Alexander Pushkin, Father of Russian Poetry
LEXANDER PUSHKIN is called the "Russian Byron," "demigod of Russian Verse," "father of Russian poetry," "the laureate of Czar Nicholas." The Pushkins had long been about the rulers of Russia as cited by Alexander in "My Pedigree." The first of the line the grandfather of the poet was an Abyssinian, who was stolen as a slave from Constantinople. The grandsire was not only adopted by Peter the Great, but given a title of nobility and rank of General.
The poet was proud of his African blood, which asserted itself unmistablv in the curl of his hair
and the shape of his lips. He regarded himself as a drop of African blood on Arctic soil. He was born in 1799. During his childhood an old nurse be guiled him with many legends and fables of Rus sia. When he was twenty these legends brought forth fruit in his first great poem, "Ruslan and Liudmila." His democratic ideas, which encouched in an "Ode to Liberty," soon made him an exile from home and from Czar Nicholas I. However, the Czar loved the poet and speedily pardoned him. He died quite young, having written not only poetry that survives, but many prose tales. It is said that every youth in Russia knows his poetry by heart.
MY PEDEGREE.
IV. 66.
With scorning laughter at a fellow writer,
In a chorus the Russian scribes
With name of aristocrat me chide :
Just look, if please you. . . nonsense what!
Court Coachman not I, nor assessor,
Nor am I nobleman by cross ;
No academician, nor proffer,
I'm simply of Russiana citizen.
When treason conquered was and falsehood,
And the rage of storms of war,
When the Romanoffs upon the throne
The nation called by its Chart
We upon it laid our hands ;
The martyr's son then favored us ;
Time was, our race was prized,
But I . . am but a citizen obscure.
Well I know the times' corruption,
And surely, not gain say it shall I :
Our nobility but recent is :
The more recent it, the more noble 'tis.
But of humble races a chip,
And, God be thanked, not alone
Of ancient Lords am scion I ;
Citizen I am, a citizen !
Our stubborn spirit us tricks has played
Most irrepressible of his race,
With Peter my sire could not get on ;
And for this was hung by him.
Let his example a lesson be ;
Not contradiction loves a ruler,
Not all can be Prince Dolgorukys,
Happy only is the simple citizen.
Not in cakes my grandsire traded,
Not a prince was newly-baked he ;
Not at church sang he in choir,
Nor polished he the boots of Tsar ;
Was not escaped a soldier he
From the German powdered ranks ;
How then aristocrat am I to be?
God be thanked, I am but a citizen.
My grandfather, when the rebels rose
In the palace of Peterhof,
Like Munich, faithful he remained
To the fallen Peter Third ;
To honor came then the Orloffs,
But my sire into fortress, prison,
Quiet now was our stern race,
And I was born merely citizen.
My grandsire Radshaa in warlike service
To Alexander Nefsky was attached,
The Crowned Wrathful, Fourth Ivan,
Mis descendents in his ire had spared.
About the Tsars the Pushkins moved;
And more than one acquired renoun,
When against the poles battling was
Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain.
Beneath my crested seal
The roll of family charts I've kept ;
Not running after magnates new,
My pride of blood I have subdued ;
I'm but an unknown singer
Simply Pushkin, not Moussin,
My strength is mine, not from court:
I am a writer, a citizen.
11
