The whole camp rises up in my imagination, and thousands of trivial details enliven this imagination. My heart drowns in pleasure: I am sitting in my friend Petin’s hut at the foot of a high mountain crowned with the ruins of a feudal castle. We are alone. We talk openly, from the heart; we cannot see enough of one another after our long separation. The danger from which we had emerged unscathed, the noise, movement and activity of army life, the sight of the troops and their ammunition, the simple military hospitality of a friend, a comrade of my youth, a bottle of Bohemian wine resting on a drum, a handful of fruit and a piece of stale bread, parca mensa, a simple meal, but lovingly prepared—all this combined to make us happy as children.
(Essays, 396–97)
Before long the two friends were involved in an even more bloody conflict, the battle of Leipzig, which made a deep impression on Batyushkov. On the first day of the battle Raevsky was badly wounded and had to be helped from the field. Then Petin was killed in action and buried in a makeshift grave. In his “Memories of Petin,” Batyushkov writes:
I saw this grave, covered with fresh earth; I stood over it in deep sorrow and gave relief to my heart with tears. It contained the most precious treasure of my life—friendship. I asked, begged the respectable and very ancient priest of the village to preserve the fragile memorial, a simple wooden cross, with the brave young man’s name inscribed on it.
(Essays, 408)
The scene recurs in one of Batyushkov’s greatest poems, the elegy “Shade of a Friend.” Batyushkov himself came very near to being taken prisoner; as an adjutant, he was sent by the general to carry messages, and described what he experienced in a letter to Gnedich:
On the 7th [of September, Russian style], the general sent me early in the morning to Bernadotte’s army to inquire about his son. I rode all round Leipzig and saw all the horrors of war. The battlefield was still fresh—and what a field it was! For most of ten miles, there were piles of human bodies at every step, together with dead horses and shattered shell-cases and gun-carriages. Heaps of shells and the moans of the dying.
(SP, 343)
He concludes with a French tag from La Fontaine: ce sont là jeux de princes (such is the sport of princes).
Leipzig was Batyushkov’s cruelest exposure to the horrors of war. Thereafter he accompanied Raevsky to convalesce in Weimar, finding it dull and disagreeable, even if it was Goethe’s city. His soldier’s view of the place is spelled out in another letter to Gnedich:
We’ve been in Weimar ten days or so now; we lead a quiet, boring life. There is no society. The Germans are fond of the Russians, all except my landlord, who poisons me daily with filthy soup and baked apples. There’s nothing to be done about this; neither I nor my comrades have a pfennig until we get our pay. I wander around like a Scythian in the land of Goethe, Wieland and other learned folk. Occasionally I go to the theatre. The auditorium is not bad, but poorly lit. They play comedies, dramas, operas and tragedies—the last of these rather well, to my surprise. I liked Don Carlos greatly and am reconciled to Schiller.
(SP, 345)
Two months later the army moved through a series of German cities toward France, crossing the frontier into Alsace on the last day of 1813. This frontier was the Rhine, and Batyushkov later made this crossing the subject of one of the monumental “historical elegies” he wrote in 1816–1817, comparable in its ambition to “Tasso Dying.” There are realistic elements here, as in all of Batyushkov’s war writings, but the picture is heightened and idealized, with a courtier-like reference in the tenth stanza to “Russia’s benediction” (Tsar Alexander’s wife, who was born on the banks of the Rhine). Aiming at a kind of epic grandeur that he had not previously attempted in poetry, Batyushkov sets the current moment and his individual experience in a vast historical context, from the Roman legions to the invasion of Napoleon, culminating in the arrival of the Russian liberators:
THE CROSSING OF THE RHINE—1814
The troops come riding through the fields. My horse
Rejoices when he sees your waters gleaming
Far off, O Rhine, and whinnies,
Breaks from the ranks and gallops to the shore
Borne up on wings of thirst;
Then gulps your icy flood,
Bathing his weary chest
In your life-giving cold.
O precious day! I am standing by the Rhine!
I gaze with greedy eyes down from the hills
And greet the mountains, fields
And feudal castles wrapped in cloud and rain,
And the land rich in fame
And ancient memory
Where from the Alps eternally
You pour your mighty waves.
Witness of ancient days, of centuries,
O Rhine, those countless legions drank from you
Who with their swords wrote laws
For the proud wandering tribes of Germany.
Fate’s darling, freedom’s scourge,
Here Caesar fought and won,
And his steed swam across
Your sacred waters, Rhine!
Centuries passed; the cross now ruled your waves,
And love and honor filled men’s souls and thoughts;
Knights took up arms and fought
To save fair ladies’ honor, orphans’ lives.
Here in their tournaments
The champions’ sharp swords rang;
Here even today we sense
The troubadours’ sweet song.
And here, beneath the shade of oak and fig,
In the sweet murmur of the mountain streams,
In happy villages and towns
Passion still lives among the chosen few.
Here inspiration flows
From old simplicities,
The sacred love of home
And scorn for luxuries.
Everything here, the fields, the sacred waters,
Which knew time’s mysteries, the voice of bards,
Everything gives new power
To lofty feelings and high-flying thoughts.
Free, proud, half-savage, once
True priests of nature sang
The old Germanic songs…
But their spellbinding choirs are gone.
And you, great river, witness of all time,
You, still today so calm, so regal,
With your proud nation’s fall
You too have bowed your head in captive shame.
How long now have you flowed
In sorrow past the hordes
Of hostile troops who bear
The new Attila’s eagles?
How long is it since those who till your banks
Among their ancient vineyards first encountered
The alien regiments
And met the hostile gaze of foreign soldiers?
How long have they been drinking
Your wine in crystal cups,
And sending horses trampling
Your fields and your ripe crops?
The hour has struck! We sons of the north have come
Under our Moscow flag with fire and freedom;
We come from icy seas,
From the warm breakers of the Caspian,
From far-away Baikal,
From Dnieper, Don and Volga,
From Peter’s granite walls,
From Caucasus and Ural.
We have come in thunder to defend your name,
The honor of your arms, your wasted fields,
Your villages, the sacred place
Where Russia’s benediction bloomed in peace;
The land of the bright angel
Born for the midnight lands
And given by Providence
To tsar and grateful Russia.
We are here, O Rhine, you see our biting swords!
You hear the noise of troops, the neighing horses,
Hurrahs of victory and shouts
Of heroes galloping down to your wide waters.
Sending dust flying,
Trampling the enemy dead,
The horses soon are drinking,
Crowded on the soft earth.
What a rich feast for eyes and ears! We see
The horses, then the gleam of the bronze cannons,
The muskets ranged in battle,
And ancient flags among the shields and spears;
The plumes of soldiers’ helmets,
The ranks of heavy horses,
And the light cavalry—
Reflected in the water!
We hear the axes ring, the forest felled!
The campfires smoke and flare above the Rhine;
The festive goblets clink,
The soldiers’ joyful shouts rise to the skies;
A warrior hugs his friend,
Another whets his bayonet,
A horseman with a threatening hand
Brandishes a winged dart.
And there a rider, leaning on his spear,
Alone and pensive, stands on the high bank
And with an eager eye
Follows the river’s winding course. Perhaps
His memory is recalling
The river of his homeland,
And to his breast, unthinking,
He presses his bronze cross.
But over here a bloodless sacrifice
Is ordered by the generals among the heaps
Of trophies, and the priest
Kneels here before the God of the Maccabees.
Above him rustles and waves
The forest of our banners;
The young sun in the heavens
Makes our high altar blaze.
The cries of war fall silent; in the ranks
Devotion suddenly seals the soldiers lips;
The weapons are all dipped
Leaders and warriors bow their heads in thanks.
Then to our God they sing,
To you, the Lord of Hosts,
You never-failing sun,
The peaceful offerings smoke.
Now they all move away, line after line;
Like a great sea the army moves and flows,
And a heroic cry
Never yet heard by you, O Rhine, resounds;
Your welcoming shores give voice,
The bridge trembles at our shouts;
The enemy, seeing us, flees
And vanishes from sight.
(Essays, 320–24)
Battles, marches, and countermarches brought the Russian army to the gates of Paris. On the way, however, Batyushkov had taken time out to visit Cirey, the country mansion where Voltaire had lived with his lover, the physicist and mathematician Madame du Châtelet. He subsequently wrote about this visit in an open letter to Dashkov, published in 1816 under the title “A Journey to the Château de Cirey”; this is partly a tourist’s report, partly an homage to two remarkable people—though it is interesting to see that the fulsome praise of Voltaire is largely attributed to the writer’s companion. It is a romantically nostalgic visit: as the travelers approach Cirey, they meet an old man in a worn-out revolutionary cap, who tells them: “Time and revolution have destroyed everything…. They planted a tree of liberty…. They destroyed God’s churches…. And how did it all finish? The tree has been chopped down and the inscription on the church porch, Liberty, fraternity, or death, has been whitewashed over” (Essays, 105–6). A long note points up the contrast between the Germans, who love and preserve the past, and the French, for whom nothing is sacred. France, once so much admired, no longer offers a model of civilization. In Voltaire’s study the Russians declaim the odes of Derzhavin and Lomonosov, and Batyushkov cites Voltaire’s own words: “C’est du Nord à présent que nous vient la lumière” (It is from the North that the light shines today). Russia is the victorious power (Essays, 111–12).
Then on March 16–18 came the triumphal entry into Paris. A few days later, Batyushkov wrote again to Gnedich: “From the heights of Montreuil I saw Paris, wrapped in thick mist, an endless row of houses dominated by the lofty towers of Notre Dame. I confess my heart began to beat with joy!” (SP, 354). There was no fighting, and the Russian troops marched into the city to the hurrahs of the Parisians. In a letter to Zhukovsky some months later, Batyushkov described this as a “marvelous moment, worth a whole life” (SP, 379). He spent two months in Paris, looking at all the sights, visiting the opera, drinking in celebrated coffee houses and restaurants, and even attending a session of the French Academy. He was not greatly impressed by this sanctuary of French literature, and commented: “In the usual way of things, I think the age of glory for French literature has gone and is unlikely ever to return” (SP, 365). This remark comes from a rather literary letter addressed to Dashkov, one of the very few accounts he left of his time in Paris. He says little of the riches of the art galleries for fear of boring his correspondent, but he does allow himself some admiring words for Parisian women and their feet:
For them love pours out
All his golden arrows.
All is enchanting,
Their walk, their light figure,
Their arms, half-bared,
Their eyes full of pleasure,
Magic sounds on their lips
And passionate words.
Everything charms you—
And, dear friends…their feet!
The Graces’ creation,
Companions of Venus;
For such feet gods eternal
Spread the way with roses
Or smooth it with swan’s down.
Phidias before them
Would drown in emotion;
The poet is in heaven,
And the penitent, weeping,
Abandons his prayers.
(CP, 169–70)
The stay in Paris was pleasant enough, but after the initial rapture, Batyushkov was not bowled over. He has severe things to say on the old topics of French frivolity and the fickle affections of the Paris crowd. By the middle of May, having fallen ill, he is writing to Vyazemsky of his pleasure in imagining his return to Moscow and his friends: “I entered Paris full of enthusiasm and I am leaving it with joy” (SPP, 277). In “The Prisoner,” possibly written in France, but more likely after his return to Russia, he gives a sympathetic depiction of the very Russian nostalgia of Lev Davydov, brother of the poet, who was a prisoner of war in France. Here is a stanza “sung” by the captive:
Sound sweetly, sound, waves of the Rhone,
Water the golden fields,
But let the voice of my own Don
Sound through your song to me!
O winds, sweep down through the dark night
From the land I call my own,
And you, stars of the North, burn bright
On one so far from home!
(Essays, 244)
Not being a prisoner, Batyshkov no doubt felt less longing for home than his lyrical hero, but he neglected the opportunity to see more of France, and on May 17 set off on his return journey. He did not go by the direct overland route, but took advantage of an invitation from a friend, Dmitry Severin, who was on a diplomatic mission to London, and returned to St. Petersburg by sea, with brief stays in England and Sweden. It seems to have been his first experience of sea travel.
Unfortunately, we know little about his time in England. He arrived in London at a propitious moment, shortly after the tumultuous reception given to the tsar and the Don Cossack leader Platov, and he seems to have been surrounded by good friends from the Russian embassy. In a letter written to Severin in mid-June, after he had reached Sweden, he is lyrical in his praise of British life and society:
So, my friend, the land in which everything flourishes, a land piled high, so to speak, with the riches of the whole world, can only sustain itself by its unfailing respect for social and divine manners and laws.
These are the foundations for the freedom and prosperity of the new Carthage, that wonderful island where luxury and simplicity, the power of the king and of the citi
zen are constantly set against one another in a perfect equilibrium. This mixture of luxury and simplicity is what impressed me most in the homeland of Elizabeth and Addison.
(SP, 369–70)
This ideal view of Britain owes something to Voltaire’s English Letters and might not have survived a longer residence. But Batyushkov was in London for only a couple of weeks before setting off for home. He sailed from Harwich, where he was kept waiting by contrary winds. This gave him time to visit a church, where the “simplicity of the service,” the music, the angelic faces of the women, the numerous children, and the sailors’ weather-beaten faces left a “deep and delightful impression” on him. Once he was on board, he had to put up with seasickness and with some tedious fellow travelers, but he enjoyed the poetry of sea travel. He wrote to Severin:
I spent my free hours on deck in a sweet enchantment, reading Homer and Tasso, the soldier’s true companions. Often, setting my book aside, I gazed with admiration on the open sea. How marvelous are those boundless, endless waves! What an inexpressible feeling was born in the depths of my soul! How freely I breathed! How my eyes and my imagination flew from one side of the horizon to the other!
(SP, 372)
A nocturnal version of this enchantment is the setting for one of Batyushkov’s most moving poems, an elegy for his lost friend Ivan Petin, the noble victim of the Napoleonic wars:
SHADE OF A FRIEND
Sunt aliquid manes: letum non omnia finit
Luridaque evictos effugit umbra rogos
(Propertius)
I sailed from the misty shores of Albion;
Beneath the leaden waves I seemed to see them sink.
In the ship’s wake fluttered the halcyon
And with its quiet singing cheered the sailors’ work.
The evening breeze, the billows’ buffeting,
The same unchanging noise, the beating of the sails,
Writings from the Golden Age of Russian Poetry Page 10