by Serge Persky
III
VLADIMIR KOROLENKO
"A long time ago, on a dark autumn evening, I was being rowed down arather uninteresting Siberian stream. Suddenly, at a bend in theriver, I saw a bright fire burning ahead of us at the foot of someblack mountains. It did not seem far away.
"'Thank Heaven,' I cried with joy, 'we have nearly reached ourstopping-place!'
"The boatsman turned, looked at the fire over his shoulder, andagain grasped the oars with an apathetic gesture:
"'That is still a long way off,' he murmured.
"I did not believe him, for the fire seemed to stand out very clearagainst the infinite shadows. However, he was right; we were stillfar away.
"Just so those fires, the conquerors of darkness, deceive us intothinking that they are near, while they only cast their distant,illusive rays into the night...."
It is with this sober description in "Little Fires" that one of thelast volumes of Korolenko's "Sketches and Stories" opens. Thissimple picture makes a warm and clear impression on one's very soul.It is itself a precious and welcome light.
At times when life is sombre, and when shadows fill the heart, when,under the blows of despair and anguish, courage finally fails, themere existence of some brave spirit suffices to give a new birth tohope and to rekindle the flame so that the distance is again lightedup, and we again put our shoulders to the wheel.
Thus for more than thirty years in Russian literature Korolenko hasplayed the part of one of these clear, alluring lights. He has notwritten a single book in which we do not find a fire that warms uswith its caresses even from afar, not one in which we do not feelthe vibration of a loving heart, which dreams of giving light andjoy to all unfortunates, and is confident that if they have not yethad their equal share, they will surely have it some day.
Korolenko was born in 1853 in Zhitomir, in Little Russia. On hisfather's side he is descended from an old Cossack family, and by hismother he is related to Polish nobility. This double origin, so tospeak, is shown very clearly in his works, which are filled with themelancholy and dreamy poetry of the Little Russians, and also withthe perennial hope so common among the Poles.
His father was a judge and enjoyed a reputation for strictintegrity. It was, in fact, often hard for him to ward off those whowanted to thank him for his services. One day he had to accept agift. A merchant, whose case he had won, sent him a cart filled withvarious objects, among which was a beautiful large doll. The littledaughter of the judge saw it, and at once took possession of it. Thejudge, when he found out what had happened, ordered the gifts to bereturned immediately; but, because of the grief of the little girl,they had to give up all thoughts of returning the doll.
The judge, who was a man of firm principles, maintained a severediscipline in his family. He made a special study of medicine andhygiene, and put his knowledge into practice by treating the sick ofthe neighborhood. His children, although always well dressed, had togo around barefoot. Their father was convinced that this was thebest way to toughen them. Besides, they were compelled, everymorning, summer and winter, to take a cold plunge bath. The childrendid not like this way of doing things. Early in the morning theyused to run to the stable in their shirts, and there, cowering in acorner, trembling with cold, they would wait for their father toleave the house.
Korolenko remembers well this Spartan-like education, which inuredhim to the severity of the seasons. Without this training hecertainly would have perished in savage and freezing Siberia, wherehe lived in exile for several years.
At the death of the father, the family with its six children wasleft without resources. The mother, a very good and kind woman,opened a boys' boarding-school, and Vladimir, then fifteen years ofage, helped her as well as he could, and also earned money by givinglessons outside.
In 1870, after having finished his studies in his native town,Korolenko entered the Technological Institute at St. Petersburg,where he spent two years in extreme poverty. He had to earn hisliving as well as he could, by giving lessons or doing copying. Hismother could not help him at all, as she herself had to struggleagainst adversity. The following will show how sparingly he had tolive in his youth: during his two years, he had a real substantialmeal only about once in two months, and then in a restaurant run onphilanthropic principles, where he paid only 30 copecks (about 30cents). His regular meals consisted of bread, tea, sausage andpotatoes. But this was an epoch in which living was cheap: the waveof democracy was spreading, and the "intellectuals" were trying toget into closer touch with the people. The movement was so powerfulthat many of the younger generation who could have done otherthings took up this work; others, on principle, married humblepeasants. In 1872 Korolenko left for Moscow, and there entered theAcademy of Agriculture. He was expelled after two years and sent toKronstadt for having taken part in student manifestations. Severalyears later, we find him again in St. Petersburg without a permanentposition; he was employed as a reader in a publishing house, and wasalso attempting to do some writing. His first efforts took the formof a series of sketches, published under the title, "Episodes in theLife of a Seeker." He was at this time accused of being too muchinspired by the scenes of sadness and injustice of which he had beena witness. In 1879 he was imprisoned and then deported to Viatka. Heremained there a year. Thence he was sent to the miserable town ofKama, and a few months later to Tomsk, where he learned that theywanted to exile him to Siberia. In a letter, published by anewspaper, he eloquently protested against the persecutions of whichhe was the unhappy victim. His protestation was answered by histransfer to the frozen region of the province of Yakutsk in EasternSiberia! He passed three years in the midst of the "taiga," theimmense virgin forest which covers this country, in a village ofnomads whose miserable huts, very low and smoky, were scatteredalong the shores of the Aldane. Here he wrote several stories, andthe "Dream of Makar," which was published two years later, andgreatly praised by the critics for its originality and its setting.The dreary country around Yakutsk and the life that is lived theremade such a profound impression on the young man that even to-day hespeaks of that time with real emotion.
"My hut was at the extreme end of the town. During the short day onecould see the small plain, the mountains which surrounded it, andthe fires in the other huts, in which lived people who were eitherdescended from Russian colonists or deported Tartars. But in themorning and evening a cold grey mist covered everything so thicklythat one could not see a foot ahead.
"My little hut was like a lost island in a boundless ocean. Not asound about me.... The minutes, the hours passed, and insensibly thefatal moment approached when the 'cursed land' pierced me with thehostility of its freezing cold and its terrible shadows, when thehigh mountains covered with black forests rose menacingly before me,the endless steppes, all lying between me and my country and allthat was dear to me.... Then came the terrible sadness ... which, inthe depths of your heart, suddenly lifts up its sinister head, andin the terrible silence among the shadows murmurs these words: 'Thisis the end of you ... the very end ... you will remain in this tombtill you die....'
"A low and caressing whine brought me out of my heavy stupor: it wasmy friend, Cerberus, my intelligent and faithful dog, who had beenplaced as a sentinel near the door. Chilled through and through, hewas asking me what was the matter and why, in such terribly coldweather, I did not have a fire.
"Whenever I felt that I was going to be beaten in my struggle withsilence and the shadows, I turned to this wholesome expedient,--alarge fire."
In 1885, Korolenko, having returned from Siberia, went toNizhny-Novgorod, and in a relatively short space of time wrote aseries of stories which, two years later, were collected in bookform. Afterward, he became the editor of the celebrated St.Petersburg review, the "Russkoe Bogatsvo,"--a position which hestill holds.
* * * * *
In all of Korolenko's works we distinctly feel the living breaththat inspires the artist, and the ardor of a fervent ideal. His godis man; his idea
l, humanity; his "leitmotiv," the poetry of humansuffering. This intimate connection with all that is human is tobe found in his psychological analysis as well as in hisdescriptions of natural phenomena. Both God and nature are in turnspiritualized and humanized. Korolenko looks at life from a humanstandpoint; the world which he describes is made up wholly of menand exists for them only. He has a very clear philosophy, and aconscience aware of the duties it has to perform. If he has notopened up hitherto unknown paths, nor made new roads, he hashimself nevertheless passed through terrible experiences; he hasbeen a prey to profound sorrows and doubts, and in spite of all, hehas kept his love for the people intact, and deeply pities theirignorance and abasement. His work constantly recalls to our mindsthe theory that the cultivated classes are in debt to the peoplefor the education which they have received at the people's expense.This is the great moral principle which governs the conscience ofthe Russian "intellectuals." It is in this sense then, thatKorolenko may be said to continue the literature of 1870, and to bethe successor of Zlatovratsky and Uspensky. But he has reincarnatedthis past in new forms, which naturally result from the activity ofhis far-sighted, powerful intelligence. We do not find in his workeither the nervousness, often sickly, which pervades the works ofUspensky, or the optimism of Zlatovratsky, which often excessivelyidealizes the life of the Russian peasant, who is the principalhero of all his works. Korolenko, because he puts a high value onhuman personality, perfectly appreciates the terrible struggle thatman has to make in order to secure his rights. A desire for justiceon the one hand, and a defence of man's dignity on the other, formthe very essence of the talent of this author, and it is with thesefeelings that he observes the people on whom injustice weighs mostheavily and who have merely remnants of human dignity left in theirmake-up,--for in general, these people are not those whom fate hasovercome. Most of them lead a hard and gloomy life beset withmisfortunes. Many of them are vagabonds, escaped convicts,drunkards, murderers, who are bowed down with misery, and have nowish except to escape the mortal dangers of the Siberian forestsand marshes. On opening any of Korolenko's books we find ourselves,to use his own words, in "bad company." He does not flatter hisheroes, he does not make gentlemen of them; they are not even men,but rather human rubbish.
"Because I knew a lot about the world," he writes, "I knew thatthere were people who had lost every vestige of humanity. I knewthat they were corroded with vice and sunk deep in debauchery, inwhich they lived contented. But when the recollection of thesebeings surged through my mind, enveloped in the mists of the past, Isaw nothing but a terrible tragedy, and felt only an inexpressiblesorrow...."
This author does not give any judgment on life; he does not condemnit and does not nourish a preconceived spite against it, but his sadheart overflows with pity, and, if he approaches this life, it iswith the balm of love, in order to try to dress its terrible wounds.
For Korolenko, the sufferings of existence atone for its injustice;he does not perceive the iniquities that surround him except throughthe prism of sorrow.
* * * * *
From the very beginning of his literary career, in his first book,"Episodes in the Life of a Seeker," Korolenko shows himself to be aseeker after truth. With him, the understanding of life, so ardentlysought after, is never summed up in a single solution. He dreams ofit constantly; at times, he seems to have found it, but he losestrack of it again and starts all over.
This groping about resulted in a moral crisis in which he lookedforward to death with joy. Beset with the thought of suicide, heoften prowled around railroad platforms and looked at thecar-wheels.
"I went there and came back again," he writes, "depressed by myrealization of the stupidity of life. The snow was falling allaround me, and shaping itself into a frozen carpet, the telegraphpoles shivered as if they were cold through and through, and on theother side of the road, on a slope, shone the sad little light ofthe watchman's tower. There, in the darkness, lived a whole family.Through the shadows the little red fire seemed to be as desolate asthe family. The children were scrofulous and suffered; the motherwas thin and sickly. To procreate and to bury! Such was the life ofthe father, probably the most unfortunate of all, because thehousehold depended wholly upon him, and he saw no gleam of hopeanywhere. He bore this condition of things, because, in hissimplicity, he believed in a superior will, and thought that hismisery was inevitable. The resignation of this man, the terriblebareness of his obscure existence, oppressed me. If I could bear thesight of it, it was only because I hoped; I thought that we shouldsoon find the road which makes life happier, more agreeable to everyone. How, where, in what manner? What a mystery! But the futurebeauty of life was in the search for it."
* * * * *
The observations that Korolenko was able to make were many anddiverse. By going all over Russia he gathered inexhaustible riches,in the form of anecdotes and actual experiences. This can be easilyrealized when we consider the sumptuous variety of his descriptions.Where do we not go, and whom do we not meet in his books? First, weare in a peaceful little town of the southwest, then in the thickwoods of Poliyessye, in the snow-covered and frozen Siberianforests, or in the valleys of Sakhaline, inhabited by half-breedRussians and escaped convicts, not to mention the innumerablesectarians who fill the Siberian prisons. And Korolenko neverrepeats. Not even a detail occurs more than once. Each of his worksis a little world in itself. The author, moreover, unlike otherwriters, is never satisfied with pale sketches; each character isshown in full relief, each picture is absolutely finished. Thiswholeness, this finish which does not hurt the harmony of theproportions, is a precious quality, very rare in our time.
* * * * *
The "Sketches of a Siberian Tourist," published in 1896, in whichbandits of various odd types tell thrilling tales of nocturnalattacks and other adventures, is a kind of artistic novel. Thepostillion is the most original character in the book. Huge ofstature, audacious and clever, he exercises a mysterious influenceover the brigands, whom he inspires with a superstitious terror.Most of them, thinking him invulnerable, do not dare attack thetravelers whom he is driving.
That same year another work of Korolenko's appeared, called: "In BadCompany,"--a sort of autobiography which added to his renown. Thestory, poetically simple, is laid in a provincial town. The hero isa little, seven-year-old boy called Volodya. He is the son of thelocal judge. The mother has been dead for a long time, and thefather, in his sorrow, more or less loses track of his children, whoroam about unwatched.
The little town has its historic legends; it boasts of the ruins ofa castle, which in times gone by was inhabited by rich Polishcounts, whose descendants, having become poor, have long since lefttheir manorial home. The castle has served as a refuge for a nomadicpopulation. Expelled by the count's agent, this little band hastaken up its abode in a dilapidated chapel in the crypts of acemetery.
The chief of this barefoot brigade is called Tibertius Droba. He hastwo children: Vanek, a large, dark-haired lad, whom one seeswandering about the village with a sullen look on his face, andMaroussya, a small and thin child, who is gradually fading away inthe darkness of her cellar-like home.
While strolling about one day, Volodya, impelled by his childishcuriosity, decides, with two of his friends, to explore the chapel.He meets there Tibertius' children and they strike up a friendship.The description of the ruins and of the superstitious fear of thechildren gives an opportunity for some exquisite pages. If thelittle vagabonds are hungry, poor Volodya, who himself is withoutlove or caresses, suffers still more, but every time that he bringsthe children some apples or cakes he feels that he is less unhappy,because these offerings are accepted with such an outpouring ofgratitude. Gradually, the little lad gets to know all theinhabitants, and becomes especially intimate with Maroussya, whoseeyes have an expression of precocious desolation.
"Her smile," says Korolenko, "reminded me of my mother during thelast few months of
her life; so much so, that I almost used to weepwhen I watched this little girl."
One day, Volodya brings her some apples, flowers, and a doll thathis little sister has given him.
"Why is she always so sad?" he asks Maroussya's brother.
"It is on account of the grey stone," he replies.
"Yes, the grey stone," repeated Maroussya, like a feeble echo.
"What grey stone?"
"The grey stone that has sucked the life out of her," explainedVanek, gazing at the sky. "Tibertius says so, and Tibertius knowseverything."
"I was very much puzzled, but the force with which Tibertius'omniscience was affirmed impressed me. I looked at the little girl,who was still playing with the flowers, but almost without moving.There were dark rings under her eyes and her face was pale. I didnot exactly understand the meaning of Tibertius' words, but I feltdimly that they veiled some terrible reality. The grey stone was, infact, sucking out the life of this frail child. But how could greystones do it? How could this hard and formless thing worm itselfinto Maroussya's very soul, and make the ruddy glow disappear fromher cheeks and the brilliancy from her eyes? These mysteries puzzledme more than the phantoms of the castle."
Volodya's father is not aware that he is spending part of his daysin the cemetery, and knows nothing of his son's new friends. But oneday the secret is discovered, and a family storm follows. The judgedemands a full confession. Volodya heroically remains silent.Finally, Tibertius himself pleads the child's cause so eloquentlythat Volodya is not scolded and the father allows him to go and saygood-bye to his little friend, who has meanwhile died of privation.The day after the little girl's funeral the whole band disappearswithout leaving a trace behind them. "Later on," says Korolenko,"when we were about to leave our home, it was on the grave of ourpoor little friend that my sister and I, both of us full of life,faith, and hope, interchanged our vows of universal compassion...."
Another short story, called "The Murmuring Forest," which waspublished in the same year, made as much of a success as "BadCompany."
* * * * *
But it is in "The Blind Musician" that Korolenko attains perfection.This masterly psychological study does not present a verycomplicated plot. From the very start the reader is captivated by apowerful poetic quality, free from all artifice, fresh, spontaneous,and breathing forth such moral purity, such tender pity, that oneliterally feels regenerated.
Here is a brief outline of this exquisite story. One very darknight, a child of rich parents is born in the southwest of Russia.Peter--the child--is blind. His whole life is to be but a groping inthe shadows toward the light. The mother adores the poor child andsuffers more than he. But she has not enough moral strength to bringhim up, and give him the necessary comfort and energy. His father,a countryman, thinks only of his business. Happily, there is on themother's side an uncle called Maxim, one of the famous "thousand" ofGaribaldi, who has a noble and generous disposition. It is he whobrings up the child, with a tenderness just touched by severity.Peter's young mind is constantly enriched with new pictures. Thanksto the extreme acuteness of his hearing, he catches the veryslightest sounds of nature. When barely five years of age the boyshows his love for music; he spends hours, motionless, listening tothe playing of one of the servants who has made for himself a kindof flute. Soon Peter begins to study music, and especially theviolin. His rapid progress astonishes his teachers. However, inspite of his love for music and the comfort that it gives him, theblind boy suffers from his infirmity. To distract his mind from hisown suffering, his uncle takes him one day to a place where thereare some blind beggars. Peter listens to their plaintive melody:"Alms, alms for a poor blind man ... for the love of Christ"; and asif he had heard the voice of some phantom, the child returns home,frightened, confused. From that day, he is transformed. Until then,he had thought only of himself, he had become grey with his ownsorrow. Afterward, he suffers for others; his personal sorrowdiminishes, and his life becomes an expression of the sorrows ofhis fellows in misery, an ardent and passionate prayer for otherswho also are deprived of sight.
For several years he has been friends with a young girl of hisneighborhood. They marry, and Evelyn, his wife, brings somehappiness to the poor blind man. But soon there comes a time ofindescribable anguish. Evelyn gives birth to a boy, and Peter istortured by a presentiment of impending evil. Will the son be blindlike his father? The few moments when the doctors are testing theinfant's sight pass like so many centuries. Finally the physiciansays: "The pupil is contracting, the child is not blind." Peter,seated by the window, pale and motionless, rises quickly at thesewords. In a moment fear has disappeared and hope is transformed intocertainty and fills the blind man's heart with joy. "The child isnot blind." One might say that these few words of the doctor hadburned a path in his brain.
"His whole frame vibrated like a taut cord which had been snapped. Aflash went through him, like lightning in a sunless sky, conjuringup in him strange phantasms. Whether they were sounds or sights hecould not determine. But if they were sounds they were sounds whichhe could see. They sparkled like the vault of the sky, shone likethe sun, waved like the rustling, whispering grass of the steppes.These were the sensations of a moment. What followed he was unableto recall. But he stubbornly affirmed that in this moment he had_seen_. What had he seen? How had he seen? Had he really seen? Thisalways remained a mystery. People said that it was impossible. He,however, affirmed that in that moment he had seen the earth, hiswife, his mother, his son, and Uncle Maxim.... He was standing up,and his face was so illumined and so strange that every one aroundhim was silent.... Later on, there remained nothing but theremembrance of a sort of joyous satisfaction, and the absoluteconviction that, at that moment, he had seen...."
A year later, at Kiev, at a concert for charity, Peter made hisdebut. An enormous crowd gathered to hear the blind musician. Fromthe very first the audience was captivated. Moved to its depths, thecrowd became frantic. And Uncle Maxim heard something familiar inthe playing of his nephew.
He saw a large, crowded street, and a clear, gay wave of scoldingand jesting humanity. Then, gradually, this picture faded into thebackground. A groaning was heard. It detached itself from the clamorof the crowd and passed through the hall in a sweet but powerfulnote, which sobbed and moved one's heart. Maxim knew it well, thissad melody: "Alms, alms for the poor blind man ... for the love ofChrist."
"He understands suffering," murmured the uncle. "He has had hisshare, and that is why he can change it into music for this happyaudience."
"And the head of the old warrior sank on his breast. His work wasdone. He had made a good man. He had not lived in vain. He had butto look at the crowd to be convinced of that."
* * * * *
Korolenko belongs to the school of Turgenev. In all of his works heremains true to the principles which his master summed up in aletter: "One must penetrate the surroundings, and take life in allits manifestations; decipher the laws by which it is governed; getat the very essence of life, while remaining always within theboundaries of truth; and finally, one must not be contented with asuperficial study."
Korolenko lives up to all of these principles. Without tiring, hewatches life in all of its phases. He uses a large canvas for hisstudies of inanimate nature, as well as of individuals in particularand the masses in general. That is why his work gives us such anexact reproduction of life.
Like Turgenev, he describes nature admirably. His descriptions arenot irrelevant ornaments, but they constitute an organic andintegral part of the picture. In both Turgenev and Korolenko thesurrounding country reflects the feelings and emotions of theheroes, and takes on a purely lyric character. One might almost saythat these country scenes breathe, speak a human language, andwhisper mysterious legends.
Korolenko has given us several splendid landscapes. In some of thesenature seems to be in a serene mood, like a good mother whoseharmonious strength attracts man and shows him the need of reposin
gon her bosom. In others, nature is like a strong, free element whichincites man to lead an independent life. Thus, in the beautifulprose poem, "The Moment," in which the action passes in Spain, it isthe ocean beating against the prison walls that arouses Diatz fromhis torpor and makes him attempt to escape.
* * * * *
But, in spite of the importance of the background in Korolenko'swork, it is really in the conscience of his characters that theessential drama takes place. More than anything else, it ispsychology that beguiles the artist; it is only through psychologythat Korolenko depicts men and their mentalities. He studies thestrong and the weak, the simple and the complex; exaltation,triumph, revolt, and downfall all interest him equally.
A simple analysis of his story, "Makar's Dream," will show hispsychological genius to greater advantage than could any criticalessay.
In the very heart of the dense woods of the "taiga," Makar, a poorlittle peasant, who has become half savage by association with theYakutsk people, dreams of a better future.
Makar does not dream, however, when he is normal; he hasn't time to,for he has to chop wood, plough, sow, and grind grain. He onlydreams when he is drunk. As soon as he is under the influence ofliquor, he weeps and says that he is going to leave everything andgo to the "sacred mountain" to gain salvation for his soul. What isthe name of this mountain? Where is it? He does not know exactly; heonly knows that it is very far away. On Christmas eve, Makar extortsa ruble from two political refugees, and, instead of bringing themsome wood for the money, he quickly buys some tobacco and brandy.After drinking and smoking a great deal, Makar goes to sleep and hasa dream. He dreams that the frost has got the better of him in thewoods, that he has died there, and that the priest Ivan, who hasalso been dead a long time, takes him to the great Tayon--the god ofthe woods--to be judged for his former deeds. Even there hisnatural knavery does not forsake him; he tries to fool Tayon. Butthe latter has everything that Makar has ever done, both good andbad, written down, and becoming angry, he says: "I see that you area liar, a sluggard, and a drunkard."
He orders Makar to be transformed into a post-horse, to be used bythe police commissioner. And Makar, this Makar who never in hislifetime was known to say more than ten words at a time, suddenlyfinds that he has the faculty of speech. He begins by saying that hedoes not want to be a horse, not because he is afraid of work butbecause this decision is unfair. If one works geldings, one feedsthem with oats; but people have imposed upon him and tortured himall his life and have never fed him, no, not even with oats.
"Who imposed upon you and tortured you?" asks old Tayon, moved bycompassion.
"Everybody! The men who demanded taxes, the heat and the cold, rainand dryness, the pitiless earth, and the forest."
The beam of the balance wavers; the wooden dish, filled with sins,rises, while the golden one sinks.
Makar continues: "You have everything written down, have you? Well,look and see whether Makar has ever had any kindness shown to him.He is here before his judges, dirty, his hair disordered, and hisclothes in rags. He is ashamed. However, he realizes that he wasborn just like the others, with clear eyes in which both heaven andearth were reflected, and with a heart ready to open and receive allthe beauty of the world."
Makar thus passes in review his miserable life. Old Tayon is moved.
"Makar, you are no longer on earth, and you shall receive justice."
Makar begins to weep, and Tayon weeps too.... And the young gods andthe angels, they also shed tears.
Again the balance moves. But this time it is in the oppositedirection.
Makar has received justice from the hands of Tayon.
* * * * *
Korolenko does not try to reconcile us to reality, but to mankind.In all of the catastrophes in his books, in the most sombredescriptions, he comforts us with a consolation, an ideal, a "littlefire" that burns in the distance and attracts us. But to get to thatfire we have to fight against evil. And it is perhaps in answer toTolstoy's doctrine of passive resistance that Korolenko wrote thatbeautiful story called, "The Legend of Florus," the subject of whichwas probably taken from "The War of the Jews," by Flavius Josephus.
This work takes us back to the time when Judaea was bowed down underRoman rule. The Jews bear their lot without a murmur, and thisresignation encourages Florus, the governor of Judaea, to oppressthem more.
Soon there are two parties formed: the "pacifics" want to ridthemselves of Roman cruelty by humble submission, while the othersadvise opposing this cruelty to the utmost. The chief of the latterparty is Menahem, the son of a famous warrior who has inherited fromhis father his generous passions and his hatred of oppression.Menahem's words inspire respect even in his enemies. But he does notsucceed in making peace among his people. In vain he cries to them,as his father before him had cried: "It is disgraceful to bow downto sovereigns, especially since these sovereigns are men; no humanbeing should bow down to any one excepting God, who created men thatthey might be free." With great trouble he finally succeeds inrousing a part of the people to rebellion. Then he leaves the citywith his followers, resolved to defend his country. Menahem has noillusions as to the outcome; he knows that he will be conquered bythe Romans. Nevertheless he is fearless, for his whole being isfilled with a single thought,--the idea of justice, which imposesupon men certain obligations which they must not scorn.
During his stay in Siberia Korolenko had a very good chance toobserve the deported convicts. Most of them are thieves, forgers,and murderers. The others, urged on by a heroic desire to live theirown true lives, have been sent to this "cursed land" because of"political offences."
Korolenko is not resigned to the sadness of life, he is not an enemyto manly calls to active struggle, but he neither wants to, nor canhe, break the ties that bind him to the real life of the present. Hedoes not wish either to judge or to renounce this life. Nor does hetry, by fighting, to perpetuate a conflict which is in itselfeternal. If he struggles, it is rather in discontent than indespair. Not all is evil in his eyes, and reality is not always andentirely sad. His protestations hardly ever take the form of disdainor contempt; he does not rise to summits which are inaccessible tomankind. In fact, his ideal is close to earth; it is the ideal whichcomes from mankind, from tears and sufferings. If the thoughts andfeelings of the author rise sometimes high above the earth, he neverforgets the world and its interests. Korolenko loves humanity, andhis ideals cannot separate themselves from it. He loves man and hebelieves that God lives in their souls.
We find these theories in the sketch called "En Route." Thevagabond, Panov, is one of a party of deported convicts. At one ofthe stops, an inspector arrives who remembers having seen Panov whena young man. The old man goes over the history of his life, whichhas been marked with constant success, with pleasure. He shows thevagabond his little son, and with cruel egotism boasts of hishappiness. Standing before him, his back bent, and a sad light inhis eyes, Panov listens to the story. He feels vaguely that he hasnot lived and that he lacks personality. There is nothing in storefor him except the useless existence of prison life. The egotisticaland debonair inspector, in his simplicity, does not understand theanguish of the homeless prisoner, and, by his amicable chatter,subjects him to horrible moral torture. It is too much for Panov.When the inspector leaves, Panov, gripping the edge of his hard cotin his convulsive hands, falls to the ground. He breathes heavily,his lips move, but he does not speak. "That night Panov got drunk."
Two very different types appear in the novel called, "The Postillionof the Emperor." We have here the idealist Misheka and the sectarianOstrovsky, a transported prisoner who is embittered by his hard lot,and by life in general.
If Misheka protests against the complicated conditions of life towhich he cannot entirely submit, it is rather by instinct thanthrough reason. He is attracted by something invisible, somethingdistant and strange, to the repugnant world which surrounds him. Asa postillion of the State he has frequent co
mmunications with thedistant world which glows vaguely on his mental horizon. Everythingdispleases him: both the savage country in which he has to live, andthe world of stupid, degenerate, and miserable postillions whom hemercilessly criticizes. His random attempts to get away fail.Despairing, he becomes an accomplice in a crime so that he can leavethis solitary place and go where his restless soul leads him.
At the side of Misheka we have the tragic figure of Ostrovsky, whois the exasperated victim of the evil all around him.
The author and the travelers, driven by Misheka, have seen theburning of Ostrovsky's house, which the latter burned himself sothat no one could profit by it. This action strikes Misheka aswonderful.
"He begins to tell the story of the fire. Several years before,Ostrovsky had been deported for having given up the orthodox faith.His young wife and child followed him. They had been given a plot ofland in a broad and deep valley, between two walls of rock. Theplace seemed fertile. It was not hard to sell wheat to the minersand Ostrovsky worked diligently and steadily. But the inhabitantshad kept something from him: although the wheat grew in the valley,it never ripened, because each year, without fail, in the month ofJuly it was destroyed by the cold winds from the northeast."
The first few years Ostrovsky attributed his failure to chance. Hecarefully cared for his crop in the hopes of a better season.
Alas, his wife died of sorrow, and autumn brought him nothing butstraw. Ostrovsky, without weeping, dug a grave in the frozen groundand buried his wife. Then he asked permission to go to the mines,and borrowed some money for the trip from his neighbors. The lattergladly loaned it to him, thinking thus to get rid of him and to getthe profit of his house and goods. But Ostrovsky fooled them intheir naive simplicity; he heaped up all of his possessions in hislittle cottage and then set fire to it. He no longer thought ofjustice; he was nothing but a despairing man.
The patriarch of the village in which he had taken refuge tried torecall to him the faith for which he had been exiled:
"Do you remember," answered Ostrovsky, "the first visit I paid youto ask for advice? Ah, so you have forgotten that and you speak ofGod.... You are nothing but a crafty dog! All of you are dogs! Thereis nothing here but woods and rocks, and you are all just asinsensible as the very rocks that surround you.... And your cursedland, and your sky, and your stars...." "He wanted to say somethingmore, but he did not dare blaspheme, and there was silence again inthe little cottage...."
This Ostrovsky is among the very best of Korolenko's heroes. Thesight of this despairing and lonely man, who wanders about in theSiberian forests with his little daughter, calls louder for justicethan all the speeches in the world.
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Through the wealth of his talent and knowledge, Korolenko is oftremendous social value in three fields of work,--practical affairs,journalism, and art.
Among the many services which he has rendered to humanity, let usfirst mention his brilliant defence of the half-savage Votiaks,accused of ritual murder in the famous Malmige case. Although he hadjust suffered great grief himself--he had lost two children--hetraveled to a distant town in order to be at the trial. He took hisseat on the bench of the defenders. He used all of his knowledge,and all the love in his heart to defend the unhappy Votiaks, whoseacquittal he succeeded in securing.
As a publicist, he has written some very valuable articles. Amongthem are observations on the famine year (he spent two months in oneof the worst districts). In other articles he has analyzed a moralmalady peculiar to our state of society:--honor. In the recentRussian duels he studied the perverse notions of honor and the moralchanges produced by sickly egotism. He has studied the causes thatbring about the complete loss of individuality. Finally, in 1910, hepublished under the title, "Present Customs (Notes of a Publicistunder Sentence of Death)" a series of documents gathered here andthere, which constitute an eloquent and passionate plea in favor ofthe abolitionist thesis.
When the great Tolstoy read the preface of this work, he wrote toKorolenko, "I often sobbed and wept. Millions of copies of this workought to be distributed; it ought to be read by every one who has aheart. No discourse, no novel or play, can produce the effect thatyour 'Notes' do."
But above all, it is as the pure artist that Korolenko merits mostattention. It is his talent that has already made him famous, and itis his talent that will make him immortal in Russian literature.
Korolenko is at present one of the most popular writers among theeducated classes. They have amply proved this to him, especially in1903 and 1908, when they celebrated his 50th birthday and the 30thanniversary of his literary activity. On the occasion of thesecelebrations, delegations from many cities and universities came toSt. Petersburg to congratulate and to thank the author who, throughso many trials, had never ceased to uphold the cause of truth andgoodness, and to claim for each human being the right to work,happiness, and free thought.
