Writings from the Golden Age of Russian poetry

Konstantin Nikolaevich Batyushkov was born in Vologda in northern Russia in May 1787 and died there in July 1855. This makes him a near-contemporary of Byron, Stendhal, and the composer Carl Maria von Weber; younger than the English Lake poets; older than Shelley, Leopardi, or Lamartine. As far as Russian poetry is concerned, he belonged to the generation following that of the great poet Gavrila Derzhavin (whom he praised as the “giant of Parnassus”)¹ and the fable writer Ivan Krylov. With his friends Vasily Zhukovsky (four years his senior) and Pyotr Vyazemsky (five years his junior), he can be seen as an immediate forerunner of the great flowering of Russian poetry associated with the names of Aleksandr Pushkin, Evgeny Baratynsky, Anton Delvig, Nikolay Yazykov, and many more.

The prime of his life was the time when Russia was at war with the armies of Napoleon, and indeed Batyushkov might well have been a character in War and Peace. The first scene in Tolstoy’s novel takes place in July 1805 in a St. Petersburg salon such as the eighteen-year-old Konstantin frequented at that time. The world he knew was very much the world of the novel, a society held between the opposite poles of St. Petersburg and Moscow, and between city and country, but for several years turned topsy-turvy by foreign wars and invasion, a society where social success depended largely on family, patronage, and marriage. Like Prince Andrey and Nikolay Rostov, Batyushkov joined the fight against Napoleon, being wounded not at Austerlitz, but at the battle of Heilsberg, just before Friedland and Tilsit. Later he missed the battle of Borodino, but saw the smoking ruins of Moscow (like Pierre Bezukhov), then marched west in pursuit of Napoleon and entered Paris with the Russian army in 1814. In 1820, the date Tolstoy gives to his Epilogue, Batyushkov was coming to the end of his active life and showing signs of mental disturbance, but he lived on until 1855, by which time Tolstoy was approaching the age of thirty and thinking toward his great novel of the Napoleonic wars.

Batyushkov was born during the reign of Catherine the Great and died just after Tsar Nicholas I, but his most active years coincided with the reign of Nicholas’s elder brother, Alexander I, with whose army he marched into Paris. He encountered Alexander for the first time in 1813 and seems to have had mixed feelings about him. From the early nineteenth century, however, the young poet looked back with admiration to the greatest of the Romanovs, Peter the Great, who had made Russia, permanently if incompletely and controversially, a European nation with a European culture. Batyushkov was proud to belong to this renewed culture, singing Peter’s praises in a number of places. Thus, in a dialogue entitled “An Evening at Kantemir’s,” his protagonist, Prince Kantemir, the Russian poet and ambassador in Paris in the 1730s, explains to his French interlocutors how his once barbarous nation has been transformed:

You know what Peter did for Russia; he created people—no! he developed all the spiritual potential in them; he cured them of the disease of ignorance; and the Russians, under the guidance of a great man, proved in a short time that talents belong to the whole of humanity.

(Essays, 43)

Peter was not particularly interested in literature, but in creating a modern state. To do this, he needed an educated people, and he created institutions of learning that would transform the cultural life of the elite. And not just the elite: the Academy of Sciences of St. Petersburg, founded in 1724, subsequently the Imperial Academy, gave an education to the commoner Mikhailo Lomonosov, who became a prominent academician and the father of modern Russian literature (the University of Moscow bears his name today). In one of his essays, Batyushkov presents Lomonosov as the Peter the Great of Russian language and literature:

He achieved as much in the difficult sphere of literature as Peter the Great had in the sphere of politics. Peter the Great awakened a nation sleeping in the fetters of ignorance; he gave it laws, military power and fame. Lomonosov awakened the language of this sleeping people; he gave it eloquence and poetry, he tested its strength in every genre and prepared reliable means to success for future talents.

(Essays, 9)

Batyushkov and his friends were to be counted among these “future talents.”

If Russian literature was to take its place in the concert of European literatures, it had to learn from foreign examples, just as Peter had served his apprenticeship in the shipyards of Holland, bringing back to Russia foreign craftsmen and specialists of all kinds. Naturally, therefore, translation played a central role in the creation of Russian literary culture in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. German writers and scientists were influential, but the dominant model was France. Paris was the cultural capital of Europe, French increasingly became the second language of educated Russians, and the Russian nobility began to travel to France. Kantemir, as we have seen, was at home in Paris in the 1730s; his satires are written in French-style syllabic verse, and were published in London in French translation. He was aiming to be the Russian Boileau, and many of his successors were seen as the Russian Racine, Molière, Voltaire, or La Fontaine.

By the second half of the eighteenth century, the enlightenment culture of France was epitomized in the figure of Voltaire, with his readable witty critique of existing abuses, superstition, and obscurantism; Voltaire and the philosophes were eagerly read in the new Russia by Batyushkov, among others. But France also offered models of salon poetry; by the end of the century, French poetry tended to mean above all light, galant verse—witty, erotic, and sentimental. Among the young Batyushkov’s models we find representatives of successive generations, Jean-Baptiste Gresset (1709–1777), Évariste de Parny (1753–1814), and Charles-Hubert Millevoye (1782–1816). All of these are largely forgotten today, but Parny in particular had a great reputation among the young Russian poets of the early nineteenth century. In one of her poems, Anna Akhmatova has the schoolboy Pushkin strolling outside his school, in the park of Tsarskoe Selo, with a “dog-eared copy of Parny.”2

Of course, by the time Pushkin was at school around 1812, France was not primarily the place of enlightenment and light verse. In the first place, it had become the land of revolution, to which the Russians, like other European peoples, reacted variously, ranging from enthusiasm to horror. Revolution was followed by foreign conquests under Napoleon; in Batyushkov’s eyes, as we shall see, the invasion of the Napoleonic armies and the destruction of Moscow meant that French enlightenment had given way to barbarism. In Russian literature more generally, the new century brought a change of models, with French enlightened classicism giving way to the romanticism of Northern Europe, which was made available to Russians by some major translations. In the first decade of the nineteenth century, Vasily Zhukovsky helped create a new poetry with his versions of Gray’s “Elegy” and German ballads. Even before this came the vogue for an imagined ancient Celtic culture generated by James Macpherson’s “translations” of Ossian. Kostrov’s complete Russian Ossian was published in 1792, and several of Batyushkov’s poems show him succumbing to the charm of the northern bard.

Vologda, where Batyushkov was born and died, is an ancient city of northern Russia. Situated some 200 miles to the north of Moscow, and some 250 miles to the east of St. Petersburg, it occupied a strategic position on the trading routes connecting Novgorod, Moscow, and Archangel. As a child, Batyushkov lived for several years on his grandfather’s estate at Danilovskoe, southwest of Vologda, and he later inherited from his mother the estate of Khantonovo, between Vologda and Novgorod. Between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, Batyushkov led a wandering life; his destiny carried him from place to place, both within Russia and abroad, to Germany, Finland, France, England, Sweden, Italy. In these years, Khantonovo was the country base to which straitened circumstances and inclination frequently forced him to return, and where he had the leisure to write.

In one of his essays, Batyushkov speaks of the formative influence of the places where poets spend their earliest years. Following Montesquieu’s theories about the dependence of culture on climate, he writes:

The climate, the sight of sky, water and earth, all this works on the poet’s impressionable soul. We see in the songs of the Scandinavian scalds and the Erse bards something severe, dark, wild and invariably meditative, reminding us of the overcast northern sky, the sea mists, and a nature poor in the gifts of life but always majestic and delightful, even in its horror.

(Essays, 26–27)

Batyushkov is thinking here of the poems attributed to Ossian, which swept through literary Russia in his youth, but he finds this northern character too in the writing of his hero Lomonosov, who came from Arkhanglesk in the far north:

I see in my mind’s eye how, full of inspiration,

A youth stands silently above the raging ocean,

His mind alive with dreams and sweet new thoughts,

Hearing the waves’ monotonous uproar.

(“Epistle to I. M. Muravyov-Apostol,” Essays, 283)

Derzhavin, Batyushkov’s great predecessor, is imagined similarly, haunted by the sights and sounds of his Volga childhood.

It is not surprising then if he presents himself as a “Hyperborean,” a child of the North. In “The Traveler and the Stay-at-Home,” a long fable about the dangers and the charms of travel, he has his exhausted traveler returning to Athens only to set off again in search of a land of eternal spring, to find roses in “the snows of the Hyperboreans” (Essays, 319). Batyushkov himself, responsive as he was to the charms of the Bay of Naples during his diplomatic service there, still found himself longing for home. Home might mean Moscow or St. Petersburg, but also the run-down estate at Khantonovo, a wooden mansion set on a hill looking over the grandiose Sheksna River and the immense forests and marshes of the North. Not that he was always happy there, far from it. Like Pushkin’s Evgeny Onegin, he found boredom lying in wait for him in the country, where he lived a lonely life. In a letter of November 1809 to his best friend, Nikolay Gnedich, he writes: “Time passes quickly, then slowly, there is more bad than good, more stupidity than intelligence…In my house all is quiet; the dog is dozing at my feet, looking at the fire in the stove, my sister is in another room, reading old letters, I think…I have picked up a book again and again, and it has fallen from my hands” (SP, 286). In the winter it could be fearfully cold too, prompting the poet to a flash of doggerel in a letter to his friend:

I’m shivering with cold,

Though I’m sitting by the stove,

Lying under my coat

I see the fire’s glow,

But I tremble like a vole,

Or like a wretched mole,

I love the warmth of coal

But I wander through the cold,

Only verse keeps me whole.

(CP, 248)

But if Khantonovo sometimes seemed like a desert, it could also bloom, as when the poet created for himself a poetic summerhouse in the garden, writing to Gnedich in May 1817: “For the first time in my life I have arranged a summerhouse to my taste in the garden. It cheers me up so much that I can’t leave my writing desk” (SPP, 325). And in a poem of the same time, “The Muses’ Arbor,” he writes of the acacia and the bird-cherry, the flowers and the bees that surrounded him here, even among the dark forests of the North.

Batyushkov was ambivalent about his country home, then—as he was to be ambivalent about the cities where he lived, his native Vologda, the capital St. Petersburg where he studied and worked, Moscow where he had good friends, Paris into which he marched with the Allied armies, Naples where he served as a diplomat. He lived a nomadic life, not really belonging anywhere, but the North was where he began and ended, and in poem after poem he speaks warmly and reverently of his “Lares and Penates,” the household gods.

Batyushkov was born into an old gentry family. There are records of his ancestors from the sixteenth century. One of them, Ivan Mikhailovich, is mentioned as an officer in Ivan the Terrible’s campaign against Kazan. By the seventeenth century, the family had acquired a good deal of property in the Vologda region, but this wealth ebbed away so that Batyushkov, although a serf-owning landowner, was always short of money. His paternal grandfather Lev Andreevich was a notable public figure and managed his estate efficiently; he had a great influence on young Konstantin, who spent several years of his childhood in the old-world country house at Danilovskoe. By all accounts, Lev Andreevich was at this time a vigorous, strong-minded old man.

The father, Nikolay L’vovich, cuts a somewhat less impressive figure, though he was a well-read man with a fine library, and was keen for his son to receive the best possible education. In his youth he was almost caught up in the supposedly seditious doings of his mentally disturbed uncle Ilya (who incurred the wrath of Catherine the Great). Nikolay himself, after a brief period of disgrace, served for a time in the army; by the time of his son’s birth he was an officer of the law (prokuror) in Vologda. Some time in the 1780s he had married Aleksandra Grigor’evna Berdyaeva, who bore him five children—Konstantin’s three older sisters (Anna, Elizaveta, and Aleksandra), Konstantin, and his younger sister Varvara. Aleksandra never married and devoted herself to her brother’s welfare when he fell ill. Of the poet’s mother we know very little, except that she died in 1795, when he was only seven. She is largely absent from his writings, and we can only guess at the effect of her early loss. Her death was attributed to the “derangement of her mental faculties”—an ominous anticipation of what would befall her son. Her quite considerable estate (including Khantonovo) passed to Konstantin and his sisters when they came of age, but this was not enough to protect him from a recurrent shortage of funds.

We have little direct evidence of Batyushkov’s early years, and he himself wrote very little about them. In spite of the positive influence of his Danilovskoe grandfather, he probably had a rather disturbed childhood. Unlike most children of the gentry, he seems not to have had any home-based tutors (the “Monsieur” and “Madame” that Pushkin writes of in Eugene Onegin). But in 1797, after his mother’s death, he was sent to a boarding school in St. Petersburg, a pension run by a French teacher. Batyushkov was thus exposed early on to the hegemonic French culture, and it is no surprise that he translated and imitated several French poets. More interesting for his later life and writings is the fact that after three or four years he moved to a school run by an Italian. Here he began to acquire an unusual fluency in Italian; in later years, even before his diplomatic service in Italy between 1818 and 1821, Italian literature was to be particularly important to him.

At various times he translated or imitated Boccaccio, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, and the satirist Giovanni Battista Casti. As a young man, he planned to make a complete translation of Tasso’s epic Jerusalem Delivered (La Gerusalemme liberata); only fragments were completed, but he wrote a long poem on the death of Tasso—with whose tragic fate he identified. And his prose works include essays on Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso. The beginning of the essay on Ariosto and Tasso explains something of their charms, especially for a reader in a northern country. He gives pride of place to the sonorous beauty of the language, a feature that he attempted to imitate in Russian poetry:

There is a special charm attached to learning the Italian language. This supple, sonorous, delightful language, nurtured beneath the fortunate skies of Rome, Naples and Sicily, amid political upheavals and then at the brilliant Medici court, a language given shape by great writers, by the best poets, by learned men and profound statesmen—this language has become capable of expressing all sights and all forms. It possesses a character different from other modern idioms and vernacular languages, all of which show signs of harshness, confused and savage sounds, slowness of speech and something characteristic of the North.

(Essays, 138)

Batyushkov was thus unusually well endowed with foreign languages for a young man of his generation, and was correspondingly well read in literature, philosophy, and history. In addition to French and Italian, he knew some German (he translated scenes of Schiller’s The Bride of Messina [Die Braut von Messina]) and possibly a little English—and as we have seen he was open to the winds blowing from the North, whether it be Byron, Ossian, or the scalds of old Scandinavia. But as has so often been the case, Italy, the Mediterranean, and the ancient world of Greece and Rome were particularly appealing to a man from Northern Europe. The lost world of the classics haunted him, as it haunted such different figures as Goethe, Hölderlin, Shelley, and Batyushkov’s younger compatriot Evgeny Baratynsky. He did not know the ancient languages as well as the modern ones. When he translated poems from the Greek Anthology, he worked from French versions provided by a Russian friend. As for Latin, although he used epigraphs from the Roman poets and translated enough of Tibullus to be called “the Russian Tibullus,” he still needed to eke out his own Latin by using French translations. But whatever his linguistic competence, the poets of Greece and Rome, from Anacreon and Sappho to Horace and Propertius, were close to his heart, as was the culture they spoke for. One of Batyushkov’s most affecting poems is a beautifully composed short piece written in 1819 after visiting the ruins of a famous Roman resort, the baths of Baiae in the Bay of Naples.

Such mastery came later in Batyushkov’s life. Already at school, though, he was writing poetry. Almost all of it has vanished, but it is interesting to look at the first of his poems to have survived, “Dreaming.” Written in 1802–1803, when the poet was fifteen, it was sufficiently important in his eyes to be rewritten several times; the original 89 lines were expanded to 211 by the time it was published in the 1817 edition of his works. Pushkin—who admired Batyushkov greatly—did not think much of it, even in its revised form, annotating it with remarks such as “childish verse,” “crude,” and “the weakest of all his poems.”3 In its original form it is certainly derivative, owing a lot to Batyushkov’s uncle, the poet Mikhail Muravyov, but also to Western Romanticism and notably to the Poems of Ossian. At the same time, it announces a constant theme, the dissatisfaction with reality and the need for “dreaming,” by which we should understand imagination. These are the first ten lines:

O sweetest dreaming, daughter of quiet night,

Come down in misty clouds from heaven to me,

Or in the dear face of my fearful love,

Whose burning eyes are glittering with tears!

You who like a ray of light

Pierce the tender poet’s night,

You burn like dawn fire and exalt his verses,

Your favorite, a favorite of the muses,

And his grief to him is sweet,

For in his grief he dreams.

(CP, 55)

From early on, then, young Konstantin was hooked on poetry. At the age of sixteen or seventeen, he wrote an “Epistle to My Poems,” which ends:

Long, long ago it became clear to me

That I’d have lived my life out quietly

If wretched Phoebus hadn’t made me crazy;

I would disdain the thrills of being famous,

And happy as a pasha in Kashmir

I’d never dream of muses, poems or lyre.

But no…my poems, I can’t live without you;

Your rhymes and meters are my second nature!

It’s my misfortune, my infirmity—

Poems, like women, are a necessity;

If they don’t love us, we should really scorn them,

But they are beautiful, and we adore them.

(CP, 58–59)

The young author of these lines had left school a couple of years earlier. His formal schooling was short, but the gaps in his education were to be amply filled by his time in St. Petersburg society, where his good fortune allowed him to spend the years from 1802 to 1806 under the care, and in the house, of his kinsman Mikhail Muravyov.

Muravyov, born in 1757, belonged to the same generation as Batyushkov’s father and had served as tutor to the future tsar, Alexander I; he then became a senator and an important figure in the ministry of education, where he found a not too demanding job for his young nephew, who was never to feel at home in the tedium of government service. Muravyov was a man of great learning, and it was to him that the young poet owed his knowledge and love of the Latin and Greek classics. More generally, he seems to have been an influential father figure, passing on to Batyushkov some of his values, his moral sense, his taste for domestic and family life, his cult of friendship, his love of studious retirement (the Lares and Penates that figure so much in the younger man’s poems). Muravyov was also a significant poet, a member of the “sentimentalist” school grouped around Karamzin.4 In his verse, the expression and exploration of private feelings tends to replace the more public concerns of the eighteenth-century ode. At the same time, the formal language and structure of the ode give way to the more conversational form of the epistle, the verse letter to friends, and also to various forms of light verse—on the model of French poésies légères. In all these matters, Batyushkov followed closely in the footsteps of his uncle and later wrote an essay in homage to him.

If St. Petersburg life meant earnest conversations with the uncle, it also meant the “salon” of the aunt—one of the first Russian salons. Here the young man encountered the charms of women—married women and young girls—and here he learned to love and flirt and play. As he later put it in a letter, “…I loved, crowned with lily of the valley, in a pink tunic with a staff and green ribbons—green, the color of hope—innocent at heart, with eyes full of feeling, and singing little ditties: ‘Who could with such passion love’ or ‘I am content, yet malcontent’ or ‘Nowhere I can find a place’ ” (WP, 39). All very innocent then, or so it seems, it allowed Batyushkov to make a name for himself as a poet of love and pleasure, an Epicurean poet. This is the figure he cuts in one of his earliest poems, originally entitled “Advice to Friends” in 1805 and later extensively rewritten to be called “The Joyful Hour.” Here is the first version, in which the poetry of love, wine, and roses slides naturally into the theme of death—as in Poussin’s painting, Et in Arcadia ego, where classical shepherds cluster around a tomb. With his “oaten flute,” or reed pipe, Batyushkov plays the shepherd of pastoral poetry:

ADVICE TO FRIENDS

Faut-il être tant volage,

Ai-je dit au doux plaisir…

(Henriette de Murat)5

Give me a simple oaten flute,

My friends, and all sit down around me,

Where coolness lingers through the heat

In the thick shadows of the elm tree;

Come close, sit down and lend an ear

To the wise guidance of my muses:

In the short days of the young year

If happiness is what you’re seeking,

Dear friends, abandon fame, that specter,

Play pleasure’s games while you’re still young,

And as you dance through life’s path, scatter

Roses; and flourish, lovely youth!

Watered by a pure spring, flourish,

If only for a few short days,

Like a rose, shaded by myrtle,

Among the laughing fields of May!

Let us taste the joys of living,

Find flowers growing on the thorns!

Time flies; there isn’t long for playing,

Not long for glorying in life’s charms.

Not long—but time to forget sadness,

To drown in a sweet dream of gladness:

Dreams are the source of happiness!

Ah! must we always mope and sigh

Without a smile for lovely May?

Better far to take our ease

And with a beautiful young girl

Go dancing beneath the shady trees,

Then, winding an arm around her waist

And breathing love, nothing but love,

Quietly, quietly, we shall sigh

And press a heart against a heart.

What bliss! And here is cheerful Bacchus

Pouring his thick, heady wine,

Here in a fine white dress Erata

Sings in our ears a tender tune.

You hasty hours, stay still, give us

Just one more glimpse of happiness!

But no, the happy days race by,

Race by, or like an arrow fly;

No lingering, no heart’s delight

Can halt the days’ impetuous flight,

And time’s strong hand will still destroy

Our calm, our comfort, and our joy!

You cheerful, greenly gleaming meadows,

Clear-watered streams, beloved gardens!

You willows, oaks and aspen glades,

Shall I no more beneath your boughs

Enjoy the freshness of the shade?

Shall I too in a quiet field soon

Lie down to sleep beneath a stone,

My lyre and simple oaten flute

Lying above me on the tomb?

Grass will grow thickly over them,

Grow thickly, and no friendly tears

Will ever water my cold dust!

And should I feel despair at this?

When I die, everything is dead!

But in their somber hands the fates

Keep spinning, spinning my life’s thread…

Corinna and my friends are here—

Why should I now give way to grief?

If our life runs quickly from us,

If joy itself is not eternal,

Better to live by play and pleasure,

Mingling merriment with wisdom,

Than to pursue fame’s empty lure

And yawn with boredom and dull care.

(CP, 74–76)

In the first few years of his poetic career, Batyushkov was to return to these themes again and again. It was as an Epicurean poet that he influenced younger contemporaries.

The young poet flourished in the Muravyov household and met a number of important people there, including the father figure among poets, Gavrila Derzhavin. Even more significant as a meeting place for writers was the circle that gathered in the open house of Muravyov’s distant relative Aleksey Nikolaevich Olenin (1763–1843). A little younger than Muravyov, Olenin was still old enough to be Batyushkov’s father; he was for Konstantin both a protector and a friend. He was not himself a poet, but a rich nobleman, a powerful public figure interested in all the arts. His salon was active in promoting the fusion of neoclassicism and sentimentalism that lies behind much of Batyushkov’s writing. Olenin’s principal interests were the plastic arts and archaeology, and it was in this area that he influenced theatrical practice, advising the star playwright of the period, Vladislav Ozerov, on the designs for his historical plays such as Oedipus at Athens and Fingal. The second of these tragedies was based on the poems of Ossian, whom we have already come across among Batyushkov’s enthusiasms.6

Batyushkov admired Ozerov’s work and sympathized with him. Indeed, he went so far as to write a fable, “The Shepherd and the Nightingale” (much appreciated by the playwright), in an attempt to console and encourage Ozerov after critics of the opposing camp (conservative defenders of traditional classicism) had attacked and satirized his patriotic tragedy Dmitry Donskoy. Later he was to compare Ozerov with his hero Torquato Tasso, seeing both of them as driven to despair and madness by hostile criticism.

Batyushkov rubbed shoulders with many other significant writers in Olenin’s circle. There was Derzhavin, of course, but also the fable writer Ivan Krylov, for whom Batyushkov expressed unwavering admiration, the great historian Nikolay Karamzin, and established poetic luminaries such as Vasily Kapnist and Ippolit Bogdanovich. But his great friend was Nikolay Gnedich, three years his senior, a young poet from what is now Ukraine. He had grown up in a poor family, but unlike Batyushkov, he studied at Moscow University before moving to St. Petersburg, where he became Batyushkov’s colleague in the ministry of education. The two friends were very different in appearance and character: Batyushkov small, mobile, and impressionable; Gnedich tall, one-eyed (as a result of a childhood bout of smallpox), serious, and self-reliant. They complemented one another, with Gnedich taking on the role of tutor and protector to his younger friend and eventually seeing to the publication of his works. Some time around 1806, they agreed each to translate a major epic poem, the Iliad for Gnedich, Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered (La Gerusalemme liberata) for Batyushkov. Gnedich carried his task through to the end, creating the standard Russian Homer, whereas Batyushkov managed to complete only a small fragment of Tasso’s poem.

In 1811–1812, Batyushkov composed a poem celebrating the type of classic male friendship to which he aspired:

FRIENDSHIP

Happy the man who has found a bosom friend,

The man who loves and is loved by a sensitive soul!

Even on Cocytus’ banks Theseus does not suffer,

For he has with him his soul-mate Pirithous.

Orestes lies in chains—but we only envy him:

Pylades his friend is with him…under the blade.

And you, youthful Achilles, greathearted warrior,

Immortal paragon of heroes and friends,

Your greatness lies in friendship; this was your life,