[In the essay below, Mersereau treats the themes of Lermontov's mature verse.]

The choice of the year 1837 as the beginning of Lermontov's last period of creative activity has a certain logic, for that year brought about not only drastic developments in the poet's personal fate but was marked by his arrival at complete artistic maturity. Everything he wrote after that date bears the stamp of perfection, and it is upon these works that his reputation is almost exclusively founded.

In attempting to define the essence of Lermontov's mature art, scholars and commentators have come forth with a number of generalizations, most of which are true in some respects but far from sufficiently comprehensive. He has been called the poet of negation, doubt, despair, solitude, protest, and tendency, and, conversely, the poet of resignation, religiosity, and humility. The last three definitions could be substantiated by references to individual poems, but to posit them as true to the essence of his art is to ignore its dominant tenor and content.

The lyrical poems written after his first exile—there are less than seventy of them—are concerned with a number of themes, but the most recurrent are those of freedom, solitude, and the turpitude of society. These themes appear not only in poems where they are the organizing idea but are alluded to constantly throughout his verse. So many of these poems of the poet's last years reveal a maturity of outlook and a sense of duty not evident in his earlier works. The self-centered youth who once wrote mostly of unrequited love and dark passions now begins to raise his voice not only on his own behalf but in support of truth, freedom, honesty, dignity, and common sense. In the best tradition of Russian authors, he becomes part of the national conscience. Dismayed at the level to which his fellow man has sunk, he cries shame upon him. Contempt and scorn for society pervade such works as Death of the Poet (1837), "Meditation" (1838), "Three Palms" (1839), "The First of January" (1840), and "Goodbye, Unwashed Russia" (1841). As a poet he considers himself a prophet, and he knows that not only are prophets without honor but, in his country, often the object of severe reprisals. Nonetheless, he speaks out against the vices of his era in completely unequivocal and condemnatory terms, and he will not be silenced in spite of the obvious consequences. In fact, the accusatory tone becomes increasingly evident and the critical attitude ever more pronounced. A whole cycle of poems details the conflict between the poet and the crowd, including "The Poet" (1838), "Don't Trust Yourself (1839), "The Journalist, Reader and Author" (1840), and "The Prophet" (1841).

Of course, awareness of the constant hostility of society and the impossibility of any rapprochement intensify his pessimism, not only about his country's future but about his own. Feelings of estrangement, frustration, and futility are bitterly expressed in "Don't Laugh at my Prophetic Anguish" (1837), "I Look at the Future With Fear" (1839), "It's Dull and Dreary" (1840), "Gratitude" (1840), and "The Oak Leaf (1841).

Most of these works have a particular rhetorical quality which admirably suits the subject matter. Avoiding the pitfalls of pomposity or bathos, the poet expresses himself with lucidity and conviction. These poems read like prose, but prose charged with emotions of anger or sorrow. They lack intimacy, and by their very style they beg to be declaimed from the forum steps. Yet not all of Lermontov's last works are accusatory or even pessimistic. The consolation that the poet could not find in human associations was provided by nature, and at times it was even able to inspire a mood of reconciliation with life. In "When the Yellowing Fields Billow" (1837), scenes of the seasons lead to a vision of God, and it is the night sky of "Alone I go Along the Road" (1841) which causes pain and troubles to be forgotten in hopes of the peaceful freedom of a sleep-like death. Again it is the nature of his homeland, its rivers, steppes, and forests that bring him to express his "strange love" for Russia in "Motherland" (1841). He also writes on occasion a ballad, such as "Gifts of the Terek" (1839) or "Tamara" (1841), both of which have Caucasian settings and show an abiding appreciation for the lore and the nature of his place of exile. And for sheer mellifluousness nothing can surpass his tender lullaby, "A Cossack Cradle-Song" (1840).

In his final period Lermontov completed five narrative poems and began two others. Three of these continue the well-defined line of the romantic tale in verse which stretches back to the poet's first attempts at this genre, three represent the light, satirical narrative first exemplified by Mongo, and one, The Song of the Merchant Kalashnikov, is in a class by itself.

The dates of composition of a number of these narrative poems have not been clearly established. Apparently the poet worked on some of them sporadically, at times laying them aside while he turned to other works in poetry or prose. In the opinion of some commentators, Sasha, an unfinished satirical poem of some 1700 lines, was begun as early as 1835 and worked on as late as the end of 1839. It is fairly obvious, however, that the major part of it belongs to the period following the poet's exile in 1837.

In this work Lermontov attempted a synthesized portrait of a young man of his times in the style of Eugene Onegin and Beppo. Owing to the leisurely pace and incessant digressions the plot was barely initiated after the first one hundred and fifty stanzas, but evidently it was to involve the attempt of the cynical young Sasha (diminutive for Alexander) to introduce a prostitute into Petersburg society. With considerable humor and no little ribaldry the author discloses his hero's formative experiences and irregular education, mixing all this with numerous comments on gentry customs and institutions in general.

A similar satirical vein—but of a more printable nature—is represented by The Tambov Treasurer's Wife (1837), a tale related in the stanzaic form of Eugene Onegin. Lermontov takes the usual situation of a dashing officer in love with a provincial lady and, varying the theme, has the officer win his beloved at cards. The whole mood is light and witty, and even the gibes at provincial society are good-humored.

The last of the satirical narrative poems was A Fairy-Tale for Children, an unfinished work probably dating from mid-1839 to mid-1840. The protagonist is a petty demon who recounts his observations on the development of a young girl from the Petersburg gentry with whom he is in love. As the poem terminates before any evident line of intrigue has been established, it is difficult to determine in what way Lermontov intended to treat his theme of a demon's love for a mortal. The extant portion has an obvious satirical inclination, directed at Petersburg society, and there is a measure of self-disparagement in the poet's words concerning his previous handling of the demon theme:

Upon a time I sang of a different demon:
That was senseless, passionate, childish raving.

But it would be risky to generalize from these limited indications that, had the work been finished, it would have lacked a romantic essence. It might well have developed a strong satirical-realistic current, but this would not necessarily have been at the expense of the romantic elements. In general Lermontov's realism developed along with his romanticism and to some extent influenced it. One might say that his realism matured his romanticism, which at one time had, indeed, been close to what he calls "childish raving."

In the area of the narrative poem, the mature romanticism of Lermontov is demonstrated by three compositions of this period, The Fugitive, Mtsyri, and the final version of The Demon. The first of these, written sometime during or after the poet's first Caucasian exile, is a short treatment of a Circassian folksong or tale about a young warrior who flees the battlefield without having avenged the death of his father and brothers. In concise and even verse the poet recounts the coward's futile attempt to find refuge with a friend, his beloved, and finally with his mother. Branded a craven and a slave by all, he commits suicide.

Mtsyri (Georgian for novice) is one of Russian literature's finest examples of romantic eloquence. Lofty and impassioned, it is the history of a soul tortured by the physical and spiritual captivity of civilization, a soul which for a brief moment returns to nature and becomes a part of it, an animal among animals, a companion of the birds, a beast of prey and a hunted creature. In the depiction of the romantic ideal of the fusion of nature and the human ego, the work is a real tour de force.

The brief introduction relates how the novice had been left at a monastery as a child of six by his Russian captors. Memories of his native tongue, his parents and his homeland become increasingly dimmed by the passage of time, but his innate love of freedom and nature remain as strong as ever. He flees the monastery, and for three days wanders through the beautiful countryside, shunning man, without food or shelter, but free. Attacked by a panther, he becomes an animal himself and destroys his enemy, but not before he is cruelly wounded. Finally he unknowingly circles back to the monastery, and it is the realization that he is fated never to return to the land of his childhood which deprives him of his final strength. Discovered by the monks, he is taken to the cloister, and in his dying "confession"—really a profession de foi—he tells the abbot of his adventures while free.

The poem is a wonderfully unified piece, and it defies the destructive analysis of the anti-romantic critic. It must either be accepted or rejected, but it can't be picked to pieces. When the novice exultingly declares that he became friends with the storm and seized lightning with his hands, one doesn't feel that this is too extravagant, because the whole work is extravagant, in its basic concept and in the elevated flight of its verse. One colorful scene replaces another, and the reader is borne along the waves of poetry, delighted by the view and fearful of obstacles, but the pace and emotional tension are maintained until the end.

An achievement of equal brilliance is The Demon, some earlier versions of which have already been discussed. In 1838 a sixth variant was completed, which differed markedly from the earlier ones. The previous rather indefinite locale was replaced by a Caucasian setting, and the anonymous nun was recast as the passionate Georgian princess Tamara. The same year the poet again rewrote the work, incorporating other changes which he hoped would make it acceptable to the censors—but in vain. Finally, in 1841, the eighth and final version was prepared. Like Mtsyri, this work is the quintessence of romanticism. It is picturesque, visionary, and sensual. It is as extravagant as an ostentatious ruby, but it has a ruby's brilliance and color. If not the poet's best work, it has been one of his most popular and well-known.

The Song of the Merchant Kalashnikov must be defined as a romantic narrative poem, but it has qualities which distinguish it from Mtsyri and The Demon and put it in a class by itself. First of all, it is a stylization of the traditional historical folk-song, whose rhythm and diction the poet imitated with apparent if not complete accuracy. Exteriorly, it presents the story of the revenge of the merchant Kalashnikov, who deliberately kills an oprichnik (bodyguard) of Ivan the Terrible for having dishonored his, the merchant's, wife. The work is full of the color and spirit of the times of Muscovy, and is indisputably the most successful attempt by any author to reproduce the form and style of the popular historical song. Yet many details of the plot and characteristics of the principal figures—the merchant, his wife, and the Tsar's bodyguard—suggest strongly that this work was a veiled treatment of the circumstances surrounding Pushkin's duel with d'Anthès. Scattered throughout the poem are a number of hints that the story, despite its sixteenth-century setting, is actually a modern one.

The piece was written in the early months of Lermontov's first exile, and it is quite likely that he planned it as a secret revenge on his persecutors. A straightforward account of Pushkin's death would, of course, never have been passed by the censors, but there was at least some satisfaction for the poet in having an allegorical treatment accepted for publication by the unsuspecting authorities. The work was, in fact, published in 1838 and thus did become, as Lermontov had intended, a sort of poetic Trojan horse.

Like all great authors, Lermontov is unique, and thus it is not easy to impose upon him or his work any ready-made formulas. His is a special combination of outlook, feelings, judgments, methods, and inspiration which make his art original and individual. Mtsyri and The Demon, representative of Lermontov's most successful ventures in the romantic mood, are proof enough that during his last years the fires of romanticism were far from burning out. But, at the same time, he was more than casually disposed towards realism. The lyric poems Borodino and "Valerik," to mention just two, show that on occasion the poet could achieve a high degree of objectivity and convey a graphic impression of reality. Even such a poem as "Meditation" is more logically classified as a work of realism than of romanticism, although it was inspired by romantic indignation at the divergence between reality and the ideal. And the same is true of a number of other poems written during the final period, which, like "Meditation," have the character of editorials in rhymed prose. Obviously the product of romantic disillusionment, their subject matter and its treatment link them closely with realism.

The development of Lermontov's art in its final stage is distinguished, therefore, not so much by movement towards realism, which would suggest the abandonment of romanticism, but by a broadening of the scope of his art to embrace realism. At the same time, the romantic element in his work was undergoing its own evolution. The arm-waving and teeth-gnashing aspects were being deemphasized in favor of qualities more appealing to the mature intellect. The poet was not less sensitive or moved than he had been earlier, but now he had control of himself and his art.