that dominated his later life. To me they seem vital and fundamental if we are to understand Lar- rovitch aright. I pass merely sketchily and suggestively over the later years of his life because in their main lines they are doubtless familiar to you all, and should there be any here tonight to whom perchance they are not known, it would be taxing your courtesy unduly to de- lay you with facts so easily accessible in all the encyclo- pedias and histories. As to his books and the critical estimate of what Lanatiere calls "the miracles of Larro- vitch's pen," I shall say but a word. This will be told you tonight by more eloquent lips than mine, but — may I say it with humility? — with no more profound rever- ence than fills my own soul. I toss aside with contempt much of our contemporary literature, but I am thrilled, inspired, calmed and regenerated in the magic pages of the master genius of Russian literature — Larrovitch. At fifteen he entered the preparatory school, and in his nineteenth year he entered the University of Kiev to study medicine. In spite of the university teaching he managed to acquire sufficient knowledge of medicine, with a little history and literature on the side, to secure his degree. He never practiced medicine as a money- earning profession, but his knowledge made him later a ministering angel to the poor prisoners in Siberia and to the villagers near, whom he was permitted to help. After completing his university course, he chose to tutor in history and to take up the life of the intellectual [28] The 'Personal Side of J^arrovitch colony of the University, and writing short essays and poems for the magazines and journals from his twenty- fifth to his twenty-eighth year, when his first great ro- mance came. It had an ending that was absolutely new in his love affairs — he married! This was in 1845. The lady was Sonia Sirota. She was a Russian actress, young, beautiful, fascinating, sympathetic, clever in an unconventional way, and she swept him off his feet. It was a rare love story — but it was not to last. Only a month after the birth of a daughter, whom he called Sophia in honor of his mother, he was seated at a table writing; Sonia, on the edge of his chair with her arm around his neck and her head close to his, was reading aloud a sentence or a paragraph that delighted them both. The door suddenly opened; two gendarmes en- tered with a warrant for his arrest. It was a lightning stroke. Prostrated with grief, Sonia saw him taken away. He was crushed. But nerving himself and think- ing only of her, he said, with that sweet smile of his, "Sonia, deshunka, it is all a mistake. Soon will I return." He lied bravely — as a man should. The trial was brief, farcically so. The charge was the teaching of seditious doctrines — just what, is not known. Some Russian critics say he attacked the dogmas of the church; others charge clerical "graft" in connection with the State. He was sentenced to Siberia for five years. The parting between the married lovers was heart-rending. Sonia was in an agony of despair; and sobbing, she declared that even God could never in all the years console her for his absence. A young French lieutenant, however, succeeded two months later in ac- complishing what it had been declared impossible for a Higher Power to do in five years, and the couple fled to U 9 ] Feodor "Vladimir JTarrovitch Paris — taking with them the child, Sophia. Larrovitch was sent first to Irkutsk where he served six months in the local etape and the remainder of the sentence in a small village on the shores of Lake Baikal — Baikalskaia. Of his prison life we know comparatively little. It was during this period of banishment that the divine spark in Larrovitch's soul burst into flame. He had dabbled in literature, but now it became a crusade, a holy mission, a fight for the big things of life, a fight with his pen. Un- like Dostoievsky who made "copy" out of his prison life, Larrovitch found in it inspiration. From the crushed grapes of his years of individual sorrow, he pressed wine of inspiration for the world. He never wrote about what happened to him; he merely let these long years as a mighty regenerating influence cleanse his soul of all bit- terness, pettiness and superficiality; he was filled with a divine ambition to begin his great life work. On his long trip home from Siberia one idea dominat- ed his mind — it was the joy of his home-coming to Sonia, his wife. She was the center of every thought of his waking moments, the atmosphere of his sleeping dreams. He finally reached Kiev; he ran all the way from the station to his little home. The place had been rented to new tenants; kind neighbors gently broke the story of his tragedy to him. He was prostrated and for three months suffered from brain-fever in the hospital at Kiev, being nursed by his mother, now widowed. Then in the days of convalescence, the mighty purpose of his life came back to him and with restored health he went to St. Petersburg — now Petrograd — for he could never live again at Kiev. Here he had a love affair with Hedwig Carlotta [30] The 'Personal Side of ' JParrovitch Hjarne, a Swedish lady of high social standing and keen literary judgment, sojourning with friends at the lega- tion. That they were married is disputed, but she was a loyal companion to him for two years. The story that she was a Swedish masseuse has been denied with clear evi- dence of its falsity, as is shown by Ivan Bartinski in his fascinatingly indiscreet volume "Larrovitch and His Loves," published in Moscow in 1893. With his morals or his immorals, in this and in later episodes, we have naught to do. At their worst, they form but a small mortgage on the fine estate of his noble character, his splendid mind and his rare soul. Finding the life at St. Petersburg too distracting for his literary work, he went to Tver where he spent some years. He was now in the full swing of his wonderful productive career. He wrote slowly but rarely revised. At this time he planned and blocked out his great tril- ogy, the three novels on Education, Justice, and Love as the essentials of all true freedom. This trilogy was not completed till 1881, the year of his death. In 1863 he went to Paris, for, alone in the world, he had now no ties. His mother had died leaving him an annuity which, while not large, gave him a certain free- dom. His French publishers invited him to the capital to work out details of the serial publication of "Vy vodne," —"The Right to Marriage"— then completed. He also wanted to be in closer touch with the Russian revolu- tionary branch established in Paris. His counsel, his plans, his organization, were the secret springs of many movements for freedom where his hand was never pub- licly known. His five years in Paris were the happiest of his life; he was honored, feted and admired; he was gleaning the [3O Feodor "Vladimir J^arrovitch harvest of his years of work. His genius, his wit, his sympathy, his brilliant conversation, keen philosophy, and that sweet smile of his that was characteristic, won him friends here as they had done in Russia. He loved freedom as the supreme gift of life; he loved America, which he called "the Land of the Great Hope," watched with feverish interest in those dark hours of our Civil War the daily struggle when the fate of the world's great democracy trembled in the balance. He contrib- uted articles on the War to Le Temps, and at the Sor- bonne he delivered two series of lectures on "Russian History" and "The Awakening of the Russian People." In 1868, at the age of 51, he returned to Tver where he passed the remaining years of his life, occupied with the writing of his books, his contributions of essays to magazines, and occasional lectures. In 1880, his consti- tution, weakened by his years in Siberia and the ardor of his later literary labors, broke down. His clear mind and his knowledge of medicine made him realize it was the beginning of the end. He wanted only to live long enough to complete "Gospodi Pomi," the last volume in his great trilogy. He worked day and night feverishly in his battle against time and on February 18, 1881, the manuscript was completed. Weak, worn, and but a shadow of his former self, he left Tver for Yalta, that delightful summer resort of the Crimea at the foot of the Haila Mountains, on the edge of the sea. The balmy air seemed to revive him for a little; he seemed better but he knew it was but seeming, not reality. Early in March he had to take to the bed from which he never rose. On the afternoon of the 13th of March he was resting quietly, when the shrill call of newsboys shouting an (32] The 'Personal Side ofJParrovitch "extra" came through the open window. He raised him- self with difficulty, leaned on one arm and listened. "As- sassination of Alexander II" were the unbelievable words that he heard. Alexander, the great reformer, the liberator of the serfs, had been killed ! Falling back, on his pillow he murmured, "Oh, my poor, blinded coun- trymen, oh, the folly of it and the shame! You have put out the light of Russia's liberty" — and then, silence. The great heart of Larrovitch was stilled forever. William George Jordan C333 J^arrovitch? s PLACE IN LITERATURE ^M'CREADY SYKES -W hat did I read in Siberia ? All manner of books — scores, hundreds of them. But the naming of them would mean little to you, as they meant little to me then. That is the great weakness with men who write — they depend entirely too much on books. In Siberia I read books to pass the time, for learning I read Nature — I read into the mystery of the stars and was taught breadth of mind from the far-flung horizon of the steppes, and the moun- tain peaks reaching into the sky led me upward from mundane things. From a letter to Radzill, the sculptor. 1 suppose that wherever this day is being celebrated, wherever men are gathered together — as in so many far separate places they are gathered together — reverent comment is being made on the extraordinary coinci- dence whereby rumblings of the tremendous event fore- told by the greatest Russian of the 19th Century should be stirring the world within a few months before the centenary of his birth. Wherever men are paying tribute to the work and memory of Feodor Vladimir Larrovitch, there assuredly are they pointing out the almost uncanny coincidence that the revolution, for which the influence of Larrovitch is above all others responsible, should have been attempted on the very eve of this sacred anniversary. How slow is the recognition of fame, oh! how swift its course and how irresistible its momentum when the weighing and sifting have been done and the judgment of mankind once formulated! When Larrovitch died, thirty-six years ago, few in this country had the slight- est acquaintance with his work. In France only the scholarly voice of Lanatiere; in England a single essay of Mr. Edmund Gosse — this covers almost the whole of the published recognition a generation ago of the now acknowledged master of Russian literature. I some- times think those are to be envied whose first acquain- tance with a great writer comes before fame has arrived; they have the thrill of discovery; before the wonder of it they stand like Keats' misplaced navigator: "Silent, upon a peak in Darien." Larrovitch was contemporary with the three great Russian novelists, Dostoievsky, Turgeniev and Tolstoi. The span of his life almost coincided with those of the first two. Born in 18 17, he was four years older than Dostoievsky, and they died within two months of each other. Turgeniev, born in 1818, one year younger than Larrovitch, survived him by two years. It was the ar- [37] Feodor "Vladimir JParrovitc/i rival of these four great men at the first maturity of their power that marked the beginning of modern Russian fiction, a little before the middle of the century. If, through the veil of mysticism that obscures all Russian writers, we can trace the outlines of their theme, we shall see in each of them the preacher of a fairly co- herent gospel of life. That is, Russian literature is suf- fused by philosophy to a degree not reached in occi- dental fiction. And when we speak of literature on one side of the parallel and fiction on the other, it must be remembered that in Russia the novel is the exponent and medium of philosophy, religion and the whole the- ory of life. The thought of Russia finds expression in the novel as it does not find expression in England, France, Germany or the United States. And it is only occasionally, as in the case of Mr. Hardy, that we find a writer who through the medium of the novel consistent- ly sets forth, or rather suggests and adumbrates, a the- ory of life and the most profound speculations on the nature of reality and the whole problem of God and the moral order. Now it is that kind of approach that we find used by the Russian novelists. Each of them has given a vision —not with the sharp and clear-cut outlines familiar to our western modes of thought, but vague, indefinite — sometimes formless almost — a vision of the shadowy, tenuous kind, shot through with the mysticism that be- trays how vastly nearer to the orient than we are, is great amorphous Russia, with her mysticism, her shad- owy, elusive quality that baffles western analysis. I sometimes wonder whether Mr. Kipling was right. "East is East and West is West," but is it true that never the twain shall meet? Do they not meet and pre- [38] GhtA UM**>r*iA> /istD IS®'*/ <^V^ A page from the Ms. of "Crasny Baba" in Larrovitch's handwriting. Now in possession of the Authors Club J^arrovitcJi s 'Place in literature sent an aspect of both in the mysterious land that is it- self half European and half Asiatic ? In an age when the struggle for civil and political free- dom seemed hopeless, Dostoievsky, that strange, crush- ed, baffled, unhappy hypochondriac, epileptic, the vic- tim of shattered nerves, looked at mankind through a temperament as illusory, as distorting as the veil of Maya. You remember how, in early manhood, with fiendish cruelty that bears witness to the thoroughness of their German training, the Russian officials had taken Dostoievsky and twenty-two other prisoners on an un- disclosed political charge, and how, after eight months in jail without hearing or even formal accusation, the pris- oners were suddenly taken one morning into the public square, where stood a scaffold, and were told that sen- tence of death had been passed on them. They were blindfolded and ranged for summary execution; the sig- nal to aim was given, and suddenly at the last moment announcement was made that the Emperor had gra- ciously commuted their sentence to imprisonment. Few men could live through such an experience and ever again have the old strength of spiritual texture. We must read Dostoievsky's interpretation in the light of his sufferings, of the meagerness, squalor and terror of his earlier life; his happy fortunes came later. You know, of course, how Dostoievsky solved the problem of the moral order. It was Parsifal's formula — durch Mittleid wissend — enlightenment through com- passion, compassion in its etymological sense of suffer- ing together, expiation, salvation by pity. It doesn't seem wholly sane and healthy, any more than it does in Wagner's work, and, of course, to call Dostoievsky sane or healthy would be to put a strain on adjectives of ap- l39l LA <^-^n£^e^yty/So. KlAMs Uu-b&24] SOME TRANSLATIONS FROM J^arrovitch ^RICHARDSON WRIGHT I ES,the dead live," said Father Sergius. There was a look of distance in his eye and a great peace lighted his countenance. "I am sure of that. We should not mourn for them, we should rejoice. They can be very close to us." "And how ?" asked the old man. "They are dead if we wish them dead. They live if we wish them to live. They will be far away if we wish them far away. They will be very near if we wish them very near. Love is the secret. Love gives them life. Love brings them close to us. Do you understand ?' ' But the starosta did not understand. From "Barin! Barin!" T)awn on the Steppe* Oonia awoke with a start. She glanced around the room, her eyes half opened. Gradually the memory of the night came to her — the ghastly memory of that bacchanale. With a weary hand she brushed the hair back from her temples, letting its thick black curls cascade down her snowy white shoulders and over the lace of her night- gown. In a cot bed on the other side of the room by the stove lay Peter Ivanovitch. Loose and limp like a damp rag his arm hung over the side. His face was still purple from the drinking of the night before. He lay as he had fallen into the bed — with half his clothes on, although in compassion for him Sonia had removed his boots which were soiling the sheets. The house was very still. Outside a dog barked. Two others answered mournfully. Sonia glanced about, bewildered at the chaos of the room — the table with the remains of the wedding feast, the empty bottles, the scattered bits of cake, the broken goblets on the floor. A shiver shook her like October wind the aspen. On a chair by the bed lay her clothes in orderly array. Sonia had been well brought up by the best of mothers, and even at the end of her tempestuous wedding night had not forgotten to be neat about her underlinen. She glanced again at Peter Ivanovitch, and then cautiously slid out of bed. As her toes touched the cold floor, she shivered and gathered the nightgown about her. [A description here, presumably of how Sonia put on her linen, has been censored by the Holy Synod in the ♦From "Vyvodne" C53] Feodor Uladimir JTarrovitch interest of morals.] Sonia slowly opened the door and passed out into the hall. No one was up in the house. From the porter's room came muffled snores. She tiptoed down the passage, quietly pushed back the great wooden bolt, and went out into the street. The house stood on the edge of the town. Beyond lay the barns and pastures of the Ivanovitch farm. Rapidly Sonia made her way past them and came to the edge of the steppe. There it lay, a great, flat, gray blanket of snow stretching to the horizon. Never a tree, never a bush. Only the beaten road before her that zigzagged off like a brown snake. On the horizon two parallel shafts widened across the gray sky. Slowly they con- verged. The sun broke out, the snow changed from dun to silver — a great sea crested with white waves. The air was deathly still. Smoke from a chimney in the town rose straight like a ramrod into the cool, crisp blue air. Sonia turned. Tears stood in her eyes. Must she go back to him ? She gathered her shawl tighter about her. Must she go? From the church tower boomed the first bell. It ricocheted, hummed and died down the street. There was a rattle of pails. A lone dog poked its nose and came slowly toward Sonia. She glanced down at it. It would soon be a mother. The thought was revolting to her. At the farther end of the street a woman in a red shawl crossed with two pails swinging from a bar over her shoulder. £54] &$£r,l26, 1817—&?tr;126, 1917 $ N recognition of the genius of Feodor Vladimir Larrovitch, the great Russian novelist, poet and patriot and to do honor to his memc ry, the Authors Club will hold a centenary celebration, at the club rooms, on April 26th at 9 P. M., the one hundredth anniversary of his birth. A program fitting to the occasion has been prepared. It includes papers by members, recollections of the great author, stereopticon views of Larrovitch's home and the places touching his life, an exhibition of Larrovitch relics and the presenta' tion to the club of an authentic mss. from the pages of "Crasny Baba." The Committee Invitation to the Larrovitch Centenary Celebration held at the Authors Club, April 26th, 191J Some 'Translations from JParrovitch Sonia threw back her head resolutely and drank in the air. A little wind wafted down breeze the rich odor from the cattle byres. It bred a thought. Her eyes glistened. Slowly she started to retrace her steps. She was weep- ing. Tears coursed down her face. Between the bars of its window a milch cow contemplated her languidly. She stumbled on. The Samovar* W hen Maria saw Father Sergius turn in the yard, she flew to the stove and filled the samovar with fresh coals and water. In the front room, her father, the starosta, waited. Each afternoon Father Sergius came up the long village street, stopped on the way to speak a word or two with the people of his tiny parish, and then turned into the house of the town elder for his glass of tea. He had been doing this now ever since he came to Novo-Birsk, some seven years, and the starosta and he had grown to be as brothers. Sometimes the priest would talk of things the old man could not understand, but that made no dif- ference because often enough their talk would turn on things he did understand — crops and spring plowing, the fowls and the need of a new barn for the mir or re- pairs to the church. "Maria, he's coming," called the old man. "I have the samovar ready," she replied from the kitchen. At that moment Father Sergius thumped up the steps. Maria ran to open the door and greet him on the thresh- *From "Barin! Barin!" [55] Feodor "Vladimir JTarrovitch old. He came in, threw his hat on the table and kissed the starosta on both cheeks as was his custom. "And how are you this afternoon, my brother?" It was the usual opening of their conversation, never vary- ing from season to season. "Well enough, thank God," answered the starosta. Father Sergius seated himself across from the old man at the table, and Maria brought in the samovar, placing it between them. There was naught of worldli- ness about Father Sergius. His cassock was worn through the elbows and ragged on hem and cuffs. It bore the stains of many a meal. His hair, too, was unkempt and his thin beard scraggly. A large mole pronounced the bridge of his nose. His hands were soiled and gnarled; one thumb was in a bandage. He had been working in the glebe all the forenoon. But for all this dirt a light shone in his countenance as of one who has looked on The Thing unafraid. Slowly he poured out the starosta' s tea, then a glass for himself, and settled back in his chair. The old man was peculiarly taciturn. His great rugged face, seamed and wrinkled like a boulder of granite, held a patient look. All peasants have that look — that thick, uncompre- hending wonder. For some time neither of them spoke. It was Father Sergius who first broke the silence. "Andrew, what would we do without the samovar?" The starosta shook his head. "Behold it! It glistens like the countenance of a good man! It pours forth the warmth of friendship! Within its heart glow the kindly coals! And see how strong it stands, how well-formed, how broad shouldered ! Watch the aspiring clouds of steam that pour from it and float [56] Some Translations from JParrovitch upward toward Heaven ! Look at the little chainik* rest- ing there comfortably on the top, like a child in its mother's arms ! See the glasses and saucers that cluster about its feet, like the little chicks about the feet of the mother hen ! See, it reflects your face and mine, it makes us brothers, it warms our hearts! How noble it is, how beautiful, how humble in service!" "It should be," muttered the starosta, "it cost ten roubles." Richardson Wright *Tea pot [57 1 THREE INCIDENTAL POEMS OF J^arrovitch ^GEORGE SIDNEY HELLMAN Y ou must remember that we Russians are a singing people. Our soldiers sing on the march, our peasants sing as they work in the fields, the women as they go about their household duties. You are quite wrong in thinking us a gloomy race. Come to Russia some day, and I shall show you these things. From a letter to Remi Kains. While the fame of Larrovitch springs from his novels and short stories, he was also a very talented writer of verse. Those of you who have read "Vyvodne" will recall the three little lyrics included among the pages of that novel. The charm of these songs was recognized by a publisher in Paris, who issued them in a separate volume that, now practically unobtainable, is the chief rarity sought after by collectors of the works of Larro- vitch. The poems which I have now the good fortune to bring to your attention, are verses hitherto unknown to the world of letters, and so it may perhaps not be unin- teresting to relate the circumstances through which they came into my hands. Some nine months ago a Russian diplomat of my ac- quaintance who had, like so many Russian noblemen, decided gambling proclivities, happened to tell me that he was heavily interested in a company whose shares are dealt in on the New York Stock Exchange. As some of the gentlemen now present may have distressing recol- lections in connection with the spectacular career of these shares, friendly discretion leads me to refrain from mentioning the corporation by name. At any rate, on the day previous to the aforesaid conversation, I had, quite inadvertently (in the locker room of a golf club) overheard the president of the company advise one of his best friends to purchase the stock. This I told in confidence to my Russian acquaintance, who thanked me profusely. A fortnight went by and we met again. In the meantime, the shares had broken violently, and I was about to express my regret to the Russian at the loss in which I had, with the best of intentions, involved him, when, with beaming face and both hands out- stretched, he greeted me with the statement that in view of the information I had given him, he had at once sold [61] Feodor 'Vladimir JTarrovitch all his shares. As I have said, he was a diplomat. About half a year went by, and I had almost forgotten the episode, when a letter postmarked Petrograd ar- rived. "I have not forgotten the good turn you did me shortly before I left New York," he wrote, "and you must not object if I give myself the pleasure of sending you a slight token of appreciation. Knowing your ad- miration for one of the greatest of my country's authors, I am sending you three manuscript poems by Larro- vitch, recently discovered by a bookseller of Petrograd. I am sending with them the English translations that I have myself ventured to make." It is worth noting, as both the handwriting and the contents make evident, that these three poems, of which I shall read you my paraphrases in verse based on my friend's versions in prose, belong to far separated epochs in the life of Larrovitch. The first is a love song of his pre-nuptial days, having, curiously enough, a prophetic note, however unconscious, inasmuch as the woman that he married was later to elope with a young French officer. It is entitled LYRIC Dearest, I fling you a rose, Red as the blood of my heart. Look without. See how it snows; How the reckless wind doth dart. Cutting and biting he goes. Dearest, I fling you a rose. As melt the winter's snows, So shall its fragrance depart. Drink deep, while love' s fountain flows , C62] Three Incidental 'Poems of \Carrovitch Hand to hand, lips to lips, heart to heart. For e'en love dies away, O my rose, As melt the winter's snows. I need hardly point out that this poem, which is in a general way similar to the love song included in the fourth chapter of "Crasny Baba," belongs to that class of poetry to which writers of many ages, from the Greek anthologists, down through Herrick, to numerous lyri- cists of our day, have so frequently contributed, and that in its treatment of the philosophy expounded alike by Omar in his "Rubaiyat," and Horace in his "Carpe Diem," it is of a kind that might have as readily come from an English, or an American, as from a Russian pen. In the next poem, however, (although here, too, is struck the universal note that underlies the philosophy of courage) the local color is Russian and the character of the verses is peculiarly allied with the personal ex- periences of their author. It will be remembered that during the years 1 845-1 850 Larrovitch was an exile in Siberia. In the present "Marching Song" he exercises caution, refraining from reference to cruelties imposed upon political exiles, and exemplifies the spirit of bravery in a Siberian theme less familiar to the world at large. In the verses we see a group of men, not sent away in punishment for political offenses, but setting forth (like the companions of Behring in the time of Peter the Great) to discover new lands and seas, to dominate by force of the spirit of man that vast domain of Siberia, which was for Larrovitch, we may readily believe, the symbol of resistance over which the fearless human in- tellect should yet rise dominant. [63] Feodor %)ladimir J^arrovitch SIBERIAN MARCHING SONG We march along the Moscow road, Five score adventurous men. The North Lights glitter in our eyes; A continent shall be our prize. Though cold slays five — twice five! — why then, We march along the Moscow road, Four score brave men and ten. We march along the Moscow road, Four score brave men and ten. Tobolsk is passed, Yakutsk is near. Ha! ice and snow, think ye we fear? Take twice your toll. We pay it. Then We march along the Moscow road, Four score adventurous men. We march along the Moscow road, Four score adventurous men. Though crows shall flock to those that die, And we gnaw shoe-straps, you and I, And famine slays again, again We march along the Moscow road, A few adventurous men. The last of the poems that my Russian friend sent me is entitled "The Exile." Written in blank verse, it com- prises lines replete not alone with the melancholy senti- ment characteristic of Russian literature, but also with that sadness which old age feels when it contemplates the unfulfilled aspirations of early days. The years of Larrovitch are here approaching their end, and though he still (a new and not uninteresting biographical fact) [64] Three Incidental 'Poems of JParrovitch finds solace in romantic companionship, the poet, in paying tribute to a younger martyr of intellectual ideal- ism, sorrowfully recurs to the dreams and labors of his own valiant youth. THE EXILE How sad, O my beloved, how sad to think of the springtime departed, While the December wind, angrily biting the shutters, And spitting forth icicles, Howls its discord, loud and drear. Jiut sadder my heart for you, courageous lad, Who must so far away, and for so long a while, Never, I fear me, to return. Yet here, clothed in comfortable furs , With my beloved nestling at my knees, I think of you with reverent envy, And leave untasted the wine cup, Pondering my own youth. George Sidney Hellman {65] FIVE J^arrovitch LETTERS -©STHOMAS WALSH i. his morning I have drained seven glasses of tea and written seven letters. If I could contain more tea, doubtless I would write more letters! A drop of rum in your tea, Ivan Georgevitch, might increase your capacity for correspondence. From a letter to I. G. Betenkoff, Larro'vitch" s publisher. In the compacted space of a few pages it is prac- tically impossible to give adequate representation of the letters of Larrovitch. He was an indefatigable and vol- uminous correspondent, in fact, during his later years, he devoted more time to correspondence than to the actual pursuit of his literary calling. Living in an age when correspondence was not limited to scrappy lines on a post card, he often let his letters run on to many pages. Some of his finest sentiments and most vivid bits of description can be found in these letters, the five re- produced here are all from the period 1 875-1880 and represent his mature thought. The first is to his good friend Lanatiere. The letter opens with some personal affairs, then continues: "... I often wonder if readers of books appreciate the great cost a book is to its author — the price in living. Some men exist to live, but an author lives to write. From his observa- tions, his privations, his pleasures, his romances, his adven- tures he is constantly distilling the pure essence from which is made the fragrant perfume of literature. Not that all men pay this price; a few do, and it is proven in the lasting quality of their work. "I always advise a young writer to follow these rules: Work less and loaf more; write less and observe more; above all, crowd the day full of experiences, purify and strengthen it with activities, come into your literary manhood greatly, like a noble ship coming into port freighted with all manner of goods from many lands. "The writing of youth often possesses a singular ecstacy, but its great weakness lies in its immaturity. Youth is too im- patient, is not willing to wait until experience and observa- tion settle and formulate. On the other hand, the writing of old age lacks this ecstacy because it waits too long. There is always the moment to write, just as there is always the mo- ment to take the peruskies out of the pan. "I used the word 'ecstacy.' I like it. And the older I grow the more I believe that its presence is the ultimate test of good writing. Not necessarily an ecstacy of form, but a ra- [69] Feodor Uladimir jTarrovitch Eidity of action, a quickness of perception which comes from eing so full of a subject that one writes easily and joyfully, as a fountain gushes. Writing which is based on a thorough knowledge of a subject invariably convinces me. To some men this knowledge is mature scholarship, to others an under- standing of men and women and nature. But knowledge of some sort must be there. "Dear fellow, I did not mean to write at such length, and I could go on writing thus for hours. We authors love to talk about our craft. I think this is well." The next letter, written en route to the Crimea, was to a Madame Martinoff in reply to her criticism of the character of Katherine Feodorovna in "Vyvodne." Katherine Feodorovna is a brilliant woman of elder years who serves as confidant to certain of the younger women in Perm where the story is laid.* Madame Mar- tinoff, it appears, objected to the cynicism of the char- acter, Larrovitch's reply, written with unquestioned graciousness, nevertheless contains, between the lines, some volleys which, it is to be hoped, did not entirely pass over the head of the good lady at the time. My Dear Madame Martinoff: "The post has just arrived and I find your letter. Although I would prefer to give your criticism of Katherine Feodorovna more lengthy consideration before replying, the demands on my time — passed mostly on trains and in strange hotels these days — necessitate my answering you immediately. "You say that women do not speak as cynically as I have made Katherine Feodorovna speak. May I beg to differ with you and offer a correction ? What you doubtless meant to say was that hitherto it has not been the fashion for women in novels to speak cynically; it has been the custom to make them utter platitudes — sweet and endearing — which draw the picture of helplessness, indolence and irresponsibility. *For a passage in which Katherine Feodorovna figures, see the opening paragraphs of "The True and False About Larrovitch," p. 77. The Larrovitch Centenary Celebration 1817—1917 The forthcoming definitive edition of the works of Larrovitch, to be published as a centenary tribute, will be hailed tvith joy by all lovers of Russia's novelist, patriot and philosopher. Surely, it is a sign of the re-awakening of Russia that the voice of this great author should speak again in this hour of the nation's fight for world liberty. Russkoe Slovo, December 12, 1916 From out the land of sunrise, dispelling the murk of evil report, rises the figure of Larro- vitch . . . to whom the world will some day pay just tribute. James Trotter in The London Times Plusieurs t sans doute, ont defini Vame Russe, mais il n'est aucun qui I'ait analysee aussi claire- ment dans tous ses attributs que Teodor Vladi- mir Larrovitch. Marcel Lanatiere The Authors Club April the Twenty-sixth Nineteen Seventeen First page of the program of the Larrovitch Centenary Celebration, with Lanatiere' s famous quotation Five J^arrovitch fetters "Do women think cynical thoughts? That I cannot an- swer. But that they speak them I can most assuredly vouch for. Surely their cynicism is not altogether thoughtless ! Does it not follow, then, that they are capable of cynicism, and if capable should be so pictured? "For remember, my dear madame, the function of the novelist is not to portray life as it should exist or as he might wish it to exist, but as it does exist. I am an uncompromising realist; I can follow no other canon in writing save the truth. "Katherine Feodorovna is a woman who has lived life to the full, as you doubtless have observed. She has seen the grim tragedy behind the smirk and pose of society. She has known loveless love — for such there can be — and has lived for appearances alone. At the time she enters "Vyvodne" she is a quick perceptor of fallacies in other women — she sees be- yond their paint and purr's, she can discern between real joy and false and can sense the dissembler on sight ... I like Katherine Feodorovna. She is one of my favorite characters. She is the type of woman I doubtless would have become had it not been the will of an all-knowing Providence to make me a man." Turning now from the "literary" type of letter, we have a descriptive note in the next. It was written to a friend in St. Petersburg who had asked Larrovitch what he remembered of the first Siberian village where he be- gan his exile term. Only a portion of this letter can be given. Note that Larrovitch wrote this almost fifty years after he left Baikalskaia. "... In winter a leper land, an outcast land; in summer it is a busy valley between abundant hills. But winter or sum- mer, life there was fast and furious and free. Champagne — men made rich in the hinterland gold fields or the illicit vodka traffic with the Chinese across the border fifty versts south- ward — brodjai* — one or two French demimondaines — wild Cossack officers and their wilder commands — these colored * Escaped criminal exiles who went about robbing the countryside. To this day the brodjai are a serious menace in Transbaikalia. [-71] Feodor %)ladimir JTarrovitch the half-Russian, half-Oriental life of the town. "A narrow strip of log houses and shops, Baikalskaia sprawled a mile length along the low banks of the great inland sea. To the north of the town stood a flour mill and many bar- racks and army store sheds. There was one school house and a church, a Chinese bazaar and an omnipresence of mud and dust. "In winter the wicked clotted there and the troops were ordered back to town. There was room for 5,000 troops, all Cossacks, who every night and morning loudly proclaimed — to our disgust and discomfort — that their souls were God's and their bodies the Tsar's. The latter I never questioned, but, from what I saw of these fellows, I did not envy God his enforced possession. "Mid-October used to see the first ice crusting the water. The hills would turn red and gold, and then dun. Here and there the white nakedness of a silver birch that looked in the moonlight like an unsheathed sword. By November camel caravans would cross the frozen Baikal coming north from out Mongolia way with loads of tea and marmot skins. "In Baikalskaia I lived the first two years of my exile. The second spring I was transferred to Irkutsk . . . But I shall not bore you with telling of Irkutsk." The next letter was written shortly before Larrovitch's death and was in answer to a correspondent who had attacked the Church. It evidences the scholarship and deep thought for which Larrovitch was famous, and has indications of his return to the Orthodox viewpoint. Dear Ivan Adler: "I cannot agree with you. Perhaps at one time in my life I would have concurred with your conclusions, but now, after these many years, these many wanderings, I have come to look on the matter in a different light. I believe our greatest heroes in Russia are our soldiers and our saints, and of the two the saint is the nobler. "The spiritual leader is the unseen Captain of State. Al- ways his figure emerges after the smoke of battle and the clouded hate of men have drifted away. [72] Five JParrovitch JPetters "The vigor and immortality of a saint lies in the fact that he epitomizes the maximum strength of a people's moral courage. If you would understand the calibre of a nation's moral courage, my dear Adler, and trace its spiritual develop- ment — its fierce encounters, its tedious march to the light, its heights and its depths — you must understand its saints. "St. Francis of Assisi marked a definite stage in the de- velopment of the Italian genus. His influence has penetrated clear through generations. In the same measure have the spirits of St. Louis and Joan of Arc marked high tides in the French soul. Did I not hear folk speak of them constantly when I was in France? And why? Why the immortality of these men and women ? Because the saint typifies that which none other can — the spirit of courage, the spirit of long en- durance. "Now what their saints are to the Italian and French and Briton and Teuton, so are they to us. Only to us they are even more, for our saints are the very rock on which our vast empire and its future are based. "Do not think this the cryptic saying of an old man. Let me explain. "We Russians have many saints, for it is given to us es- pecially (I say this in all humility) to recognize, when we see them, those who may enter in through the gates into the City. To be sure, their vogue rises and falls, some are forgotten, some revived. Those who survive the vagaries of Time — mark this ! — are the men who helped shape Russian destinies by moulding our national soul into something entirely differ- ent from that of any other people. They have invariably been of two classes — soldiers or monks: men of the type of Alex- ander Nevski who stemmed the tide of the great invasion and with rare diplomacy turned Tatar vassalage into Muscovite independence, or men such as the monk Sergius who, a cen- tury later, labored to revitalize the national soul into a spirit strong, noble, and abiding. "In any nation the standard of a people's moral force is more truly reflected in the lives of its saints than its warriors. The warrior leader often disregards moral law when the grim necessities of war assert themselves. In the saint is crystal- [73] Feodor %)ladimir larrovitch lized that spiritual force which is the very foundation of law and political structure. The expedient standard of the war- rior may "work," as we use the term, but the. idealistic stand- ard of the saint endures. "But mark this one great fact — the warrior who has saved a nation soon ceases to be a warrior and becomes a saint, his helmet takes on the adumbration of a halo. He becomes a saviour of our Russian soul — our national soul, just as the religious saved our spiritual genus." It is fitting that the last letter in our selection should be to a child, for Larrovitch was fond of children and whenever one crept into a novel he always seemed to have so much fun playing with him. This letter was to the little son of an obscure ispravnik or local police chief, in Ufa who had sent Larrovitch a box made of plaited birch bark, in return for which Larrovitch sent him a toy sword made of Circassian walnut. "What do you think happened to me today, Mikail Ivano- vitch? "I was walking through a wood where the trees were very thick and tall, and I heard a voice behind me, calling and calling. "Who called me? I shouted. "At first I did not hear a sound. "Then, from the hollow of a tree stepped out a fairy. He was a very beautiful fairy, with green and blue boots- and a bright red shirt and a yellow cap on his head. "Well, young man I asked him. What can I do for you? "Please, sir, said he, I know of a little boy and the little boy's name is Mikail ivanovitch and the little boy lives in Ufa, and this little boy, sir, wants more than anything else to have a . . . And with that he climbed up on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. "Now wasn't that funny, Mikail Ivanovitch? Wasn't it funny that just at the same time I was walking in the wood and met that fairy, you were thinking of me and sending me the beautiful box of plaited birch bark! And while you were [74] Five cParrovitch JPetters sending me the box, I was down in a shop buying you this very thing the fairy told me you wanted so much ! "Give your Mamma and Papa each a kiss for me and re- member always your loving friend" Feodor Vladimir Larrovitch. Thomas Walsh [75] THE TRUE AND THE FALSE ABOUT J^arrovitch «*?RICHARDSON WRIGHT £>ut I am not quite sure that I understand wo- men," remarked Andrew. "When you do, my lad," said his father, "you will know entirely too much to associate with ordinary mortals. After women, the stars." From "Vyvodne." [ The scene* is the drawing room in the palace of the governor general of Perm. A Louis XVI. room, with a superfluity of gilt. Tea has been served and the two women fall to talking. The one is Katherine Feodorovna, a dowager of the upper '50' s, socially prominent and confidant to cer- tain of the younger women. The other is Tatiana Verovna, the young wife of the Governor-General. His Excellency is much older than Tatiana, which, in the conversation that preceded, has been quoted by her as justification for a mild indiscretion committed one evening a week previous with a certain dashing captain of a landers regiment in barracks at Perm, gossip of which appears to have filtered through the town.] "1 really do not think it matters what Nina is say- ing," remarked Katherine Feodorovna. "If it were only Nina I would not worry," replied Tatiana Verovna. "Nina? Pooh! But its everyone else. Oh, I can tell. The butcher, the baker, the wine mer- chant, Mensikoff, Baratkin and all the rest seem to know about it." "But do you permit that to worry you, what the small trades-people think and the Mensikoffs and the Baratkins? Baratkin's wife was always a gossip any- how." The older woman looked over at Titiana Verovna who was sitting dejectly on the edge of the couch across the room with that imperious scorn which alone is bred of hard contact with a merciless world. "Listen to me, child. I speak from fifty years of good report and evil report. Once you lay yourself open to criticism, once your name is connected with a scandal or even a romance, the world and his wife thenceforth considers your life public property and your reputation is what *This scene is in chapter ai of "Dvornik." I give these few introductory notes so that the reader can catch the drift of the dialogue. [79] Feodor 'Vladimir JParrovitch they care to make it. You must pay that price for being the wife of the governor-general. Had you married a nonentity no one would mention your name! Oh dear! I have lived through so much talk, and survived it all, fortunately, that I laugh at your little problems." Katherine Feodorovna leaned forward in her chair. "Now be honest with me, child. Which would you rather be: a nonentity and not talked about, or a pub- lic social figure and the topic of gossip for every tongue- wagger in the province?" Tatiana Verovna smiled through her tears. "Because you must make the choice," Katherine Feo- dorovna continued. "They'll talk about you whether it is the cut of your gown or your choice in amours." "But I did nothing wrong," protested Tatiana Ve- rovna. "That's just the paradox of gossip," replied Katherine Feodorovna. "If you sin, you might just as well shatter the entire ten commandments, because the public will do it for you anyhow." 1 here is almost a note of cynicism in this scene, and I am not sure but that Larrovitch was very much in earnest when he wrote it. Like many another man in the public eye he suffered the gossip of scandal-mongers. Motives of the utmost purity were twisted about for public delectation, and the various occasions when, un- willingly and unwittingly often, his life impinged on ro- mance and adventure, he was made to bear the major share of the blame. Granted that all novels are, to a greater or less degree, autobiographical, we can assume that in the scene quoted above Larrovitch was merely putting on the lips of Katherine Feodorovna his own [80] 12 a 'J 5 « So"** S ^a * « e The True and the Fake zAbout JTarrovitch sentiments regarding what the people thought of him. For although he smarted under the criticism of his work, he had an undisguised weakness for otherwise being the topic of conversation. This weakness led to many false things being said of him and many true. I am endeavor- ing here to put each in its proper category. Shortly after he was exiled to Siberia, as is well known, Larrovitch's wife eloped with a young French lieuten- ant. This is the fact: Larrovitch never saw her again. But witness how gossip garbles the story, how it makes out of the whole cloth a tale which never was played by either Larrovitch or his wife! How does it run? Thus — One night, in the summer of 1866, when Larrovitch was in Paris he stopped to rest for a few moments on a bench in the Bois. In the act of lighting a cigarette, the glow from it lighted up the face of a woman on the other end of the bench. It was the runaway wife, now an outcast, one of the commercially amorous of that great city "where joy is trafficked in." The absurdity of this story is readily appreciated when we recall that Lanatiere unearthed the record of her bur- ial in November, 1846, a little over a year after her elopement. He says: "C'est dans un petit cimetikre obscur etpresqu' inconnu, aux Batignolles, que fai decouvert sa tombe, parmi d'autres de ses compatries dkcedes a Paris. Elle etait surmontke de la croix Grecque a trots bras, et inscrite, en characteres Russes: _ _, Ci-Git sonia slrotovna larrovitch Nee a Odesse, le 20 Janvier, 1820. Morte a. Paris, le 10 Novembre, 1846. "Dans une vie brfoe, elle accomplit merveilles." [81] Feodor "Vladimir J^arrovitch Footprints of the exiles are to be found all over Si- beria. Due to the devoted labor of scholarly men who have been sent there during the last 400 years, this great Asiatic province owes some of its remarkable develop- ment. So it has come about that one finds the name of Larrovitch connected with the beginnings of the Alex- androff Museum at Irkutsk. He is reputed to have been one of a band of intellectuals in exile there who started the collection of geological and ethnological specimens for which that museum is locally famous. In Irkutsk they also tell of Larrovitch being a mem- ber of a local volunteer fire brigade. This is plausible enough, for shortly before Larrovitch reached Irkutsk the city was visited by a devastating fire that wiped out most of the buildings along the Bolshaia. The portrait showing him as a young man is taken from a group of that fire company painted at the time by an artist also in exile. It was characteristic of Larrovitch that he should take such a lively interest in community affairs. If further substantiation is desired, one can find it reflected in the tale, "The Witless Leader" in "Crasny Baba," in which the fire chief runs his water wagons to the river, fills them up, and rumbles back to the fire only to find the water all gone: he had forgotten to place the corks in the bung holes ! - The combination of exile and desertion hardened Lar- rovitch for a time, but it was only a callus that protected a warm and kindly heart. Today Russians in speaking of him will offset tales of his excesses by quoting stories of his generosity. He was very fond of children. There are many child characters in his books, notably little Serge Ivanovitch, the concierge's son in "Barin! Barin!" [82] The True and the False $ So. BIBLIOGRAPHY OF J^arrovitch ^ARTHUR COLTON C^rasny Baba [The Red Woman] Moscow, 1852 Ivan Soronko St. Petersburg, 1859 Chorny Khleb [Black Bread] St. Petersburg, i860 Propre et Ordonnde [Swept and Garnished] Paris, 1864 — St. Petersburg, 1865 Vyvodne [The Right to Marriage] St. Petersburg, 1866 Barin! Barin! [Master! Master!] St. Petersburg, 1870 Dvornik [The Door Keeper] St. Petersburg, 1879 Gospodi Pomi [Lord Have Mercy] St. Petersburg, 1881 [117] +9 3» ^Bibliographical D^otes ^ARTHUR COLTON Vjrasny Baba [The Red Woman] is a collection of peasant sketches that had appeared in a Siberian paper during Larrovitch's term or exile. It takes its name from Baba as the peasant woman is known. The word crasny has peculiar significance: red is the favorite color of the moujik. When he speaks of a thing being beautiful he speaks of it as red! This title shows how close to the peasant viewpoint Larrovitch came. The first edition of "Crasny Baba," issued from the press of C. Letupin of Moscow, in 1852, was a slim, small octavo volume of 96 pages, bound in yellow paper boards. There were no illustrations. The copy preserved in the Alexand- roff Museum at Irkutsk lacks the lower half of page 24. Ivan Soronko is a novel of the Russian Robin Hood type. Published in St. Petersburg in 1859. Fi rst edition, copies of which are in libraries of the Universities of Kiev and Cracow, was an octavo of 398 pages. No illustrations. Chorny Khleb [Black Bread] is a collection of short stories about peasant life that appeared in various St. Peters- burg journals after Larrovitch returned from Siberia. A. Betenkoff of St. Petersburg was the publisher. The original volume issued in i860, is an octavo in blue boards, 324 pages, with crude wood-cut head and tail pieces to each story. This ran into two editions and helped establish the literary reputation of the author. Propre et Ordonnee [Swept and Garnished] a long short story issued while Larrovitch was in Paris in 1864, and reprinted in a Russian edition by Betenkoff of St. Petersburg under the same title a year later. Copies of the French edition are fairly common. It was bound in yellow paper covers with a sketch of a Russian vil- lage street in black. Vyvodne [The Right to Marriage] shows a complete change from Larrovitch's previous methods of writing and topics. It marks the beginning of his spiritual growth, and gave promise of the author's future suc- cess. It was bound in paper covers, 300 pages with no illustrations. The first edition is dated 1866. It ran into four editions and was eventually translated into Bulgarian, German and Danish. A pirated edition of [121] Feodor "Vladimir JTarrovitch a translation from the German is said to have appeared in Paris in 1868, but no copies are known to exist. A slim volume of three little songs which occurred in this novel were brought out in Paris by M. Eberlein. It is very rare. Barin ! Barin [Master ! Master !] Another novel appeared from the press of Saphna-Novsky in St. Petersburg in 1870. It was the first of a trilogy. It was in red and yellow paper covers, a large volume of 350 pages, with a vignette on the title page. This ran into several edi- tions, 50,000 copies being sold in one year alone. Translations appeared in Polish, Danish, German and French. A Yiddish translation is said to have been published, but no copies have been found; it was doubtless pirated. Dvornik [The Door Keeper] a novel, the second of the tril- ogy, in which the spiritual development of Larro- vitch almost approached mysticism, was published by Betenkoff in St. Petersburg in 1874. Mr. Betenkoff had now become Larrovitch's publisher. It was an octavo volume of 400 pages with copper plate vignette on the title page and black buckram cover. A cheaper edition in paper covers was also issued. Copies of these two first editions are not common, but can oc- casionally be found. Seven editions in all were pub- lished and the book enjoyed French, German, Danish, Bulgarian and Italian translations. Gospodi Pomi [Lord Have Mercy] was Larrovitch in the fullest flower of his spiritual development. In it the heights and depths of his religious belief are clearly shown. It was the final volume of the trilogy. It was published in St. Petersburg in 1881; large octavo, 440 pages, no illustrations, and yellow paper and brown buckram covers. Six editions were issued. Transla- tions appeared in France, Germany, Denmark and Poland. [12a] T^eferences ^GUSTAVE SIMONSON Otudents of Russian literature who desire to ac- quaint themselves further with the works of Larrovitch will find the following references of interest. The Auth- ors Club is indebted to Dr. Gustave Simonson for com- piling this list. Life, Letters and Literary Labors of Larrovitch. — James Trotter. London, 1889. Comentarios Sobre Novelas Rusas. — Eduardo Pasco. Barcelona, 1890. Les Russes dans Paris. — M. Berton. Paris, 1871. Le progr6s de la philosophic — C. G. Renard. Paris, 1892. Notes sur les Russes. — L. Henriquez. Paris, 1901. Les nuits de la Crimee. — A. Thurot. Bordeaux, 1907. Revue des productions litteraires du Caucasse. — J. T. Champollion. Paris, 1883. Pourquoi les Russes souffrent-ils ? — P. B. Sourain. Paris, 1897. La Russie sous Alexandre II. — L. F. Robin. Paris, 1900. Les fondements de la Science Slave. — C. A. Bruhl- Levy. Paris, 1913. Larrovitch. — V. Mazkenov. Paris, 1899.* Les Amours de T. Vladimir Larrovitch. — Ivan Bar- tinski. Bris, 1893.! L'Histoire Gallante de Teodor Vladimir Larrovitch. — Marcel LanatiSre. Paris, 1900. Die wahren Freunde der Slawen. — A. Aretz. Munich, 1896. *A French translation — an excellent piece of work, incidentally — of the 1 890 Russian edition published in St. Petersburg. fThe original Russian edition of this was published in 1893 in Moscow. [125] Feodor 'Vladimir JTarrovitch Dostoievsky und seine Zeitgenossen. — V. M. Zeudorf. Berlin, 1900. Die Entwickelung der realistischen Novelle Russ- lands. — G. Bruncher. Berlin, 1913. Kiew und seine Sonne. — L. W. Lewezer. Leipsic, 1882. Sibirien und was wir ihn verdanken. — B. Plumacher. Heidelberg, 1886. TPYAbl /1ABP0BMHA. — fleTporpaAt, 1914 J1ABP0BM4T> M ErO JlK)EOBHblH flOXOmAEHIH. c. BAPHHOBl). — neiporpaAi., 1896 CPEflHIE TOAbl J1ABP0BHTB. T. K. BJIAflHMIPCKIH- KOOOt. — MocHBa, 1887 CblHbl KPblMA. B. CAHHFB. MACTEPT, HOBE/WCTl POCCIM B. KHABPYHHITB. — KieB-b, 189& flMTEPATYPA CMBMPM. T. BE3ABHHT>. — neTporpaflt, 1912 AyiUEBHblH 0B/1MK1> /1ABP0BMHA. C. HAJPOJK'B. — MocKBa. BE/1MMR nyTb K"b BOCTOKy. A. PETCOBt. rieTporpaA. 1905 JlABPOBMHl M AOCTOEBCKm. C. PEHHTHITB. — lleT porpaAi, 1913 [126] THIS BOOK WAS DESIGNED BY WILLIAM ASPINWALL BRADLEY FOR THE YALE UNI- VERSITY PRESS, AND EXECUTED UNDER HIS SUPERVISION BY NORMAN T. A. MUNDER AND COMPANY, BALTIMORE i I Si 'i-i.ilia-ils 11 -l»ii ■''.:. ■Li ■ ■'...: ■ I,.;. .- ■„■■:.. .. .;;l .-)■ -i\^\^r ■■:'-:-: : : :.:]./-- [ ■!-■ ! :■■■■■■ •:..:: .;_•£- -, '.;•■ .■".: S«fo