“More than Just a Poet”: Konstantin Batiushkov as an Art Critic, Art Manager, and Art Brut Painter
Department of Slavic, East European and Eurasian Languages and Cultures, University of California, Los Angeles, CA 90095, USA
Arts 2022, 11(6), 126; https://doi.org/10.3390/arts11060126
Submission received: 20 October 2022
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Revised: 2 December 2022
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Accepted: 3 December 2022
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Published: 14 December 2022
(This article belongs to the Special Issue Slavic and Eastern-European Visuality: Modernity and Tradition)
Abstract
:This paper focuses on the Russian Golden Age author Konstantin Batiushkov’s involvement with fine arts. He is recognized as an exquisite elegist, an immediate predecessor of Alexander Pushkin in poetry, and “a pioneer of Russian Italomania.” Much less known is that Batiushkov was always deeply involved with painting, drawing, and sculpture—not only as a poet but as Russia’s first art critic, an ad-lib art manager, who worked on behalf of the President of the Russian Academy of Arts Aleksei Olenin, and an amateur artist. The paper offers addenda to the commentary on his essay devoted to the 1814 academic exhibition, commonly referred to as the earliest significant example of Russian art criticism. Many of Batiushkov’s extant paintings and drawings belong to the time when he was mentally insane. Since he was a self-taught artist, his visual works of this period can be categorized as early examples of art brut.
1. Introduction
The artistic tastes of the authors of the so-called Golden Age of Russian literature and their knowledge of painting and sculpture, either contemporary or those of previous epochs, remain practically unresearched (Pigarev 1966, 1972). The same applies to the writers’ own pictorial art, although to a lesser extent. This research was initiated by the studies and editions of the drawings of Russia’s iconic poet Alexander Pushkin as an extraverbal element of his poetry writing process (Efros 1930, 1933, 1945, 1946; Tsiavlovskaia 1970, 1980; Zhuikova 1996; Denisenko and Fomichev 1996, 2001). Editions of the oils, watercolors, and crayons of the last Golden Age author, Mikhail Lermontov, followed next (Kovalevskaia 1964, 1980).
Russian émigré artist and art collector Nikolai Zaretzky (b. 1876–d. 1959) spent the last decade of his life working on a description of 19th- and early-20th-century Russian writers’ achievements as artists. Originally entitled Russkie pisateli kak zhivopistsy i risoval’shchiki [Russian Writers as Painters and Drawers], his book was edited and published posthumously in German translation by the prominent Slavist Dmytro Chyzhevsky (Zaretzky 1960). In 1981, the first exhibition of the drawings of 19th- and 20th-century Russian authors was held in the State Literary Museum in Moscow (Shakhalova 1981). This exhibition provided the impetus for a survey edition of the most important drawings of Russian authors from the late 17th to the early 20th century, published with a solid introduction by Rudol’f Duganov (1988). A conference called “Drawings of Saint Petersburg Writers” was held in Saint Petersburg in May 1999, and its proceedings were published the following year (Denisenko 2000). The latest Literary Museum exhibition, titled “Poeta pingens,” was held in 2004 (Zalieva and Rudnik 2004).
The present paper focuses on a less-known aspect of the life and oeuvre of a leading poet of the period, Konstantin Batiushkov. He was born in Vologda, a baroque city in the European Russian North, in 1787. For contemporary and later critics, he and his friend Vasilii Zhukovsky were the founders of a new school in Russian poetry defined today as a transition from Neoclassical to Romantic; both are appraised as Pushkin’s mentors in poetry and his immediate predecessors. Most of Batiushkov’s poems, published during the mid-1800s and 1810s, were collected in the second volume of his Opyty v Stikhakh i Proze [Essays in Verse and Prose] (1817). This book set a compositional standard for younger Romantic poets: in particular, Pushkin (1826) and Evgenii Baratynsky (1827) modeled their collections on Batiushkov’s book with its genre headings (“Elegies,” “Epistles,” and “Miscellanea”).
Batiushkov’s prose essays in the first volume of Opyty are non-fiction articles on Russian and European cultural history. One of them, “Progulka v Akademiiu Khudozhestv” [A Stroll to the Academy of Arts] (1814), is commonly referred to as the earliest significant example of Russian art criticism (Efros 1933, p. 94; Pigarev 1966, p. 44; Fridman 1965, pp. 92–93; Serman 1974, pp. 106–7; Volodina 1989; Baluev 2015, pp. 40–48; Buckler 2018, p. 97). Section 2 of this paper offers addenda to the commentary on this important text.
Some of Batiushkov’s essays, including “A Stroll,” are composed in epistolary form. Batiushkov’s friends considered his correspondence to be of great literary interest and started publishing it as early as the 1820s (Stepanov 1926; Todd 1976; Pilshchikov 1994–1995, 2003, pp. 90–115; Lappo-Danilevskij 2013). In one such letter (to Dmitrii Dashkov on 25 April 1814),1 Batiushkov describes his Parisian impressions (to be discussed in Section 2.2); an abridged version was published in Pamiatnik Otechestvennykh Muz [The Monument of Fatherland Muses] in 1827 (Batiushkov 1827). Interestingly, some of his letters include pictorial elements (Duganov 1988, p. 71; Koshelev 2000, p. 165), discussed in Section 4 of the present paper.
The leading comparativists called Batiushkov “a pioneer of Russian Italomania.”2 His love for Italian literature began with Torquato Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata, the epic which was generally acknowledged as the principal link in the chain between antiquity and modernity. He extended this attitude to the whole of Italian Renaissance literature, in which he found “genuinely classical beauties, well-tried by the centuries.”3 The chronological horizon of Batiushkov’s Italian interests gradually expanded backward to Dante Alighieri and further to contemporaries, such as Vincenzo Monti (Gorokhova 1975; Pilshchikov 2003),—until he conceived the project of Panteon Itail’ianskoi Slovesnosti [A Pantheon of Italian Letters] in 1817 (realized only partially).
Already in his young years Batiushkov formed a friendship with Aleksei Olenin—a dignitary, a successful career official, and a knowledgeable amateur of the arts in one person. On 21 April 1817, Olenin was appointed the President of the Imperial Academy of Arts in Saint Petersburg and retained this position until he died in 1843. In summer 1818, following Olenin’s advice, Batiushkov traveled to the Black Sea shore (the territory conquered during the Russo-Turkish Wars of 1768–74 and 1787–91), where he examined the ruins of the ancient Greek city of Olbia4 and described his findings (medals, vases, etc.). De facto, it was the first Russian expedition to Pontic Olbia, three decades before the site was made an archaeological reservation. Batiushkov wrote an essay on Olbian antiquities (accompanied by drawings) but it did not come down to us (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 522; Maikov and Saitov 1886, p. 761).
Before his departure to the Black Sea, Batiushkov sent a letter to emperor Alexander I, asking for a post in Italy. On 16 July 1818, the emperor raised him to the rank of Court Councillor (the seventh class in the Table of Ranks) and attached him to the Russian consulate in Naples, where he arrived at the end of February 1819. His route lay via Rome, where he—again on behalf of Olenin—supervised the living and working conditions of the Russian artists who resided there on academic stipends (one of them was Orest Kiprensky, the most famous Russian Romantic painter before Karl Briullov). I describe the less known details of Batiushkov’s Italian journey in Section 3 of this paper.
Meanwhile, the poet’s health was failing and his depression grew. A local doctor persuaded him to receive balneological treatment on the island of Ischia, but it did not help. The painter Sylvester Shchedrin, who moved from Rome to Naples in June 1819 and stayed with Batiushkov for more than a year, produced many of his Neapolitan cityscapes from and around Batiushkov’s apartment (also discussed in Section 3). In the summer of 1820 a revolution broke out in the Kingdom of both Sicilies, and the Russian envoy left Naples. In December 1820, Batiushkov received permission to move to Rome and then to Bohemia. He applied for retirement; instead, the emperor granted him indefinite leave. In August 1822, Batiushkov arrived in Simferopol in Crimea, where, over the following months, symptoms of persecution mania became obvious. He burnt his books and attempted suicide a few times. From 1824 to 1828 he was treated at the “Maison de santé” in Sonnenstein (Saxony), from 1828 to 1833 in Moscow. On 9 December 1833, he was officially found incurable, released from service and granted a life pension. From 1833 onward he lived in Vologda.
Batiushkov lived a long life, 68 years, but his last “sane” poem was written when he was only 34, and his contemporaries deemed him, to use the critic Vissarion Belinsky’s words, pronounced in 1841, “as if dead.”5 After Batiushkov became mentally ill, he wrote only a few incoherent texts. However, he spent another 34 years producing watercolors, gouaches, and crayons. Many of his extant paintings and drawings belong to this period. Together with his earlier artwork, they are discussed in Section 4 below.
2. “A Stroll to the Academy of Arts” and Its Enigmas
In January 1814, the Russian army crossed the Rhine, entered France and moved in on the capital. Batiushkov took part in this campaign as an adjutant to General Nikolai Raevsky, commander of the Third Corps of Grenadiers. Our warrior poet visited the castle of Cirey in Lorraine, where the fugitive Voltaire had lived, and described the visit in a prose piece, “Puteshestvie v zamok Sirei” [A Visit to the Castle of Cirey]. It was written in the fall of the following year in the form of another letter to Dashkov and included in the prose volume of the Essays in Verse and Prose.
In early July 1814, Batiushkov returned from Paris to Saint Petersburg via England, Sweden, and Finland; he described the crossing in a letter to Dmitrii Severin of 19 June 1814, revised later as a traveler’s sketch, and in the elegy “Ten’ Druga” [The Shade of a Friend]. Upon arrival, he worked on “Stseny chetyrekh vozrastov” [Scenes of the Four Ages of Man], a libretto for the celebrations on the return of Alexander I, which took place in Pavlovsk on 27 July 1814. An annual exhibition at the Academy of Arts described in “Progulka v Akademiiu Khudozhestv” was opened on 1 September 1814. This date is registered in the official reports on the exhibition at the Academy published annually by its Conference Secretary (and, later, Vice-President) Aleksei Labzin, a leading figure of the Russian Enlightenment and Russian Freemasonry (Labzin 1814, p. 1; Beliaev 2016, p. 194). The textual correspondences between the 1814 report and “Progulka” testify to the fact that Batiushkov made an ample use of it (Volodina 1989, pp. 104–5).
Therefore, “Progulka v Akademiiu Khudozhestv” (or at least its main part, devoted to the exhibition) was written between early October (Labzin’s report was published on 2 October) and late November 1814: its first portion was published in Nikolai Grech’s journal Syn Otechestva [Son of the Fatherland] on 3 December 1814 (see Batiushkov 1814).6 The definitive version of the essay was completed in the summer of 1816 when Batiushkov revised his prose works for the first volume of Opyty (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, pp. 114–58). In early September 1816, he informed his friend and editor, the poet and translator Nikolai Gnedich, that the text of his “Letter on the Academy” was “corrected” and that Olenin, whose advice he had used when writing the essay, should be asked for permission to publish it: “The canvass is his, and the silks are mine.”7
2.1. The Russian and British Reception of Batiushkov’s Essay
Curiously enough, “Progulka” became accessible to Anglophone readers very early. Its unsigned translation into English, titled “A Visit in the Academy of Arts,” appeared in Arnold’s Magazine of the Fine Arts in March and April 1834 (see Batiushkov 1834). The translator, William Henry Leeds (b. 1786–d. 1866), was “a truly significant figure in the early history of British reception and perception not only of Russian literature but also of Russian art and architecture” (Cross 2012, p. 56). The translation was preceded by the praise of Batiushkov’s essay in Leeds’s review of Opyty, published in the Foreign Quarterly Review in January 1832 (Cross 2012, p. 61):
The “Visit to the Academy of Arts” would be valuable, were it merely for the information it affords relative to some of the most noted artists of Russia, Yegorov, Kiprensky, Varnik, &c.; independently of which, his remarks on painting convince us that Batiushkov was fully capable of appreciating, and entering with real feeling into the beauties and excellencies of that art.
The review concludes with a complete poetic translation of Batiushkov’s then most acclaimed elegy, “Umiraiushchii Tass” [The Dying Tasso] (1817).
A special emphasis on “Progulka” and “Umiraiushchii Tass” is already found in Leeds’s earlier review of Grech’s Opyt kratkoi istorii russkoi literatury [A Brief History of Russian Literature] (1822), published in 1828 in the Foreign Review and Continental Miscellany, an unsuccessful short-lived rival of the Foreign Quarterly Review (Cross 2012, p. 55):
While Zhukovsky caught the spirit of the bards of the north, Batiushkov infused into his strains the grace, delicacy, and refinement of the Italian muse. His “Dying Tasso” is one of those productions which stamp at once the reputation of a poet.
As a writer of prose, he is no less admirable, for there is a charm and finished elegance in his style, that well accord with the refined criticism in his essays: amongst which, his ”Visit to the Academy of Arts” is exceedingly interesting, and written with great eloquence.
The contrast of Zhukovsky and Batiushkov as the singers of Anglo-German north and Franco-Italian south, correspondingly, goes back to Pyotr Pletnev, whom Grech (1822, pp. 305–14) extensively quotes, and further to Sergei Uvarov, a former member of the Arzamas literary society and Batiushkov’s one-time coauthor (Ouvaroff 1817; Pletnev 1817; see Pilshchikov and Fitt 1999; Pilshchikov 2003, pp. 5, 186). However, the preference given to “Progulka v Akademiiu Khudozhestv” is the reviewer’s own. Therefore, Leeds distinguished Batiushkov’s innovative essay more than a decade earlier than Russia’s most eulogized 19th-century literary critic Belinsky, who remarked in 1843 that the author of “Progulka” was “a passionate lover of the arts, a man gifted with a truly artistic soul,”8 and more than a century earlier than the celebrated Soviet art critic Abram Efros, who wrote in 1930:
Batiushkov was the Columbus of Russian art criticism. “Progulka” is its first high example. In it, our art found the first living link with our literature, history, and the whole early-19th-century Russian culture. Batiushkov created a new literary genre here, just as he created it in poetry. The vividness of his imagination, the subtlety of taste, the uninhibited writing style, and the confidence of his critical judgment seem captivating even a century later.9
Despite all the (overall, very moderate) plaudits, the text of Batiushkov’s essay has never been commented on consistently. Leonid Maikov, the editor of Batiushkov’s complete works published in 1885–1887 to celebrate the poet’s centenary, laid the foundation for an academic commentary on his literary heritage. Not much has been added to the comments on “Progulka v Akademiiu Khudozhestv” since then. The modest aim of this section is to offer a few addenda.
2.2. Winckelmann and the Apollo Belvedere
A tradition of prose writing was virtually non-existent in early-19th-century Russia. For this reason, some of the new prosaic genres Batiushkov developed in the prose volume of his Essays were disguised as private letters. “Progulka” is no exception. It begins and ends as a letter to a friend and has the subtitle “Pis’mo starogo Moskovskogo zhitelia k priiateliu v derevniu ego N.” [A Letter from an Old Moscow Resident to his Friend in the Village of N.].
The signaling names in Batiushkov’s essay are those of Johann Joachim Winckelmann and Anton Raphael Mengs, the main Neoclassical intermediaries between pictorial and verbal art. Roman Jakobson maintained that “intersemiotic translation or transmutation is an interpretation of verbal signs by means of signs of nonverbal sign systems” (Jakobson 1959, p. 233). But the reverse is also true, and an interpretation of nonverbal signs by means of signs of natural languages is an equally important mechanism of cultural polyglotism. This type of intersemiotic translation—“the verbal representation of the graphic representation” (Heffernan 1991, p. 299)—has long been known as ekphrasis (Krieger 1967, 1992; Braginskaia 1977; Lund 1992, pp. 12–16; Heffernan 1991, 1993; Mitchell 1994, pp. 151–65; Wagner 1996; Webb 1999; Bartsch and Elsner 2007).10 In the Neoclassical age, Winckelmann became the first interpreter/translator of plastic arts into the verbal medium. He was the author who combined reinvented ekphrasis with newly invented art history and transformed a rhetorical exercise of interpreting an artwork into an independent work of art (Pommier 2003, p. 15).
A mention of his book, Geschichte der Kunst des Altertums [History of the Art of Antiquity] (1764), sets up a Winckelmannian frame of reference at the beginning of the third paragraph of Batiushkov’s text, i.e., the first paragraph of the narrative, which begins after the introduction addressed to the fictitious owner of the village of N.:
I shall begin from the very beginning, after the old fashion of old folks.Listen
While sitting yesterday morning by the window, with a volume of Winckelmann in my hand, I indulged in a reverie, of which you must not expect any particular account.(Batiushkov 1834, p. 452; translation modified)11
Winckelmann’s name also sets up a framework composition of the essay, which ends with invoking the same fictional addressee (Lappo-Danilevskij 2007, pp. 187–89). It is followed by a Postscriptum—not translated in Leeds’s version—which relates an imagined conversation with a fictitious painter who catechizes the author’s intimate thoughts:
So far we do not have our own Mengs, who might reveal to us the secrets of his art, at the same time as adding another, equally difficult art to the art of painting: the art of expressing one’s own thoughts. We have not yet had a Winckelmann….
Finally, a quotation from Winckelmann’s Geschichte—a book which is “widely considered to be a foundational text in the history of art” (Harloe 2007, p. 229)—, appears in the very middle of the essay.
To appreciate the context, we should recall not only the significance of the Geschichte in the late Neoclassical age, but also the public repercussions of its author’s name:
The credit for inventing the scientific study of Greco-Roman sculpture still belongs to the German scholar, Johann Joachim Winckelmann. The reason for this, the Geschichte der Kunst des Alterthums […], was first published Dresden in 1764 […]. So important was the project that Winckelmann was revising it when he was murdered a year later. This evolving version was published in Vienna in 1776. It is this amended Geschichte that formed the basis of influential French and Italian editions. These followed quickly, propelled perhaps by the interest generated by his murder. Though it was another hundred years before the text was translated into English, its impact has been extraordinary. […] His death is documented in autopsy reports and defendant’s account of the murder. Murmurings of a sexual motive fuel the ”facts” of his homosexual lifestyle and the web of fictions that have been written about him since. But for classicists, Winckelmann is his Geschichte and his Geschichte his defining narrative: in the words of its author, the book represents the first serious attempt to construct a framework for ancient art.
The quotation Batiushkov used was so famous that Leeds omitted it as a matter of common knowledge:
In that figure we at once behold Apollo […]! While contemplating this exquisite prodigy of sculpture, I fully assented to Winckelmann’s enthusiastic comment. “I forget the universe, he says, when gazing on Apollo; I myself adopt the noblest posture in order to be worthy of contemplating him.”
The German original of the chapter “Beschreibung des Apollo im Belvedere” [Description of the Apollo Belvedere] reads as follows:
“Ich vergesse alles andere über dem Anblicke dieses Wunderwerks der Kunst, und ich nehme selbst einen erhabenen Stand an, um mit Würdigkeit anzuschauen” [I forget everything else at the sight of this miracle of art, and I myself adopt an elevated stance to gaze with dignity].
The German original reads “I forget everything else,” but Batiushkov translates it as “I forget the universe.” Apparently, he used a French translation of Winckelmann’s passage (Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 438). Enormously popular, it was translated into French several times (Griener 1998, pp. 44–48, 75–81; Vout 2006, p. 139 fn. 1). The first translation, not authorized (and subsequently scolded) by the author, was made by Gottfried Sellius, edited by Jean-Baptiste Robinet, and published in 1766 (Griener 1998, p. 45). The passage under discussion reads thus:
A la vue de cette merveille de l’Art, j’oublie la terre, je m’éleve au-dessus des sens, & mon esprit prend aisément une disposition surnaturelle propre à en juger avec dignité. [At the sight of this marvel of art, I forget the earth, I rise above the senses, and my mind easily takes on a supernatural disposition appropriate for judging it with dignity.]
This version is so unfaithful to the original that it can be labeled a mistranslation. The word Stand has several meanings in German (DWB 1907, pp. 683–727), but here it means ‘Stand des Körpers,’ ‘stance of the body.’ It is “a favorite expression of Winckelmann’s, from whom Lessing and Herder may have adopted it” and who usually used it “with an adjectival addition, whereby Stand then acquires the meaning of a special way of standing, a particular posture of the body.”15 Other translators corrected this flaw. At the same time, later translations supported the tendency to substitute a noun for the pronoun after the verb forget.
In the same year, Michael Huber (b. 1727–d. 1804) published his version of Winckelmann’s description of the Apollo Belvedere in Gazette littéraire de l’Europe with a parallel text of the first French translation of the Geschichte to demonstrate its faults (Griener 1998, pp. 45, 77). Huber included it with emendations in his complete translation of Winckelmann’s treatise made in 1781 (Winckelmann 1781), which was republished with more revisions in 1789. The passage under discussion did not change and appeared in the same form in all editions:
A l’aspect de ce chef-d’œuvre j’oublie tout l’univers; je prends moi-même une attitude noble pour le contempler avec dignité. [At the sight of this chef-d’œuvre, I forget the universe; I myself adopt a noble posture in order to contemplate it with dignity.]
Huber chose the equivalent attitude, which now has two meanings, ‘manière de tenir son corps’ and ‘disposition d’esprit’ (TLF 1974, pp. 872–73). One may think that the entire phrase means either ‘an elevated or lofty stance of the body’ or ‘an elevated or sublime state of mind.’ However, the second meaning was initially considered figurative, and the word developed full-fledged polysemy only through the 19th century. The original meaning was formed in 1637 when painter Nicolas Poussin borrowed this word from Italian as a term of plastic arts (TLF 1974, pp. 873–74). The fourth edition of the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française gives only one meaning for attitude: ‘Situation, position du corps’ (DAF 1762, vol. I, 121); the fifth edition, in addition to the initial meaning, registers only the figurative meaning of ‘a stance that expresses particular feelings’ (“L’attitude qui exprime ces sentimens ou ces passions,” DAF 1798, vol. I, p. 97). Only the sixth edition of the academic dictionary, published in 1835, presents this word as having two different meanings, familiar to us (DAF 1835, vol. I, p. 127). It is no surprise that Batiushkov chose the literal meaning of attitude in 1814.
Huber’s version of Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens is still considered the best translation of this text in French and a turning point in the reception of Winckelmann in France (Griener 1998, p. 45). Nevertheless, it was (unsuccessfully) rivaled by translator and publisher Hendrik (Henri) Jansen (b. 1741–d. 1812), who combined the versions of his predecessors:
A l’aspect de cette merveille de l’art j’oublie tout l’univers; et mon esprit prend une disposition surnaturelle propre à en juger avec dignité. [At the sight of this marvel of art, I forget the universe; and my mind takes on a supernatural disposition appropriate for judging it with dignity.]
Batiushkov used Huber’s translation, and it looks like it is this book that he refers to at the beginning of the essay. However, Leonid Maikov noticed that the 1814 publication of “Progulka” begins with a mention of “a volume of Montaigne in my hand”16 and not of Winckelmann (Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 434). The commentator found this replacement natural because, in the final version, a reference to History of the Art of Antiquity presages a quotation from this book.17 Michel de Montaigne belonged among Batiushkov’s favorite authors, and his Essays in Verse and Prose begin with an epigraph from Montaigne’s Essais (Pilshchikov 1994–1995, vol. 2, pp. 222–23). But what about Winckelmann, whose name was even more popular in Russia?18
Some Batiushkov scholars believe that he “knew well the famous work of the ‘eloquent’ Winckelmann, History of the Art of Antiquity, and the theoretical treatises of Mengs, who developed Winckelmann’s ideas.”19 However, as Andrei Zorin points out in the article “Batiushkov and Germany,” although Batiushkov’s “observations develop in line with Winckelmann’s ideas,” the Russian poet “was not by temperament a diligent reader of aesthetic treatises.”20
It is time now to “deconstruct” Batiushkov’s reference. I have demonstrated elsewhere that he sometimes used fewer book sources than he referred to (Pilshchikov 1994a, 2003, pp. 158–179). Winckelmann’s description of the Apollo was often quoted and anthologized. In particular, it was included in the most popular 19th-century French school reader, Leçons françaises de littérature et de morale, compiled by François Noël and François de La Place (Delaplace). A fragment titled “L’Apollon du Belvedere,” with a direct reference to the source—“Winkelman [sic!], Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens”— appeared in the section “Descriptions” in all the editions of the anthology (it went through six editions between 1804 and 1813, with many more to come in the following decades).21 But, most likely, the direct source of Batiushkov’s quotation were the historical and literary notes to Jacques Delille’s philosophical poem in eight cantos L’Imagination, compiled by his learned commentator Joseph Esménard (b. 1767–d. 1811).
For Batiushkov and his contemporaries, l’abbé Delille was influential, first and foremost, as the most successful French translator of Vergil (“l’abbé Virgile” was his ironic nickname at that time) and the author of the most celebrated “descriptive” poem Les Jardins [The Gardens].22 His Dithyrambe sur l’immortalité de l’âme and the poem L’Imagination also attracted the vivid attention of French and Russian readers. Les Jardins and L’Imagination were also abundantly anthologized in such sections of Leçons françaises as “Tableaux” [Pictures] and “Descriptions,” which presented exemplary literary descriptions of nature, historical sites, architecture, and the works of art, including ekphrastic poetry.
The fifth canto of L’Imagination is called “Les Arts” and features numerous ekphrases, including that of the Apollo Belvedere:
- O prodige! long-temps dans sa masse grossière,
- Un vil bloc enferma le Dieu de la lumière.
- L’art commande, et d’un marbre Apollon est sorti;
- […]
- D’un tout harmonieux j’admire les accords;
- L’œil avec volupté glisse sur ce beau corps.
- A son premier aspect, je m’arrête, je rêve;
- Sans m’en apercevoir ma tête sa relève,
- Mon maintien s’ennoblit. Sans temple, sans autels,
- Son air commande encor l’hommage des mortels;
- Et, modèle des arts et leur première idole,
- Seul il semble survivre au dieu du Capitole.23
Esménard’s note to this passage discloses the source of Delille’s inspiration and quotes Huber’s version of Winckelmann’s description in its entirety (Delille 1806, vol. II, pp. 59–62; cf. Winckelmann 1789, vol. III, pp. 195–98). This passage was also anthologized by Noël and Delaplace (beginning from the third edition of Leçons), who refer to Winckelmann in a footnote: “Voir Descriptions en prose, même sujet” [See the section Descriptions in prose, the same subject].24 What makes me think that Batiushkov’s source was the complete edition of Delille’s poem and not the anthology, is that “Progulka” features a modified quotation from the sixth canto of L’Imagination (Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 434):
I directed my eyes involuntarily towards the Troitzky Bridge, and thence towards the humble dwelling of that great monarch, to whom may justly be applied the well-known verse,
Souvent un faible gland recèle un chêne immense.
My imagination forthwith pictured to me Peter himself, as he stood contemplating the banks of the [wild] Neva […]!
As we can see, a verse from Delille’s L’Imagination is immediately followed by the imagined scene of Peter the Great’s foundation of Saint Petersburg. These two paragraphs famously served as the source for an analogous scene in Pushkin’s Mednyi Vsadnik [The Bronze Horseman] (1833).26 This time its not an ekphrasis but a hypotyposis that describes an event of which no factual evidence has come down to us. Batiushkov’s description, ingeniously versified by Pushkin, created this scene in Russian historical imagination. At this point, we can guess which chapter of Montaigne’s book Batiushkov’s narrator could have been reading before he “indulged in a reverie.” Most likely, it was “De la force de l’imagination” (Essais, book 1, chapter XXI or XX, depending on the edition), with its opening motto: “Fortis imaginatio generat casum” [Powerful imagination creates an event].
As regards Anton Raphael Mengs, Batiushkov must have seen his paintings and drawings at the Saint Petersburg Academy of Arts, where they were used as models for instruction (Bogdan 2017). Moreover, in 1784, by the decision of the council of the Academy’s professors, a relief was placed on the facade of its building, reproducing the composition of Mengs’s Parnassus (Ibid., p. 138). However, I cannot establish the extent of Batiushkov’s acquaintance with Mengs’s writings.
Mengs met Winckelmann in 1755; they soon became close friends and exerted considerable mutual influence. Winckelmann’s ideas guided Mengs in his aesthetic views, particularly in his treatise Gedanken über die Schönheit und den Geschmack in der Mahlerey [Reflections on Beauty and Taste in Painting] (Mengs 1762), dedicated to Winckelmann.27 In his turn, Winckelmann called Mengs “the greatest artist of his time and possibly of future times as well” and believed his works “immortal.”28 The complete writings of Mengs came out in French translations by Hendrik Jansen (1786, 1787), preceded by less ambitious editions by Jansen (1781) and Paul-Jean-Baptiste Doray de Longrais (1782). Still, there is no documentary evidence that Batiushkov consulted them.
Batiushkov mentioned Mengs only twice, and both times paired with Winckelmann. Although the author of “Progulka” complains that “so far we do not have our own Mengs, [and] we have not yet had a Winckelmann,” he soon ascribed both roles to Olenin. In June 1817, writing a congratulatory letter to Olenin on his appointment as President of the Academy of Arts, Batiushkov included in it a poetic impromptu, whose addressee allegedly could “draw like Mengs, / and write like the eloquent Winckelmann” (Koshelev 1987, p. 302; Wes 1992, p. 128; Zorin 1997, p. 146; Zorin 1998, pp. 507–8; Lappo-Danilevskij 2007, p. 186).29 “Please don’t take this as the poison qu’on prépare à la cour d’Étrurie, i.e., flattery,” added Batiushkov.30 The French quotation has not been commented on yet. It is taken from Voltaire’s tragedy Brutus (act 1, scene 2).31
The last topic discussed in this section is Batiushkov’s own encounter with the Apollo of Belvedere. “Batiushkov’s ‘Stroll’ evinces a nervous preoccupation with the distinctions between original and copy, as they relate to the native and the foreign in Russian art” (Buckler 2018, p. 99). Similarly, the availability of numerous copies of the Apollo Belvedere in and around Saint Petersburg did not deter him from his desire to see the original. Before and in 1814, Batiushkov could have seen at least five such copies in various materials. One of them, exhibited at the Academy of Arts, is described in “Progulka” among other plaster casts of the antiques and provokes the Winckelmann quotation (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, pp. 134–37). In fact, the Academy possessed two copies of the Apollo at that time. The earliest was cast from the form ordered by “the Maecenas of the Russian Enlightenment,” Ivan Shuvalov, in 1769, and the other was sent from Vienna by artist Jakob Joseph Müller in 1797 (Andreeva 2017, pp. 119, 127). More copies were found in the emperor-owned suburbs. A copy in bronze was placed near the Neptune Fountain of the Peterhof Palace’s Upper Garden during the 1799 reconstruction commissioned by the emperor Paul I. It was made in the Academy of Arts by the brass-founder Vasilii Mozhalov after the wax model cast by its adjunct rector of sculpture, the leading early-Neoclassical Russian sculptor Fedor Gordeev (Yumangulov and Khadeeva 2016, p. 170; see Figure 1).32 An 18th-century marble copy made in Italy was placed near one of the Oranienbaum palaces (Yumangulov and Khadeeva 2019, pp. 34–35; see Figure 2).
Last but not least, there were two copies in Pavlovsk park. One was the 1782 copy in bronze situated in the Twelve Paths area at the Old Sylvia (by Edme Gastecloux, after Gordeev’s cast; see Figure 3). The other was a plaster cast in the Apollo Colonnade, replaced by an iron cast in 1826 (Andreeva 2017, pp. 120, 128). More copies were made in or brought to Saint Petersburg in the 1820s or later. After WWII, they were all reinstalled in what is believed to be their original places.
Batiushkov had encountered the original Apollo (Figure 4) not long before “Progulka” was written—not in Rome, as our contemporaries might expect, but in Paris (Maikov 1896, pp. 135–36). The statue was brought to Paris by Napoleon after his 1796 Italian campaign following the Treaty of Tolentino (1797). From 1798, it formed part of the Galerie des Antiques of the Musée central des arts de Paris, soon rechristened Musée Napoléon (Belting 2001, pp. 27–33; Gallo 2009). The Apollo’s sojourn in Paris ended in 1815, and the next year the statue was reinstalled in the Belvedere Court in Rome. Batiushkov saw it during his stay in Paris in the spring of 1814 and described it in his literary and private letters (a reminder: the border between the two genres was blurred). The earliest and longest is the aforementioned letter to Dashkov of 25 April 1814. Batiushkov writes that he and his comrades-in-arms can now “stand in amazement before the Apollo Belvedere, before Raphael’s paintings, in the magnificent Gallery of the Museum”33 and then, a few pages later, returns to the same topic:
Now you ask me what I like most about Paris?—It’s hard to decide.—I’ll start with the Apollo Belvedere. It is higher than Winckelmann’s description: it’s not marble, it’s a god! All copies of this priceless statue are weak, and those who have not seen this miracle of art cannot have any idea of it. You don’t need to have a deep knowledge of the arts to admire it: you have to feel it! Strange thing! I saw ordinary soldiers who looked at the Apollo with amazement; such is the power of genius! I often go to the Museum just to look at the Apollo…34
Batiushkov also mentions the Apollo in his other letters from Paris—to Elena Pushkina on 3 May 1814, and Nikolai Gnedich on 17 May 1814 (compare Todd 1976, pp. 159–63).
In “Progulka,” Batiushkov simultaneously gives voice to two opposite opinions on the issue of copies. One of his characters exclaims: “I hate [plaster] casts—no mock things for me: the real ones, or else none at all—that’s my maxim” (Batiushkov 1834, p. 523).35 The other argues that they are “beautiful, for the casts are accurate and will satisfy even the most rigorous observer of antiquity” (Batiushkov 2002).36 The real Batiushkov was immensely struck by the original Apollo. Alas, the Belvedere statue itself is a Roman marble copy or replica of the lost Greek bronze original from the late fourth century BCE, attributed to Leochares. If we get back to the initial context of Winckelmann’s Geschichte, we will immediately recall that the famous description of the Apollo is “introduced into the history of the decline of art in ancient Rome as an ideal that, at the time, could no longer be recreated, but only plundered, stolen from the past.”37 The age of Neoclassicism and neo-Hellenism gave rise to its own simulacra.
2.3. Yegorov, Rubens, and Poussin
After the Apollo, the characters of the “Stroll to the Academy of Arts” moved into the halls where new paintings by Russian artists were exhibited. Maikov commented on most artworks they saw but left lacunae that have not been filled in the past 130 years.
The first picture they discuss is The Flagellation of Christ (Figure 5)38 by Aleksei Yegorov (or Egorov, b. 1776–d. 1851), the most titled Russian academicist. He studied at the Academy of Arts from 1782–97, was sent abroad in 1803, elected an academician in 1807, and appointed professor in 1812 (Mroz 1947). “The name alone of this respected academician will stimulate your curiosity,”39 promises the narrator and offers an ekphrasis:
The artist has depicted the flagellation of Christ in a dungeon. There are four figures, larger than life. The main figure is that of the Saviour, in front of a stone pillar, his hands tied behind him, and three torturers, one of whom is attaching a rope to the pillar, while another is removing the garments which cover the Redeemer, and is holding a bundle of birch rods in one hand, and the third soldier … appears to be reproaching the Divine Sufferer, yet it is very difficult to determine the intentions of the artist with certainty, although he did try to give a strong expression to the face of the soldier, in order, perhaps, to contrast it with the figure of Christ.
Batiushkov’s attitude to Yegorov was ambiguous, and, abstaining from a direct assessment, he cites again two opposing observations belonging to two fictional characters (“So I will relate word for word the opinions I heard about his new painting, while I kept completely silent”41). The exchange of opinions contains a curious reference:
“Unfortunately, this figure resembles representations of Christ by other painters, and I search in vain in the picture as a whole for originality, for something new and unusual, in a word—for a unique, not borrowed, idea.”—“You are right, but not entirely. This subject has been painted several times. But so what? Rubens and Poussin both painted it in their own manner and if the painting of Yegorov is inferior to that of Poussin, than it is certainly superior to that of Rubens…”—“What do you mean: so what? Both Poussin and Rubens painted the Scourging of Christ: the more particular I am, the more critical I am in my judgement of the artist.”
A commentator noted: “It is characteristic of Batiushkov’s artistic tastes that in ‘A Stroll to the Academy of Arts’ he places Poussin above Rubens.”43 This is very true, but what paintings does Batiushkov refer to? One is rather apparent: Peter Paul Rubens’s The Flagellation of Christ, also known as The Torture of Christ (c. 1650), exhibited in the Museum voor Schone Kunsten in Ghent, Belgium (Figure 6). However, Poussin’s catalog does not feature a Flagellation. There are two possible solutions to this enigma.
One hypothesis is that Batiushkov meant The Martyrdom of Saint Erasmus (1628–29), the first public work of Poussin in Rome, where he arrived in 1624 (Figure 7). Exhibited now in the Vatican Pinacoteca, it was originally an altarpiece for St. Peter’s Basilica, Rome; but between 1797 and 1817, seized by the French, it was displayed in Louvre, Paris, where Batiushkov could have seen it. However, it is hard to imagine that neither Olenin nor Gnedich noticed this mistake.
The other hypothesis is that it is pseudo-Poussin. The most large-scale falsification of paintings ascribed to the French artist is presumably connected with the heirs of Claudine Bouzonnet-Stella (b. 1636–d. 1697), a prominent French engraver, most of whose prints were after works by Poussin or by her uncle (and Poussin’s closest friend) Jacques Stella. A few sets of her engraving series The Life and Passion of Christ, made after Jacques Stella or after her own drawings, were fraudulently inscribed N. Poussin pinx. After that, “no less than thirty-four paintings attributed to Poussin” were hoaxed, “and among these were twelve canvases representing scenes from the Passion, described as ‘engraved’ and corresponding to those in the series of engravings” (Blunt 1974, p. 747). Among the engravings (and, correspondingly, paintings) were Christ Mocked by Roman Soldiers (also known as The Mocking of Christ) and Christ Scourged (perhaps the same as Christ Stripped for the Flagellation). Unlike the former, originally titled Jésus mocqué par les soldas [sic] dans leurs cor de card (Guiffrey 1877, p. 76), the latter is, most likely, not even by Claudine or her sisters (who were also engravers). The primary victims of the fraud were private collectors, who bought the mock originals and collected the engravings as Poussin’s and not Stella’s. Furthermore, “as they [we]re placed among the works of Nicholas Poussin, in the Royal Library at Paris” (Smith 1837, p. 53), they were listed as Poussin’s dubia long after the forgery was identified in the early 19th century. The following is a description of Christ Stripped for the Flagellation in A Catalogue Raisonné compiled by the London art dealer John Smith (b. 1781–d. 1855) two decades after Batiushkov’s “Stroll” was published:
The Flagellation. The artist has chosen to avoid the representation of the actual infliction of that degrading punishment, and confined himself to the preparations, leaving the spectator to conceive the rest. Two executioners are engaged, one of them is attaching the wrist of the Saviour to a block, while the other is withdrawing His raiment: the instruments of punishment lie on the ground. In the back of the prison are seen three persons looking through the iron grating.
Indeed, simulacra reign in art history (Deleuze 1994, pp. 293–94; Baudrillard 1994, pp. 99–100). I could only trace two engravings depicting the Mocking of Christ. One of them is an interior scene mentioned above as Christ Mocked by Roman Soldiers; the other is an exterior scene, also known as Christ Conducted from Caiaphas to Pilate (Figure 8). It can give an idea about the style of The Flagellation.
As regards Batiushkov’s honest thoughts on Yegorov’s painting, he exposed them in a letter to Gnedich of July 1817, in unexpected connection with the elegy “The Dying Tasso” (Maikov 1885, p. 563; Volodina 1989, p. 109):
But, speaking of Tasso. It would help if you whispered to Olenin that he should assign this theme to the Academy. The dying Tasso is a truly rich subject for painting. […] I am afraid of only one thing: if Yegorov paints him, he will dislocate his arm or leg even before his death agonies and convulsions and will make of him such a Rafaelesco as from his Flagellation which, as you remember, was displayed in the Academy (to its shame!); and Shebuev will rub his forehead with a brick. Others will do no better.44
Vasilii Shebuev (b. 1777–d. 1855) was another prominent professor at the Academy and its future rector (from 1832). Batiushkov mocks the red color of faces in many of his paintings. One of Shebuev’s later (1821–23) works, Moses with Tablets of the Commandments (now in the Irkutsk Regional Museum of Art), perfectly illustrates this feature (see Figure 9). We do not know what artwork Batiushkov had in mind. The most likely suspects—Noah’s Sacrifice, for which the Academy awarded Shebuev with the Second Golden Medal in 1797, and a huge (480 × 382 cm) battle piece Peter the Great in the Battle of Poltava, for which he was appointed a professor of historical painting in 1807—, did not survive. In the 1810s both were kept in the Academy’s Museum (Kruglova 1982, pp. 13–14, 118).
2.4. The Schaffhausen Waterfall
The next artwork presents yet another enigma:
The exhibition continued in the following rooms, mostly by young students of the Academy. I scrutinized with curiosity a landscape depicting a view of the environs of Schaffhausen and the hut in which the new Philemon and Baucis entertained the Sovereign Emperor and the Grand Duchess Ekaterina Pavlovna. In the distance a waterfall on the Rhine is visible, but not very successfully painted.
Previous commentators proved unable to identify the painting. “The name of the artist who exhibited a view of the surroundings of Schaffhausen is not known to us,” the erudite Maikov stated.46 A century later, the commentator of the late Soviet jubilee edition of Batiushkov’s works confirmed: “This painting is currently unknown.”47 Irina Semenko, an eminent Golden Age scholar who edited Batiushkov’s Essays in Verse and Prose for the academic book series “Literaturnye pamiatniki” [Literary Monuments], conjectured in more detail:
This painting is currently unknown. Judging from Batiushkov’s description, its subject was the entry of Russian troops into the Swiss town [and] canton of Schaffhausen in 1813, and the locals’ warm welcome accorded to Alexander I. Batiushkov associates this story with the Greek myth of Philemon and Baucis, who treated Zeus and Hermes in a friendly manner.48
However, Batiushkov’s description contains nothing like this. Moreover, Russian troops never entered Schaffhausen—the Austrians occupied it. On 8 (20) December 1813, the Austrian Army of Bohemia under Prince Karl von Schwarzenberg crossed the Rhine between Basel and Schaffhausen, violating the cantons’ neutrality, and moved further to France. Alexander, who supported Swiss neutralism, was extremely disappointed with the allies’ actions (Schilder 1897, p. 180). He wrote about this on the same day in a letter to his former mentor, Swiss politician Frédéric-César Laharpe. In this letter, Alexander also informed Laharpe that he was going to Schaffhausen soon to meet with his sister, Grand Duchess Ekaterina Pavlovna (then Duchess of Oldenburg) and that he would stay there until 10 January (New Style), 1814 (Ibid., p. 182). A few days later, on 1 (13) January 1814, the Russian army crossed the Rhine near Basel in the presence of the emperor.49 Batiushkov was there and witnessed these events. He described them in a letter to Gnedich on 16 (28) January 1814, and in the poem “Perekhod cherez Rein. 1814” [The Crossing of the Rhine. 1814] (see France 2018, pp. 106–11). He knew what he was writing about.
The clue to the right answer is concealed in Labzin’s official report on the exhibition. In the report, each artwork is described twice, in the list of the displayed works and in Labzin’s speech at the Academy’s annual meeting on 19 September. Item 26 in the list of painting is this:
A landscape depicting the Rhine waterfall near Schaffhausen with a hut where the Russian Emperor and the Grand Duchess dined with Swiss peasants, by the Academy’s pensioner (stipend holder) Shchedrin.50
In addition, we find in Labzin’s speech the Neoclassical simile that Batiushkov borrowed for his essay:
Then curiosity draws the visitor to the landscape by the Academy’s pensioner Shchedrin, representing that poor hut in Schaffhausen near the Rhine waterfall, where the Russian Emperor and the Russian Grand Duchess, having shared a hospitable meal with poor Swiss peasants, made these new Philemon and Baucis happy.51
Sylvester Shchedrin’s Alexander I at the Schaffhausen Waterfall (oil on canvas, 78 × 98 cm, inscribed Sil. Chedrin 1814 in Roman script) is now kept in the State Russian Museum in Saint Petersburg (Figure 10). It is the earliest extant landscape of this master (Mikhailova 1984, p. 8). The young artist had not been to Switzerland, so he had to use engravings with the views of the Schaffhausen waterfall. It is unclear what dissatisfied Batiushkov—the artistic technique or the inconsistency of the image with reality.
Shchedrin’s Schaffhausen Waterfall never left Saint Petersburg/Leningrad, but it had been in private possession for more than a century, so Maikov could not trace it: he mostly relied on Andrei Somov’s catalog of the picture gallery of the Imperial Academy of Arts (Somov 1872). The painting belonged to artist and photographer Viktor-Bait Meyer (b. 1821–d. 1897) and then to his heirs, Iu. Meyer, A. V. Meyer, and L. A. Meyer-Suslova, whose widower A. K. Suslov sold it to the Russian Museum (Mikhailova 1980).52
Schaffhausen Waterfall was painted in Saint Petersburg. The quality of painting is markedly inferior to Shchedrin’s famous Italian landscapes made from nature in Italy (see Section 3 below). The waterfall was depicted from an engraving, the main characters were copied from their portraits, and the foreground trees were painted from life on Petrovsky Island (Mikhailova 1984, pp. 9–13; Usacheva 2009, pp. 19, 22–23). The latter is detectable to the naked eye when compared with Shchedrin’s 1815 work, View of the Tuchkov Bridge and Vasilievsky Island from Petrovsky Island in Saint Petersburg (Figure 11).
One of the most distinguished Russian landscape painters was born in Saint Petersburg in 1791. His father was sculptor Fedos (Theodosius) Shchedrin (the Academy’s professor of sculpture from 1794), and his first mentor was his uncle Semyon Shchedrin (the Academy’s professor of landscape painting from 1799 until he died in 1804). Sylvester Shchedrin perfectly fits Batiushkov’s definition of the “young students of the Academy.” He studied painting at the Academy under Mikhail Ivanov and was granted an academic internship in 1811. As the Academy’s pensioner (stipend holder), he worked in Rome from 1818, staying long in Naples, where he finally settled in 1825. In the summers he lived and worked in the surroundings—Capri, Amalfi, and Sorrento, where he died in 1830 (Atsarkina 1978; Mikhailova 1984). In Italy he became a close friend of Batiushkov (more on this in Section 3 below).
In 1817, Batiushkov planned to write “something about the arts, for example, an essay on the Russian landscape.”53 This idea was not realized; neither were other items from his plan “Chto pisat’ v proze” [What to write in prose] preserved on the cover of his 1817 notebook.
2.5. Medallists
Labzin’s report helps to recognize a few other works mentioned in “Progulka,” even though not all of them. One of the artworks that have not been identified so far is mentioned in the first redaction of the essay but excluded from Opyty:
We also noticed a wax bas-relief [depicting] Olga’s betrothal to Igor; the finishing is thorough, but everything as a whole is dry.54
Labzin informs:
Igor, betrothed to Grand Princess Olga, [was] molded from wax by 4th grade student Gaidukov.55
Ivan Ivanovich Gaidukov was born on 12 (23) November 1791 to a family of a Ryazan merchant (Kondakov 1915, pp. 249, 311). His elder brother, architect Alexander Gaidukov (b. 1788–d. after 1817), also studied at the Academy (Kondakov 1915, p. 311; Beliaev 2016, pp. 179, 182). In 1815, Ivan Gaidukov received the title of medallist with a certificate of the first degree and was granted an academic internship (Kondakov 1915, p. 249). He was registered as an employee of the Medal Chamber in 1819–20 (Shchukina 2000, p. 114). His traces are lost after 1820.
Medallists typically produced their designs—an initial draft drawing and then a work in relief molded in wax or carved on stone or steel—before casting the final product in bronze. Such works were exhibited alongside medals.
The name of the author of two other reliefs is explicitly cited in “Progulka,” but their subjects do not appear obvious:
Let our eyes […] rest on the work of Mr. Yesakov. Here are his carved stones: one depicts Hercules throwing Iolas into the sea, another a Kievan swimming across the River Dnieper. What great confidence there is in his line! We shall hope that this skillful artist will gain in experience, without which a lightness and ease in the finishing touches on small details is impossible.(Batiushkov 2002; translation modified)56
Iolas mentioned here is presumably not the Iola(u)s, the elder son of Iphicles and Heracles/Hercules’ nephew who assisted him in conquering the Hydra. He may be “another” Iolas (for whom a classical source is unknown), Hercules’ cousin whom the early-19th-century standard reference book of mythology, François Noël’s Dictionnaire de la Fable credited to be “killed by this hero in a fit of rage, on his return from the underworld.”57 According to Pseudo-Apollodorus (2.4.12), “after the battle with the Minyans Hercules was driven mad through the jealousy of Hera and flung his own children, whom he had by Megara, and two children of Iphicles into the fire” (tr. by James G. Fraser).58 However, the author of the Bibliotheca does not give the names of these two nephews. According to Diodorus Siculus (4.11.1) and Nicolaus Damascenus (Frag. 20 in Müller 1848–1853, vol. III, p. 369), Iolaus was there, but when Hercules tried to slay him, he escaped.
It seems that Batiushkov was not sure who fell victim to Hercules’ fury. In the Syn Otechestva publication (Batiushkov 1814, p. 203), Iolas (Іoласъ) is called Golas (Гoласъ). Of course, this can be a typo for Iolas, but it can equally be a typo for Hylas (Гиласъ). This is precisely how Leeds interpreted Batiushkov’s text: in his translation, the narrator describes “Yesakov’s beautiful intaglios, among which I particularly noticed one representing Hercules and Hylas […]” (Batiushkov 1834, p. 527). However, Hylas, Hercules’ arms-bearer and lover (ερωμένος), was not thrown into the water—he was kidnapped by the Naiads, whereas Hercules tried to find and save him (Apollod. 1.9.19).
Labzin’s report on the previous (1813) academic exhibition registers the following artwork, for which Aleksei Yesakov (Esakov) was promoted to academician (Labzin 1813, p. 1944):
A group carved on stone, which depicts Hercules precipitating a youth into the sea who brought him a poisoned shirt from Deianira, by pensioner Yesakov.59
Yesakov displayed it at the 1814 exhibition too (Labzin 1814, p. 3; Beliaev 2016, pp. 126, 182, 192, 197).
According to Sophocles (Trachiniae, 749–84), Pseudo-Apollodorus (2.7.7), and Ovid (Metamorphoses 9.141–228), the name of this youth was Lichas, and he was Hercules’ herald. Ovid famously depicts the furious Hercules hurling Lichas to the Euboic Sea:
Ecce Lichan trepidum latitantem rupe cavataadspicit, utque dolor rabiem conlegerat omnem,“tune, Licha,” dixit “feralia dona dedisti?Tune meae necis auctor eris?” Tremit ille pavetquepallidus et timide verba excusantia dicit.Dicentem genibusque manus adhibere parantemcorripit Alcides et terque quaterque rotatummittit in Euboicas tormento fortius undas.(Ovid. Met. 9.211–18)60
In her translation, Carol Adlam substitutes Lichas for Iolas: “…one depicts Hercules throwing Lichas into the sea” (Batiushkov 2002). This emendation is undoubtedly true from the standpoints of comparative mythology and history of art but hardly correct from the point of view of textual criticism.
Unlike Yesakov’s other reliefs, the Hercules has not survived (Wrangel 1908, pp. 104–5), and we cannot conjecture its particulars. It is unlikely that the medallist was familiar with the now-canonical interpretation of this rare subject, Antonio Canova’s first colossal statue Hercules and Lichas designed in 1795 (Figure 12). Although Canova completed its gesso in 1796, the marble (now in the National Gallery of Modern Art in Rome, see Figure 13) remained unfinished until 1815, when Prince Giovanni Torlonia purchased it (Rosenblum 1969, pp. 14–15; Johns 1998, pp. 123–44; Gonzáles 2020). The owner placed the statue in the Palazzo Bolognetti-Torlonia in Piazza Venezia, Rome, where Batiushkov could have seen it later.61
Pavel Sorokin’s later Hercules and Lichas (1849; now in the Odesa Fine Arts Museum, Ukraine) was evidently influenced by Canova (Figure 14).
In its turn, Canova’s Hercules should be compared to the Farnese Hercules, an early third century CE Greco-Roman marble statue by Glykon after the lost Greek original by Lysippos from the fourth century BCE (now in the National Archaeological Museum, Naples, Italy; see Figure 15). The characters of “Progulka” admire its copy in the Saint Petersburg Academy:
Here you see Hercules Farnese, a model of both mental and physical strength.
Labzin’s 1814 report lists “a Kievan swimming across the Dnieper” among Yesakov’s stonework:
A Kievan who saved Kiev from the Pechenegs, Hercules, and two portraits of the Sovereign Emperor, [all] carved on stone […], by academician Yesakov.63
When the Pechenegs invaded Rus for the first time, they besieged its capital, the city of Kiev (today Kyiv, Ukraine). The Russian troops gathered on the other side of the Dnieper could not enter Kiev, and no one from Kiev could cross over to the army from the city. This story is told in the Primary Chronicle (by Nestor the Chronicler, according to the 19th-century common belief) and dated Anno Mundi 6476 (i.e., AD 968):
The inhabitants of the city were afflicted, and lamented, “Is there no one that can reach the opposite shore and report to the other party that if we are not relieved on the morrow, we must perforce surrender to the Pechenegs?” Then one youth volunteered to make the attempt, and the people begged him to try it. So he went out of the city with a bridle in his hand, and ran among the Pechenegs shouting out a question whether anyone had seen a horse. For he knew their language, and they thought he was one of themselves. When he approached the river, he threw off his clothes, jumped into the Dnieper, and swam out. As soon as the Pechenegs perceived his action, they hurried in pursuit, shooting at him the while, but they did not succeed in doing any harm.
Once the brave youth reached the other bank of the Dnieper, he reported to the warlord Pretich, who frightened the Pechenegs, and they withdrew.
Yesakov (b. 1787) died on August 8, 1815; in the 1817 Essays, at the mention of his name in “A Stroll,” Gnedich added a footnote:
Take pity on this skillful artist: his early death stole our good hopes in him. Ed.65
3. Batiushkov’s Italian Sojourn
3.1. Batiushkov, Olenin, and Russian Painters in Rome
The climax of the discussions of Russian artists and their originality in “A Stroll to the Academy of Arts” is a dialogue about Orest Kiprensky, “that deservedly great favorite with the public” (Batiushkov 1834, p. 528). One character, Starozhilov (literally, Mr. Old-Timer) is more conservative, the other—“a young artist”—is more enthusiastic (and Romantic):
“Here we may plainly discern the effects,” continued [Starozhilov], “of able training. What would Kiprensky have been had he not travelled?—had he not visited Paris—had he not ———.” “But he has never seen, either Paris, or Rome,” replied the artist.” “Never studied abroad!—That is very strange, very strange indeed!” muttered our grumbling friend.(Ibid.)66
Russian artists had been prevented from going abroad because of the Napoleonic wars; but the situation changed, and soon Kiprensky and Batiushkov met in Italy. In late November 1818, Batiushkov set off for Naples via Lemberg (Lwów/Lviv), Teschen (Cieszyn/Těšín), Vienna, Venice and Rome. “The classical land,”67 in which he was to spend more than two years, appeared to him as “a library, a museum of antiquities.” “Magical, unique city, it is a cemetery of the universe,” he wrote of Rome to Gnedich in May 1819.68
The poet stayed in Rome from 24 January (5 February), 1819 (Halberg 1884, p. 60), till mid-February 1819. The practical reason was that Olenin asked Batiushkov to inspect the pensioners in Rome and pass on some instructions. In particular, at the request of Count Nikolai Petrovich Rumiantsov received via Olenin, Batiushkov came on his behalf and with his letter to the workshop of Canova, who had made a statue of Peace for Rumiantsov (now in the Khanenko National Museum of Arts in Kyiv, Ukraine; Figure 16). Gnedich described this statue in the form of a letter to Batiushkov and published it in Syn Otechestva, where Batiushkov had published his “Progulka” three years earlier (Gnedich 1817). Gnedich’s essay is now commonly (and perhaps unjustly) considered to be an imitation of “Progulka” (Blagoi 1934b, p. 647), but it was highly evaluated and often anthologized in its time. Another piece of art criticism by Gnedich, a discussion of the 1820 academic exhibition, also published in Syn Otechestva (Gnedich 1820), seems considerably more influenced by Batiushkov’s pioneering essay (Naryshkina 1987, pp. 11–12; Baluev 2015, pp. 49–54).
In 1819, painters Vasilii Sazonov, Orest Kiprensky, Sylvester Shchedrin, and sculptors Mikhail Krylov and Samuel Halberg lived in Rome (Maikov and Saitov 1886, pp. 766–67). Sazonov received a stipend from Rumiantsov, the other four were sponsored by the Saint Petersburg Academy of Arts and were Olenin’s responsibility. A complete list of instructions is contained in Olenin’s letter to Batiushkov on 10 November 1818 (Zorin 1987). Judging by the date, Olenin handed or passed the letter to Batiushkov before departure, rather than sending it by mail. This letter has long awaited publication and commentary (see a facsimile of the first page on Figure 17). I include it here with a minimum of necessary explanations:
To His Excellency K. N. BatiushkovOn 10 November 1818
At last my dear Konstantin Nikolaevich will soon arrive in the classical land. He will soon see the places where Dantes, Tassos, and Ariostos were born and died, and where Ciceros, Horaces, Virgils, Juliuses Caesars, and Augustuses once lived, but Tiberiuses and Claudiuses lived too! I confess that I would like to see them myself, but only in a dream because I am not a traveler. Hoping for your friendship, I am sure you will present them all to me in your descriptions asfaithfullyvividly as if I had actually seen them. To not burden you here with excessive writing (unnecessary for the first time when I write), I decided to fill the content of my letter only with my various commissions for you in Italy, which you accepted for execution out of your friendship with me. Here they are all, one by one:
- 10.
and hotclimate and do not forget us,poorunfortunate inhabitants of the North.70
Most importantly, this letter enables us to date the earliest version of Olenin’s portrait painted by Alexander Varnik (or Varnek, b. 1782–d. 1843). Its latest version (Figure 18) was completed “in or after 1824” because Olenin is portrayed here with the breast star badges of the Orders of Saint Vladimir, 2nd class, and Saint Alexander Nevsky that he was awarded on 26 January 1812, and on 1 January 1824, respectively (Grishina 1989, pp. 26, 43; Timofeev 2007, pp. 218, 439–40, 563). Its earlier version should not date later than 1820 because it was displayed at the 1820 academic exhibition (Gnedich 1820, p. 268; Bestuzhev 1820, pp. 166–67; Turchin 1985, p. 133). The initial crayon (Figure 19) and the first version may thus date back to 1818 (pace Varnek 2013). Olenin is decorated here with the breast star badges of the Orders of Saint Vladimir, 2nd class, and Saint Anne, 1st class, awarded to him on 28 January 1811 (Timofeev 2007, p. 439).
The painting was not displayed before 1820 because no academic exhibitions were held between 1815 and 1820 (Gnedich 1820, p. 205; Svin’in 1820, p. 269; Beliaev 2016, p. 5). Utkin’s portrait of Suvorov mentioned in Olenin’s letter (Figure 20)71 as well as Shchedrin’s Petrovsky Island landscapes of 1815 (Figure 11) and 1816, were also displayed at the 1820 exhibition for the first time (Gnedich 1820, pp. 225, 257; Svin’in 1820, p. 274; Bestuzhev 1820, p. 163).
Other items in Olenin’s letter also deserve attention. Kiprensky’s idea “to paint Apollo Belvedere as a picture” refers to Apollo Smiting Python, an allegory of Alexander I’s victory over Napoleon, of which Kiprensky informed Olenin in 1817: “I began a very daring work: Apollo smiting Python. I took the whole motif, and even the whole posture of the Apollo Belvedere; in a word, I am transferring this Apollo to the painting of the same size.”72 The correspondence shows that Olenin was not an initiator or defender of this allegory (pace Bocharov and Glushakova 1990, p. 213), but, just the opposite, its adversary. In February 1819, Batiushkov assured Olenin that Kiprensky “has not yet painted Apollo and is unlikely to paint him, unless out of stubbornness.”73 In his reply on March 13, 1819, Olenin confirmed his position: “I am delighted that Kiprensky abandons his Apollo, but one must remain silent, and I should do so.”74 Of the whole project, only a pen-and-ink artwork was completed in 1818 or 1819 (Figure 21) and displayed at the 1825 academic exhibition in Saint Petersburg, when its political topicality was already obsolete (Turchin 1982, p. 25; Zimenko 1988, pp. 220–22, 229; and especially Petrova 1999).
Sylvester Shchedrin’s report to the Senate of the Imperial Academy of Arts in Saint Petersburg on 22 February (6 March), 1819, reveals the content of Olenin’s “prescript” (predpisanie) to the pensioners:
On February 6, New Style, Mr. Court Councillor Batiushkov, on his way via Rome, handed us a letter, which prescribes us to report to the Academy more often than it was required before; on my part, I will do so in due course. This time I have the honor to report the following: We arrived in Rome on October 15/27 and received our four-month salary in advance, counting from November 1, New Style; the banker wishes to issue us a pension in this manner during the entire time of our stay here.75
Batiushkov gave a full account of the situation in a letter to Olenin of February 1819:
I met with the artists. Please tell Count Nikolai Petrovich that I have handed his letter to Canova and bowed to the statue of Peace in his workshop.76 This statue is its best decoration. I spoke at length with Canova about Count Rumiantsov, and we both wished him long life and prosperity from the bottom of our hearts. His protégé gives good hope; according to Kiprensky, he works very hard, paints incessantly and wishes to pay with his successes a tribute of due gratitude to his esteemed patron. The other graduates of the Academy are behaving perfectly well, and they seem to like me. […] I talked about them with Prince Gagarin […]. I can tell you conclusively that the pay they are entitled to is so small, so insignificant, that they can hardly support themselves on a decent footing. Here a footman or valet gets more. The artist should not live in luxury, but poverty is dangerous to him as well. They have nothing to buy plaster and pay for nature and models. The prices are terribly high! The English flooded Tuscany, Rome, and Naples; the latter is even more expensive. But even here [in Rome] it is three times more expensive than at home, if you live in an inn; and renting a house is almost one and a half or two times as expensive. Kiprensky will testify to this.77
Olenin noted the message and took the necessary action:
Thank you for the detailed justification that our pensioners in Rome cannot decently live on the pension I have granted them, although they get twice as much as their predecessors. I will immediately use this information to their advantage.78
In a letter to Prince Grigorii Gagarin on 14 March 1819, Olenin gave vent to his surprise and provided financial details:
I can’t stop wondering what is cheap in foreign lands. The current pensioners—as you and Batiushkov and they themselves say—need three times as much as before. In total, no less than 2400 assignation rubles per year for each. After all, they will not receive the same amount when they return home! That is why I am right, it is too early to send our pensioners to foreign lands.79
The situation changed on 9 September 1820, when emperor Alexander I ordered the Minister of Finance, Count Dmitrii Guryev, to raise each pensioner’s stipend to 300 chervontsy (Dutch ducats of Russian coinage) per year and to pay each pensioner a lump-sum allowance of 225 chervontsy from the funds of the Treasury (Yevsevyev in Shchedrin 2014, p. 206). The value of the chervonets was circa ten rubles (from 11.8 assignation rubles in 1824 to 10.8 in 1830—ibid.), and Olenin wrote to Russia’s Foreign Minister, Count Karl Nesselrode on 20 November 1824:
In Rome, the capital of fine arts, in the favorable climate and under the clear sky of Italy, where everything enchants them and contributes to their pursuits and pleasures, they receive considerable salaries for their maintenance from the Monarch’s generosity, which they can in no way expect to have here soon after their return. The Academy’s most distinguished faculty members, under whose supervision they were formed, receive salaries barely equal to the third part of what the said young artists are paid yearly for their maintenance, while others receive incomparably less, namely: rectors no more than 1350 rubles, senior professors 1000 rubles, junior professors 800 rubles, and adjunct professors 400 rubles, whereas everything is incomparably more expensive here than in Italy.80
We have seen that Batiushkov’s insistence was decisive in persuading Olenin to approach the emperor. Batiushkov’s own salary was considerably higher. On 3 August 1818, he informed his sister Alexandra that he had been appointed to the Foreign Collegium and “granted the rank of Court Councillor and a salary of 1000 rubles ‘with a rate,’ which makes about 5000 rubles and sometimes more, plus the sum equal to an annual salary to travel to Naples.”81 The adjustment of salary “съ курсoмъ” (literally: ‘with a rate’)—a short for “съ дoпoлненіемъ or дoбавленіемъ вексельнагo курса” (literally: ‘with an addition of the exchange rate’)—meant that an officer working abroad would typically be paid an equivalent of one ruble at the home rate of 50 Dutch stuivers per ruble82 (equal to 250 Dutch cents after the 1817 decimal reform in the Netherlands)83 instead of the foreign rate of ruble, which was some ten times lower (e.g., from 7 to 12 stuivers per ruble in Amsterdam in July–December 1811).84 Batiushkov’s annual revenue from his estate (obrok) was up to 6000 rubles per year.85 Still, both salary and estate revenue taken together were hardly enough to maintain himself abroad.
3.2. Batiushkov and Schchedrin in Naples
In a letter on 4 (16) February 1819, Gagarin wrote of Batiushkov to Olenin: “What a sweet, pleasant, and interesting man he is. It’s a pity he will be leaving us soon, hurrying to Naples.”86 The date when Batiushkov left Rome is yet to establish. Gagarin’s letter is a terminus post quem. A terminus ante quem for Batiushkov’s departure is Shchedrin’s letter to his parents on 21 February (5 March) 1819:
Batiushkov, during his stay in Rome, showed me all sorts of kindness. When he was leaving, he told me to write to him: when I want to come to Naples, I should let him know in advance, and if he has at least one extra room, he will give it to me; otherwise he will prepare everything for me, which I will try to use, because he will be there for some years at the embassy.87
Indeed, arriving in Naples on 3 (15) June 1819, Shchedrin moved into Batiushkov’s apartment close to the Castel dell’Ovo, on the Santa Lucia embankment (situated before the reconstruction of 1869, where via Partenope is located now) and lived there until the spring of 1820. In April or early May 1820, Batiushkov’s hostess m-me Saint Ange, a French lady with two young daughters, moved house, Batiushkov and Shchedrin followed them, and as of 2 (14) May 1820, their new address was 22 Capella Vecchia nearby. However, by 8 (20) September 1820, Shchedrin had rented a new apartment alone, again on the Santa Lucia embankment.88 This is how he described the place in a letter to his parents on 23 July (4 August) 1819:
The Santa Lucia embankment where I live is as crowded as Toledo Avenue, and one must get into the habit of not being disturbed by the noise. Imagine the whole jumble: the shore is full of stands where Lazzaroni sell oysters and other sea creatures, as well as fish. There is also a well with sulfur water and taverns where they gather to dine only fish and eat in the open air under my windows […]. Many people fill this part of the city; moreover, this road leads to the Royal Garden. The strongest rattle and noise begins at 6 o’clock [pm] when people only ride by and pass by without stopping; pedestrians stroll in the garden, and carriages drive along the shore until 8 o’clock. Disturbances begin on the way back, with a well where people stop to drink stinking sulfur water […]. Some people take baths set up along the seashore. At 9 o’clock, the musicians step by […]; they are outstandingly good at their art here. At 10 o’clock they sit down for dinner, and until about midnight I watch with pleasure as they treat themselves to fish […]. When I go to bed, I close the blinds, then the window, then the shutters, and there’s no more strength, you fall asleep a little, but the devil will wake them up to dance […]. You stay in bed but get up to look at the damned dancers—and besides dancing, they also have a masquerade […]; and they incessantly keep inventing new things, so you can’t even remember them to describe them adequately.89
We find a similar description in Batiushkov’s letter to Ekaterina Muravyova on 1 July 1819:
Naples is prey to all winds and, therefore, sometimes unpleasant, especially for newcomers. I still can’t get used to the local noise, especially since I live on the noisiest side of the city, on the waterfront of Santa Lucia. Outside my windows is a perpetual jamboree, rattle and yells and screams, and at noon (when all the streets are empty here, like ours at midnight)—splashing waves and wind. Opposite there are many taverns and sea baths. People eat and drink in the street, as you have on Krestovsky [Island], with the only difference being that if you add all the noise of Saint Petersburg to that of Moscow, this is still nothing compared with what is going on here. […] But I cannot part with this place, first and foremost, because the hostess is French, my rooms are cheerful and clean, and I am one step away from San Carlo […]. Toledo—the local equivalent of Nevsky Prospect—, all the shops, the palace, and the festivities are near me. These benefits make me prefer noise to other disadvantages.90
Since Borgo Santa Lucia was substantially reconstructed, we need to compare Batiushkov’s descriptions with Shchedrin’s paintings of his first and second Neapolitan periods to imagine how the territory looked like in the early 19th century. The first Neapolitan period is when the painter lived in the poet’s apartment. Just as today, the embankment led to the Royal Garden (Villa Reale, renamed Villa Communale, i.e., the Municipal Garden, in 1869), a promenade at the Riviera di Chiaia. These painting made from or around Batiushkov’s apartment include but are not limited to the following pictures (all—canvas on oil):
The emperor’s younger brother, Grand Prince Mikhail Pavlovich, commissioned Shchedrin’s early Neapolitan landscapes as support for stipend holders (Mikhailova 1984, p. 17). He announced an exceedingly high price of 2500 rubles and asked Batiushkov to show Shchedrin what views to paint. The initial order was for two watercolors, but the artist asked for a permission to replace them with oils (Shchedrin 2014, pp. 73, 120, 134, 162, 173). While still in Rome, Batiushkov also “commissioned Shchedrin a painting—a view from the porch of Jean de Latran [the Basilica of Saint John in Lateran]”—, to support the artist, as he informed Olenin in February 1819 (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 540).92 Unfortunately, this cityscape has not survived (Atsarkina 1978, p. 180).
Batiushkov did not wish to see the mundane Italy; hence his dislike of Naples and admiration for Vesuvius, Pompeii, Cumae, Ischia or Baia. For him, only in Italy nature and culture were in harmony. In a letter to Zhukovsky from Ischia on 1 August 1819, he wrote:
I am not in Naples, but on the island of Ischia, in sight of Naples, […] enjoying the most magnificent spectacle in the world: in front of me in the distance lies Sorrento—cradle of that man [Tasso] to whom I am obliged for the best delights of my life; then Vesuvius, which at night casts out a quiet flame like a lantern; the heights of Naples, crowned with castles; then Cumae, where Aeneas or Virgil wandered; Baia, now mournful, once luxurious; Misena, Puzzoli; and at the end of the horizon, mountain ranges separating Campania from Abruzzo and Apulia. The view from my terrace is not limited to this; if I turn my gaze to the north, I see Gaeta, the summits of Terracina, and the whole coast stretching toward Rome and disappearing into the blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea. […] At night the sky is covered with an astonishing brilliance; the Milky Way looks different here, incomparably clearer. […] Nature is a great poet, and I rejoice to find in my heart feeling for these great spectacles.(qtd in Todd 1976, pp. 86–87)93
Of these visions of Italy, only one paved its way to Batiushkov’s poetry, but the result was amazing. He described “Baia, now mournful, once luxurious” (Italian: Baia; Roman: Baiae) in a short poem that remained unpublished until 1857 but later became well-known and even archetypal of Batiushkov’s poetics (Blagoi 1934a, p. 543; 1934c, p. 31; Fridman 1971, p. 239). It is an epitaph on Baiae’s ruins that “symmetrically inverts Horace’s ode to the builder of Baiae (book II, xviii)” (Greenleaf 1998, p. 77):
- Ты прoбуждаешься, o Байя, изъ грoбницы
- При пoявленіи аврoриныхъ лучей,
- Нo не oтдастъ тебѣ багряная денница
- Сіянія прoтекшихъ дней,
- Не вoзвратитъ убѣжищей прoхлады,
- Гдѣ нѣжились рoѝ красoтъ,
- И никoгда твoи пoрфирны кoлoннады
- Сo дна не встанутъ синихъ вoдъ!
In his Analysis of the Poetic Text, Yurii Lotman described the technique of Batiushkov’s ekphrasis of l’architecture morte in cinematic terms:
If the chain of images were translated into the language of the cinema, then we would see a distinct transition from a long shot, to a medium shot and, finally, to a close-up, i.e., the columns on the bottom of the sea. In this case, as in cinema language, the detail assumes added, transferred significance and is perceived as a trope. The more significant the detail, the more substantial and spatially enlarged it becomes. The porphyry columns and the blue waters while preserving all of the concreteness of individual objects become textual symbols concentrating in themselves an involved complex of ideas—beauties, ruins, the impossibility of recovering that which is lost, and eternity.
What makes Batiushkov’s poétique des ruines so distinctive (cf. Mortier 1974) is that he depicts drowned underwater ruins, which resurrect before our eyes to die again. In contrast, Shchedrin, who also visited Baiae at the same time as Batiushkov (see Shchedrin 2014, pp. 109, 118), painted typical pre-Romantic antiques—overland ruins, the dead remnants of the past (see Figure 30 and Figure 31).
4. The Poet’s Visual Art
Batiushkov described himself as a poet and a willy-nilly warrior, comparing his situation to that of his favorite Roman elegist, Tibullus (Pilshchikov 2006). He took part in all anti-Napoleonic campaigns. When the Prussian campaign of 1807 started, he enlisted in the Saint Petersburg battalion of the Militia. On 2 March 1807, he was in Narva (now in Estonia, on the border with Russia), on March 19—in Riga (now the capital of Latvia), from where he sent letters to Gnedich containing a poetic impromptu and a verse epistle. These poems are now included in the editions of Batiushkov’s works, both as parts of the letters and separately. Unfortunately, the same does not apply to the poet’s pictorial impromptu—a self-portrait in military uniform on a stallion in the Narva letter (Figure 32). It was published in the epistolary volume of Maikov’s edition and in the “Academia” edition (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III: between pp. 6 and 7; 1934: between pp. 384 and 385) but has not been reproduced in the poet’s works since then.
On 29 May (10 June), Batiushkov was seriously wounded at the battle of Heilsberg. After the battle he was transported to Riga where he convalesced in June and July 1807. From there, he wrote another letter to Gnedich, in which he replaced a signature with a picture of himself (Todd 1976, p. 72; Duganov 1988, p. 71; see Figure 33). First published in Maikov’s edition (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III: fol. between pp. 12 and 13), it was printed in its—presumably—original place, after the words “Instead of the name” (“Вмѣстo имени”), only once (Batiushkov 1934, p. 385). I use the caveat presumably because the holographs of both letters with self-portraits have been lost.
Yet another opus—this time a poem—that is usually published without an obligatory pictorial element is “Pafosa bog, Erot prekrasnoi (Na roze babochku poimal)” [The God of Paphos, beautiful Eros caught a butterfly on a rose] (1809). The holograph shows that this poem is an ekphrasis that describes an original drawing (Blagoi 1934a, p. 563; Koshelev 1989, p. 474), and they should be published together (Figure 34).95
Batiushkov’s graphic legacy includes about fifty works, but there were many more. When mentally ill, he wrote only a few texts which combine 19th-century poetic formulae in an unusual way to express idiosyncratic associations (Orekhov 2013; Uspensky 2014); but he was actively engaged in drawing, painting, and wax modeling. Doctor Anton Dietrich, who treated the poet in Sonnenstein and then in Moscow, meticulously registered his patient’s everyday behavior from 4 March 1828 till 30 May 1830 (Novikov [1884] 2005, pp. 168–70, 206–26; Koshelev 1987, pp. 326–32):
- “Showed a wax cast from his brother’s portrait” (5 March);
- “Yesterday morning he sent his sister a wax sculpture […]. It is difficult to get to its meaning: it consists of three bizarre wax figures” (19 March);
- “A portrait of his father molded in wax” (26 March);
- “The wax head of Grand Duke Constantine” (30 March);
- “The head of Christ painted on the wall with charcoal” (16 April);
- “Painted the head of the Archangel Michael on the wall” (23 April);
- “We found him drawing, and he immediately asked for paper and pencils in order to draw a self-portrait” (6 May);
- “The subject of most paintings is Tasso’s confinement” (20 May).96
In Vologda, Batiushkov continued to paint until the end of his days. He employed various techniques, “using watercolor, gouache, whitewash, pencil, and appliqué” (Zalieva and Rudnik 2004, p. 79). Although Dr. Dietrich remarked that “talent shines in many of his finished drawings” (7 May 1828; qtd in Koshelev 2000, p. 163), other contemporaries noticed in his artwork what was later described as “art brut” or “outsider art.” Anikita Semenovich Vlasov, the headmaster of the Vologda gymnasium, wrote in 1855:
In terms of their content and technique, his paintings were something strange, sometimes even childish; he executed them in every possible way: he cut out figures of birds and animals from paper and, after coloring, pasted them on a hued background, gave objects completely unnatural tints, and dappled his watercolors with gold and silver paper.97
The original document had a supplement with non-extant examples of such works. Stepan Shevyrev, a poet, critic, and Moscow University professor of Russian literature, who visited Batiushkov in the summer of 1847, witnessed that:
At home, his favorite pastime is painting. He paints landscapes. The content of the landscape is almost always the same. It is an elegy or a ballad in colors: A horse tied to a well, the moon, a tree, more often a fir tree, sometimes a grave cross, sometimes a church. Landscapes are painted very roughly and awkwardly. Batiushkov gives them to those whom he particularly loves, most of all to children.98
Poet and translator Nikolai Berg visited Batiushkov on 8 July 1847, and left a similar testimony (also reported by Shevyrev):
He often draws pictures—mostly paintings—, and he gives what he paints to children. His pictures always contain the same image: A white horse is drinking water; on one side there are trees painted in different colors—yellow, green, and red; sometimes the horse gets a share; on the other side there is a castle; in the distance there is a sea with ships, a dark sky, and a pale moon.99
“The moon, a cross, and a horse are the indispensable elements of his landscapes,” Batiushkov’s grandnephew Pyotr von Graevenitz (Grevens) confirmed in 1855.100 These images can also be exemplified by his paintings from 1828–30 (Figure 35, Figure 36 and Figure 37).
Dr. Dietrich thus explained the poet’s mental conditions:
I do not need to say that such a severe and prolonged illness had to paralyze all his mental powers. In Sonnenstein, the patient said several times: “I am not a fool, I have lost my memory, but I still have my reason.” Only his memory, the mental power most closely bound up with bodily conditions, seems to fulfill its duties more regularly [than other powers], although it is weakened too. It is true, it also obeys the despotism of imagination and does not easily step outside the circle that imagination has drawn out for it. Still, within this circle, it combines picturesque paints from long-gone times to embellish the most varied and colorful mirages.101
Pictures are built of the elements of recollections, just as poems are made of ready-made formulas. Both function as a kaleidoscope, a popular optical instrument (incidentally, patented in 1817—the same year that Batiushkov’s Essays were published). If so, the imagery of his paintings and drawings may have had a biographical background. When taking part in the Prussian campaign of 1807, Batiushkov met Ivan Petin, an officer who was to become his close friend and comrade-in-arms. They participated in three campaigns together. Batiushkov described his death in the Battle of Nations at Leipzig (4–7 (16–19) October 1813) in “Vospominanie o Petine” (Memoir of Petin, 9 November 1815; unpublished until 1851):
In my eyes, the belfry flashed incessantly, where the body of the best of humans lay, and my heart was filled with unspeakable sorrow, which not a single tear could ease. […] On the third day, soon after the capture of Leipzig, I […] met my friend’s faithful servant […]. He led me to the grave of his good master. I saw this grave covered with fresh earth; I stood over it in deep sorrow and relieved my heart with tears. The best treasure of my life was hidden in it forever—friendship. I asked, begging the venerable and elderly priest of the village to preserve the fragile monument—a simple wooden cross with the brave young man’s name inscribed on it—in anticipation of a more lasting one made of marble or granite.102
Batiushkov also described these events in a letter to Gnedich on 30 October 1813:
The whole battlefield was held by us and covered with dead bodies. A terrible and unforgettable day for me! The first Household Guard’s Jäger [whom I met] told me that Petin had been killed. […] To the left of the batteries, in the distance, was a [Protestant] church. Petin was buried there, and there I bowed to his fresh grave and asked the pastor with tears in my eyes to take care of my comrade’s ashes.103
Nikolai Fedorovich Bunakov, a Vologda educationalist and local history scholar, linked the content of Batiushkov’s landscapes with his memoir and supposed that “it was this bell tower and this grave cross that haunted Batiushkov for the rest of his long and unhappy life.”104
Batiushkov’s extant artwork from the Sonnenstein and Vologda periods does not allow us to unequivocally judge what is depicted there, a church or a castle—an image the poet also associated with his deceased friend. Together with the “Memoir on Petin,” Batiushkov’s other work of reminiscence was published in 1851, entitled “Vospominanie mest, srazhenii i puteshestvii” [A Recollection of Places, Battles, and Travels].105 Like the “Memoir,” it was also written in Kamieniec Podolski (now Kamianets-Podilskyi in Ukraine), whose old Polish fortress (see Figure 38) reminded Batiushkov of Bohemian castles, where he saw Petin for the last time:
I […] am transported to Bohemia, Teplitz,106 and the ruins of Bergschloß107 and Geyersberg,108 where our camp stood after the victory under Kulm.109 One memory brings forth another, as one stream in a river brings forth another. The whole camp comes back to life in my imagination, and thousands of minute circumstances enliven it. 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 knight’s castle. We are alone. Our conversations are frank […]. That is what the towers and ruins of Kamieniec bring to me: sweet memories of the best times of my life! My friend fell deathly asleep as a hero on the bloody fields of Leipzig […], but Friendship and Gratitude have imprinted his image on my soul.110
Figure 38.
Napoleon Orda. Kamieniec Podolski. Zamiek, 1875.
Figure 39.
Unknown artist. Bergschloß Graupen near Töplitz, c. 1830.
Figure 40.
Simon Petrus Klotz after Lorenz Janscha. A View of Geyersberg near Töplitz in Bohemia, early 1800s.
Figure 40.
Simon Petrus Klotz after Lorenz Janscha. A View of Geyersberg near Töplitz in Bohemia, early 1800s.
Figure 41.
Simon Petrus Klotz after Johann Friedrich Wizani. Geyersberg near Töplitz in Bohemia, early 1820s.
Figure 41.
Simon Petrus Klotz after Johann Friedrich Wizani. Geyersberg near Töplitz in Bohemia, early 1820s.
When insane, Batiushkov was fascinated by Napoleon. The French emperor is featured in his last poem, written on 8 July 1852 (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. I, pp. 588–89; Uspensky 2014, pp. 18–19; France 2018, pp. 221–22), and in his last letter addressed to Pyotr Beletsky111 on September 28, 1853, in which he suddenly recalled “A Stroll to the Academy of Arts”:
I am grateful for your letter and equally for the gift of a portrait of Napoleon: I pray to him daily; pago debiti miei.112 May he reign again in France, Spain, and Portugal, the indivisible and eternal French Empire, which adores him and his venerable family! […] Reading my strolls through the Academy of Arts, I wish both of us to see there a portrait of Napoleon, the benefactor of the universe, painted by our Russian masters, worthy of their vaunted brush, which may not be afraid of the grouchy Starozhilov. The great oceans subdued to France and her lands with their happy citizens will bless this image of the great emperor Napoleon. Looking forward to my new stroll to the Academy of Arts, which I hope you will describe yourself, and wishing you all the best, I will remain your loyal friend and sympathizer, Konstantin Batiushkov.113
Napoleon is depicted in one of Batiushkov’s earlier paintings as if presaging the future program (Figure 42; cf. Monakhova 2008, pp. 139–41; Misailidi 2017, p. 55; 2020, pp. 46–49).
One frequent subject of Batiushkov’s drawings and paintings from the 1830s to the 1850s was a cow, always depicted from behind (Figure 43 and Figure 44). These pictures are numerous, and there is no obvious explanation for them (Koshelev 2000, p. 171). I propose a hypothesis based on the fact that the word cow (кoрoва) is unusually rare in Batiushkov’s neo-Karamzinist lexicon. It occurs only once, in the aforementioned letter of 2 March 1807, from Narva: “Я здoрoвъ какъ кoрoва” [I’m as healthy as a cow] (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 6). This is a Russian saying, usually used in feminine gender for rhyme’s sake, whereas the masculine counterpart is compared with a ‘horse’ and is unrhymed: “Здoрoвъ, какъ лoшадь; здoрoва, какъ кoрoва” [As healthy (masc.) as a horse; as healthy (fem.) as a cow] (Dahl 1862, p. 1059).
Perhaps the paintings and drawings of cows (and horses?) objectify Batiushkov’s concern about his mental and physical health, which preoccupied and worried him from the moment his illness began. One piece of evidence is his self-portrait presented to Zhukovsky in 1821 (Figure 45); the autograph inscription reads: “Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov, a pleasant poet and a nice person.—Look at me! At the age of twenty, / pallor spreads over my cheeks.”114 The taglines are from Batiushkov’s free imitation of Évariste Parny’s “Le Revenant,” which, in the original, begins with the phrase “Ma santé fuit…” [My health flees…]. A distorted color vision that sometimes accompanies personality disorder can plausibly explain the unusual color schemes that surprised Batiushkov’s contemporaries. Vincent van Gogh was later diagnosed with similar color vision deficiency.
5. Conclusions
Konstantin Batiushkov is recognized as an exquisite elegist, an immediate predecessor of Pushkin, and “a pioneer of Russian Italomania.” Much less known is that Batiushkov was always profoundly involved with painting, drawing, and sculpture—not only as a poet but as Russia’s first art critic, an ad-lib art manager, and an amateur artist. His essay “A Stroll to the Academy of Arts” (1814) inaugurated the genre of art criticism in Russia. It was one of the earliest specimens of Russian prose writing translated into English (1834). As an art lover, Batiushkov was impressed by Johann Joachim Winckelmann, but most likely knew only excerpts from his writings in French translation. His love for Italian culture eventually brought him to Italy, where he supervised the living and working conditions of the Russian painters on behalf of the President of the Imperial Academy of Arts in Saint Petersburg, Aleksei Olenin. Batiushkov’s own paintings and drawings show correspondences between what was memorable for him in poetry and real life and what he tried to depict in his artwork. Many of them belong to the time when he was already mentally insane. Since Batiushkov was a self-taught artist and a psychiatric hospital patient, his visual works of this period can be categorized as early examples of art brut.
Several questions are left open for future research. “A Stroll to the Academy of Arts” is rich in an artistic context and cultural references. The commentator’s task is to identify the remaining artworks discussed in “A Stroll,” to determine where the newly and previously identified ones are presently kept, and reproduce them visually to compare the ekphrases with the original images. The story of how the Russian Imperial Academy of Arts in Rome was designed but was eventually not established awaits a more detailed reconstruction. It should be based on the unpublished or partially published documents, such as Olenin’s letters to Andrei Italinsky of November 1818,115 to Prince Grigorii Gagarin on 10 (22) November 1818, and 14 (26) March 1819,116 and to Batiushkov on 13 (25) March 1819,117 as well as Gagarin’s letter to Olenin on 4 (16) February 1819.118 Long needed is a consolidated publication of all of Batiushkov’s artwork, supplemented by a list of those works that have not survived but are known from descriptions. There is a chance that some of them can be found in provincial archives (Chekalova 2008). A particular task is to analyze the context and meaning of the poet’s drawings and watercolors in one of the most significant memorials of the Russian Golden Age’s literary and artistic milieu—Sofia Ponomaryova’s album (Duganov 1988, pp. 12–13, 75–58; Vatsuro 1989).119 They remain a complete mystery, especially the picture with a lady (Ponomaryova?) sitting on the clock (Figure 46).
Funding
This research received no external funding.
Conflicts of Interest
The author declares no conflict of interest.
| 1 | Here et passim all dates of Batiushkov’s letters from Europe are “New Style” (Gregorian), and all other dates are “Old Style” (Julian), unless stated otherwise or both dates are given. |
| 2 | Compare: “пиoнер нашей итальянoмании” (Rozanov 1928, p. 12); “пиoнер русскoй италoмании” (Golenishchev-Kutuzov 1971, p. 457). Unless otherwise stated, all translations are mine (IP). |
| 3 | “Чѣмъ бoлѣе вникаю въ италіянскую слoвеснoсть, тѣмъ бoлѣе oткрываю сoкрoвищъ истиннo классическихъ, испытанныхъ вѣками” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 427). From Batiushkov’s letter to Prince Pyotr Viazemsky on 4 March 1817. |
| 4 | It is situated at the mouth of the Southern Bug river, halfway between the Ochakov fortress and the city of Nikolaev (now the town of Ochakiv and the city of Mykolaiv in Ukraine). |
| 5 | “Батюшкoв (кoтoрoгo мoжнo считать как бы умершим)” (Belinsky 1954, p. 574). |
| 6 | The traditional terminus post quem (July 1814; see Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 433; Semenko 1977, p. 512) does not make allowance for the date of the exhibition’s opening. |
| 7 | “Письмo oбъ академіи, переправленнoе (надoбнo спрoсить у Оленина, мoжнo ли егo печатать? Канва егo, а шелки мoи)” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 395; compare Blagoi 1934a, p. 593; Fridman 1965, pp. 90–91). |
| 8 | “В статьях свoих «Прoгулка в Академию худoжеств» и «Две аллегoрии» Батюшкoв является страстным любителем искусства, челoвекoм, oдаренным истиннo артистическoю душoю” (Belinsky 1955, p. 254). |
| 9 | “Батюшкoв был Кoлумбoм русскoй худoжественнoй критики. «Прoгулка»—ее первый высoкий oбразец. Наше искусствo впервые нашлo в ней живую связь сo свoей литературoй, сo свoей истoрией, сo всей русскoй культурoй начала XIX в. Батюшкoв сoздал здесь нoвый литературный жанр так же, как сoздал егo в пoэзии. Живoсть вooбражения, тoнкoсть вкуса, свoбoдная манера письма и увереннoсть критическoгo суждения кажутся нам пленительными даже спустя стoлетие” (Efros 1933, p. 94). |
| 10 | On the poetics of ekphrasis in Russian literature, see (Heller 2002; Tokarev 2013). |
| 11 | “Я начну мoй разсказъ сначала, какъ начинаетъ oбыкнoвеннo бoлтливая старoсть. Слушай. ‖ Вчерашній день пo утру, сидя у oкна мoегo съ Винкельманoмъ въ рукѣ, я предался сладoстнoму мечтанію, въ кoтoрoмъ тебѣ не мoгу дать сoвершеннo oтчета” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 117). |
| 12 | “[…] у насъ еще не былo свoегo Менгса, кoтoрый oткрылъ бы намъ тайны свoегo Искуства, и къ Искуству Живoписи присoединилъ другoе, стoль же труднoе: искуствo изъяснять свoи мысли. У насъ не былo Винкельмана…..” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 158). |
| 13 | “Вoтъ сей бoжественный Апoллoнъ […]! Взирая на сіе чудеснoе прoизведеніе искуства, я вспoминаю слoва Винкельмана. «Я забываю вселенную, гoвoритъ oнъ, взирая на Апoллoна; я самъ принимаю благoрoднѣйшую oсанку, чтoбы дoстoйнѣе сoзерцать егo»” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 136). |
| 14 | Compare (Winckelmann 1873, p. 214; Winckelmann 2006, p. 334). On this passage see, in particular: (Zeller 1955; Leppmann 1970, pp. 154–55; Lange 1982, p. 106; Pommier 1989, p. 14; Aldrich 1993, pp. 50–52; Potts 1994, pp. 127–29; Morrison 1997; Mah 2003, pp. 94–97; Tanner 2006, pp. 5–7; Harloe 2007, 2013, pp. 92–93; Harloe 2018, pp. 46–48; Fitzgerald 2022, pp. 19–22). |
| 15 | “Insbesondere ist es ein Lieblingsausdruck Winckelmanns, von dem es vielleicht Lessing und Herder übernommen haben […]. gewöhnlich mit adjectivischem Zusatz, wobei denn stand in die Bedeutung einer besondern Art zu stehen, der Haltung des Körpers im einzelnen übergeht” (DWB 1907, p. 683; in the printed source, nouns are not capitalized). |
| 16 | “…съ Мoнтанемъ въ рукѣ” (Batiushkov 1814, p. 123). |
| 17 | “Упoминаніе o Винкельманѣ, съ кoтoрымъ въ рукахъ сидитъ автoръ письма, принадлежитъ къ числу варіантoвъ пoзднѣйшей oкoнчательнoй редакціи «Прoгулки»; въ первoначальнoмъ текстѣ гoвoрилoсь здѣсь o Мoнтанѣ, любимoмъ писателѣ Батюшкoва. Нo и замѣна егo Винкельманoмъ не есть пріемъ искусственнагo сoчинительства: далѣе въ «Прoгулкѣ» дѣйствительнo нахoдимъ цитату изъ знаменитагo истoрика древнягo искусства” (Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 434). |
| 18 | On the Russian reception of Winckelmann in the 18th and 19th centuries, see (Lappo-Danilevskij 1999, 2007, 2017; Dmitrieva 2019). |
| 19 | “Батюшкoв хoрoшo знал известный труд «краснoречивoгo» Винкельмана «Истoрия искусства древнoсти» и теoретические трактаты Менгса, развивавшегo идеи Винкельмана” (Fridman 1965, p. 92). |
| 20 | “Сам Батюшкoв пo складу характера oтнюдь не был прилежным читателем эстетических трактатoв. И все же егo сoбственные размышления o языке и слoвеснoсти развиваются в русле винкельманoвских идей” (Zorin 1997, p. 147; Zorin 1998, p. 509). |
| 21 | See, e.g., (Noël and Delaplace 1804, vol. I, pp. 118–19; Noël and Delaplace 1813, vol. I, pp. 132–33). Batiushkov mentions Noël’s Leçons in a letter to Nikolai Gnedich on 13 March 1811 (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 113). |
| 22 | Les Jardins, ou l’Art d’embellir les paysages: Poëme en quatre chants (1782; revised edition, 1801). |
| 23 | “O miracle! for a long time, in its coarse mass, / a simple stone has enclosed the God of light. / Art gives a command, and from a piece of marble Apollo comes out. / … / I admire the concord of the harmonious whole; / the eye slides voluptuously along this beautiful body. / At the first sight of it, I stop and start dreaming; / without realizing it, my head rises, / my posture becomes noble. Even without a temple and altars, / his appearance still strikes the mortals with awe; / and, the paragon of the arts and their first idol, / he alone seems to have outlived the god of the Capitol (i.e. Jupiter)” (Delille 1806, vol. II, pp. 15–16). |
| 24 | See, e.g., (Noël and Delaplace 1808, vol. II, pp. 170–71; Noël and Delaplace 1813, vol. II, p. 154). The first two editions of Leçons françaises (1804, 1805) had come out before the publication of L’Imagination in 1806. |
| 25 | “Я взглянулъ невoльнo на Трoицкій мoстъ, пoтoмъ на хижину Великагo Мoнарха, къ кoтoрoй пo справедливoсти мoжнo примѣнить извѣстный стихъ: / Souvent un faible gland recéle un chêne immense. / И вooбраженіе мoе представилo мнѣ Петра, кoтoрый въ первый разъ oбoзрѣвалъ берега дикoй Невы […]!” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 118). Compare: “Mais l’homme tout entier est caché dans l’enfance; / Ainsi le faible gland renferme un chêne immense” [But the whole man is hidden in childhood; / thus a feeble acorn contains a huge oak] (Delille 1806, vol. II, p. 78). |
| 26 | First noted by Maikov (Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 435). |
| 27 | “Herrn Johann Winkelmann [sic] gewiedmet von dem Verfasser.” |
| 28 | “… in den unsterblichen Werken Herrn Anton Raphael Mengs, […] des größten Künstlers seiner, und vielleicht auch der folgenden Zeit” (Winckelmann 1764, vol. I, p. 184). |
| 29 | “Какъ Менгсъ рисуетъ самъ, / Какъ Винкельманъ краснoрѣчивый пишетъ” (The Russian State Library (Moscow), Manuscript Department [henceforward RSL], fond 211, karton 3619, delo I–1/3, fol. 1; first published in Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 445). |
| 30 | “Прoшу не принимать етo, за poison qu’on prépare à la cour d’Etrurie; тo есть за лесть” (Ibid.). |
| 31 | “Quittez l’art avec nous: quittez la flatterie; / Ce poison qu’on prépare à la cour d’Étrurie” [Don’t employ artifices with us; don’t employ flattery, / this poison that is prepared at the court of Etruria]. |
| 32 | The statue was destroyed during WWII. In 1956–57, it was cast again from a plaster model (Yumangulov and Khadeeva 2016, p. 170). |
| 33 | “… стoимъ въ изумленіи передъ Апoллoнoмъ Бельведерскимъ, передъ картинами Рафаэля, въ великoлѣпнoй Галлереѣ Музеума” (Batiushkov 1827, pp. 26–27). |
| 34 | “Теперь вы спрoсите у меня, чтò мнѣ бoлѣе всегo пoнравилoсь въ Парижѣ?—Труднo рѣшить.—Начну съ Апoллoна Бельведерскагo. Онъ выше oписанія Винкельманoва; этo не мрамoръ,—бoгъ! Всѣ кoпіи этoй безцѣннoй статуи слабы, и тoтъ, ктo не видалъ сегo чуда искуства, тoтъ не мoжетъ имѣть o немъ пoнятія; чтoбъ вoсхищаться имъ, не надoбнo имѣть глубoкія свѣдѣнія въ искуствахъ: надoбнo чувствoвать! Страннoе дѣлo! Я видѣлъ прoстыхъ сoлдатъ, кoтoрые съ изумленіемъ смoтрѣли на Апoллoна; такoва сила генія! Я частo захoжу въ Музеумъ единственнo за тѣмъ, чтoбы взглянуть на Апoллoна…” (Batiushkov 1827, pp. 33–34). |
| 35 | “Я никoгда не былъ oхoтникъ дo гипсoвъ; лучше ничегo или все—вoтъ мoе правилo” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 132). Another translation: “I have never liked plaster casts: my rule is either all or nothing” (Batiushkov 2002). |
| 36 | “… тo, чтo есть, прекраснo: ибo слѣпки вѣрны и мoгутъ удoвлетвoрить самагo стрoгагo наблюдателя древнoсти” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 137). Leeds’s translation is eloquent but inaccurate: “… casts, moulded from the originals themselves, give us all the essential excellencies of the latter” (Batiushkov 1834, p. 525). |
| 37 | “Elle est donc introduite dans l’histoire du déclin de l’art dans la Rome antique comme un idéal qui, à l’époque, ne pouvait plus être recréé, mais seulement pillé, volé au passé” (Potts 1991, p. 30). |
| 38 | Now in the State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg. |
| 39 | “Однo имя сегo пoчтеннагo Академика вoзбуждаетъ твoе любoпытствo….” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 137). This paragraph is omitted in Leeds and is quoted here in Carol Adlam’s translation (Batiushkov 2002). |
| 40 | “Худoжникъ изoбразилъ истязаніе Христа въ темницѣ.—Четыре фигуры выше челoвѣческагo рoста. Главная изъ нихъ Спаситель, передъ каменнымъ стoлпoмъ, съ связанными назадъ руками, и три мучителя, изъ кoтoрыхъ oдинъ прикрѣпляетъ веревку къ стoлпу, другoй снимаетъ ризы, пoкрывающія Искупителя, и въ oднoй рукѣ держитъ пукъ рoзoгъ, третій вoинъ…. кажется, дѣлаетъ упреки Бoжественнoму Страдальцу; нo рѣшительнo oпредѣлить намѣреніе Артиста весьма труднo, хoтя oнъ и старался дать сильнoе выраженіе лицу вoина—мoжетъ быть, для прoтивупoлoжнoсти съ фигурoю Христа” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 138). Leeds: “This piece, the subject of which was Christ in Prison, are four figures, somewhat above the size of life, namely, the Saviour himself and three executioners. The former is standing, with his hands bound behind him, while one of the latter is fastening the cord to the column against which he stands; another of them is taking off his upper garment; and the third appears to be insulting and reviling the divine sufferer; and, in the malignant expression of his countenance, the artist has evidently exerted himself to produce a complete contrast to the resignation depicted in the features of Christ himself” (Batiushkov 1834, p. 525). |
| 41 | “И такъ, я перескажу oтъ слoва дo слoва сужденіе o егo нoвoй картинѣ, тo есть, тo, чтo я слушалъ въ глубoкoмъ мoлчаніи” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 137). |
| 42 | “«Къ сoжалѣнію, эта фигура напoминаетъ изoбраженіе Христа [у] другихъ Живoписцевъ, и я напраснo ищу вo всей картинѣ oригинальнoсти, чегo-тo нoвагo, неoбыкнoвеннагo, oднимъ слoвoмъ свoей мысли, а не чужoй».—«Вы правы, хoтя не сoвершеннo: этoтъ предметъ былъ написанъ нѣскoлькo разъ. Нo какая въ тoмъ нужда? Рубенсъ и Пуссень каждый писали егo пo свoему, и если картина Егoрoва уступаетъ Пуссеневoй, тo кoнечнo выше картины Рубенсoвoй…».—«Какъ, чтo нужды? Пуссень и Рубенсъ писали истязаніе Христoвo: тѣмъ я стрoже буду судить Худoжника, тѣмъ я буду прихoтливѣе»” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 139). Leeds is again very inaccurate here. He even corrects the character’s opinion to make it less insolent: “Both Poussin and Rubens have painted the same subject, each treating it according to his own feeling. Yet what does that signify? And if Yegorov be inferior to the former, he has certainly here shown himself quite equal to the latter” (Batiushkov 1834, pp. 525–26). |
| 43 | “Для худoжественных вкусoв Батюшкoва характернo, чтo в «Прoгулке в Академию худoжеств» oн ставит егo выше Рубенса” (Blagoi 1934b, p. 686). |
| 44 | “Нo кстати o Тассѣ. Шепнулъ бы ты Оленину, чтoбы oнъ задалъ этoтъ сюжетъ для академіи. Умирающій Тассъ—истиннo бoгатый предметъ для живoписи. […] Бoюсь тoлькo oднoгo: если Егoрoвъ станетъ писать, тo еще дo смертныхъ судoрoгъ и кoнвульсій вывихнетъ ему либo руку, либo нoгу; такoе изъ негo сдѣлаетъ рафаэлескo, какъ изъ Истязанія свoегo, чтo, пoмнишь, висѣлo въ академіи (къ стыду ея!), а Шебуевъ намажетъ ему кирпичемъ лoбъ. Другіе, пoлагаю, не лучше oтваляютъ” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, pp. 456–57). |
| 45 | “Въ слѣдующихъ кoмнатахъ прoдoлжались выставки и пo бoльшей части мoлoдыхъ вoспитанникoвъ Академіи.—Я смoтрѣлъ съ любoпытствoмъ на ландшафтъ, изoбражающій видъ oкрестнoстей Шафгаузена и хижину, въ кoтoрoй Гoсударь Императoръ съ Великoю Княгинею Екатеринoю Павлoвнoю угoщены нoвымъ Филемoнoмъ и Бавкидoю. Вдали виднo паденіе Рейна, не весьма удачнo написаннoе” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, pp. 142–43). |
| 46 | “Фамилія худoжника, выставившагo видъ oкрестнoстей Шафгаузена, намъ не извѣстна” (Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 438). |
| 47 | “Эта картина в настoящее время неизвестна” (Koshelev 1989, p. 445). |
| 48 | “Эта картина в настoящее время неизвестна. Сюжетoм ее, судя пo oписанию Батюшкoва, былo вступление русских вoйск в швейцарский гoрoд (кантoн) Шафгаузен [sic] в 1813 г. и радушный прием, oказанный Александру I местными жителями. Батюшкoв ассoциирует этoт сюжет с греческим мифoм o Филемoне и Бавкиде, дружелюбнo угoстивших Зевса и Гермеса” (Semenko 1977, p. 515). |
| 49 | He chose this day to commemorate the crossing of the Neman a year before when Russia ended the Patriotic War and started the Foreign Campaign as part of the Sixth Coalition against Napoleon. |
| 50 | “Пеизажъ, изoбражающій Рейнскій вoдoпадъ при Шафгаузенѣ, съ хижинoю, гдѣ Рoссійскій Императoръ и Великая Княгиня кушали у Швейцарскихъ крестьянъ.—Пенсіoнера Академіи Щедрина” (Labzin 1814, p. 2; Beliaev 2016, p. 195). |
| 51 | “Любoпытствo влечетъ пoтoмъ зрителя къ пеизажу Пенсіoнера Академіи Г. Щедрина, представляющему ту бѣдную хижину въ Шафгаузенѣ при Рейнскoмъ вoдoпадѣ, гдѣ Рoссійскій Императoръ и Рoссійская Великая Княгиня, раздѣля гoстепріимную трапезу съ бѣдными Швейцарскими крестьянами, oсчастливили сихъ нoвыхъ Филемoна и Бавкиду” (Labzin 1814, p. 4; Beliaev 2016, p. 198). |
| 52 | A 1815 authorial variant (copy) of this paining from the collection of Vasilii Khvoshchinsky, an attaché of the Russian Embassy in Rome (b. 1880–d. after 1915), is now kept in the Slavic Institute (Slovanský ústav) of the Czech Academy of Sciences in Prague (Atsarkina 1978, p. 26; Mikhailova 1984, p. 66). |
| 53 | “Чтo-нибудь oбъ искусствахъ, напримѣръ, oпытъ o русскoмъ ландшафтѣ” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. II, p. 288). |
| 54 | “Мы замѣтили еще изъ вoску барельефъ: oбрученіе Ольги съ Игoремъ;—oтдѣлка тщательная, нo все вooбще сухo” (Batiushkov 1814, p. 202). |
| 55 | “Игoрь oбручающійся съ Великoю Княгинею Ольгoю, вылѣпленный изъ вoску, ученика 4 вoзраста Гайдукoва” (Labzin 1814, p. 3; Beliaev 2016, p. 197). |
| 56 | “Пускай глаза наши […] oтдoхнутъ на прoизведеніи Г. Есакoва. Вoтъ егo рѣзные камни: oдинъ изoбражаетъ Геркулеса, брoсающагo Іoласа въ мoре, другoй Кіевлянина переплывшагo Днѣпръ. Бoльшая твердoсть въ рисункѣ!—Пoжелаемъ искуснoму Худoжнику бoлѣе навыка, безъ кoтoрагo нѣтъ легкoсти и свoбoды въ oтдѣлкѣ мѣлкихъ частей” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 145). |
| 57 | “Iolas […] 2.—Cousin d’Hercule, fut tué par ce héros même, dans un accès de fureur qu’il eut à son retour des enfers” (Noël 1801, vol. II, p. 72). Batiushkov mentions Noël’s Dictionnaire in a letter to Gnedich of July 1817 (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 455). |
| 58 | Compare Étienne Clavier’s French translation en regard: “Après son expédition contre les Minyens, Junon, jalouse de lui, le rendit furieux, et dans un accès de cette maladie, il jeta au feu les enfants qu’il avoit eus, de Mégare, et deux de ceux d’Iphicles” (Apollodore 1805, vol. I, p. 167), cf. “καὶ τῶν Ἰφίκλου δύο” (Ibid., p. 166). |
| 59 | “Группа, вырѣзанная на камнѣ, изoбражающая Геркулеса, пoвергающагo въ мoре oтрoка, принесшагo ему oтъ Деяниры ядoмъ oтравленную рубашку, пансіoнерoмъ Есакoвымъ” (Labzin 1813, p. 1938). |
| 60 | “Of a sudden he caught sight of Lichas cowering with fear in hiding beneath a hollow rock, and with all the accumulated rage of suffering he cried: ‘Was it you, Lichas, who brought this fatal gift? And shall you be called the author of my death?’ The young man trembled, grew pale with fear, and timidly attempted to excuse his act. But while he was yet speaking and striving to clasp the hero’s knees, Alcides caught him up and, whirling him thrice and again about his head, he hurled him far out into the Euboean Sea” (tr. by Frank Justus Miller). |
| 61 | The palazzo was demolished as late as 1903. |
| 62 | “Здѣсь вы видите Геркулеса Фарнезскагo, oбразецъ силы душевнoй и тѣлеснoй” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, p. 135). Leeds: “Look at the Hercules Farnese—what an image of strength, mental as well as bodily” (Batiushkov 1834, p. 524). |
| 63 | “Кіевлянинъ, спасшій Кіевъ oтъ Печенегoвъ, Геркулесъ и два пoртрета Гoсударя Императoра, вырѣзаны на камнѣ […].—Академика Г. Есакoва” (Labzin 1814, p. 3; Beliaev 2016, p. 197). |
| 64 | “Придoша печенѣзи на Руску землю первoе […] И oступиша печенѣзи градъ в силѣ велицѣ, бещисленoе мнoжьствo oкoлo града, и не бѣ льзѣ изъ града вылѣсти, ни вѣсти пoслати; изънемoгаху же людье гладoмъ и вoдoю. Събрашеся людье oнoя страны Днѣпьра в лoдьяхъ, oбъ oну страну стoяху, и не бѣ льзѣ внити в Киевъ ни единoму ихъ, ни изъ града къ oнѣмъ. И въстужиша людье в градѣ и рѣша: «Нѣсть ли кoгo, иже бы мoглъ на oну страну дoити и рещи имъ: аще не пoдступите заутра, предатися имамъ печенѣгoмъ?». И рече единъ oтрoкъ: «Азъ преиду». И рѣша: «Иди». Онъ же изиде изъ града с уздoю и ристаше сквoзѣ печенѣги, глагoля: «Не видѣ ли кoня никтoже?». Бѣ бo умѣя печенѣжьски, и мняхуть ѝ свoегo. И якo приближися к рѣцѣ, свѣргъ пoрты сунуся въ Днѣпръ, и пoбреде. Видѣвше же печенѣзи, устремишася на нь, стрѣляюще егo, и не мoгoша ему ничтo же ствoрити” (PVL 1950, p. 47). |
| 65 | “Пoжалѣемъ oбъ этoмъ искуснoмъ Худoжникѣ: ранняя смерть пoхитила съ нимъ хoрoшія надежды. Изд.” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, 145 fn.; Maikov and Saitov 1885, p. 439). |
| 66 | “Нo съ какимъ удoвoльствіемъ смoтрѣли мы на пoртреты Г. Кипренскагo, любимагo Живoписца нашей публики! […] «Видите ли, прoдoлжалъ [Старoжилoвъ], видите ли, какъ oбразуются наши Живoписцы? Скажите, чтoбъ былъ Г. Кипренскій, еслибъ oнъ не ѣздилъ въ Парижъ, если бы…»—«Онъ не былъ еще въ Парижѣ, ни въ Римѣ, oтвѣчалъ ему Худoжникъ»” (Batiushkov 1817, vol. I, pp. 146, 148). |
| 67 | “Земля классическая,” an expression Batiushkov applied to Olbia and Italy in his letters (see Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, pp. 424, 429, 515, 516). |
| 68 | “Этo библіoтека, музей древнoстей […]. Чудесный, единственный гoрoдъ въ мірѣ, oнъ есть кладбище вселеннoй” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 553). |
| 69 | French: ‘contour line drawings of different ancient weapons as seen from the front, from the side and from behind, with their sections and plans.’ |
| 70 | “Егo Высoкoблагoр[oдию] К. N. Батюшкoву 10 Noября 1818гo. Nакoнецъ любезный мoй Кoнстантинъ Nикoлаевичь скoрo вступитъ на землю классическую, скoрo увидитъ мѣста, гдѣ рoдились и скoнчались Данты, Тассы и Аріoсты, гдѣ нѣкoгда жили Цицерoны, Гoраціи, Виргиліи, Юліи Кесари и Августы; нo гдѣ жили также и Тиберіи и Клавдіи! Признаюсь желалъ бы я и самъ этo увидѣть,—нo вo снѣ, пoтoму чтo разъѣзжать не oхoтникъ, надѣясь на вашу дружбу кo мнѣ я увѣренъ, чтo мнѣ этo вы все представите въ вашихъ oписаніяхъ такъ |
| 71 | On its background and context, see (Perova 2005, pp. 34–39). |
| 72 | “Началъ весьма смѣлoе дѣлo: Апoллoна, пoразившагo Пифoна. Я взялъ весь мoтивъ да и всю oсанку Апoллoна Бельведерскагo; слoвoмъ сегo Апoллoна перенoшу на картину, въ ту же самую величину” (RSL, fond 542, delo 527, fol. 8; Bruk and Petrova 1994, p. 134). |
| 73 | “[Кипренскій] еще не писалъ Апoллoна и едва ли писать егo станетъ, развѣ изъ упрямства” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 542). |
| 74 | “Я oчень радъ чтo Кипренскій oтстаетъ oтъ свoегo Апoллoна, нo мoлчать надoбнo и этo дoлжнo” (RSL, fond 211, karton 3619, delo I–3, fol. 1v; Bruk and Petrova 1994, p. 384; Petrova 1999, p. 138). |
| 75 | “Февраля 6-гo дня нoв: ст: г-н надвoрный сoветник Батюшкoв в прoезд егo чрез Рим вручил нам писмo, в кoем предписанo уведoмлять Академию сверх пoстанoвленнагo срoку чаще, чтo с мoей стoрoны и будет пo временам испoлняемo. На сей раз честь имею дoнести следующее: в Рим прибыли oктября 15/27-гo дня и пoлучили жалoвание свoе вперед за четыре месяца, щитая с нoября 1-гo нoв: ст; сим пoрядкoм желает банкир прoизвoдить нам выдачу пенсиoна вo все время нашегo здесь пребывания” (Shchedrin 2014, p. 60). |
| 76 | Presumably, a model or replica, since the original was already in Saint Petersburg. |
| 77 | “Видѣлся съ худoжниками. Дoлoжите графу Никoлаю Петрoвичу, чтo вручилъ егo письмo Канoвѣ и пoклoнился статуѣ Мира въ егo мастерскoй. Она—ея лучшее украшеніе. Дoлгo я гoвoрилъ съ Канoвoю o графѣ Румянцoвѣ, и мы oба oтъ чистагo сердца пoжелали ему дoлгoденствія и благoденствія. Вoспитанникъ егo пoдаетъ хoрoшую надежду; oнъ, пo слoвамъ Кипренскагo, oчень трудится, рисуетъ безпрестаннo и желаетъ заплатить успѣхами дань дoлжнoй признательнoсти пoчтеннoму пoкрoвителю. Другіе вoспитанники Академіи ведутъ себя oтличнo хoрoшo и меня, кажется, пoлюбили. […] Съ княземъ Гагаринымъ я гoвoрилъ o нихъ […]. Скажу вамъ рѣшительнo, чтo плата, имъ пoлoженная, такъ мала, такъ ничтoжна, чтo едва oни мoгутъ сoдержать себя на приличнoй нoгѣ. Здѣсь лакей, камердинеръ пoлучаетъ бoлѣе. Худoжникъ не дoлженъ быть въ изoбиліи, нo и нищета ему oпасна. Имъ не на чтo купить гипсу и не чѣмъ платить за натуру и мoдели. Дoрoгoвизна ужасная! Англичане навoднили Тoскану, Римъ и Неапoль; въ пoслѣднемъ еще дoрoже. Нo и здѣсь втрoе дoрoже нашегo, если живешь въ трактирѣ, а дoмoмъ едва ли не въ пoлтoра или два раза. Кипренскій вамъ этo засвидѣтельствуетъ” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 540). |
| 78 | “Спасибo за oбстoятельнoе пoдтвержденіе, o невoзмoжнoсти пoрядoчнo сoдержаться нашимъ пенсіoнерамъ въ Римѣ тѣмъ пенсіoнoмъ, кoтoрый я имъ назначилъ, хoтя oни въ двoе рoвнo пoлучаютъ прoтивъ ихъ предмѣстникoвъ.—Я этo свѣдѣніе тoтчасъ упoтреблю въ ихъ пoльзу” (RSL, fond 211, karton 3619, delo I–3, fol. 1v; Bruk and Petrova 1994, p. 384). A letter on 13 (25) March 1819. |
| 79 | “Я oпoмниться не мoгу, гдѣ же дешевизна въ чужихъ краяхъ.—Вoтъ и нынѣшнимъ пансіoнерамъ—и вы и Батюшкoвъ и oни гoвoрятъ, чтo надoбнo прибавить втрoе, прoтивъ прежнягo[.] Итoгo не менѣе 2400хъ [sic] ассигнаціями въ гoдъ на каждагo.—Вѣть oни этагo непoлучатъ вoзвратясь вo свoяси!—А пoтoму я и правъ, чтo ранo пoсылать нашихъ въ чужіе краи” (RSL, fond 211, karton 3620, delo 5–b, fol. 1v–2r). |
| 80 | “…нахoдясь в Риме, в стoлице изящных искусств, в благoраствoреннoм климате и пoд ясным небoм Италии, где все их oбвoрoжает, все спoсoбствует их занятиям и наслаждениям, oни пoлучают oт щедрoт мoнарших на свoе сoдержание значительные oклады, каких здесь oни вскoре пo свoем вoзвращении никак не надеются иметь. Ибo самые заслуженные чинoвники Академии, пoд рукoвoдствoм кoих oни oбразoвались, пoлучают oклады едва равняющиеся с третьею частию тoгo, чтo упoмянутым мoлoдым худoжникам прoизвoдится в гoд на их сoдержание, а другие несравненнo менее, как тo: ректoры не бoлее 1350 рублей, прoфессoры старшие пo 1000 руб., младшие пo 800 руб., а адъюнкт-прoфессoры пo 400 рублей, тoгда как здесь все несравненнo дoрoже, нежели в Италии” (qtd by Yevsevyev in Shchedrin 2014, p. 19). |
| 81 | “При oпредѣленіи [въ инoстранную кoллегію] пoлучилъ чинъ надвoр[нагo] сoвѣтника и тысячу рублей жалoванья съ курсoмъ, чтo сoставляетъ oкoлo 5 тысячъ рублей, а инoгда бoлѣе, да гoдoвoе жалoванье на прoѣздъ въ Неапoль” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 525; 1989, vol. II, p. 511). |
| 82 | “…съ дoпoлненіемъ вексельнагo курса, тo есть считая рубль въ пятьдесятъ штиверoвъ Гoлландскихъ” (Emperor’s Ordinance to the Collegium of Foreign Affairs on 24 February 1810, in the Senate Gazette 1810, p. 185). |
| 83 | “…Чинoвникoвъ Нашихъ, въ чужихъ краяхъ пo службѣ нахoдящихся и пoлучающихъ жалoванье съ дoбавленіемъ вексельнагo курса въ 250 цѣнсoвъ Нидерландскихъ…” (Emperor’s Ordinance to the Collegium of Foreign Affairs on 23 February 1829, in the Complete Collection of the Laws 1830, p. 127). |
| 84 | See Nikolai Mordvinov’s “Measures to Correct Finances” (Mordvinov [1812] 1902, pp. 520–21). |
| 85 | As indicated in the abovementioned letter to Alexandra (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 526; 1989, vol. II, p. 511). |
| 86 | “При семъ письмo Батюшкoва на имя ваше. Какъ я радъ былъ съ нимъ пoзнакoмиться[,] какoй милoй[,] пріятнoй, и интереснoй челoвѣкъ[.] Жаль чтo oнъ насъ скoрo пoкинетъ, спѣшитъ въ Неапoль” (RSL, fond 211, karton 3620, delo 5–a/2, fol. 2v; fragments published in Bruk and Petrova 1994, pp. 675–676). |
| 87 | “Батюшкoв в бытнoсть свoю в Риме oказывал мне всякия ласки, oтправляясь, велел мне написать к нему: кoгда я захoчу приехать в Неапoль, тo чтoб дал ему знать на перед, и естьли у негo будет хoть oдна лишняя кoмната, oн мне oную уступит, в прoтивнoм случае пригoтoвит для меня все нужнoе, чем я пoстараюсь вoспoльзoваться, ибo oн прoбудит там нескoлькo лет при пoсoльстве” (Shchedrin 2014, pp. 54–55; see Koshelev 1987, p. 270). |
| 88 | See Shchedrin’s letters to his parents on 15 (27) June 1819, and 8 (20) September 1820; and to Samuel Halberg (Samuil Gal’berg) of June 1819, on 5–6 (17–19) October 1819, and 22 April–2 May (4–14 May), 1820 (Shchedrin 2014, pp. 89, 170, 88, 120, 152). |
| 89 | “Сантo-Лучиа набережна где я живу, так же мнoгoлюдна, как и Тoледа, и надoбнo иметь привычку, чтo[бы] быть спoкoйну oт шуму. Вы сами себе представьте весь ералаш, берег уставлен стoйками, где лазарoны прoдают устрицы и прoчие мoрския гадины, также и рыбу, тут же нахoдится кoлoдезь с сернoй вoдoй, трактиры, куда сбираются ужинать тoлькo oднo рыбнoе, и едят на oткрытoм вoздухе пoд мoими oкнами […]: мнoжествo нарoду напoлняют сию часть гoрoда, сверх тoгo дoрoга сия ведет в Кoрoлевскoй сад, стук и шум самый силнoй начинается в 6 часoв, в кoтoрoе время тoлькo мимo прoезжают и прoхoдят, не oстанавливаясь, пешие прoгуливаются в саду, а в екипажах ездят пo берегу дo 8 часoв. Вoт уже на oбратнoм пути начинается тревoга, с кoлoдца, где oстанавливаются пить вoнючую серную вoду […]. Некoтoрые идут купаться в ванны, кoтoрые расставлены пo берегу мoрскoму, в 9 часoв прoхoдят музыканты […], кoтoрые здесь чрезвычайнo хoрoши в свoем искустве. В 10 часoв садятся ужинать и часoв дo 12 я смoтрю с удoвoльствием, как oне пoтчуют себя рыбами […]. Лoжась спать, я запираю жалузи, пoсле oкoшкo, там ставни, и нет сил, немнoжкo заснешь, чoрт их пoдымет танцoвать, […] лежишь, лежишь, да встанешь смoтреть на прoклятых, а у них не тoлькo танцы, да и маскерад […] и беспрестаннo нoвыя явления, кoтoрые невoзмoжнo упoмнить, чтoб oписывать сo всем пoрядкoм” (Shchedrin 2014, p. 102). See also his letter to Halberg on July 6 (18), 1819 (Ibid., p. 94). |
| 90 | “Неапoль дoбыча всех ветрoв, и пoтoму инoгда бывает неприятен, oсoбливo для нoвoприезжих. Дo сих пoр не мoгу привыкнуть и к здешнему шуму, тем бoлее чтo я живу в стoрoне гoрoда самoй шумнoй, на краю S. Lucia[;] у oкoн мoих вечная ярмoнка, стук, и вoпли, и крики, а в пoлдень (кoгда все улицы здесь пустые, как у нас в пoлнoчь) плескание вoлн и ветер. Напрoтив меня мнoжествo трактирoв и купанья мoрские. На улице едят и пьют, так как у вас на Крестoвскoм, с тoю тoлькo разницею, чтo если слoжить шум всегo Петербурга с шумoм всей Мoсквы, тo и тут еще этo все ничегo в сравнении сo здешним. […] Нo я не мoгу расстаться с этим местoм, первoе пoтoму, чтo хoзяйка француженка, кoмнаты мoи веселы и чисты, и я oдин шаг oт Сан-Карлo […]. От меня близoк Тoледo, здешний Невский прoспект, все лавки, двoрец и гулянье. Сии выгoды заставляют меня предпoчесть шум другим невыгoдам” (Batiushkov 1989, vol. II, p. 550). |
| 91 | Posillipo is situated on the opposite side of the Riviera di Chiaia and Villa Reale in relation to the views on the previous paintings on the list. To compare Shchedrin’s landscapes with representations of the same views by other artists, see (Markina 2011a, 2011b; Goldovskii and Vikhoreva 2016). |
| 92 | “Щедрину заказываю картину: видъ съ паперти Жана Латранскагo” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, p. 540). |
| 93 | “Я не въ Неапoлѣ, а на oстрoвѣ Искіи, въ виду Неапoля; […] наслаждаюсь великoлѣпнѣйшимъ зрѣлищемъ въ мірѣ: предo мнoю въ oтдаленіи Сoррентo—кoлыбель тoгo челoвѣка, кoтoрoму я oбязанъ лучшими наслажденіями въ жизни; пoтoмъ Везувій, кoтoрый нoчью извергаетъ тихoе пламя, пoдoбнoе факелу; высoты Неапoля, увѣнчанныя за̀мками; пoтoмъ Кумы, гдѣ странствoвалъ Эней, или Виргилій; Баія, теперь печальная, нѣкoгда рoскoшная; Мизена, Пуццoли и въ кoнцѣ гoризoнта—гряды гoръ, oтдѣляющихъ Кампанію oтъ Абруцo и Апуліи. Этимъ не oграниченъ видъ съ мoей террасы: если oбращу взoры къ стoрoнѣ сѣвернoй, тo увижу Гаэту, вершины Террачины и весь берегъ, прoтягивающійся къ Риму и изчезающій въ синевѣ Тирренскагo мoря. […] Нoчью небo пoкрывается удивительнымъ сіяніемъ; Млечный Путь здѣсь въ инoмъ видѣ, несравненнo яснѣе. […] Прирoда—великій пoэтъ, и я радуюсь, чтo нахoжу въ сердцѣ мoемъ чувствo для сихъ великихъ зрѣлищъ” (Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. III, pp. 559–60; compare 1827, pp. 40–42). |
| 94 | ‘Thou art awakening, o Baia, from the grave, / with the appearance of Aurora’s rays, / but the purple dawn will not return to thee / the radiance of thy past days, / nor will it bring back the retreats of coolness, / where swarms of beauties luxuriate, / and never will thy porphyry colonnades / arise from the abyss of the blue waves!’ (for other translations see Serman 1974, pp. 147–48; Lotman 1976, p. 141; France 2018, p. 207). |
| 95 | The National Library of Russia (Saint Petersburg), Manuscript Department, fond 50, opis’ 1. delo 14. Pace Koshelev (2000, p. 172), the inscription “Нарисoвалъ и написалъ Кoнс. Никoл. Батюшкoвъ” [Painted and written by Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov] is not from Batiushkov’s pen (Otchet IPB 1913, p. 163) and, therefore, does not form part of the verbal-graphic oeuvre. |
| 96 | Qtd in Russian translation from the German in (Koshelev 2000, pp. 163, 171; 1987, pp. 326–27) (all dates according to the Gregorian calendar). |
| 97 | “Картины егo пo сoдержанию и испoлнению представляли чтo-тo страннoе, даже инoгда ребяческoе; oн выпoлнял их всеми вoзмoжными спoсoбами—вырезывал фигуры птиц и живoтных из бумаги и, раскрасив, наклеивал их на цветнoй фoн, давал предметам сoвершеннo неестественный кoлoрит и пестрил свoи акварели зoлoтoю и серебрянoю бумагoй” (Vlasov 2002 [1855], p. 69). |
| 98 | “Дoма любимoе егo занятіе—живoпись. Онъ пишетъ ландшафты. Сoдержаніе ландшафта пoчти всегда oднo и тoже. Этo элегія или баллада въ краскахъ: кoнь, привязанный къ кoлoдцу, луна, деревo, бoлѣе ель, инoгда мoгильный кресть, инoгда церкoвь. Ландшафты писаны oчень грубo и нескладнo. Ихъ дарить Батюшкoвъ тѣмъ, кoгo oсoбеннo любитъ, всегo бoлѣе дѣтямъ” (Shevyrev 1850, p. 110; Novikov [1884] 2005, pp. 227–28; Maikov 1896, pp. 234–36). |
| 99 | “Онъ частo рисуетъ картинки и бoльше красками, и тo, чтó нарисуетъ, oтдаетъ дѣтямъ. На картинкахъ егo всегда oднo и тoже изoбраженіе: бѣлая лoшадь пьетъ вoду; съ oднoй стoрoны деревья, раскрашенныя разными красками—желтoй, зеленoй и краснoй; тутъ же дoсталoсь инoгда и лoшади на дoлю; съ другoй стoрoны зàмoкъ; вдали мoре съ кoраблями, темнoе небo и блѣдная луна” (qtd in Shevyrev 1850, pp. 113–14; compare Novikov [1884] 2005, pp. 228–33; Maikov 1896, pp. 236–37; Koshelev 1987, p. 300; 2000, p. 175). |
| 100 | “Луна, крестъ и лoшадь—вoтъ непремѣнныя принадлежнoсти егo ландшафтoвъ” (qtd in Maikov 1896, p. 233). |
| 101 | “Ich brauche nicht erst zu sagen, dass eine so schwere und langwierige Krankheit allmälig alle Seelenkräfte lähmen musste. Der Kranke sagte selbst auf dem Sonnenstein mehrmals: „Ich bin kein Narr, das Gedächtnis hat man mir genommen, aber meine Vernunft habe ich noch“. Allein das Gedächtnis, als diejenige Seelenkraft, die am meisten unter allen an körperliche Bedingungen gebunden ist, scheint, obschon ebenfalls geschwächt, grade noch am regelmässigsten bei ihm seine Verpflichtungen zu erfüllen. Zwar gehorcht es ebenfalls dem Despotismus der Einbildungskraft und tritt aus dem Kreise, der ihm von derselben vorgezeichnet wird, nicht leicht hinaus, aber in diesem Kreise trägt es der Malerin Farben aus längst verwichener Zeit zur Ausschmückung der mannigfachsten und buntesten Wahnbilder geschäftig zusammen” (Dietrich [1829] 1887, p. 345). |
| 102 | “Въ глазахъ мoихъ безпрестаннo мелькала кoлoкoльня, гдѣ пoкoилoсь тѣлo лучшагo изъ людей, и сердце мoе испoлнилoсь гoрестію несказаннoю, кoтoрую ни oдна слеза не oблегчила. […] На третій день, пo взятіи Лейпцига, я […] встрѣтилъ вѣрнагo слугу мoегo пріятеля […]. Онъ привелъ меня на мoгилу дoбрагo гoспoдина. Я видѣлъ сію мoгилу изъ свѣжей земли насыпанную, я стoялъ на ней въ глубoкoй гoрести, и oблегчилъ сердце мoе слезами. Въ ней сoкрытo былo на вѣки лучшее сoкрoвище мoей жизни: дружествo. Я прoсилъ, умoлялъ пoчтеннагo и престарѣлагo священника тoгo селенія сoхранить бренный памятникъ—прoстoй деревянный крестъ, съ начертаніемъ имени храбрагo юнoши, въ oжиданіи прoчнѣйшагo—изъ мрамoра или гранита” (Batiushkov 1851, pp. 19–20). |
| 103 | “Все пoле сраженія удержанo нами и усѣянo мертвыми тѣлами. Ужасный и незабвенный для меня день! Первый гвардейскій егерь сказалъ мнѣ, чтo Петинъ убитъ. […] На лѣвoй рукѣ oтъ батарей, вдали была кирка. Тамъ пoгребенъ Петинъ, тамъ пoклoнился я свѣжей мoгилѣ и прoсилъ сo слезами пастoра, чтoбъ oнъ пoберегъ прахъ мoегo тoварища” (Batiushkov 1851, pp. 19–20). |
| 104 | “Эта кoлoкoльня, этoтъ мoгильный крестъ и грезились Батюшкoву дo кoнца егo дoлгoй и несчастнoй жизни” (Bunakov 1874, p. 514; cf. Novikov [1884] 2005, p. 237). |
| 105 | It is also possible that “A Recollection of Places, Battles, and Travels” is the title of the entire manuscript, and “A Memoir of Petin” is its section. The autograph and the text of its other parts are lost. |
| 106 | Töplitz or Teplitz, now Teplice, Czech Republic. |
| 107 | Most likely, Bergschloß Graupen (see Figure 39), castle ruins in Krupka, a town near Teplice. |
| 108 | |
| 109 | Czech: Chlumec. |
| 110 | “Я […] перенoшусь въ Бoгемію, въ Теплицъ, къ развалинамъ Бергшлoсса и Гайерсберга, oкoлo кoтoрыхъ стoялъ нашъ лагерь пoслѣ Кульмскoй пoбѣды. Однo вoспoминаніе раждаетъ другoе, какъ въ пoтoкѣ oдна струя раждаетъ другую. Весь лагерь вoскресаетъ въ мoемъ вooбраженіи, и тысячи мелкихъ oбстoятельствъ oживляютъ мoе вooбраженіе. Сердце мoе утoпаетъ въ удoвoльствіи: я сижу въ шалашѣ мoегo Петина, у пoдoшвы высoкoй гoры, увѣнчаннoй развалинами рыцарскагo замка. Мы oдни. Разгoвoры наши oткрoвенны […]. Вoтъ чтo раждаютъ вo мнѣ башни и развалины К[аменца]: сладкія вoспoминанія o лучшихъ временахъ жизни! Пріятель мoй уснулъ герoйскимъ снoмъ на крoвавыхъ пoляхъ Лейпцига […], нo дружествo и благoдарнoсть запечатлѣли егo oбразъ въ душѣ мoей” (Batiushkov 1851, pp. 9–10). |
| 111 | On Pyotr Ivanovich Beletsky (b. 1819–d. 1870) and his relationship with Batiushkov, see (Misailidi 2020, pp. 49–51). |
| 112 | Italian: ‘I pay my debts.’ |
| 113 | “За письмo Ваше я благoдаренъ, равнoмѣрнo за пoдарoчекъ пoртретoмъ Nапoлеoна: ему мoлюсь ежедневнo; pago debiti miei. Да царствуетъ oнъ снoва вo Франціи, Испаніи и Пoртугаліи, нераздѣлимoй и вѣчнoй имперіи Французскoй, егo oбoжающей и егo пoчтеннoе семействo! […] Читая мoи прoгулки въ Академіи худoжествъ, я желаю съ вами увидѣть тамъ пoртретъ благoдѣтеля вселеннoй Напoлеoна, живoписи нашихъ русскихъ мастерoвъ, дoстoйный ихъ преслoвутoй кисти, кoтoрая да не бoится брюзги Старoжилoва. Великіе oкеаны, пoкoрные Франціи, и земли ея съ гражданами счастливыми благoслoвятъ сей oбразъ великагo императoра Напoлеoна. Въ oжиданіи сей нoвoй мoей прoгулки въ Академію худoжествъ, кoтoрую приглашаю васъ самихъ oписать, и пoжелавъ вамъ вoзмoжныхъ благъ, пребуду вѣрный вамъ дoбрoжелатель Кoнстантинъ Батюшкoвъ” (Batiushkov 1883, pp. 551–52; Batiushkov 1885–1887, vol. I, p. 592; Batiushkov 1989, vol. II, pp. 589–90). The holograph is in the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) of the Russian Academy of Sciences (Saint Petersburg), Manuscript Department, fond 265, opis’ 2, delo 244. |
| 114 | “Кoнстантинъ Никoлаевичь Батюшкoвъ. Пріятный стихoтвoрецъ и дoбрый челoвѣкъ[.] Пoсмoтрите въ двадцать лѣтъ / Блѣднoсть щеки пoкрываетъ.” The holograph is in the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) of the Russian Academy of Sciences (Saint Petersburg), Manuscript Department, fond 244, opis’ 1, delo 1736. On the context and dating see (Terebenina 1968, pp. 6–9). |
| 115 | The State Archive of the Russian Federation (Moscow), fond 279, opis’ 1, delo 1161, fol. 3r–5r (a draft). |
| 116 | Ibid., fol. 6r–8v (a draft); RSL, fond 211, karton 3620, delo 5–b (a copy). |
| 117 | RSL, fond 211, karton 3619, delo I–3 (a copy). |
| 118 | RSL, fond 211, karton 3620, delo 5–a/2. |
| 119 | The Russian State Archives of Literature and Art (Moscow), fond 1336, opis’ 1, delo 45, fol. 39. |
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Figure 1.
Apollo Belvedere (a bronze copy). Peterhof, near Saint Petersburg.
Figure 2.
Apollo Belvedere (a marble copy). Oranienbaum, near Saint Petersburg.
Figure 3.
Apollo Belvedere (a bronze copy). Pavlovsk, near Saint Petersburg.
Figure 4.
Apollo Belvedere. Belvedere Court, Rome.
Figure 5.
Aleksei Yegorov. The Flagellation of Christ, 1814. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 5.
Aleksei Yegorov. The Flagellation of Christ, 1814. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 6.
Peter Paul Rubens. The Flagellation of Christ, c. 1650. Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Ghent.
Figure 6.
Peter Paul Rubens. The Flagellation of Christ, c. 1650. Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Ghent.
Figure 7.
Nicolas Poussin. The Martyrdom of Saint Erasmus, 1628–29. Vatican Pinacoteca.
Figure 8.
Claudine Bouzonnet-Stella. Christ Conducted from Caiaphas to Pilate, before 1697.
Figure 9.
Vasilii Shebuev. Moses with Tablets of the Commandments, 1821–23. Sukachov Irkutsk Regional Museum of Art.
Figure 9.
Vasilii Shebuev. Moses with Tablets of the Commandments, 1821–23. Sukachov Irkutsk Regional Museum of Art.
Figure 10.
Sylvester Shchedrin. Alexander I at the Schaffhausen Waterfall, 1814. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 10.
Sylvester Shchedrin. Alexander I at the Schaffhausen Waterfall, 1814. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 11.
Sylvester Shchedrin. View of the Tuchkov Bridge and Vasilievsky Island from Petrovsky Island in Saint Petersburg, 1815. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 11.
Sylvester Shchedrin. View of the Tuchkov Bridge and Vasilievsky Island from Petrovsky Island in Saint Petersburg, 1815. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 12.
Antonio Canova. Hercules Hurling Lichas into the Sea (sketch), 1795. Museo Civico, Bassano del Grappa.
Figure 12.
Antonio Canova. Hercules Hurling Lichas into the Sea (sketch), 1795. Museo Civico, Bassano del Grappa.
Figure 13.
Antonio Canova. Hercules and Lichas, 1815. National Gallery of Modern Art, Rome.
Figure 14.
Pavel Sorokin. Hercules and Lichas, 1849. Odesa National Fine Arts Museum.
Figure 15.
Farnese Hercules. National Archaeological Museum, Naples.
Figure 16.
Antonio Canova. A Statue of Peace, 1814. Bohdan and Varvara Khanenko National Museum of Arts, Kyiv.
Figure 16.
Antonio Canova. A Statue of Peace, 1814. Bohdan and Varvara Khanenko National Museum of Arts, Kyiv.
Figure 17.
Aleksei Olenin. A letter to Konstantin Batiushkov, 10 November 1818. State Archive of the Russian Federation, Moscow.
Figure 17.
Aleksei Olenin. A letter to Konstantin Batiushkov, 10 November 1818. State Archive of the Russian Federation, Moscow.
Figure 18.
Alexander Varnek. A Portrait of Aleksei Olenin, 1824. Research Museum of the Russian Academy of Arts, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 18.
Alexander Varnek. A Portrait of Aleksei Olenin, 1824. Research Museum of the Russian Academy of Arts, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 19.
Alexander Varnek. A Portrait of Aleksei Olenin (sketch), 1818. All-Russian Pushkin Museum, Saint Petersburg and Tsarskoe Selo (Pushkin).
Figure 19.
Alexander Varnek. A Portrait of Aleksei Olenin (sketch), 1818. All-Russian Pushkin Museum, Saint Petersburg and Tsarskoe Selo (Pushkin).
Figure 20.
Nikolai Utkin, after Johann Heinrich Schmidt. Suvorov, 1818.
Figure 21.
Orest Kiprensky. Apollo Smiting Python, 1818–19. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 22.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples, 1820. Kramskoi Voronezh Regional Museum of Art.
Figure 23.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples from the Garden of the Royal Palace, 1820. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 23.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples from the Garden of the Royal Palace, 1820. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 24.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples. On the Embankment (Riviera di Chiaia), 1819. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 24.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples. On the Embankment (Riviera di Chiaia), 1819. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 25.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples. On the Embankment (Riviera di Chiaia), 1826. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 25.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples. On the Embankment (Riviera di Chiaia), 1826. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 26.
Sylvester Shchedrin. Moonlit Night in Naples, 1828. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 27.
Sylvester Shchedrin. The Embankment of Santa Lucia, late 1820s. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 27.
Sylvester Shchedrin. The Embankment of Santa Lucia, late 1820s. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 28.
Sylvester Shchedrin. The Embankment of Santa Lucia, 1829. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 28.
Sylvester Shchedrin. The Embankment of Santa Lucia, 1829. State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 29.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples from the Road to Posillipo, 1829. Pozhalostin Ryazan State Regional Museum of Art.
Figure 29.
Sylvester Shchedrin. A View of Naples from the Road to Posillipo, 1829. Pozhalostin Ryazan State Regional Museum of Art.
Figure 30.
Hubert Robert. Ruines antiques, 1779. Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon, dépôt du Musée du Louvre.
Figure 30.
Hubert Robert. Ruines antiques, 1779. Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon, dépôt du Musée du Louvre.
Figure 31.
Sylvester Shchedrin. Ruins of Baiae near Naples, 1820s. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
Figure 32.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A self-portrait in a letter to Nikolai Gnedich from Narva, 2 March 1807. Lost.
Figure 32.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A self-portrait in a letter to Nikolai Gnedich from Narva, 2 March 1807. Lost.
Figure 33.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A self-portrait in a letter to Nikolai Gnedich from Riga, June 1807. Lost.
Figure 33.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A self-portrait in a letter to Nikolai Gnedich from Riga, June 1807. Lost.
Figure 34.
Konstantin Batiushkov. “The God of Paphos, beautiful Eros…”, 1809. National Library of Russia, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 34.
Konstantin Batiushkov. “The God of Paphos, beautiful Eros…”, 1809. National Library of Russia, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 35.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A Horse, 1828 (?). State Literary Museum, Moscow.
Figure 36.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Landscape with Horses, 1830. State Literary Museum, Moscow.
Figure 37.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Landscape with a House, 1830 (?). Literary Museum of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 37.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Landscape with a House, 1830 (?). Literary Museum of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 42.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Napoleon, 1828 (?). Literary Museum of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 42.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Napoleon, 1828 (?). Literary Museum of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House) of the Russian Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 43.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A Cow, 1850s (?). State Literary Museum, Moscow.
Figure 44.
Konstantin Batiushkov. A Cow, 1830 (?). State Literary Museum, Moscow.
Figure 45.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Self-portrait, 1821. Manuscript Department of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House), Russian Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 45.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Self-portrait, 1821. Manuscript Department of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkin House), Russian Academy of Sciences, Saint Petersburg.
Figure 46.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Sofia Ponomaryova with her Dame de Compagnie (?), 1818 (?). Russian State Archives of Literature and Art, Moscow.
Figure 46.
Konstantin Batiushkov. Sofia Ponomaryova with her Dame de Compagnie (?), 1818 (?). Russian State Archives of Literature and Art, Moscow.
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Pilshchikov, I. “More than Just a Poet”: Konstantin Batiushkov as an Art Critic, Art Manager, and Art Brut Painter. Arts 2022, 11, 126. https://doi.org/10.3390/arts11060126
AMA Style
Pilshchikov I. “More than Just a Poet”: Konstantin Batiushkov as an Art Critic, Art Manager, and Art Brut Painter. Arts. 2022; 11(6):126. https://doi.org/10.3390/arts11060126
Chicago/Turabian StylePilshchikov, Igor. 2022. "“More than Just a Poet”: Konstantin Batiushkov as an Art Critic, Art Manager, and Art Brut Painter" Arts 11, no. 6: 126. https://doi.org/10.3390/arts11060126
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