Poems. With Introduction and Notes. Александр Пушкин

is this which makes Pushkin the poet in its original sense,—the maker, the sayer, the namer. And herein is his greatness,—in expressing not what is his, in so far that it is different from what is other men's, but what is his, because it is other men's likewise. Herein he is what makes him a man of genius. For what does a genius do?

      11. What is it that makes the water, when spouting forth in a smooth stream from the hose, such a power? What is it that makes the beauty of the stem and curve of the body of water, as it leaps out of the fountain? It is the same water which a few yards back we can see flowing aimless in stream or pond. Yes, but it is the concentration of the loose elements into harmonious shape, whether for utility, as in the case of the hose-spout, or for beauty, as in the case of the fountain. Nought new is added to the mass existing before. This is precisely the case of genius. He adds nought to what has gone before him. He merely arranges, formulates. A vast unorganized mass of intelligence, of aspiration, of feeling, becomes diffused over mankind. Soon it seeks organization. The poet, the prophet, the seer, cometh, and lo, he becomes the magnet round which all spiritual force of the time groups itself in visible shape, in formulated language.

      12. Pushkin, then, is self-centred; but it is the self that is not Pushkin, but man. His mood is others' mood; and in singing of his life, he sings of the life of all men. The demon he sings of in the poem called "My Demon" is not so much his demon alone as also yours, mine, ours. It is his demon because it is all men's demon.

      "A certain evil spirit then

      Began in secret me to visit.

      Grievous were our meetings,

      His smile, and his wonderful glance,

      His speeches, these so stinging,

      Cold poison poured into my soul.

      Providence with slander

      Inexhaustible he tempted;

      Of Beauty as a dream he spake

      And inspiration he despised;

      Nor love, nor freedom trusted he,

      On life with scorn he looked—

      And nought in all nature

      To bless he ever wished."

      And this demon—"the Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of Doubt"—of which he sings afterwards so pathetically tormented him long. He began with "Questionings:"—

      "Useless gift, accidental gift,

      Life, why art thou given me?

      Or, why by fate mysterious

      To torture art thou doomed?

      "Who with hostile power me

      Out has called from the nought?

      Who my soul with passion thrilled,

      Who my spirit with doubt has filled?…"

      And he continues with "Sleeplessness:"—

      "I cannot sleep, I have no light;

      Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow;

      The beat monotonous alone

      Near me of the clock is heard

      Of the Fates the womanish babble,

      Of sleeping night the trembling,

      Of life the mice-like running-about,—

      Why disturbing me art thou?

      What art thou, O tedious whisper?

      The reproaches, or the murmur

      Of the day by me misspent?

      What from me wilt thou have?

      Art thou calling or prophesying?

      Thee I wish to understand,

      Thy tongue obscure I study now."

      13. And this demon gives him no rest, even long after he had found the answer,—that the meaning of Life is in Work. Solve the problem of life? Live, and you solve it; and to live means to do. But that work was the solution of the problem of life he indeed discerned but vaguely. It was with him not yet conscious fulfilment. He had not yet formulated to himself the gospel he unconsciously obeyed. Hence the wavering of the "Task:"—

      "The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task.