EUGENE ONEGUINE [Onegin]:

A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

by

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

Translated from the Russian by Lieut. -Col. [Henry] Spalding

LondonMacmillan and Co. 1881

PREFACE

Eugene Oneguine, the chief poetical work of Russia's greatest poet, having been translated into all the principal languages of Europeexcept our own, I hope that this version may prove an acceptablecontribution to literature. Tastes are various in matters of poetry, but the present work possesses a more solid claim to attention inthe series of faithful pictures it offers of Russian life and manners. If these be compared with Mr. Wallace's book on Russia, it will beseen that social life in that empire still preserves many of thecharacteristics which distinguished it half a century ago--the periodof the first publication of the latter cantos of this poem. 

Many references will be found in it to our own country and itsliterature. Russian poets have carefully plagiarized the English--notably Joukovski. Pushkin, however, was no plagiarist, thoughundoubtedly his mind was greatly influenced by the genius of Byron--more especially in the earliest part of his career. Indeed, as willbe remarked in the following pages, he scarcely makes an effort todisguise this fact. 

The biographical sketch is of course a mere outline. I did not thinka longer one advisable, as memoirs do not usually excite much interesttill the subjects of them are pretty well known. In the "notes" Ihave endeavored to elucidate a somewhat obscure subject. Some of thepoet's allusions remain enigmatical to the present day. The point ofeach sarcasm naturally passed out of mind together with the societyagainst which it was levelled. If some of the versification is roughand wanting in "go, " I must plead in excuse the difficult form of thestanza, and in many instances the inelastic nature of the subjectmatter to be versified. Stanza XXXV Canto II forms a good exampleof the latter difficulty, and is omitted in the German and Frenchversions to which I have had access. The translation of foreignverse is comparatively easy so long as it is confined to conventionalpoetic subjects, but when it embraces abrupt scraps of conversationand the description of local customs it becomes a much more arduousaffair. I think I may say that I have adhered closely to the textof the original. 

The following foreign translations of this poem have appeared:

1. French prose. Oeuvres choisis de Pouchekine. H. Dupont. Paris, 1847. 

2. German verse. A. Puschkin's poetische Werke. F. Bodenstedt. Berlin, 1854. 

3. Polish verse. Eugeniusz Oniegin. Roman Aleksandra Puszkina. A. Sikorski. Vilnius, 1847. 

4. Italian prose. Racconti poetici di A. Puschkin, tradotti daA. Delatre. Firenze, 1856. 

London, May 1881. 

CONTENTS

 Mon Portrait A Short Biographical Notice of Alexander Pushkin Eugene Oneguine Canto I: "The Spleen" Canto II: The Poet Canto III: The Country Damsel Canto IV: Rural Life Canto V: The Fete Canto VI: The Duel Canto VII: Moscow Canto VIII: The Great World

Mon Portrait

Written by the poet at the age of 15. 

Vous me demandez mon portrait, Mais peint d'apres nature:Mon cher, il sera bientot fait, Quoique en miniature. 

Je suis un jeune polissonEncore dans les classes;Point sot, je le dis sans facon, Et sans fades grimaces. 

Oui! il ne fut babillardNi docteur de Sorbonne, Plus ennuyeux et plus braillardQue moi-meme en personne. 

Ma taille, a celle des plus longs, Elle n'est point egalee;J'ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds, Et la tete bouclee. 

J'aime et le monde et son fracas, Je hais la solitude;J'abhorre et noises et debats, Et tant soit peu l'etude. 

Spectacles, bals, me plaisent fort, Et d'apres ma pensee, Je dirais ce que j'aime encore, Si je n'etais au Lycee. 

Apres cela, mon cher ami, L'on peut me reconnaitre, Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit, Je veux toujours paraitre. 

Vrai demon, par l'espieglerie, Vrai singe par sa mine, Beaucoup et trop d'etourderie, Ma foi! voila Pouchekine. 

Note: Russian proper names to be pronounced as in French (the nasalsound of m and n excepted) in the following translation. The accent, which is very arbitrary in the Russian language, is indicatedunmistakably in a rhythmical composition. 

A Short Biographical Notice of Alexander Pushkin. 

Alexander Sergevitch Pushkin was born in 1799 at Pskoff, and wasa scion of an ancient Russian family. In one of his letters it isrecorded that no less than six Pushkins signed the Charta declaratoryof the election of the Romanoff family to the throne of Russia, andthat two more affixed their marks from inability to write. 

In 1811 he entered the Lyceum, an aristocratic educationalestablishment at Tsarskoe Selo, near St. Petersburg, where he wasthe friend and schoolmate of Prince Gortchakoff the RussianChancellor. As a scholar he displayed no remarkable amount ofcapacity, but was fond of general reading and much given toversification. Whilst yet a schoolboy he wrote many lyricalcompositions and commenced _Ruslan and Liudmila_, his first poemof any magnitude, and, it is asserted, the first readable one everproduced in the Russian language. During his boyhood he came muchinto contact with the poets Dmitrieff and Joukovski, who wereintimate with his father, and his uncle, Vassili Pushkin, himselfan author of no mean repute. The friendship of the historianKaramzine must have exercised a still more beneficial influenceupon him. 

In 1817 he quitted the Lyceum and obtained an appointment in theForeign Office at St. Petersburg. Three years of recklessdissipation in the capital, where his lyrical talent made himuniversally popular, resulted in 1818 in a putrid fever whichwas near carrying him off. At this period of his life he scarcelyslept at all; worked all day and dissipated at night. Society wasopen to him from the palace of the prince to the officers'quarters of the Imperial Guard. The reflection of this mode oflife may be noted in the first canto of _Eugene Oneguine_ and theearly dissipations of the "Philosopher just turned eighteen, "--the exact age of Pushkin when he commenced his career in theRussian capital. 

In 1820 he was transferred to the bureau of Lieutenant-GeneralInzoff, at Kishineff in Bessarabia. This event was probably dueto his composing and privately circulating an "Ode to Liberty, "though the attendant circumstances have never yet been thoroughlybrought to light. An indiscreet admiration for Byron most likelyinvolved the young poet in this scrape. The tenor of thisproduction, especially its audacious allusion to the murder ofthe emperor Paul, father of the then reigning Tsar, assuredlydeserved, according to aristocratic ideas, the deportation toSiberia which was said to have been prepared for the author. The intercession of Karamzine and Joukovski procured a commutationof his sentence. Strangely enough, Pushkin appeared anxious todeceive the public as to the real cause of his sudden disappearancefrom the capital; for in an Ode to Ovid composed about this timehe styles himself a "voluntary exile. " (See Note 4 to this volume. )

During the four succeeding years he made numerous excursions amidthe beautiful countries which from the basin of the Euxine--andamongst these the Crimea and the Caucasus. A nomad life passedamid the beauties of nature acted powerfully in developing hispoetical genius. To this period he refers in the final canto of_Eugene Oneguine_ (st. V. ), when enumerating the various influenceswhich had contributed to the formation of his Muse:

 Then, the far capital forgot, Its splendour and its blandishments, In poor Moldavia cast her lot, She visited the humble tents Of migratory gipsy hordes. 

During these pleasant years of youth he penned some of his mostdelightful poetical works: amongst these, _The Prisoner of theCaucasus, The Fountain of Baktchiserai_, and the _Gipsies_. Of thetwo former it may be said that they are in the true style of the_Giaour_ and the _Corsair_. In fact, just at that point of timeByron's fame--like the setting sun--shone out with dazzling lustreand irresistibly charmed the mind of Pushkin amongst many others. The _Gipsies_ is more original; indeed the poet himself has beenidentified with Aleko, the hero of the tale, which may well befounded on his own personal adventures without involving the guiltof a double murder. His undisguised admiration for Byron doubtlessexposed him to imputations similar to those commonly levelledagainst that poet. But Pushkin's talent was too genuine for him toremain long subservient to that of another, and in a later periodof his career he broke loose from all trammels and selected a linepeculiarly his own. Before leaving this stage in our narrative wemay point out the fact that during the whole of this period ofcomparative seclusion the poet was indefatigably occupied instudy. Not only were the standard works of European literatureperused, but two more languages--namely Italian and Spanish--wereadded to his original stock: French, English, Latin and Germanhaving been acquired at the Lyceum. To this happy union ofliterary research with the study of nature we must attribute thesudden bound by which he soon afterwards attained the pinnacle ofpoetic fame amongst his own countrymen. 

In 1824 he once more fell under the imperial displeasure. A letterseized in the post, and expressive of atheistical sentiments(possibly but a transient vagary of his youth) was the ostensiblecause of his banishment from Odessa to his paternal estate ofMikhailovskoe in the province of Pskoff. Some, however, aver thatpersonal pique on the part of Count Vorontsoff, the Governor ofOdessa, played a part in the transaction. Be this as it may, theconsequences were serious for the poet, who was not only placedunder the surveillance of the police, but expelled from theForeign Office by express order of the Tsar "for bad conduct. " Aletter on this subject, addressed by Count Vorontsoff to CountNesselrode, is an amusing instance of the arrogance with whichstolid mediocrity frequently passes judgment on rising genius. Itranscribe a portion thereof:

 Odessa, _28th March (7th April)_ 1824

Count--Your Excellency is aware of the reasons for which, sometime ago, young Pushkin was sent with a letter from Count Capod'Istria to General Inzoff. I found him already here when Iarrived, the General having placed him at my disposal, though hehimself was at Kishineff. I have no reason to complain about him. On the contrary, he is much steadier than formerly. But a desirefor the welfare of the young man himself, who is not wanting inability, and whose faults proceed more from the head than fromthe heart, impels me to urge upon you his removal from Odessa. Pushkin's chief failing is ambition. He spent the bathing seasonhere, and has gathered round him a crowd of adulators who praisehis genius. This maintains in him a baneful delusion which seemsto turn his head--namely, that he is a "distinguished writer;"whereas, in reality he is but a feeble imitator of an author inwhose favour very little can be said (Byron). This it is whichkeeps him from a serious study of the great classical poets, whichmight exercise a beneficial effect upon his talents--which cannotbe denied him--and which might make of him in course of time a"distinguished writer. "

The best thing that can be done for him is to remove him hence. .. . 

The Emperor Nicholas on his accession pardoned Pushkin and receivedhim once more into favour. During an interview which took place itis said that the Tsar promised the poet that he alone would infuture be the censor of his productions. Pushkin was restored tohis position in the Foreign Office and received the appointment ofCourt Historian. In 1828 he published one of his finest poems, _Poltava_, which is founded on incidents familiar to Englishreaders in Byron's _Mazeppa_. In 1829 the hardy poet accompaniedthe Russian army which under Paskevitch captured Erzeroum. In 1831he married a beautiful lady of the Gontchareff family and settledin the neighbourhood of St. Petersburg, where he remained for theremainder of his life, only occasionally visiting Moscow andMikhailovskoe. During this period his chief occupation consistedin collecting and investigating materials for a projected historyof Peter the Great, which was undertaken at the express desire ofthe Emperor. He likewise completed a history of the revolt ofPougatchoff, which occurred in the reign of Catherine II. [Note:this individual having personated Peter III, the deceased husbandof the Empress, raised the Orenburg Cossacks in revolt. This revoltwas not suppressed without extensive destruction of life andproperty. ] In 1833 the poet visited Orenburg, the scene of thedreadful excesses he recorded; the fruit of his journey being oneof the most charming tales ever written, _The Captain's Daughter_. [Note: Translated in _Russian Romance_, by Mrs. Telfer, 1875. ]

The remaining years of Pushkin's life, spent in the midst ofdomestic bliss and grateful literary occupation, were whatlookers-on style "years of unclouded happiness. " They were, however, drawing rapidly to a close. Unrivalled distinction rarelyfails to arouse bitter animosity amongst the envious, and Pushkin'sexistence had latterly been embittered by groundless insinuationsagainst his wife's reputation in the shape of anonymous lettersaddressed to himself and couched in very insulting language. Hefancied he had traced them to one Georges d'Anthes, a Frenchmanin the Cavalier Guard, who had been adopted by the Dutch envoyHeeckeren. D'Anthes, though he had espoused Madame Pushkin'ssister, had conducted himself with impropriety towards the formerlady. The poet displayed in this affair a fierce hostility quitecharacteristic of his African origin but which drove him to hisdestruction. D'Anthes, it was subsequently admitted, was not theauthor of the anonymous letters; but as usual when a duel isproposed, an appeal to reason was thought to smack of cowardice. The encounter took place in February 1837 on one of the islands ofthe Neva. The weapons used were pistols, and the combat was of adetermined, nay ferocious character. Pushkin was shot before hehad time to fire, and, in his fall, the barrel of his pistolbecame clogged with snow which lay deep upon the ground at thetime. Raising himself on his elbow, the wounded man called foranother pistol, crying, "I've strength left to fire my shot!" Hefired, and slightly wounded his opponent, shouting "Bravo!" whenhe heard him exclaim that he was hit. D'Anthes was, however, butslightly contused whilst Pushkin was shot through the abdomen. Hewas transported to his residence and expired after several dayspassed in extreme agony. Thus perished in the thirty-eighth year ofhis age this distinguished poet, in a manner and amid surroundingswhich make the duel scene in the sixth canto of this poem seemalmost prophetic. His reflections on the premature death of Lenskiappear indeed strangely applicable to his own fate, as generallyto the premature extinction of genius. 

Pushkin was endowed with a powerful physical organisation. He wasfond of long walks, unlike the generality of his countrymen, andat one time of his career used daily to foot it into St. Petersburgand back, from his residence in the suburbs, to conduct hisinvestigations in the Government archives when employed on theHistory of Peter the Great. He was a good swordsman, rode well, and at one time aspired to enter the cavalry; but his father notbeing able to furnish the necessary funds he declined serving inthe less romantic infantry. Latterly he was regular in his habits;rose early, retired late, and managed to get along with but verylittle sleep. On rising he betook himself forthwith to his literaryoccupations, which were continued till afternoon, when they gaveplace to physical exercise. Strange as it will appear to many, hepreferred the autumn months, especially when rainy, chill andmisty, for the production of his literary compositions, and wasproportionally depressed by the approach of spring. (Cf. CantoVII st. Ii. )

 Mournful is thine approach to me, O Spring, thou chosen time of love

He usually left St. Petersburg about the middle of September andremained in the country till December. In this space of time it washis custom to develop and perfect the inspirations of theremaining portion of the year. He was of an impetuous yetaffectionate nature and much beloved by a numerous circle offriends. An attractive feature in his character was his unalterableattachment to his aged nurse, a sentiment which we find reflectedin the pages of _Eugene Oneguine_ and elsewhere. 

The preponderating influence which Byron exercised in the formationof his genius has already been noticed. It is indeed probable thatwe owe _Oneguine_ to the combined impressions of _Childe Harold_ and_Don Juan_ upon his mind. Yet the Russian poem excels thesemasterpieces of Byron in a single particular--namely, in completenessof narrative, the plots of the latter being mere vehicles for thedevelopment of the poet's general reflections. There is ground forbelieving that Pushkin likewise made this poem the record of hisown experience. This has doubtless been the practice of manydistinguished authors of fiction whose names will readily occur tothe reader. Indeed, as we are never cognizant of the real motiveswhich actuate others, it follows that nowhere can the secret springsof human action be studied to such advantage as within our ownbreasts. Thus romance is sometimes but the reflection of the writer'sown individuality, and he adopts the counsel of the American poet:

 Look then into thine heart and write!

But a further consideration of this subject would here be out ofplace. Perhaps I cannot more suitably conclude this sketch than byquoting from his _Ode to the Sea_ the poet's tribute of admirationto the genius of Napoleon and Byron, who of all contemporaries seemthe most to have swayed his imagination. 

 Farewell, thou pathway of the free, For the last time thy waves I view Before me roll disdainfully, Brilliantly beautiful and blue. 

 Why vain regret? Wherever now My heedless course I may pursue One object on thy desert brow I everlastingly shall view--

 A rock, the sepulchre of Fame! The poor remains of greatness gone A cold remembrance there became, There perished great Napoleon. 

 In torment dire to sleep he lay; Then, as a tempest echoing rolls, Another genius whirled away, Another sovereign of our souls. 

 He perished. Freedom wept her child, He left the world his garland bright. Wail, Ocean, surge in tumult wild, To sing of thee was his delight. 

 Impressed upon him was thy mark, His genius moulded was by thee; Like thee, he was unfathomed, dark And untamed in his majesty. 

Note: It may interest some to know that Georges d'Anthes was triedby court-martial for his participation in the duel in which Pushkinfell, found guilty, and reduced to the ranks; but, not being aRussian subject, he was conducted by a gendarme across the frontierand then set at liberty. 

Eugene Oneguine

Petri de vanite, il avait encore plus de cette espece d'orgueil, quifait avouer avec la meme indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaisesactions, suite d'un sentiment de superiorite, peut-etre imaginaire. --_Tire d'une lettre particuliere_. 

[Note: Written in 1823 at Kishineff and Odessa. ]

CANTO THE FIRST

'The Spleen'

'He rushes at life and exhausts the passions. ' Prince Viazemski

Canto the First

I

"My uncle's goodness is extreme, If seriously he hath disease;He hath acquired the world's esteemAnd nothing more important sees;A paragon of virtue he!But what a nuisance it will be, Chained to his bedside night and dayWithout a chance to slip away. Ye need dissimulation baseA dying man with art to soothe, Beneath his head the pillow smooth, And physic bring with mournful face, To sigh and meditate alone:When will the devil take his own!"

II

Thus mused a madcap young, who droveThrough clouds of dust at postal pace, By the decree of Mighty Jove, Inheritor of all his race. Friends of Liudmila and Ruslan, (1)Let me present ye to the man, Who without more prevaricationThe hero is of my narration!Oneguine, O my gentle readers, Was born beside the Neva, whereIt may be ye were born, or thereHave shone as one of fashion's leaders. I also wandered there of old, But cannot stand the northern cold. (2)

[Note 1: _Ruslan and Liudmila_, the title of Pushkin's firstimportant work, written 1817-20. It is a tale relating the adventuresof the knight-errant Ruslan in search of his fair lady Liudmila, whohas been carried off by a _kaldoon_, or magician. ]

[Note 2: Written in Bessarabia. ]

III

Having performed his service truly, Deep into debt his father ran;Three balls a year he gave ye duly, At last became a ruined man. But Eugene was by fate preserved, For first "madame" his wants observed, And then "monsieur" supplied her place;(3)The boy was wild but full of grace. "Monsieur l'Abbe, " a starving Gaul, Fearing his pupil to annoy, Instructed jestingly the boy, Morality taught scarce at all;Gently for pranks he would reproveAnd in the Summer Garden rove. 

[Note 3: In Russia foreign tutors and governesses are commonlystyled "monsieur" or "madame. "]

IV

When youth's rebellious hour drew nearAnd my Eugene the path must trace--The path of hope and tender fear--Monsieur clean out of doors they chase. Lo! my Oneguine free as air, Cropped in the latest style his hair, Dressed like a London dandy heThe giddy world at last shall see. He wrote and spoke, so all allowed, In the French language perfectly, Danced the mazurka gracefully, Without the least constraint he bowed. What more's required? The world replies, He is a charming youth and wise. 

V

We all of us of educationA something somehow have obtained, Thus, praised be God! a reputationWith us is easily attained. Oneguine was--so many deemed[Unerring critics self-esteemed], Pedantic although scholar like, In truth he had the happy trickWithout constraint in conversationOf touching lightly every theme. Silent, oracular ye'd see himAmid a serious disputation, Then suddenly discharge a jokeThe ladies' laughter to provoke. 

VI

Latin is just now not in vogue, But if the truth I must relate, Oneguine knew enough, the rogueA mild quotation to translate, A little Juvenal to spout, With "vale" finish off a note;Two verses he could recollectOf the Aeneid, but incorrect. In history he took no pleasure, The dusty chronicles of earthFor him were but of little worth, Yet still of anecdotes a treasureWithin his memory there lay, From Romulus unto our day. 

VII

For empty sound the rascal swore heExistence would not make a curse, Knew not an iamb from a choree, Although we read him heaps of verse. Homer, Theocritus, he jeered, But Adam Smith to read appeared, And at economy was great;That is, he could elucidateHow empires store of wealth unfold, How flourish, why and wherefore lessIf the raw product they possessThe medium is required of gold. The father scarcely understandsHis son and mortgages his lands. 

VIII

But upon all that Eugene knewI have no leisure here to dwell, But say he was a genius whoIn one thing really did excel. It occupied him from a boy, A labour, torment, yet a joy, It whiled his idle hours awayAnd wholly occupied his day--The amatory science warm, Which Ovid once immortalized, For which the poet agonizedLaid down his life of sun and stormOn the steppes of Moldavia lone, Far from his Italy--his own. (4)

[Note 4: Referring to Tomi, the reputed place of exile of Ovid. Pushkin, then residing in Bessarabia, was in the same predicamentas his predecessor in song, though he certainly did not pleadguilty to the fact, since he remarks in his ode to Ovid: To exile _self-consigned_, With self, society, existence, discontent, I visit in these days, with melancholy mind, The country whereunto a mournful age thee sent. 

Ovid thus enumerates the causes which brought about his banishment:

 "Perdiderint quum me _duo_ crimina, carmen et error, Alterius facti culpa silenda mihi est. " _Ovidii Nasonis Tristium_, lib. Ii. 207. ]

IX

How soon he learnt deception's art, Hope to conceal and jealousy, False confidence or doubt to impart, Sombre or glad in turn to be, Haughty appear, subservient, Obsequious or indifferent!What languor would his silence show, How full of fire his speech would glow!How artless was the note which spokeOf love again, and yet again;How deftly could he transport feign!How bright and tender was his look, Modest yet daring! And a tearWould at the proper time appear. 

X

How well he played the greenhorn's partTo cheat the inexperienced fair, Sometimes by pleasing flattery's art, Sometimes by ready-made despair;The feeble moment would espyOf tender years the modestyConquer by passion and address, Await the long-delayed caress. Avowal then 'twas time to pray, Attentive to the heart's first beating, Follow up love--a secret meetingArrange without the least delay--Then, then--well, in some solitudeLessons to give he understood!

XI

How soon he learnt to titillateThe heart of the inveterate flirt!Desirous to annihilateHis own antagonists expert, How bitterly he would malign, With many a snare their pathway line!But ye, O happy husbands, yeWith him were friends eternally:The crafty spouse caressed him, whoBy Faublas in his youth was schooled, (5)And the suspicious veteran old, The pompous, swaggering cuckold too, Who floats contentedly through life, Proud of his dinners and his wife!

[Note 5: _Les Aventures du Chevalier de Faublas_, a romance of aloose character by Jean Baptiste Louvet de Couvray, b. 1760, d. 1797, famous for his bold oration denouncing Robespierre, Marat and Danton. ]

XII

One morn whilst yet in bed he lay, His valet brings him letters three. What, invitations? The same dayAs many entertainments be!A ball here, there a children's treat, Whither shall my rapscallion flit?Whither shall he go first? He'll see, Perchance he will to all the three. Meantime in matutinal dressAnd hat surnamed a "Bolivar"(6)He hies unto the "Boulevard, "To loiter there in idlenessUntil the sleepless Breguet chime(7)Announcing to him dinner-time. 

[Note 6: A la "Bolivar, " from the founder of Bolivian independence. ]

[Note 7: M. Breguet, a celebrated Parisian watchmaker--hence aslang term for a watch. ]

XIII

'Tis dark. He seats him in a sleigh, "Drive on!" the cheerful cry goes forth, His furs are powdered on the wayBy the fine silver of the north. He bends his course to Talon's, where(8)He knows Kaverine will repair. (9)He enters. High the cork aroseAnd Comet champagne foaming flows. Before him red roast beef is seenAnd truffles, dear to youthful eyes, Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies, The choicest flowers of French cuisine, And Limburg cheese alive and oldIs seen next pine-apples of gold. 

[Note 8: Talon, a famous St. Petersburg restaurateur. ]

[Note 9: Paul Petrovitch Kaverine, a friend for whom Pushkin inhis youth appears to have entertained great respect andadmiration. He was an officer in the Hussars of the Guard, anda noted "dandy" and man about town. The poet on one occasionaddressed the following impromptu to his friend's portrait:

 "Within him daily see the the fires of punch and war, Upon the fields of Mars a gallant warrior, A faithful friend to friends, of ladies torturer, But ever the Hussar. "]

XIV

Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compelsTo cool the cutlets' seething grease, When the sonorous Breguet tellsOf the commencement of the piece. A critic of the stage malicious, A slave of actresses capricious, Oneguine was a citizenOf the domains of the side-scene. To the theatre he repairsWhere each young critic ready stands, Capers applauds with clap of hands, With hisses Cleopatra scares, Moina recalls for this aloneThat all may hear his voice's tone. 

XV

Thou fairy-land! Where formerlyShone pungent Satire's dauntless king, Von Wisine, friend of liberty, And Kniajnine, apt at copying. The young Simeonova too thereWith Ozeroff was wont to shareApplause, the people's donative. There our Katenine did reviveCorneille's majestic genius, Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought outHis comedies, a noisy rout, There Didelot became glorious, There, there, beneath the side-scene's shadeThe drama of my youth was played. (10)

[Note 10: _Denis Von Wisine_ (1741-92), a favourite Russiandramatist. His first comedy "The Brigadier, " procured him thefavour of the second Catherine. His best, however, is the"Minor" (Niedorosl). Prince Potemkin, after witnessing it, summoned the author, and greeted him with the exclamation, "Die now, Denis!" In fact, his subsequent performances werenot of equal merit. 

_Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine_ (1742-91), a clever adapter ofFrench tragedy. 

_Simeonova_, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired fromthe stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine. 

_Ozeroff_, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of theperiod; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. "Oedipusin Athens, " "Fingal, " "Demetrius Donskoi, " and "Polyxena, " arethe best known of his tragedies. 

_Katenine_ translated Corneille's tragedies into Russian. 

_Didelot_, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera atSt. Petersburg. ]

XVI

My goddesses, where are your shades?Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?Are ye replaced by other maidsWho cannot conjure former joys?Shall I your chorus hear anew, Russia's Terpsichore reviewAgain in her ethereal dance?Or will my melancholy glanceOn the dull stage find all things changed, The disenchanted glass directWhere I can no more recollect?--A careless looker-on estrangedIn silence shall I sit and yawnAnd dream of life's delightful dawn?

XVII

The house is crammed. A thousand lampsOn pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze, Impatiently the gallery stamps, The curtain now they slowly raise. Obedient to the magic strings, Brilliant, ethereal, there springsForth from the crowd of nymphs surroundingIstomina(*) the nimbly-bounding;With one foot resting on its tipSlow circling round its fellow swingsAnd now she skips and now she springsLike down from Aeolus's lip, Now her lithe form she arches o'erAnd beats with rapid foot the floor. 

[Note: Istomina--A celebrated Circassian dancer of the day, withwhom the poet in his extreme youth imagined himself in love. ]

XVIII

Shouts of applause! Oneguine passesBetween the stalls, along the toes;Seated, a curious look with glassesOn unknown female forms he throws. Free scope he yields unto his glance, Reviews both dress and countenance, With all dissatisfaction shows. To male acquaintances he bows, And finally he deigns let fallUpon the stage his weary glance. He yawns, averts his countenance, Exclaiming, "We must change 'em all!I long by ballets have been bored, Now Didelot scarce can be endured!"

XIX

Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shoutAcross the stage still madly sweep, Whilst the tired serving-men withoutWrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep. Still the loud stamping doth not cease, Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze, Still everywhere, without, within, The lamps illuminating shine;The steed benumbed still pawing standsAnd of the irksome harness tires, And still the coachmen round the fires(11)Abuse their masters, rub their hands:But Eugene long hath left the pressTo array himself in evening dress. 

[Note 11: In Russia large fires are lighted in winter time in frontof the theatres for the benefit of the menials, who, consideringthe state of the thermometer, cannot be said to have a jovialtime of it. But in this, as in other cases, "habit" alleviatestheir lot, and they bear the cold with a wonderful equanimity. ]

XX

Faithfully shall I now depict, Portray the solitary denWherein the child of fashion strictDressed him, undressed, and dressed again?All that industrial London bringsFor tallow, wood and other thingsAcross the Baltic's salt sea waves, All which caprice and affluence craves, All which in Paris eager taste, Choosing a profitable trade, For our amusement ever madeAnd ease and fashionable waste, --Adorned the apartment of Eugene, Philosopher just turned eighteen. 

XXI

China and bronze the tables weight, Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows, And, joy of souls effeminate, Phials of crystal scents enclose. Combs of all sizes, files of steel, Scissors both straight and curved as well, Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushesBoth for the nails and for the tushes. Rousseau, I would remark in passing, (12)Could not conceive how serious GrimmDared calmly cleanse his nails 'fore him, Eloquent raver all-surpassing, --The friend of liberty and lawsIn this case quite mistaken was. 

[Note 12: "Tout le monde sut qu'il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; etmoi, qui n'en croyait rien, je commencai de le croire, nonseulement par l'embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouvedes tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant unmatin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avecune petite vergette faite expres, ouvrage qu'il continua fierementdevant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous lesmatins a brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants aremplir de blanc les creux de sa peau. " _Confessions de J. J. Rousseau_]

XXII

The most industrious man aliveMay yet be studious of his nails;What boots it with the age to strive?Custom the despot soon prevails. A new Kaverine Eugene mine, Dreading the world's remarks malign, Was that which we are wont to callA fop, in dress pedantical. Three mortal hours per diem heWould loiter by the looking-glass, And from his dressing-room would passLike Venus when, capriciously, The goddess would a masqueradeAttend in male attire arrayed. 

XXIII

On this artistical retreatHaving once fixed your interest, I might to connoisseurs repeatThe style in which my hero dressed;Though I confess I hardly dareDescribe in detail the affair, Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat, To Russ indigenous are not;And also that my feeble verse--Pardon I ask for such a sin--With words of foreign originToo much I'm given to intersperse, Though to the Academy I comeAnd oft its Dictionary thumb. (13)

[Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during thereign of Catherine II under the supervision of Lomonossoff. ]

XXIV

But such is not my project now, So let us to the ball-room haste, Whither at headlong speed doth goEugene in hackney carriage placed. Past darkened windows and long streetsOf slumbering citizens he fleets, Till carriage lamps, a double row, Cast a gay lustre on the snow, Which shines with iridescent hues. He nears a spacious mansion's gate, By many a lamp illuminate, And through the lofty windows viewsProfiles of lovely dames he knowsAnd also fashionable beaux. 

XXV

Our hero stops and doth alight, Flies past the porter to the stair, But, ere he mounts the marble flight, With hurried hand smooths down his hair. He enters: in the hall a crowd, No more the music thunders loud, Some a mazurka occupies, Crushing and a confusing noise;Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash, The feet of graceful ladies fly, And following them ye might espyFull many a glance like lightning flash, And by the fiddle's rushing soundThe voice of jealousy is drowned. 

XXVI

In my young days of wild delightOn balls I madly used to dote, Fond declarations they inviteOr the delivery of a note. So hearken, every worthy spouse, I would your vigilance arouse, Attentive be unto my rhymesAnd due precautions take betimes. Ye mothers also, caution use, Upon your daughters keep an eye, Employ your glasses constantly, For otherwise--God only knows!I lift a warning voice becauseI long have ceased to offend the laws. 

XXVII

Alas! life's hours which swiftly flyI've wasted in amusements vain, But were it not immoral IShould dearly like a dance again. I love its furious delight, The crowd and merriment and light, The ladies, their fantastic dress, Also their feet--yet ne'erthelessScarcely in Russia can ye findThree pairs of handsome female feet;Ah! I still struggle to forgetA pair; though desolate my mind, Their memory lingers still and seemsTo agitate me in my dreams. 

XXVIII

When, where, and in what desert land, Madman, wilt thou from memory razeThose feet? Alas! on what far strandDo ye of spring the blossoms graze?Lapped in your Eastern luxury, No trace ye left in passing byUpon the dreary northern snows, But better loved the soft reposeOf splendid carpets richly wrought. I once forgot for your sweet causeThe thirst for fame and man's applause, My country and an exile's lot;My joy in youth was fleeting e'enAs your light footprints on the green. 

XXIX

Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks, Are admirable, my dear friend, But yet Terpsichore bespeaksCharms more enduring in the end. For promises her feet revealOf untold gain she must conceal, Their privileged allurements fireA hidden train of wild desire. I love them, O my dear Elvine, (14)Beneath the table-cloth of white, In winter on the fender bright, In springtime on the meadows green, Upon the ball-room's glassy floorOr by the ocean's rocky shore. 

[Note 14: _Elvine_, or _Elvina_, was not improbably the owner of theseductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrotean ode, "To Her, " which commences thus:

"Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand, " and so forth. ]

XXX

Beside the stormy sea one dayI envied sore the billows tall, Which rushed in eager dense arrayEnamoured at her feet to fall. How like the billow I desiredTo kiss the feet which I admired!No, never in the early blazeOf fiery youth's untutored daysSo ardently did I desireA young Armida's lips to press, Her cheek of rosy lovelinessOr bosom full of languid fire, --A gust of passion never toreMy spirit with such pangs before. 

XXXI

Another time, so willed it Fate, Immersed in secret thought I standAnd grasp a stirrup fortunate--Her foot was in my other hand. Again imagination blazed, The contact of the foot I raisedRekindled in my withered heartThe fires of passion and its smart--Away! and cease to ring their praiseFor ever with thy tattling lyre, The proud ones are not worth the fireOf passion they so often raise. The words and looks of charmers sweetAre oft deceptive--like their feet. 

XXXII

Where is Oneguine? Half asleep, Straight from the ball to bed he goes, Whilst Petersburg from slumber deepThe drum already doth arouse. The shopman and the pedlar riseAnd to the Bourse the cabman plies;The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds, (15)Crunching the morning snow she treads;Morning awakes with joyous sound;The shutters open; to the skiesIn column blue the smoke doth rise;The German baker looks aroundHis shop, a night-cap on his head, And pauses oft to serve out bread. 

[Note 15: i. E. The milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St. Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by thelabouring classes. ]

XXXIII

But turning morning into night, Tired by the ball's incessant noise, The votary of vain delightSleep in the shadowy couch enjoys, Late in the afternoon to rise, When the same life before him liesTill morn--life uniform but gay, To-morrow just like yesterday. But was our friend Eugene content, Free, in the blossom of his spring, Amidst successes flatteringAnd pleasure's daily blandishment, Or vainly 'mid luxurious fareWas he in health and void of care?--

XXXIV

Even so! His passions soon abated, Hateful the hollow world became, Nor long his mind was agitatedBy love's inevitable flame. For treachery had done its worst;Friendship and friends he likewise curst, Because he could not gourmandiseDaily beefsteaks and Strasbourg piesAnd irrigate them with champagne;Nor slander viciously could spreadWhene'er he had an aching head;And, though a plucky scatterbrain, He finally lost all delightIn bullets, sabres, and in fight. 

XXXV

His malady, whose cause I weenIt now to investigate is time, Was nothing but the British spleenTransported to our Russian clime. It gradually possessed his mind;Though, God be praised! he ne'er designedTo slay himself with blade or ball, Indifferent he became to all, And like Childe Harold gloomilyHe to the festival repairs, Nor boston nor the world's affairsNor tender glance nor amorous sighImpressed him in the least degree, --Callous to all he seemed to be. 

XXXVI

Ye miracles of courtly grace, He left _you_ first, and I must ownThe manners of the highest classHave latterly vexatious grown;And though perchance a lady mayDiscourse of Bentham or of Say, Yet as a rule their talk I callHarmless, but quite nonsensical. Then they're so innocent of vice, So full of piety, correct, So prudent, and so circumspectStately, devoid of prejudice, So inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen. (16)

[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russianscholiast remarks:--"The whole of this ironical stanza is but a_refined eulogy_ of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen. Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV. Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements, combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species ofOriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael. " It willoccur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair "dothprotest too much. " The poet in all probability wrote the offendingstanza in a fit of Byronic "spleen, " as he would most likelyhimself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his schoolseem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take theirutterances under its influence for what they are worth. ]

XXXVII

And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meetsUrging your droshkies swift as airAlong Saint Petersburg's paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen. He thought to write, but labour longInspired him with disgust and soNought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell amongThat vicious set whom I don't blame--Because a member I became. 

XXXVIII

Once more to idleness consigned, He felt the laudable desireFrom mere vacuity of mindThe wit of others to acquire. A case of books he doth obtain--He reads at random, reads in vain. This nonsense, that dishonest seems, This wicked, that absurd he deems, All are constrained and fetters bear, Antiquity no pleasure gave, The moderns of the ancients rave--Books he abandoned like the fair, His book-shelf instantly doth drapeWith taffety instead of crape. 

XXXIX

Having abjured the haunts of men, Like him renouncing vanity, His friendship I acquired just then;His character attracted me. An innate love of meditation, Original imagination, And cool sagacious mind he had:I was incensed and he was sad. Both were of passion satiateAnd both of dull existence tired, Extinct the flame which once had fired;Both were expectant of the hateWith which blind Fortune oft betraysThe very morning of our days. 

XL

He who hath lived and living, thinks, Must e'en despise his kind at last;He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinksFrom shades of the relentless past. No fond illusions live to soothe, But memory like a serpent's toothWith late repentance gnaws and stings. All this in many cases bringsA charm with it in conversation. Oneguine's speeches I abhorredAt first, but soon became inuredTo the sarcastic observation, To witticisms and taunts half-viciousAnd gloomy epigrams malicious. 

XLI

How oft, when on a summer nightTransparent o'er the Neva beamedThe firmament in mellow light, And when the watery mirror gleamedNo more with pale Diana's rays, (17)We called to mind our youthful days--The days of love and of romance!Then would we muse as in a trance, Impressionable for an hour, And breathe the balmy breath of night;And like the prisoner's our delightWho for the greenwood quits his tower, As on the rapid wings of thoughtThe early days of life we sought. 

[Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of St. Petersburgare a prolonged twilight. ]

XLII

Absorbed in melancholy moodAnd o'er the granite coping bent, Oneguine meditative stood, E'en as the poet says he leant. (18)'Tis silent all! Alone the criesOf the night sentinels ariseAnd from the Millionaya afar(19)The sudden rattling of a car. Lo! on the sleeping river borne, A boat with splashing oar floats by, And now we hear delightedlyA jolly song and distant horn;But sweeter in a midnight dreamTorquato Tasso's strains I deem. 

[Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff's "Goddess of the Neva. " At St. Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout withsplendid granite quays. ]

[Note 19:A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading fromthe Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden. ]

XLIII

Ye billows of blue Hadria's sea, O Brenta, once more we shall meetAnd, inspiration firing me, Your magic voices I shall greet, Whose tones Apollo's sons inspire, And after Albion's proud lyre (20)Possess my love and sympathy. The nights of golden ItalyI'll pass beneath the firmament, Hid in the gondola's dark shade, Alone with my Venetian maid, Now talkative, now reticent;From her my lips shall learn the tongueOf love which whilom Petrarch sung. 

[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron's genius on theimagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and otherEnglish dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of anessentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespeariantastes, see his poem of "Angelo, " founded upon "Measure for Measure. "]

XLIV

When will my hour of freedom come!Time, I invoke thee! favouring galesAwaiting on the shore I roamAnd beckon to the passing sails. Upon the highway of the seaWhen shall I wing my passage freeOn waves by tempests curdled o'er!'Tis time to quit this weary shoreSo uncongenial to my mind, To dream upon the sunny strandOf Africa, ancestral land, (21)Of dreary Russia left behind, Wherein I felt love's fatal dart, Wherein I buried left my heart. 

[Note 21: The poet was, on his mother's side, of African extraction, a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour ofhis imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by acorsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The RussianAmbassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who causedhim to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal'sbrothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburgfor the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender hisgodson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rankof general in the Russian service. ]

XLV

Eugene designed with me to startAnd visit many a foreign clime, But Fortune cast our lots apartFor a protracted space of time. Just at that time his father died, And soon Oneguine's door besideOf creditors a hungry routTheir claims and explanations shout. But Eugene, hating litigationAnd with his lot in life content, To a surrender gave consent, Seeing in this no deprivation, Or counting on his uncle's deathAnd what the old man might bequeath. 

XLVI

And in reality one dayThe steward sent a note to tellHow sick to death his uncle layAnd wished to say to him farewell. Having this mournful documentPerused, Eugene in postchaise wentAnd hastened to his uncle's side, But in his heart dissatisfied, Having for money's sake aloneSorrow to counterfeit and wail--Thus we began our little tale--But, to his uncle's mansion flown, He found him on the table laid, A due which must to earth be paid. 

XLVII

The courtyard full of serfs he sees, And from the country all aroundHad come both friends and enemies--Funeral amateurs abound!The body they consigned to rest, And then made merry pope and guest, With serious air then went awayAs men who much had done that day. Lo! my Oneguine rural lord!Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes, He now a full possession takes, He who economy abhorred, Delighted much his former waysTo vary for a few brief days. 

XLVIII

For two whole days it seemed a changeTo wander through the meadows still, The cool dark oaken grove to range, To listen to the rippling rill. But on the third of grove and meadHe took no more the slightest heed;They made him feel inclined to doze;And the conviction soon arose, Ennui can in the country dwellThough without palaces and streets, Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fetes;On him spleen mounted sentinelAnd like his shadow dogged his life, Or better, --like a faithful wife. 

XLIX

I was for calm existence made, For rural solitude and dreams, My lyre sings sweeter in the shadeAnd more imagination teems. On innocent delights I dote, Upon my lake I love to float, For law I _far niente_ takeAnd every morning I awakeThe child of sloth and liberty. I slumber much, a little read, Of fleeting glory take no heed. In former years thus did not IIn idleness and tranquil joyThe happiest days of life employ?

L

Love, flowers, the country, idlenessAnd fields my joys have ever been;I like the difference to expressBetween myself and my Eugene, Lest the malicious reader orSome one or other editorOf keen sarcastic intellectHerein my portrait should detect, And impiously should declare, To sketch myself that I have triedLike Byron, bard of scorn and pride, As if impossible it wereTo write of any other elfThan one's own fascinating self. 

LI

Here I remark all poets areLove to idealize inclined;I have dreamed many a vision fairAnd the recesses of my mindRetained the image, though short-lived, Which afterwards the muse revived. Thus carelessly I once portrayedMine own ideal, the mountain maid, The captives of the Salguir's shore. (22)But now a question in this wiseOft upon friendly lips doth rise:Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?To whom amongst the jealous throngOf maids dost thou inscribe thy song?

[Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions ofthe poet. The former line indicates the _Prisoner of theCaucasus_, the latter, _The Fountain of Baktchiserai_. TheSalguir is a river of the Crimea. ]

LII

Whose glance reflecting inspirationWith tenderness hath recognizedThy meditative incantation--Whom hath thy strain immortalized?None, be my witness Heaven above!The malady of hopeless loveI have endured without respite. Happy who thereto can unitePoetic transport. They impartA double force unto their songWho following Petrarch move alongAnd ease the tortures of the heart--Perchance they laurels also cull--But I, in love, was mute and dull. 

LIII

The Muse appeared, when love passed byAnd my dark soul to light was brought;Free, I renewed the idolatryOf harmony enshrining thought. I write, and anguish flies away, Nor doth my absent pen portrayAround my stanzas incompleteYoung ladies' faces and their feet. Extinguished ashes do not blaze--I mourn, but tears I cannot shed--Soon, of the tempest which hath fledTime will the ravages efface--When that time comes, a poem I'll striveTo write in cantos twenty-five. 

LIV

I've thought well o'er the general plan, The hero's name too in advance, Meantime I'll finish whilst I canCanto the First of this romance. I've scanned it with a jealous eye, Discovered much absurdity, But will not modify a tittle--I owe the censorship a little. For journalistic deglutitionI yield the fruit of work severe. Go, on the Neva's bank appear, My very latest composition!Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows--Misunderstanding, words and blows. 

END OF CANTO THE FIRST

CANTO THE SECOND

The Poet

"O Rus!"--Horace

Canto The Second

[Note: Odessa, December 1823. ]

I

The village wherein yawned EugeneWas a delightful little spot, There friends of pure delight had beenGrateful to Heaven for their lot. The lonely mansion-house to screenFrom gales a hill behind was seen;Before it ran a stream. Behold!Afar, where clothed in green and goldMeadows and cornfields are displayed, Villages in the distance showAnd herds of oxen wandering low;Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade, A thick immense neglected groveExtended--haunt which Dryads love. 

II

'Twas built, the venerable pile, As lordly mansions ought to be, In solid, unpretentious style, The style of wise antiquity. Lofty the chambers one and all, Silk tapestry upon the wall, Imperial portraits hang aroundAnd stoves of various shapes abound. All this I know is out of date, I cannot tell the reason why, But Eugene, incontestably, The matter did not agitate, Because he yawned at the bare viewOf drawing-rooms or old or new. 

III

He took the room wherein the oldMan--forty years long in this wise--His housekeeper was wont to scold, Look through the window and kill flies. 'Twas plain--an oaken floor ye scan, Two cupboards, table, soft divan, And not a speck of dirt descried. Oneguine oped the cupboards wide. In one he doth accounts behold, Here bottles stand in close array, There jars of cider block the way, An almanac but eight years old. His uncle, busy man indeed, No other book had time to read. 

IV

Alone amid possessions great, Eugene at first began to dream, If but to lighten Time's dull rate, Of many an economic scheme;This anchorite amid his wasteThe ancient _barshtchina_ replacedBy an _obrok's_ indulgent rate:(23)The peasant blessed his happy fate. But this a heinous crime appearedUnto his neighbour, man of thrift, Who secretly denounced the gift, And many another slily sneered;And all with one accord agreed, He was a dangerous fool indeed. 

[Note 23: The _barshtchina_ was the corvee, or forced labourof three days per week rendered previous to the emancipationof 1861 by the serfs to their lord. 

The _obrok_ was a species of poll-tax paid by a serf, eitherin lieu of the forced labour or in consideration of beingpermitted to exercise a trade or profession elsewhere. Veryheavy obroks have at times been levied on serfs possessed ofskill or accomplishments, or who had amassed wealth; andcircumstances may be easily imagined which, under such asystem, might lead to great abuses. ]

V

All visited him at first, of course;But since to the backdoor they ledMost usually a Cossack horseUpon the Don's broad pastures bredIf they but heard domestic loadsCome rumbling up the neighbouring roads, Most by this circumstance offendedAll overtures of friendship ended. "Oh! what a fool our neighbour is!He's a freemason, so we think. Alone he doth his claret drink, A lady's hand doth never kiss. 'Tis _yes! no!_ never _madam! sir!_"(24)This was his social character. 

[Note 24: The neighbours complained of Oneguine's want of courtesy. He always replied "da" or "nyet, " yes or no, instead of "das"or "nyets"--the final s being a contraction of "sudar" or"sudarinia, " i. E. Sir or madam. ]

VI

Into the district then to bootA new proprietor arrived, From whose analysis minuteThe neighbourhood fresh sport derived. Vladimir Lenski was his name, From Gottingen inspired he came, A worshipper of Kant, a bard, A young and handsome galliard. He brought from mystic GermanyThe fruits of learning and combinedA fiery and eccentric mind, Idolatry of liberty, A wild enthusiastic tongue, Black curls which to his shoulders hung. 

VII

The pervert world with icy chillHad not yet withered his young breast. His heart reciprocated stillWhen Friendship smiled or Love caressed. He was a dear delightful fool--A nursling yet for Hope to school. The riot of the world and glareStill sovereigns of his spirit were, And by a sweet delusion heWould soothe the doubtings of his soul, He deemed of human life the goalTo be a charming mystery:He racked his brains to find its clueAnd marvels deemed he thus should view. 

VIII

This he believed: a kindred spiritImpelled to union with his ownLay languishing both day and night--Waiting his coming--his alone!He deemed his friends but longed to makeGreat sacrifices for his sake!That a friend's arm in every caseFelled a calumniator base!That chosen heroes consecrate, Friends of the sons of every land, Exist--that their immortal bandShall surely, be it soon or late, Pour on this orb a dazzling lightAnd bless mankind with full delight. 

IX

Compassion now or wrath inspiresAnd now philanthropy his soul, And now his youthful heart desiresThe path which leads to glory's goal. His harp beneath that sky had rungWhere sometime Goethe, Schiller sung, And at the altar of their fameHe kindled his poetic flame. But from the Muses' loftiest heightThe gifted songster never swerved, But proudly in his song preservedAn ever transcendental flight;His transports were quite maidenly, Charming with grave simplicity. 

X

He sang of love--to love a slave. His ditties were as pure and brightAs thoughts which gentle maidens have, As a babe's slumber, or the lightOf the moon in the tranquil skies, Goddess of lovers' tender sighs. He sang of separation grim, Of what not, and of distant dim, Of roses to romancers dear;To foreign lands he would allude, Where long time he in solitudeHad let fall many a bitter tear:He sang of life's fresh colours stainedBefore he eighteen years attained. 

XI

Since Eugene in that solitudeGifts such as these alone could prize, A scant attendance Lenski showedAt neighbouring hospitalities. He shunned those parties boisterous;The conversation tediousAbout the crop of hay, the wine, The kennel or a kindred line, Was certainly not eruditeNor sparkled with poetic fire, Nor wit, nor did the same inspireA sense of social delight, But still more stupid did appearThe gossip of their ladies fair. 

XII

Handsome and rich, the neighbourhoodLenski as a good match received, --Such is the country custom good;All mothers their sweet girls believedSuitable for this semi-Russian. He enters: rapidly discussionShifts, tacks about, until they prateThe sorrows of a single state. Perchance where Dunia pours out teaThe young proprietor we find;To Dunia then they whisper: Mind!And a guitar produced we see, And Heavens! warbled forth we hear:_Come to my golden palace, dear_!(25)

[Note 25: From the lay of the _Russalka_, i. E. Mermaid of the Dnieper. ]

XIII

But Lenski, having no desireVows matrimonial to break, With our Oneguine doth aspireAcquaintance instantly to make. They met. Earth, water, prose and verse, Or ice and flame, are not diverseIf they were similar in aught. At first such contradictions wroughtMutual repulsion and ennui, But grown familiar side by sideOn horseback every day they ride--Inseparable soon they be. Thus oft--this I myself confess--Men become friends from idleness. 

XIV

But even thus not now-a-days!In spite of common sense we're wontAs cyphers others to appraise, Ourselves as unities to count;And like Napoleons each of usA million bipeds reckons thusOne instrument for his own use--Feeling is silly, dangerous. Eugene, more tolerant than this(Though certainly mankind he knewAnd usually despised it too), Exceptionless as no rule is, A few of different temper deemed, Feeling in others much esteemed. 

XV

With smiling face he Lenski hears;The poet's fervid conversationAnd judgment which unsteady veersAnd eye which gleams with inspiration--All this was novel to Eugene. The cold reply with gloomy mienHe oft upon his lips would curb, Thinking: 'tis foolish to disturbThis evanescent boyish bliss. Time without me will lessons give, So meantime let him joyous liveAnd deem the world perfection is!Forgive the fever youth inspires, And youthful madness, youthful fires. 

XVI

The gulf between them was so vast, Debate commanded ample food--The laws of generations past, The fruits of science, evil, good, The prejudices all men have, The fatal secrets of the grave, And life and fate in turn selectedWere to analysis subjected. The fervid poet would recite, Carried away by ecstasy, Fragments of northern poetry, Whilst Eugene condescending quite, Though scarcely following what was said, Attentive listened to the lad. 

XVII

But more the passions occupyThe converse of our hermits twain, And, heaving a regretful sigh, An exile from their troublous reign, Eugene would speak regarding these. Thrice happy who their agoniesHath suffered but indifferent grown, Still happier he who ne'er hath known!By absence who hath chilled his love, His hate by slander, and who spendsExistence without wife or friends, Whom jealous transport cannot move, And who the rent-roll of his raceNe'er trusted to the treacherous ace. 

XVIII

When, wise at length, we seek reposeBeneath the flag of Quietude, When Passion's fire no longer glowsAnd when her violence reviewed--Each gust of temper, silly word, Seems so unnatural and absurd:Reduced with effort unto sense, We hear with interest intenseThe accents wild of other's woes, They stir the heart as heretofore. So ancient warriors, battles o'er, A curious interest discloseIn yarns of youthful troopers gay, Lost in the hamlet far away. 

XIX

And in addition youth is flameAnd cannot anything conceal, Is ever ready to proclaimThe love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel. Deeming himself a veteran scarredIn love's campaigns Oneguine heardWith quite a lachrymose expressionThe youthful poet's fond confession. He with an innocence extremeHis inner consciousness laid bare, And Eugene soon discovered thereThe story of his young love's dream, Where plentifully feelings flowWhich we experienced long ago. 

XX

Alas! he loved as in our timesMen love no more, as only theMad spirit of the man who rhymesIs still condemned in love to be;One image occupied his mind, Constant affection intertwinedAnd an habitual sense of pain;And distance interposed in vain, Nor years of separation allNor homage which the Muse demandsNor beauties of far distant landsNor study, banquet, rout nor ballHis constant soul could ever tire, Which glowed with virginal desire. 

XXI

When but a boy he Olga lovedUnknown as yet the aching heart, He witnessed tenderly and movedHer girlish gaiety and sport. Beneath the sheltering oak tree's shadeHe with his little maiden played, Whilst the fond parents, friends thro' life, Dreamed in the future man and wife. And full of innocent delight, As in a thicket's humble shade, Beneath her parents' eyes the maidGrew like a lily pure and white, Unseen in thick and tangled grassBy bee and butterfly which pass. 

XXII

'Twas she who first within his breastPoetic transport did infuse, And thoughts of Olga first impressedA mournful temper on his Muse. Farewell! thou golden days of love!'Twas then he loved the tangled groveAnd solitude and calm delight, The moon, the stars, and shining night--The moon, the lamp of heaven above, To whom we used to consecrateA promenade in twilight lateWith tears which secret sufferers love--But now in her effulgence paleA substitute for lamps we hail!

XXIII

Obedient she had ever beenAnd modest, cheerful as the morn, As a poetic life serene, Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn. Her eyes were of cerulean blue, Her locks were of a golden hue, Her movements, voice and figure slight, All about Olga--to a lightRomance of love I pray refer, You'll find her portrait there, I vouch;I formerly admired her muchBut finally grew bored by her. But with her elder sister IMust now my stanzas occupy. 

XXIV

Tattiana was her appellation. We are the first who such a nameIn pages of a love narrationWith such a perversity proclaim. But wherefore not?--'Tis pleasant, nice, Euphonious, though I know a spiceIt carries of antiquityAnd of the attic. Honestly, We must admit but little tasteDoth in us or our names appear(26)(I speak not of our poems here), And education runs to waste, Endowing us from out her storeWith affectation, --nothing more. 

[Note 26: The Russian annotator remarks: "The most euphoniousGreek names, e. G. Agathon, Philotas, Theodora, Thekla, etc. , are used amongst us by the lower classes only. "]

XXV

And so Tattiana was her name, Nor by her sister's brilliancyNor by her beauty she becameThe cynosure of every eye. Shy, silent did the maid appearAs in the timid forest deer, Even beneath her parents' roofStood as estranged from all aloof, Nearest and dearest knew not howTo fawn upon and love express;A child devoid of childishnessTo romp and play she ne'er would go:Oft staring through the window paneWould she in silence long remain. 

XXVI

Contemplativeness, her delight, E'en from her cradle's earliest dream, Adorned with many a vision brightOf rural life the sluggish stream;Ne'er touched her fingers indolentThe needle nor, o'er framework bent, Would she the canvas tight enrichWith gay design and silken stitch. Desire to rule ye may observeWhen the obedient doll in sportAn infant maiden doth exhortPolite demeanour to preserve, Gravely repeating to anotherRecent instructions of its mother. 

XXVII

But Tania ne'er displayed a passionFor dolls, e'en from her earliest years, And gossip of the town and fashionShe ne'er repeated unto hers. Strange unto her each childish game, But when the winter season cameAnd dark and drear the evenings were, Terrible tales she loved to hear. And when for Olga nurse arrayedIn the broad meadow a gay rout, All the young people round about, At prisoner's base she never played. Their noisy laugh her soul annoyed, Their giddy sports she ne'er enjoyed. 

XXVIII

She loved upon the balconyTo anticipate the break of day, When on the pallid eastern skyThe starry beacons fade away, The horizon luminous doth grow, Morning's forerunners, breezes blowAnd gradually day unfolds. In winter, when Night longer holdsA hemisphere beneath her sway, Longer the East inert reclinesBeneath the moon which dimly shines, And calmly sleeps the hours away, At the same hour she oped her eyesAnd would by candlelight arise. 

XXIX

Romances pleased her from the first, Her all in all did constitute;In love adventures she was versed, Rousseau and Richardson to boot. Not a bad fellow was her fatherThough superannuated rather;In books he saw nought to condemnBut, as he never opened them, Viewed them with not a little scorn, And gave himself but little painHis daughter's book to ascertainWhich 'neath her pillow lay till morn. His wife was also mad uponThe works of Mr. Richardson. 

XXX

She was thus fond of RichardsonNot that she had his works perused, Or that adoring GrandisonThat rascal Lovelace she abused;But that Princess Pauline of old, Her Moscow cousin, often toldThe tale of these romantic men;Her husband was a bridegroom then, And she despite herself would wasteSighs on another than her lordWhose qualities appeared to affordMore satisfaction to her taste. Her Grandison was in the Guard, A noted fop who gambled hard. 

XXXI

Like his, her dress was always nice, The height of fashion, fitting tight, But contrary to her adviceThe girl in marriage they unite. Then, her distraction to allay, The bridegroom sage without delayRemoved her to his country seat, Where God alone knows whom she met. She struggled hard at first thus pent, Night separated from her spouse, Then became busy with the house, First reconciled and then content;Habit was given us in distressBy Heaven in lieu of happiness. 

XXXII

Habit alleviates the griefInseparable from our lot;This great discovery reliefAnd consolation soon begot. And then she soon 'twixt work and leisureFound out the secret how at pleasureTo dominate her worthy lord, And harmony was soon restored. The workpeople she superintended, Mushrooms for winter salted down, Kept the accounts, shaved many a crown, (*)The bath on Saturdays attended, When angry beat her maids, I grieve, And all without her husband's leave. 

[Note: The serfs destined for military service used to havea portion of their heads shaved as a distinctive mark. ]

XXXIII

In her friends' albums, time had been, With blood instead of ink she scrawled, Baptized Prascovia Pauline, And in her conversation drawled. She wore her corset tightly bound, The Russian N with nasal soundShe would pronounce _a la Francaise_;But soon she altered all her ways, Corset and album and Pauline, Her sentimental verses all, She soon forgot, began to callAkulka who was once Celine, And had with waddling in the endHer caps and night-dresses to mend. 

XXXIV

As for her spouse he loved her dearly, In her affairs ne'er interfered, Entrusted all to her sincerely, In dressing-gown at meals appeared. Existence calmly sped along, And oft at eventide a throngOf friends unceremonious wouldAssemble from the neighbourhood:They growl a bit--they scandalise--They crack a feeble joke and smile--Thus the time passes and meanwhileOlga the tea must supervise--'Tis time for supper, now for bed, And soon the friendly troop hath fled. 

XXXV

They in a peaceful life preservedCustoms by ages sanctified, Strictly the Carnival observed, Ate Russian pancakes at Shrovetide, Twice in the year to fast were bound, Of whirligigs were very fond, Of Christmas carols, song and dance;When people with long countenanceOn Trinity Sunday yawned at prayer, Three tears they dropt with humble meinUpon a bunch of lovage green;_Kvass_ needful was to them as air;On guests their servants used to waitBy rank as settled by the State. (27)

[Note 27: The foregoing stanza requires explanation. Russianpancakes or "blinni" are consumed vigorously by the lowerorders during the Carnival. At other times it is difficultto procure them, at any rate in the large towns. 

The Russian peasants are childishly fond of whirligigs, whichare also much in vogue during the Carnival. 

"Christmas Carols" is not an exact equivalent for the Russianphrase. "Podbliudni pessni, " are literally "dish songs, " orsongs used with dishes (of water) during the "sviatki" or HolyNights, which extend from Christmas to Twelfth Night, forpurposes of divination. Reference will again be made to thissuperstitious practice, which is not confined to Russia. See Note 52. 

"Song and dance, " the well-known "khorovod, " in which the danceproceeds to vocal music. 

"Lovage, " the _Levisticum officinalis_, is a hardy plant growingvery far north, though an inhabitant of our own kitchen gardens. The passage containing the reference to the three tears andTrinity Sunday was at first deemed irreligious by the Russiancensors, and consequently expunged. 

_Kvass_ is of various sorts: there is the common _kvass_ offermented rye used by the peasantry, and the more expensive_kvass_ of the restaurants, iced and flavoured with various fruits. 

The final two lines refer to the "Tchin, " or Russian socialhierarchy. There are fourteen grades in the Tchin assigningrelative rank and precedence to the members of the variousdepartments of the State, civil, military, naval, court, scientific and educational. The military and naval grades fromthe 14th up to the 7th confer personal nobility only, whilstabove the 7th hereditary rank is acquired. In the remainingdepartments, civil or otherwise, personal nobility is onlyattained with the 9th grade, hereditary with the 4th. ]

XXXVI

Thus age approached, the common doom, And death before the husband wideOpened the portals of the tombAnd a new diadem supplied. (28)Just before dinner-time he slept, By neighbouring families bewept, By children and by faithful wifeWith deeper woe than others' grief. He was an honest gentleman, And where at last his bones reposeThe epitaph on marble shows:_Demetrius Larine, sinful man, Servant of God and brigadier, Enjoyeth peaceful slumber here_. 

[Note 28: A play upon the word "venetz, " crown, which alsosignifies a nimbus or glory, and is the symbol of marriagefrom the fact of two gilt crowns being held over the headsof the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony. The literalmeaning of the passage is therefore: his earthly marriagewas dissolved and a heavenly one was contracted. ]

XXXVII

To his Penates now returned, Vladimir Lenski visitedHis neighbour's lowly tomb and mournedAbove the ashes of the dead. There long time sad at heart he stayed:"Poor Yorick, " mournfully he said, "How often in thine arms I lay;How with thy medal I would play, The Medal Otchakoff conferred!(29)To me he would his Olga give, Would whisper: shall I so long live?"--And by a genuine sorrow stirred, Lenski his pencil-case took outAnd an elegiac poem wrote. 

[Note 29: The fortress of Otchakoff was taken by storm on the18th December 1788 by a Russian army under Prince Potemkin. Thirty thousand Turks are said to have perished during theassault and ensuing massacre. ]

XXXVIII

Likewise an epitaph with tearsHe writes upon his parents' tomb, And thus ancestral dust reveres. Oh! on the fields of life how bloomHarvests of souls unceasinglyBy Providence's dark decree!They blossom, ripen and they fallAnd others rise ephemeral!Thus our light race grows up and lives, A moment effervescing stirs, Then seeks ancestral sepulchres, The appointed hour arrives, arrives!And our successors soon shall driveUs from the world wherein we live. 

XXXIX

Meantime, drink deeply of the flowOf frivolous existence, friends;Its insignificance I knowAnd care but little for its ends. To dreams I long have closed mine eyes, Yet sometimes banished hopes will riseAnd agitate my heart again;And thus it is 'twould cause me painWithout the faintest trace to leaveThis world. I do not praise desire, Yet still apparently aspireMy mournful fate in verse to weave, That like a friendly voice its toneRescue me from oblivion. 

XL

Perchance some heart 'twill agitate, And then the stanzas of my themeWill not, preserved by kindly Fate, Perish absorbed by Lethe's stream. Then it may be, O flattering tale, Some future ignoramus shallMy famous portrait indicateAnd cry: he was a poet great!My gratitude do not disdain, Admirer of the peaceful Muse, Whose memory doth not refuseMy light productions to retain, Whose hands indulgently caressThe bays of age and helplessness. 

End of Canto the Second. 

CANTO THE THIRD

The Country Damsel

'Elle etait fille, elle etait amoureuse'--Malfilatre

Canto The Third

[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824. ]

I

"Whither away? Deuce take the bard!"--"Good-bye, Oneguine, I must go. "--"I won't detain you; but 'tis hardTo guess how you the eve pull through. "--"At Larina's. "--"Hem, that is queer!Pray is it not a tough affairThus to assassinate the eve?"--"Not at all. "--"That I can't conceive!'Tis something of this sort I deem. In the first place, say, am I right?A Russian household simple quite, Who welcome guests with zeal extreme, Preserves and an eternal prattleAbout the rain and flax and cattle. "--

II

"No misery I see in that"--"Boredom, my friend, behold the ill--""Your fashionable world I hate, Domestic life attracts me still, Where--"--"What! another eclogue spin?For God's sake, Lenski, don't begin!What! really going? 'Tis too bad!But Lenski, I should be so gladWould you to me this Phyllis show, Fair source of every fine idea, Verses and tears et cetera. Present me. "--"You are joking. "--"No. "--"Delighted. "--"When?"--"This very night. They will receive us with delight. "

III

Whilst homeward by the nearest routeOur heroes at full gallop sped, Can we not stealthily make outWhat they in conversation said?--"How now, Oneguine, yawning still?"--"'Tis habit, Lenski. "--"Is your illMore troublesome than usual?"--"No!How dark the night is getting though!Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!The drive becomes monotonous--Well! Larina appears to usAn ancient lady full of grace. --That bilberry wine, I'm sore afraid, The deuce with my inside has played. "

IV

"Say, of the two which was Tattiana?""She who with melancholy faceAnd silent as the maid Svetlana(30)Hard by the window took her place. "--"The younger, you're in love with her!""Well!"--"I the elder should prefer, Were I like you a bard by trade--In Olga's face no life's displayed. 'Tis a Madonna of Vandyk, An oval countenance and pink, Yon silly moon upon the brinkOf the horizon she is like!"--Vladimir something curtly saidNor further comment that night made. 

[Note 30: "Svetlana, " a short poem by Joukovski, upon which hisfame mainly rests. Joukovski was an unblushing plagiarist. Manyeminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him, often without going through the form of acknowledging thesource of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot bepronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty isunquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger's poem"Leonora, " which has found so many English translators. Notcontent with a single development of Burger's ghastly productionthe Russian poet has directly paraphrased "Leonora" under itsown title, and also written a poem "Liudmila" in imitation of it. The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: Amaiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providenceand is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother. Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover's spirit, to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunatemaiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamberthe unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs tohis own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute hiserrand. It is a repulsive subject. "Svetlana, " however, is moreagreeable than its prototype "Leonora, " inasmuch as the wholecatastrophe turns out a dream brought on by "sorcery, " during the"sviatki" or Holy Nights (see Canto V. St. X), and the dreamerawakes to hear the tinkling of her lover's sledge approaching. "Svetlana" has been translated by Sir John Bowring. ]

V

Meantime Oneguine's apparitionAt Larina's abode producedQuite a sensation; the positionTo all good neighbours' sport conduced. Endless conjectures all propoundAnd secretly their views expound. What jokes and guesses now abound, A beau is for Tattiana found!In fact, some people were assuredThe wedding-day had been arranged, But the date subsequently changedTill proper rings could be procured. On Lenski's matrimonial fateThey long ago had held debate. 

VI

Of course Tattiana was annoyedBy such allusions scandalous, Yet was her inmost soul o'erjoyedWith satisfaction marvellous, As in her heart the thought sank home, I am in love, my hour hath come!Thus in the earth the seed expandsObedient to warm Spring's commands. Long time her young imaginationBy indolence and languor firedThe fated nutriment desired;And long internal agitationHad filled her youthful breast with gloom, She waited for--I don't know whom!

VII

The fatal hour had come at last--She oped her eyes and cried: 'tis he!Alas! for now before her passedThe same warm vision constantly;Now all things round about repeatCeaselessly to the maiden sweetHis name: the tenderness of homeTiresome unto her hath becomeAnd the kind-hearted servitors:Immersed in melancholy thought, She hears of conversation noughtAnd hated casual visitors, Their coming which no man expects, And stay whose length none recollects. 

VIII

Now with what eager interestShe the delicious novel reads, With what avidity and zestShe drinks in those seductive deeds!All the creations which belowFrom happy inspiration flow, The swain of Julia Wolmar, Malek Adel and De Linar, (31)Werther, rebellious martyr bold, And that unrivalled paragon, The sleep-compelling Grandison, Our tender dreamer had enrolledA single being: 'twas in fineNo other than Oneguine mine. 

[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin'stime: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famousMadame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of thispoem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but nowconsigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with thetransitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. Onehas now to search for the very names of most of the popularauthors of Pushkin's day and rummage biographical dictionariesfor the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet's primewas but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age hewould have been amongst us still. He was four years youngerthan the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson'spopularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all. ]

IX

Dreaming herself the heroineOf the romances she preferred, Clarissa, Julia, Delphine, --(32)Tattiana through the forest erred, And the bad book accompanies. Upon those pages she descriesHer passion's faithful counterpart, Fruit of the yearnings of the heart. She heaves a sigh and deep intentOn raptures, sorrows not her own, She murmurs in an undertoneA letter for her hero meant:That hero, though his merit shone, Was certainly no Grandison. 

[Note 32: Referring to Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe, " "LaNouvelle Heloise, " and Madame de Stael's "Delphine. "]

X

Alas! my friends, the years flit byAnd after them at headlong paceThe evanescent fashions flyIn motley and amusing chase. The world is ever altering!Farthingales, patches, were the thing, And courtier, fop, and usurerWould once in powdered wig appear;Time was, the poet's tender quillIn hopes of everlasting fameA finished madrigal would frameOr couplets more ingenious still;Time was, a valiant general mightServe who could neither read nor write. 

XI

Time was, in style magniloquentAuthors replete with sacred fireTheir heroes used to representAll that perfection could desire;Ever by adverse fate oppressed, Their idols they were wont to investWith intellect, a taste refined, And handsome countenance combined, A heart wherein pure passion burnt;The excited hero in a triceWas ready for self-sacrifice, And in the final tome we learnt, Vice had due punishment awarded, Virtue was with a bride rewarded. 

XII

But now our minds are mystifiedAnd Virtue acts as a narcotic, Vice in romance is glorifiedAnd triumphs in career erotic. The monsters of the British MuseDeprive our schoolgirls of repose, The idols of their adorationA Vampire fond of meditation, Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he, The Eternal Jew or the CorsairOr the mysterious Sbogar. (33)Byron's capricious phantasyCould in romantic mantle drapeE'en hopeless egoism's dark shape. 

[Note 33: "Melmoth, " a romance by Maturin, and "Jean Sbogar, " byCh. Nodier. "The Vampire, " a tale published in 1819, waserroneously attributed to Lord Byron. "Salathiel; the EternalJew, " a romance by Geo. Croly. ]

XIII

My friends, what means this odd digression?May be that I by heaven's decreesShall abdicate the bard's profession, And shall adopt some new caprice. Thus having braved Apollo's rageWith humble prose I'll fill my pageAnd a romance in ancient styleShall my declining years beguile;Nor shall my pen paint terriblyThe torment born of crime unseen, But shall depict the touching sceneOf Russian domesticity;I will descant on love's sweet dream, The olden time shall be my theme. 

XIV

Old people's simple conversationsMy unpretending page shall fill, Their offspring's innocent flirtationsBy the old lime-tree or the rill, Their Jealousy and separationAnd tears of reconciliation:Fresh cause of quarrel then I'll find, But finally in wedlock bind. The passionate speeches I'll repeat, Accents of rapture or despairI uttered to my lady fairLong ago, prostrate at her feet. Then they came easily enow, My tongue is somewhat rusty now. 

XV

Tattiana! sweet Tattiana, see!What bitter tears with thee I shed!Thou hast resigned thy destinyUnto a ruthless tyrant dread. Thou'lt suffer, dearest, but before, Hope with her fascinating powerTo dire contentment shall give birthAnd thou shalt taste the joys of earth. Thou'lt quaff love's sweet envenomed stream, Fantastic images shall swarmIn thy imagination warm, Of happy meetings thou shalt dream, And wheresoe'er thy footsteps err, Confront thy fated torturer!

XVI

Love's pangs Tattiana agonize. She seeks the garden in her need--Sudden she stops, casts down her eyesAnd cares not farther to proceed;Her bosom heaves whilst crimson huesWith sudden flush her cheeks suffuse, Barely to draw her breath she seems, Her eye with fire unwonted gleams. And now 'tis night, the guardian moonSails her allotted course on high, And from the misty woodland nighThe nightingale trills forth her tune;Restless Tattiana sleepless layAnd thus unto her nurse did say:

XVII

"Nurse, 'tis so close I cannot rest. Open the window--sit by me. ""What ails thee, dear?"--"I feel depressed. Relate some ancient history. ""But which, my dear?--In days of yoreWithin my memory I boreMany an ancient legend whichIn monsters and fair dames was rich;But now my mind is desolate, What once I knew is clean forgot--Alas! how wretched now my lot!""But tell me, nurse, can you relateThe days which to your youth belong?Were you in love when you were young?"--

XVIII

"Alack! Tattiana, " she replied, "We never loved in days of old, My mother-in-law who lately died(34)Had killed me had the like been told. ""How came you then to wed a man?"--"Why, as God ordered! My IvanWas younger than myself, my light, For I myself was thirteen quite;(35)The matchmaker a fortnight sped, Her suit before my parents pressing:At last my father gave his blessing, And bitter tears of fright I shed. Weeping they loosed my tresses long(36)And led me off to church with song. "

[Note 34: A young married couple amongst Russian peasantsreside in the house of the bridegroom's father till the"tiaglo, " or family circle is broken up by his death. ]

[Note 35: Marriages amongst Russian serfs used formerly totake place at ridiculously early ages. Haxthausen assertsthat strong hearty peasant women were to be seen at workin the fields with their infant husbands in their arms. Theinducement lay in the fact that the "tiaglo" (see previousnote) received an additional lot of the communal land forevery male added to its number, though this could have formedan inducement in the southern and fertile provinces of Russiaonly, as it is believed that agriculture in the north is sounremunerative that land has often to be forced upon thepeasants, in order that the taxes, for which the whole Communeis responsible to Government, may be paid. The abuse of earlymarriages was regulated by Tsar Nicholas. ]

[Note 36: Courtships were not unfrequently carried on in thelarger villages, which alone could support such an individual, by means of a "svakha, " or matchmaker. In Russia unmarriedgirls wear their hair in a single long plait or tail, "kossa;"the married women, on the other hand, in two, which are twistedinto the head-gear. ]

XIX

"Then amongst strangers I was left--But I perceive thou dost not heed--""Alas! dear nurse, my heart is cleft, Mortally sick I am indeed. Behold, my sobs I scarce restrain--""My darling child, thou art in pain. --The Lord deliver her and save!Tell me at once what wilt thou have?I'll sprinkle thee with holy water. --How thy hands burn!"--"Dear nurse, I'm well. I am--in love--you know--don't tell!""The Lord be with thee, O my daughter!"--And the old nurse a brief prayer saidAnd crossed with trembling hand the maid. 

XX

"I am in love, " her whispers tellThe aged woman in her woe:"My heart's delight, thou art not well. "--"I am in love, nurse! leave me now. "Behold! the moon was shining brightAnd showed with an uncertain lightTattiana's beauty, pale with care, Her tears and her dishevelled hair;And on the footstool sitting downBeside our youthful heroine fair, A kerchief round her silver hairThe aged nurse in ample gown, (37)Whilst all creation seemed to dreamEnchanted by the moon's pale beam. 

[Note 37: It is thus that I am compelled to render a femalegarment not known, so far as I am aware, to Western Europe. It is called by the natives "doushegreika, " that is to say, "warmer of the soul"--in French, chaufferette de l'ame. Itis a species of thick pelisse worn over the "sarafan, " orgown. ]

XXI

But borne in spirit far awayTattiana gazes on the moon, And starting suddenly doth say:"Nurse, leave me. I would be alone. Pen, paper bring: the table tooDraw near. I soon to sleep shall go--Good-night. " Behold! she is alone!'Tis silent--on her shines the moon--Upon her elbow she reclines, And Eugene ever in her soulIndites an inconsiderate scrollWherein love innocently pines. Now it is ready to be sent--For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?

XXII

I have known beauties cold and rawAs Winter in their purity, Striking the intellect with aweBy dull insensibility, And I admired their common senseAnd natural benevolence, But, I acknowledge, from them fled;For on their brows I trembling readThe inscription o'er the gates of Hell"Abandon hope for ever here!"(38)Love to inspire doth woe appearTo such--delightful to repel. Perchance upon the Neva e'enSimilar dames ye may have seen. 

[Note 38: A Russian annotator complains that the poet hasmutilated Dante's famous line. ]

XXIII

Amid submissive herds of menVirgins miraculous I see, Who selfishly unmoved remainAlike by sighs and flattery. But what astonished do I findWhen harsh demeanour hath consignedA timid love to banishment?--On fresh allurements they are bent, At least by show of sympathy;At least their accents and their wordsAppear attuned to softer chords;And then with blind credulityThe youthful lover once againPursues phantasmagoria vain. 

XXIV

Why is Tattiana guiltier deemed?--Because in singleness of thoughtShe never of deception dreamedBut trusted the ideal she wrought?--Because her passion wanted art, Obeyed the impulses of heart?--Because she was so innocent, That Heaven her character had blentWith an imagination wild, With intellect and strong volitionAnd a determined disposition, An ardent heart and yet so mild?--Doth love's incautiousness in herSo irremissible appear?

XXV

O ye whom tender love hath painedWithout the ken of parents both, Whose hearts responsive have remainedTo the impressions of our youth, The all-entrancing joys of love--Young ladies, if ye ever stroveThe mystic lines to tear awayA lover's letter might convey, Or into bold hands anxiouslyHave e'er a precious tress consigned, Or even, silent and resigned, When separation's hour drew nigh, Have felt love's agitated kissWith tears, confused emotions, bliss, --

XXVI

With unanimity complete, Condemn not weak Tattiana mine;Do not cold-bloodedly repeatThe sneers of critics superfine;And you, O maids immaculate, Whom vice, if named, doth agitateE'en as the presence of a snake, I the same admonition make. Who knows? with love's consuming flamePerchance you also soon may burn, Then to some gallant in your turnWill be ascribed by treacherous FameThe triumph of a conquest new. The God of Love is after you!

XXVII

A coquette loves by calculation, Tattiana's love was quite sincere, A love which knew no limitation, Even as the love of children dear. She did not think "procrastinationEnhances love in estimationAnd thus secures the prey we seek. His vanity first let us piqueWith hope and then perplexity, Excruciate the heart and lateWith jealous fire resuscitate, Lest jaded with satiety, The artful prisoner should seekIncessantly his chains to break. "

XXVIII

I still a complication view, My country's honour and reputeDemands that I translate for youThe letter which Tattiana wrote. At Russ she was by no means cleverAnd read our newspapers scarce ever, And in her native language shePossessed nor ease nor fluency, So she in French herself expressed. I cannot help it I declare, Though hitherto a lady ne'erIn Russ her love made manifest, And never hath our language proudIn correspondence been allowed. (39)

[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late TsarFrench was the language of the Russian court and of Russianfashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the timethis poem was written literary warfare more or less open wasbeing waged between two hostile schools of Russian men ofletters. These consisted of the _Arzamass_, or French school, towhich Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkinthe "Nestor of the Arzamass" belonged, and their opponents whodevoted themselves to the cultivation of the vernacular. ]

XXIX

They wish that ladies should, I hear, Learn Russian, but the Lord defend!I can't conceive a little dearWith the "Well-Wisher" in her hand!(40)I ask, all ye who poets are, Is it not true? the objects fair, To whom ye for unnumbered crimesHad to compose in secret rhymes, To whom your hearts were consecrate, --Did they not all the Russian tongueWith little knowledge and that wrongIn charming fashion mutilate?Did not their lips with foreign speechThe native Russian tongue impeach?

[Note 40: The "Blago-Namierenni, " or "Well-Wisher, " was aninferior Russian newspaper of the day, much scoffed at bycontemporaries. The editor once excused himself for somegross error by pleading that he had been "on the loose. "]

XXX

God grant I meet not at a ballOr at a promenade mayhap, A schoolmaster in yellow shawlOr a professor in tulle cap. As rosy lips without a smile, The Russian language I deem vileWithout grammatical mistakes. May be, and this my terror wakes, The fair of the next generation, As every journal now entreats, Will teach grammatical conceits, Introduce verse in conversation. But I--what is all this to me?Will to the old times faithful be. 

XXXI

Speech careless, incorrect, but soft, With inexact pronunciationRaises within my breast as oftAs formerly much agitation. Repentance wields not now her spellAnd gallicisms I love as wellAs the sins of my youthful daysOr Bogdanovitch's sweet lays. (41)But I must now employ my MuseWith the epistle of my fair;I promised!--Did I so?--Well, there!Now I am ready to refuse. I know that Parny's tender pen(42)Is no more cherished amongst men. 

[Note 41: Hippolyte Bogdanovitch--b. 1743, d. 1803--thoughpossessing considerable poetical talent was like many otherRussian authors more remarkable for successful imitationthan for original genius. His most remarkable productionis "Doushenka, " "The Darling, " a composition somewhat inthe style of La Fontaine's "Psyche. " Its merit consists ingraceful phraseology, and a strong pervading sense of humour. ]

[Note 42: Parny--a French poet of the era of the first Napoleon, b. 1753, d. 1814. Introduced to the aged Voltaire duringhis last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands uponthe youth's head and exclaimed: "Mon cher Tibulle. " He ischiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted theaffectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a studentat the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted apension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damagehis literary reputation by inditing an "epic" poem entitled"Goddam! Goddam! par un French--Dog. " It is descriptiveof the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, andtreats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to asuccessful conclusion and become matter of history. A goodaccount of the bard and his creations will be found in the_Saturday Review_ of the 2d August 1879. ]

XXXII

Bard of the "Feasts, " and mournful breast, (43)If thou wert sitting by my side, With this immoderate requestI should alarm our friendship tried:In one of thine enchanting laysTo russify the foreign phraseOf my impassioned heroine. Where art thou? Come! pretensions mineI yield with a low reverence;But lonely beneath Finnish skiesWhere melancholy rocks ariseHe wanders in his indolence;Careless of fame his spirit highHears not my importunity!

[Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and alyric poet of some originality and talent. The "Feasts" isa short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkinis therein praised as the best of companions "beside thebottle. "]

XXXIII

Tattiana's letter I possess, I guard it as a holy thing, And though I read it with distress, I'm o'er it ever pondering. Inspired by whom this tenderness, This gentle daring who could guess?Who this soft nonsense could impart, Imprudent prattle of the heart, Attractive in its banefulness?I cannot understand. But lo!A feeble version read below, A print without the picture's grace, Or, as it were, the Freischutz' scoreStrummed by a timid schoolgirl o'er. 

Tattiana's Letter to Oneguine

I write to you! Is more required?Can lower depths beyond remain?'Tis in your power now, if desired, To crush me with a just disdain. But if my lot unfortunateYou in the least commiserateYou will not all abandon me. At first, I clung to secrecy:Believe me, of my present shameYou never would have heard the name, If the fond hope I could have fannedAt times, if only once a week, To see you by our fireside stand, To listen to the words you speak, Address to you one single phraseAnd then to meditate for daysOf one thing till again we met. 'Tis said you are a misanthrope, In country solitude you mope, And we--an unattractive set--Can hearty welcome give alone. Why did you visit our poor place?Forgotten in the village lone, I never should have seen your faceAnd bitter torment never known. The untutored spirit's pangs calmed downBy time (who can anticipate?)I had found my predestinate, Become a faithful wife and e'enA fond and careful mother been. 

Another! to none other IMy heart's allegiance can resign, My doom has been pronounced on high, 'Tis Heaven's will and I am thine. The sum of my existence goneBut promise of our meeting gave, I feel thou wast by God sent downMy guardian angel to the grave. Thou didst to me in dreams appear, Unseen thou wast already dear. Thine eye subdued me with strange glance, I heard thy voice's resonanceLong ago. Dream it cannot be!Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew, I flushed up, stupefied I grew, And cried within myself: 'tis he!Is it not truth? in tones suppressedWith thee I conversed when I boreComfort and succour to the poor, And when I prayer to Heaven addressedTo ease the anguish of my breast. Nay! even as this instant fled, Was it not thou, O vision bright, That glimmered through the radiant nightAnd gently hovered o'er my head?Was it not thou who thus didst stoopTo whisper comfort, love and hope?Who art thou? Guardian angel sentOr torturer malevolent?Doubt and uncertainty decide:All this may be an empty dream, Delusions of a mind untried, Providence otherwise may deem--Then be it so! My destinyFrom henceforth I confide to thee!Lo! at thy feet my tears I pourAnd thy protection I implore. Imagine! Here alone am I!No one my anguish comprehends, At times my reason almost bends, And silently I here must die--But I await thee: scarce aliveMy heart with but one look revive;Or to disturb my dreams approachAlas! with merited reproach. 

'Tis finished. Horrible to read!With shame I shudder and with dread--But boldly I myself resign:Thine honour is my countersign!

XXXIV

Tattiana moans and now she sighsAnd in her grasp the letter shakes, Even the rosy wafer driesUpon her tongue which fever bakes. Her head upon her breast declinesAnd an enchanting shoulder shinesFrom her half-open vest of night. But lo! already the moon's lightIs waning. Yonder valley deepLooms gray behind the mist and mornSilvers the brook; the shepherd's hornArouses rustics from their sleep. 'Tis day, the family downstairs, But nought for this Tattiana cares. 

XXXV

The break of day she doth not see, But sits in bed with air depressed, Nor on the letter yet hath sheThe image of her seal impressed. But gray Phillippevna the doorOpened with care, and entering boreA cup of tea upon a tray. "'Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!My beauty, thou art ready too. My morning birdie, yesternightI was half silly with affright. But praised be God! in health art thou!The pains of night have wholly fled, Thy cheek is as a poppy red!"

XXXVI

"Ah! nurse, a favour do for me!""Command me, darling, what you choose""Do not--you might--suspicious be;But look you--ah! do not refuse. ""I call to witness God on high--""Then send your grandson quietlyTo take this letter to O-- Well!Unto our neighbour. Mind you tell--Command him not to say a word--I mean my name not to repeat. ""To whom is it to go, my sweet?Of late I have been quite absurd, --So many neighbours here exist--Am I to go through the whole list?"

XXXVII

"How dull you are this morning, nurse!""My darling, growing old am I!In age the memory gets worse, But I was sharp in times gone by. In times gone by thy bare command--""Oh! nurse, nurse, you don't understand!What is thy cleverness to me?The letter is the thing, you see, --Oneguine's letter!"--"Ah! the thing!Now don't be cross with me, my soul, You know that I am now a fool--But why are your cheeks whitening?""Nothing, good nurse, there's nothing wrong, But send your grandson before long. "

XXXVIII

No answer all that day was borne. Another passed; 'twas just the same. Pale as a ghost and dressed since mornTattiana waits. No answer came!Olga's admirer came that day:"Tell me, why doth your comrade stay?"The hostess doth interrogate:"He hath neglected us of late. "--Tattiana blushed, her heart beat quick--"He promised here this day to ride, "Lenski unto the dame replied, "The post hath kept him, it is like. "Shamefaced, Tattiana downward lookedAs if he cruelly had joked!

XXXIX

'Twas dusk! Upon the table brightShrill sang the _samovar_ at eve, (44)The china teapot too ye mightIn clouds of steam above perceive. Into the cups already spedBy Olga's hand distributedThe fragrant tea in darkling stream, And a boy handed round the cream. Tania doth by the casement lingerAnd breathes upon the chilly glass, Dreaming of what not, pretty lass, And traces with a slender fingerUpon its damp opacity, The mystic monogram, O. E. 

[Note 44: The _samovar_, i. E. "self-boiler, " is merely anurn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observea similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns whichare provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder incenter. The tea-pot is usually placed on the top of the_samovar_. ]

XL

In the meantime her spirit sinks, Her weary eyes are filled with tears--A horse's hoofs she hears--She shrinks!Nearer they come--Eugene appears!Ah! than a spectre from the deadMore swift the room Tattiana fled, From hall to yard and garden flies, Not daring to cast back her eyes. She fears and like an arrow rushesThrough park and meadow, wood and brake, The bridge and alley to the lake, Brambles she snaps and lilacs crushes, The flowerbeds skirts, the brook doth meet, Till out of breath upon a seat

XLI

She sank. -- "He's here! Eugene is here!Merciful God, what will he deem?"Yet still her heart, which torments tear, Guards fondly hope's uncertain dream. She waits, on fire her trembling frame--Will he pursue?--But no one came. She heard of servant-maids the note, Who in the orchards gathered fruit, Singing in chorus all the while. (This by command; for it was found, However cherries might abound, They disappeared by stealth and guile, So mouths they stopt with song, not fruit--Device of rural minds acute!)

The Maidens' Song

Young maidens, fair maidens, Friends and companions, Disport yourselves, maidens, Arouse yourselves, fair ones. Come sing we in chorusThe secrets of maidens. Allure the young gallantWith dance and with song. As we lure the young gallant, Espy him approaching, Disperse yourselves, darlings, And pelt him with cherries, With cherries, red currants, With raspberries, cherries. Approach not to hearkenTo secrets of virgins, Approach not to gaze atThe frolics of maidens. 

XLII

They sang, whilst negligently seated, Attentive to the echoing sound, Tattiana with impatience waitedUntil her heart less high should bound--Till the fire in her cheek decreased;But tremor still her frame possessed, Nor did her blushes fade away, More crimson every moment they. Thus shines the wretched butterfly, With iridescent wing doth flapWhen captured in a schoolboy's cap;Thus shakes the hare when suddenlyShe from the winter corn espiesA sportsman who in covert lies. 

XLIII

But finally she heaves a sigh, And rising from her bench proceeds;But scarce had turned the corner nigh, Which to the neighbouring alley leads, When Eugene like a ghost did riseBefore her straight with roguish eyes. Tattiana faltered, and becameScarlet as burnt by inward flame. But this adventure's consequenceTo-day, my friends, at any rate, I am not strong enough to state;I, after so much eloquence, Must take a walk and rest a bit--Some day I'll somehow finish it. 

End of Canto the Third

CANTO THE FOURTH

Rural Life

'La Morale est dans la nature des choses. '--Necker

Canto The Fourth

[Mikhailovskoe, 1825]

I

THE less we love a lady fairThe easier 'tis to gain her grace, And the more surely we ensnareHer in the pitfalls which we place. Time was when cold seduction stroveTo swagger as the art of love, Everywhere trumpeting its feats, Not seeking love but sensual sweets. But this amusement delicateWas worthy of that old baboon, Our fathers used to dote upon;The Lovelaces are out of date, Their glory with their heels of redAnd long perukes hath vanished. 

II

For who imposture can endure, A constant harping on one tune, Serious endeavours to assureWhat everybody long has known;Ever to hear the same repliesAnd overcome antipathiesWhich never have existed, e'enIn little maidens of thirteen?And what like menaces fatigues, Entreaties, oaths, fictitious fear, Epistles of six sheets or near, Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues, Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny, And husbands' tedious amity?

III

Such were the musings of Eugene. He in the early years of lifeHad a deluded victim beenOf error and the passions' strife. By daily life deteriorated, Awhile this beauty captivated, And that no longer could inspire. Slowly exhausted by desire, Yet satiated with success, In solitude or worldly din, He heard his soul's complaint within, With laughter smothered weariness:And thus he spent eight years of time, Destroyed the blossom of his prime. 

IV

Though beauty he no more adored, He still made love in a queer way;Rebuffed--as quickly reassured, Jilted--glad of a holiday. Without enthusiasm he metThe fair, nor parted with regret, Scarce mindful of their love and guile. Thus a guest with composure willTo take a hand at whist oft come:He takes his seat, concludes his game, And straight returning whence he came, Tranquilly goes to sleep at home, And in the morning doth not knowWhither that evening he will go. 

V

However, Tania's letter reading, Eugene was touched with sympathy;The language of her girlish pleadingAroused in him sweet reverie. He called to mind Tattiana's grace, Pallid and melancholy face, And in a vision, sinless, bright, His spirit sank with strange delight. May be the empire of the sense, Regained authority awhile, But he desired not to beguileSuch open-hearted innocence. But to the garden once againWherein we lately left the twain. 

VI

Two minutes they in silence spent, Oneguine then approached and said:"You have a letter to me sent. Do not excuse yourself. I readConfessions which a trusting heartMay well in innocence impart. Charming is your sincerity, Feelings which long had ceased to beIt wakens in my breast again. But I came not to adulate:Your frankness I shall compensateBy an avowal just as plain. An ear to my confession lend;To thy decree my will I bend. 

VII

"If the domestic hearth could bless--My sum of happiness contained;If wife and children to possessA happy destiny ordained:If in the scenes of home I mightE'en for an instant find delight, Then, I say truly, none but theeI would desire my bride to be--I say without poetic phrase, Found the ideal of my youth, Thee only would I choose, in truth, As partner of my mournful days, Thee only, pledge of all things bright, And be as happy--as I might. 

VIII

"But strange am I to happiness;'Tis foreign to my cast of thought;Me your perfections would not bless;I am not worthy them in aught;And honestly 'tis my beliefOur union would produce but grief. Though now my love might be intense, Habit would bring indifference. I see you weep. Those tears of yoursTend not my heart to mitigate, But merely to exasperate;Judge then what roses would be ours, What pleasures Hymen would prepareFor us, may be for many a year. 

IX

"What can be drearier than the house, Wherein the miserable wifeDeplores a most unworthy spouseAnd leads a solitary life?The tiresome man, her value knowing, Yet curses on his fate bestowing, Is full of frigid jealousy, Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily. Such am I. This did ye expect, When in simplicity ye wroteYour innocent and charming noteWith so much warmth and intellect?Hath fate apportioned unto theeThis lot in life with stern decree?

X

"Ideas and time ne'er backward move;My soul I cannot renovate--I love you with a brother's love, Perchance one more affectionate. Listen to me without disdain. A maid hath oft, may yet againReplace the visions fancy drew;Thus trees in spring their leaves renewAs in their turn the seasons roll. 'Tis evidently Heaven's willYou fall in love again. But still--Learn to possess more self-control. Not all will like myself proceed--And thoughtlessness to woe might lead. "

XI

Thus did our friend Oneguine preach:Tattiana, dim with tears her eyes, Attentive listened to his speech, All breathless and without replies. His arm he offers. Mute and sad(_Mechanically_, let us add), Tattiana doth accept his aid;And, hanging down her head, the maidAround the garden homeward hies. Together they returned, nor wordOf censure for the same incurred;The country hath its libertiesAnd privileges nice allowed, Even as Moscow, city proud. 

XII

Confess, O ye who this peruse, Oneguine acted very wellBy poor Tattiana in the blues;'Twas not the first time, I can tellYou, he a noble mind disclosed, Though some men, evilly disposed, Spared him not their asperities. His friends and also enemies(One and the same thing it may be)Esteemed him much as the world goes. Yes! every one must have his foes, But Lord! from friends deliver me!The deuce take friends, my friends, amendsI've had to make for having friends!

XIII

But how? Quite so. Though I dismissDark, unavailing reverie, I just hint, in parenthesis, There is no stupid calumnyBorn of a babbler in a loftAnd by the world repeated oft, There is no fishmarket retortAnd no ridiculous report, Which your true friend with a sweet smileWhere fashionable circles meetA hundred times will not repeat, Quite inadvertently meanwhile;And yet he in your cause would striveAnd loves you as--a relative!

XIV

Ahem! Ahem! My reader noble, Are all your relatives quite well?Permit me; is it worth the troubleFor your instruction here to tellWhat I by relatives conceive?These are your relatives, believe:Those whom we ought to love, caress, With spiritual tenderness;Whom, as the custom is of men, We visit about Christmas Day, Or by a card our homage pay, That until Christmas comes againThey may forget that we exist. And so--God bless them, if He list. 

XV

In this the love of the fair sexBeats that of friends and relatives:In love, although its tempests vex, Our liberty at least survives:Agreed! but then the whirl of fashion, The natural fickleness of passion, The torrent of opinion, And the fair sex as light as down!Besides the hobbies of a spouseShould be respected throughout lifeBy every proper-minded wife, And this the faithful one allows, When in as instant she is lost, --Satan will jest, and at love's cost. 

XVI

Oh! where bestow our love? Whom trust?Where is he who doth not deceive?Who words and actions will adjustTo standards in which we believe?Oh! who is not calumnious?Who labours hard to humour us?To whom are our misfortunes griefAnd who is not a tiresome thief?My venerated reader, oh!Cease the pursuit of shadows vain, Spare yourself unavailing painAnd all your love on self bestow;A worthy object 'tis, and wellI know there's none more amiable. 

XVII

But from the interview what flowed?Alas! It is not hard to guess. The insensate fire of love still glowedNor discontinued to distressA spirit which for sorrow yearned. Tattiana more than ever burnedWith hopeless passion: from her bedSweet slumber winged its way and fled. Her health, life's sweetness and its bloom, Her smile and maidenly repose, All vanished as an echo goes. Across her youth a shade had come, As when the tempest's veil is drawnAcross the smiling face of dawn. 

XVIII

Alas! Tattiana fades away, Grows pale and sinks, but nothing says;Listless is she the livelong dayNor interest in aught betrays. Shaking with serious air the head, In whispers low the neighbours said:'Tis time she to the altar went!But enough! Now, 'tis my intentThe imagination to enlivenWith love which happiness extends;Against my inclination, friends, By sympathy I have been driven. Forgive me! Such the love I bearMy heroine, Tattiana dear. 

XIX

Vladimir, hourly more a slaveTo youthful Olga's beauty bright, Into delicious bondage gaveHis ardent soul with full delight. Always together, eventideFound them in darkness side by side, At morn, hand clasped in hand, they roveAround the meadow and the grove. And what resulted? Drunk with love, But with confused and bashful air, Lenski at intervals would dare, If Olga smilingly approve, Dally with a dishevelled tressOr kiss the border of her dress. 

XX

To Olga frequently he wouldSome nice instructive novel read, Whose author nature understoodBetter than Chateaubriand didYet sometimes pages two or three(Nonsense and pure absurdity, For maiden's hearing deemed unfit), He somewhat blushing would omit:Far from the rest the pair would creepAnd (elbows on the table) theyA game of chess would often play, Buried in meditation deep, Till absently Vladimir tookWith his own pawn alas! his rook!

XXI

Homeward returning, he at homeIs occupied with Olga fair, An album, fly-leaf of the tome, He leisurely adorns for her. Landscapes thereon he would design, A tombstone, Aphrodite's shrine, Or, with a pen and colours fit, A dove which on a lyre doth sit;The "in memoriam" pages sought, Where many another hand had signedA tender couplet he combined, A register of fleeting thought, A flimsy trace of musings pastWhich might for many ages last. 

XXII

Surely ye all have overhauledA country damsel's album trim, Which all her darling friends have scrawledFrom first to last page to the rim. Behold! orthography despising, Metreless verses recognizingBy friendship how they were abused, Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used. Upon the opening page ye find:_Qu'ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?_Subscribed, _toujours a vous, Annette;_And on the last one, underlined:_Who in thy love finds more delightBeyond this may attempt to write_. 

XXIII

Infallibly you there will findTwo hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath, And vows will probably be signed:_Affectionately yours till death_. Some army poet therein mayHave smuggled his flagitious lay. In such an album with delightI would, my friends, inscriptions write, Because I should be sure, meanwhile, My verses, kindly meant, would earnDelighted glances in return;That afterwards with evil smileThey would not solemnly debateIf cleverly or not I prate. 

XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare, Which from the devil's bookcase start, Albums magnificent which scareThe fashionable rhymester's heart!Yea! although rendered beauteousBy Tolstoy's pencil marvellous, Though Baratynski verses penned, (45)The thunderbolt on you descend!Whene'er a brilliant courtly damePresents her quarto amiably, Despair and anger seize on me, And a malicious epigramTrembles upon my lips from spite, --And madrigals I'm asked to write!

[Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequentlybecame Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg. Baratynski, see Note 43. ]

XXV

But Lenski madrigals ne'er wroteIn Olga's album, youthful maid, To purest love he tuned his noteNor frigid adulation paid. What never was remarked or heardOf Olga he in song averred;His elegies, which plenteous streamed, Both natural and truthful seemed. Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46)In amorous flights when so inspired, Singing God knows what maid admired, And all thy precious elegies, Sometime collected, shall relateThe story of thy life and fate. 

[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He wasan author of promise--unfulfilled. ]

XXVI

Since Fame and Freedom he adored, Incited by his stormy MuseOdes Lenski also had outpoured, But Olga would not such peruse. When poets lachrymose reciteBeneath the eyes of ladies brightTheir own productions, some insistNo greater pleasure can existJust so! that modest swain is blestWho reads his visionary themeTo the fair object of his dream, A beauty languidly at rest, Yes, happy--though she at his sideBy other thoughts be occupied. 

XXVII

But I the products of my Muse, Consisting of harmonious lays, To my old nurse alone peruse, Companion of my childhood's days. Or, after dinner's dull repast, I by the button-hole seize fastMy neighbour, who by chance drew near, And breathe a drama in his ear. Or else (I deal not here in jokes), Exhausted by my woes and rhymes, I sail upon my lake at timesAnd terrify a swarm of ducks, Who, heard the music of my lay, Take to their wings and fly away. 

XXVIII

But to Oneguine! _A propos_!Friends, I must your indulgence pray. His daily occupations, lo!Minutely I will now portray. A hermit's life Oneguine led, At seven in summer rose from bed, And clad in airy costume tookHis course unto the running brook. There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spannedHis Hellespont from bank to bank, And then a cup of coffee drank, Some wretched journal in his hand;Then dressed himself. .. (*)

[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author. ]

XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss, The murmuring brook, the woodland shade, The uncontaminated kissOf a young dark-eyed country maid, A fiery, yet well-broken horse, A dinner, whimsical each course, A bottle of a vintage whiteAnd solitude and calm delight. Such was Oneguine's sainted life, And such unconsciously he led, Nor marked how summer's prime had fledIn aimless ease and far from strife, The curse of commonplace delight. And town and friends forgotten quite. 

XXX

This northern summer of our own, On winters of the south a skit, Glimmers and dies. This is well known, Though we will not acknowledge it. Already Autumn chilled the sky, The tiny sun shone less on highAnd shorter had the days become. The forests in mysterious gloomWere stripped with melancholy sound, Upon the earth a mist did lieAnd many a caravan on highOf clamorous geese flew southward bound. A weary season was at hand--November at the gate did stand. 

XXXI

The morn arises foggy, cold, The silent fields no peasant nears, The wolf upon the highways boldWith his ferocious mate appears. Detecting him the passing horsesnorts, and his rider bends his courseAnd wisely gallops to the hill. No more at dawn the shepherd willDrive out the cattle from their shed, Nor at the hour of noon with soundOf horn in circle call them round. Singing inside her hut the maidSpins, whilst the friend of wintry night, The pine-torch, by her crackles bright. 

XXXII

Already crisp hoar frosts imposeO'er all a sheet of silvery dust(Readers expect the rhyme of _rose_, There! take it quickly, if ye must). Behold! than polished floor more niceThe shining river clothed in ice;A joyous troop of little boysEngrave the ice with strident noise. A heavy goose on scarlet feet, Thinking to float upon the stream, Descends the bank with care extreme, But staggers, slips, and falls. We greetThe first bright wreathing storm of snowWhich falls in starry flakes below. 

XXXIII

How in the country pass this time?Walking? The landscape tires the eyeIn winter by its blank and dimAnd naked uniformity. On horseback gallop o'er the steppe!Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keepHis footing on the treacherous rimeAnd may fall headlong any time. Alone beneath your rooftree stayAnd read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47)Keep your accounts! You'd rather not?Then get mad drunk or wroth; the dayWill pass; the same to-morrow try--You'll spend your winter famously!

[Note 47: The Abbe de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A politicalpamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre, but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishopof Malines. ]

XXXIV

A true Childe Harold my EugeneTo idle musing was a prey;At morn an icy bath withinHe sat, and then the livelong day, Alone within his habitationAnd buried deep in meditation, He round the billiard-table stalked, The balls impelled, the blunt cue chalked;When evening o'er the landscape looms, Billiards abandoned, cue forgot, A table to the fire is brought, And he waits dinner. Lenski comes, Driving abreast three horses gray. "Bring dinner now without delay!"

XXXV

Upon the table in a triceOf widow Clicquot or MoetA blessed bottle, placed in ice, For the young poet they display. Like Hippocrene it scatters light, Its ebullition foaming white(Like other things I could relate)My heart of old would captivate. The last poor obol I was worth--Was it not so?--for thee I gave, And thy inebriating waveFull many a foolish prank brought forth;And oh! what verses, what delights, Delicious visions, jests and fights!

XXXVI

Alas! my stomach it betraysWith its exhilarating flow, And I confess that now-a-daysI prefer sensible Bordeaux. To cope with Ay no more I dare, For Ay is like a mistress fair, Seductive, animated, bright, But wilful, frivolous, and light. But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friendWho in the agony of griefIs ever ready with relief, Assistance ever will extend, Or quietly partake our woe. All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!

XXXVII

The fire sinks low. An ashy cloakThe golden ember now enshrines, And barely visible the smokeUpward in a thin stream inclines. But little warmth the fireplace lends, Tobacco smoke the flue ascends, The goblet still is bubbling bright--Outside descend the mists of night. How pleasantly the evening jogsWhen o'er a glass with friends we prateJust at the hour we designateThe time between the wolf and dogs--I cannot tell on what pretence--But lo! the friends to chat commence. 

XXXVIII

"How are our neighbours fair, pray tell, Tattiana, saucy Olga thine?""The family are all quite well--Give me just half a glass of wine--They sent their compliments--but oh!How charming Olga's shoulders grow!Her figure perfect grows with time!She is an angel! We sometimeMust visit them. Come! you must own, My friend, 'tis but to pay a debt, For twice you came to them and yetYou never since your nose have shown. But stay! A dolt am I who speak!They have invited you this week. "

XXXIX

"Me?"--"Yes! It is Tattiana's feteNext Saturday. The LarinaTold me to ask you. Ere that dateMake up your mind to go there. "--"Ah!It will be by a mob besetOf every sort and every set!""Not in the least, assured am I!""Who will be there?"--"The family. Do me a favour and appear. Will you?"--"Agreed. "--"I thank you, friend, "And saying this Vladimir drainedHis cup unto his maiden dear. Then touching Olga they departIn fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!

XL

He was most gay. The happy dateIn three weeks would arrive for them;The secrets of the marriage stateAnd love's delicious diademWith rapturous longing he awaits, Nor in his dreams anticipatesHymen's embarrassments, distress, And freezing fits of weariness. Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile, In life domestic see a stringOf pictures painful harrowing, A novel in Lafontaine's style, My wretched Lenski's fate I mourn, He seemed for matrimony born. 

XLI

He was beloved: or say at least, He thought so, and existence charmed. The credulous indeed are blest, And he who, jealousy disarmed, In sensual sweets his soul doth steepAs drunken tramps at nightfall sleep, Or, parable more flattering, As butterflies to blossoms cling. But wretched who anticipates, Whose brain no fond illusions daze, Who every gesture, every phraseIn true interpretation hates:Whose heart experience icy madeAnd yet oblivion forbade. 

End of Canto The Fourth

CANTO THE FIFTH

The Fete

'Oh, do not dream these fearful dreams, O my Svetlana. '--Joukovski

Canto The Fifth

[Note: Mikhailovskoe, 1825-6]

I

That year the autumn season lateKept lingering on as loath to go, All Nature winter seemed to await, Till January fell no snow--The third at night. Tattiana wakesBetimes, and sees, when morning breaks, Park, garden, palings, yard belowAnd roofs near morn blanched o'er with snow;Upon the windows tracery, The trees in silvery array, Down in the courtyard magpies gay, And the far mountains daintilyO'erspread with Winter's carpet bright, All so distinct, and all so white!

II

Winter! The peasant blithely goesTo labour in his sledge forgot, His pony sniffing the fresh snowsJust manages a feeble trotThough deep he sinks into the drift;Forth the _kibitka_ gallops swift, (48)Its driver seated on the rimIn scarlet sash and sheepskin trim;Yonder the household lad doth run, Placed in a sledge his terrier black, Himself transformed into a hack;To freeze his finger hath begun, He laughs, although it aches from cold, His mother from the door doth scold. 

[Note 48: The "kibitka, " properly speaking, whether on wheelsor runners, is a vehicle with a hood not unlike a big cradle. ]

III

In scenes like these it may be though, Ye feel but little interest, They are all natural and low, Are not with elegance impressed. Another bard with art divineHath pictured in his gorgeous lineThe first appearance of the snowsAnd all the joys which Winter knows. He will delight you, I am sure, When he in ardent verse portraysSecret excursions made in sleighs;But competition I abjureEither with him or thee in song, Bard of the Finnish maiden young. (49)

[Note 49: The allusions in the foregoing stanza are in the firstplace to a poem entitled "The First Snow, " by Prince Viazemskiand secondly to "Eda, " by Baratynski, a poem descriptive of lifein Finland. ]

IV

Tattiana, Russian to the core, Herself not knowing well the reason, The Russian winter did adoreAnd the cold beauties of the season:On sunny days the glistening rime, Sledging, the snows, which at the timeOf sunset glow with rosy light, The misty evenings ere Twelfth Night. These evenings as in days of oldThe Larinas would celebrate, The servants used to congregateAnd the young ladies fortunes told, And every year distributedJourneys and warriors to wed. 

V

Tattiana in traditions oldBelieved, the people's wisdom weird, In dreams and what the moon foretoldAnd what she from the cards inferred. Omens inspired her soul with fear, Mysteriously all objects nearA hidden meaning could impart, Presentiments oppressed her heart. Lo! the prim cat upon the stoveWith one paw strokes her face and purrs, Tattiana certainly infersThat guests approach: and when aboveThe new moon's crescent slim she spied, Suddenly to the left hand side, VI

She trembled and grew deadly pale. Or a swift meteor, may be, Across the gloom of heaven would sailAnd disappear in space; then sheWould haste in agitation direTo mutter her concealed desireEre the bright messenger had set. When in her walks abroad she metA friar black approaching near, (50)Or a swift hare from mead to meadHad run across her path at speed, Wholly beside herself with fear, Anticipating woe she pined, Certain misfortune near opined. 

[Note 50: The Russian clergy are divided into two classes:the white or secular, which is made up of the mass of parishpriests, and the black who inhabit the monasteries, furnishthe high dignitaries of the Church, and constitute that swarmof useless drones for whom Peter the Great felt such a deeprepugnance. ]

VII

Wherefore? She found a secret joyIn horror for itself alone, Thus Nature doth our souls alloy, Thus her perversity hath shown. Twelfth Night approaches. Merry eves!(51)When thoughtless youth whom nothing grieves, Before whose inexperienced sightLife lies extended, vast and bright, To peer into the future tries. Old age through spectacles too peers, Although the destined coffin nears, Having lost all in life we prize. It matters not. Hope e'en to theseWith childlike lisp will lie to please. 

[Note 51: Refers to the "Sviatki" or Holy Nights between ChristmasEve and Twelfth Night. Divination, or the telling of fortunesby various expedients, is the favourite pastime on theseoccasions. ]

VIII

Tattiana gazed with curious eyeOn melted wax in water poured;The clue unto some mysteryShe deemed its outline might afford. Rings from a dish of water fullIn order due the maidens pull;But when Tattiana's hand had ta'enA ring she heard the ancient strain:_The peasants there are rich as kings, They shovel silver with a spade, He whom we sing to shall be madeHappy and glorious_. But this bringsWith sad refrain misfortune near. Girls the _kashourka_ much prefer. (52)

[Note 52: During the "sviatki" it is a common custom for the girlsto assemble around a table on which is placed a dish or basin ofwater which contains a ring. Each in her turn extracts the ringfrom the basin whilst the remainder sing in chorus the "podbliudnipessni, " or "dish songs" before mentioned. These are popularlysupposed to indicate the fortunes of the immediate holder of thering. The first-named lines foreshadow death; the latter, the"kashourka, " or "kitten song, " indicates approaching marriage. Itcommences thus: "The cat asked the kitten to sleep on the stove. "]

IX

Frosty the night; the heavens shone;The wondrous host of heavenly spheresSailed silently in unison--Tattiana in the yard appearsIn a half-open dressing-gownAnd bends her mirror on the moon, But trembling on the mirror darkThe sad moon only could remark. List! the snow crunches--he draws nigh!The girl on tiptoe forward boundsAnd her voice sweeter than the soundsOf clarinet or flute doth cry:"What is your name?" The boor looked dazed, And "Agathon" replied, amazed. (53)

[Note 53: The superstition is that the name of the future husbandmay thus be discovered. ]

X

Tattiana (nurse the project planned)By night prepared for sorcery, And in the bathroom did commandTo lay two covers secretly. But sudden fear assailed Tattiana, And I, remembering Svetlana, (54)Become alarmed. So never mind!I'm not for witchcraft now inclined. So she her silken sash unlaced, Undressed herself and went to bedAnd soon Lel hovered o'er her head. (55)Beneath her downy pillow placed, A little virgin mirror peeps. 'Tis silent all. Tattiana sleeps. 

[Note 54: See Note 30. ]

[Note 55: Lel, in Slavonic mythology, corresponds to the Morpheusof the Latins. The word is evidently connected with the verb"leleyat" to fondle or soothe, likewise with our own word"to lull. "]

XI

A dreadful sleep Tattiana sleeps. She dreamt she journeyed o'er a fieldAll covered up with snow in heaps, By melancholy fogs concealed. Amid the snowdrifts which surroundA stream, by winter's ice unbound, Impetuously clove its wayWith boiling torrent dark and gray;Two poles together glued by ice, A fragile bridge and insecure, Spanned the unbridled torrent o'er;Beside the thundering abyssTattiana in despair unfeignedRooted unto the spot remained. 

XII

As if against obstruction soreTattiana o'er the stream complained;To help her to the other shoreNo one appeared to lend a hand. But suddenly a snowdrift stirs, And what from its recess appears?A bristly bear of monstrous size!He roars, and "Ah!" Tattiana cries. He offers her his murderous paw;She nerves herself from her alarmAnd leans upon the monster's arm, With footsteps tremulous with awePasses the torrent But alack!Bruin is marching at her back!

XIII

She, to turn back her eyes afraid, Accelerates her hasty pace, But cannot anyhow evadeHer shaggy myrmidon in chase. The bear rolls on with many a grunt:A forest now she sees in frontWith fir-trees standing motionlessIn melancholy loveliness, Their branches by the snow bowed down. Through aspens, limes and birches bare, The shining orbs of night appear;There is no path; the storm hath strewnBoth bush and brake, ravine and steep, And all in snow is buried deep. 

XIV

The wood she enters--bear behind, --In snow she sinks up to the knee;Now a long branch itself entwinedAround her neck, now violentlyAway her golden earrings tore;Now the sweet little shoes she wore, Grown clammy, stick fast in the snow;Her handkerchief she loses now;No time to pick it up! afraid, She hears the bear behind her press, Nor dares the skirting of her dressFor shame lift up the modest maid. She runs, the bear upon her trail, Until her powers of running fail. 

XV

She sank upon the snow. But BruinAdroitly seized and carried her;Submissive as if in a swoon, She cannot draw a breath or stir. He dragged her by a forest roadTill amid trees a hovel showed, By barren snow heaped up and bound, A tangled wilderness around. Bright blazed the window of the place, Within resounded shriek and shout:"My chum lives here, " Bruin grunts out. "Warm yourself here a little space!"Straight for the entrance then he madeAnd her upon the threshold laid. 

XVI

Recovering, Tania gazes round;Bear gone--she at the threshold placed;Inside clink glasses, cries resoundAs if it were some funeral feast. But deeming all this nonsense pure, She peeped through a chink of the door. What doth she see? Around the boardSit many monstrous shapes abhorred. A canine face with horns thereon, Another with cock's head appeared, Here an old witch with hirsute beard, There an imperious skeleton;A dwarf adorned with tail, againA shape half cat and half a crane. 

XVII

Yet ghastlier, yet more wonderful, A crab upon a spider rides, Perched on a goose's neck a skullIn scarlet cap revolving glides. A windmill too a jig performsAnd wildly waves its arms and storms;Barking, songs, whistling, laughter coarse, The speech of man and tramp of horse. But wide Tattiana oped her eyesWhen in that company she sawHim who inspired both love and awe, The hero we immortalize. Oneguine sat the table byAnd viewed the door with cunning eye. 

XVIII

All bustle when he makes a sign:He drinks, all drink and loudly call;He smiles, in laughter all combine;He knits his brows--'tis silent all. He there is master--that is plain;Tattiana courage doth regainAnd grown more curious by farJust placed the entrance door ajar. The wind rose instantly, blew outThe fire of the nocturnal lights;A trouble fell upon the sprites;Oneguine lightning glances shot;Furious he from the table rose;All arise. To the door he goes. 

XIX

Terror assails her. HastilyTattiana would attempt to fly, She cannot--then impatientlyShe strains her throat to force a cry--She cannot--Eugene oped the doorAnd the young girl appeared beforeThose hellish phantoms. Peals ariseOf frantic laughter, and all eyesAnd hoofs and crooked snouts and paws, Tails which a bushy tuft adorns, Whiskers and bloody tongues and horns, Sharp rows of tushes, bony claws, Are turned upon her. All combineIn one great shout: she's mine! she's mine!

XX

"Mine!" cried Eugene with savage tone. The troop of apparitions fled, And in the frosty night aloneRemained with him the youthful maid. With tranquil air Oneguine leadsTattiana to a corner, bidsHer on a shaky bench sit down;His head sinks slowly, rests uponHer shoulder--Olga swiftly came--And Lenski followed--a light broke--His fist Oneguine fiercely shookAnd gazed around with eyes of flame;The unbidden guests he roughly chides--Tattiana motionless abides. 

XXI

The strife grew furious and EugeneGrasped a long knife and instantlyStruck Lenski dead--across the sceneDark shadows thicken--a dread cryWas uttered, and the cabin shook--Tattiana terrified awoke. She gazed around her--it was day. Lo! through the frozen windows playAurora's ruddy rays of light--The door flew open--Olga came, More blooming than the Boreal flameAnd swifter than the swallow's flight. "Come, " she cried, "sister, tell me e'enWhom you in slumber may have seen. "

XXII

But she, her sister never heeding, With book in hand reclined in bed, Page after page continued reading, But no reply unto her made. Although her book did not containThe bard's enthusiastic strain, Nor precepts sage nor pictures e'en, Yet neither Virgil nor RacineNor Byron, Walter Scott, nor Seneca, Nor the _Journal des Modes_, I vouch, Ever absorbed a maid so much:Its name, my friends, was Martin Zadeka, The chief of the Chaldean wise, Who dreams expound and prophecies. 

XXIII

Brought by a pedlar vagabondUnto their solitude one day, This monument of thought profoundTattiana purchased with a strayTome of "Malvina, " and but three(56)And a half rubles down gave she;Also, to equalise the scales, She got a book of nursery tales, A grammar, likewise Petriads two, Marmontel also, tome the third;Tattiana every day conferredWith Martin Zadeka. In woeShe consolation thence obtained--Inseparable they remained. 

[Note 56: "Malvina, " a romance by Madame Cottin. ]

XXIV

The dream left terror in its train. Not knowing its interpretation, Tania the meaning would obtainOf such a dread hallucination. Tattiana to the index fliesAnd alphabetically triesThe words _bear, bridge, fir, darkness, bog, Raven, snowstorm, tempest, fog, Et cetera_; but nothing showedHer Martin Zadeka in aid, Though the foul vision promise madeOf a most mournful episode, And many a day thereafter laidA load of care upon the maid. 

XXV

"But lo! forth from the valleys dunWith purple hand Aurora leads, Swift following in her wake, the sun, "(57)And a grand festival proceeds. The Larinas were since sunriseO'erwhelmed with guests; by familiesThe neighbours come, in sledge approach, Britzka, kibitka, or in coach. Crush and confusion in the hall, Latest arrivals' salutations, Barking, young ladies' osculations, Shouts, laughter, jamming 'gainst the wall, Bows and the scrape of many feet, Nurses who scream and babes who bleat. 

[Note 57: The above three lines are a parody on the turgidstyle of Lomonossoff, a literary man of the second Catherine'sera. ]

XXVI

Bringing his partner corpulentFat Poustiakoff drove to the door;Gvozdine, a landlord excellent, Oppressor of the wretched poor;And the Skatenines, aged pair, With all their progeny were there, Who from two years to thirty tell;Petoushkoff, the provincial swell;Bouyanoff too, my cousin, wore(58)His wadded coat and cap with peak(Surely you know him as I speak);And Flianoff, pensioned councillor, Rogue and extortioner of yore, Now buffoon, glutton, and a bore. 

[Note 58: Pushkin calls Bouyanoff his cousin because he is acharacter in the "Dangerous Neighbour, " a poem by VassiliPushkin, the poet's uncle. ]

XXVII

The family of Kharlikoff, Came with Monsieur Triquet, a prig, Who arrived lately from Tamboff, In spectacles and chestnut wig. Like a true Frenchman, couplets wroughtIn Tania's praise in pouch he brought, Known unto children perfectly:_Reveillez-vouz, belle endormie_. Among some ancient ballads thrust, He found them in an almanac, And the sagacious Triquet backTo light had brought them from their dust, Whilst he "belle Nina" had the faceBy "belle Tattiana" to replace. 

XXVIII

Lo! from the nearest barrack came, Of old maids the divinity, And comfort of each country dame, The captain of a company. He enters. Ah! good news to-day!The military band will play. The colonel sent it. Oh! delight!So there will be a dance to-night. Girls in anticipation skip!But dinner-time comes. Two and twoThey hand in hand to table go. The maids beside Tattiana keep--Men opposite. The cross they signAnd chattering loud sit down to dine. 

XXIX

Ceased for a space all chattering. Jaws are at work. On every sidePlates, knives and forks are clatteringAnd ringing wine-glasses are plied. But by degrees the crowd beginTo raise a clamour and a din:They laugh, they argue, and they bawl, They shout and no one lists at all. The doors swing open: Lenski makesHis entrance with Oneguine. "Ah!At last the author!" cries Mamma. The guests make room; aside each takesHis chair, plate, knife and fork in haste;The friends are called and quickly placed. 

XXX

Right opposite Tattiana placed, She, than the morning moon more pale, More timid than a doe long chased, Lifts not her eyes which swimming fail. Anew the flames of passion startWithin her; she is sick at heart;The two friends' compliments she hearsNot, and a flood of bitter tearsWith effort she restrains. Well nighThe poor girl fell into a faint, But strength of mind and self-restraintPrevailed at last. She in replySaid something in an undertoneAnd at the table sat her down. 

XXXI

To tragedy, the fainting fit, And female tears hysterical, Oneguine could not now submit, For long he had endured them all. Our misanthrope was full of ire, At a great feast against desire, And marking Tania's agitation, Cast down his eyes in trepidationAnd sulked in silent indignation;Swearing how Lenski he would rile, Avenge himself in proper style. Triumphant by anticipation, Caricatures he now designedOf all the guests within his mind. 

XXXII

Certainly not Eugene aloneTattiana's trouble might have spied, But that the eyes of every oneBy a rich pie were occupied--Unhappily too salt by far;And that a bottle sealed with tarAppeared, Don's effervescing boast, (59)Between the blanc-mange and the roast;Behind, of glasses an array, Tall, slender, like thy form designed, Zizi, thou mirror of my mind, Fair object of my guileless lay, Seductive cup of love, whose flowMade me so tipsy long ago!

[Note 59: The _Donskoe Champanskoe_ is a species of sparkling winemanufactured in the vicinity of the river Don. ]

XXXIII

From the moist cork the bottle freedWith loud explosion, the bright wineHissed forth. With serious air indeed, Long tortured by his lay divine, Triquet arose, and for the bardThe company deep silence guard. Tania well nigh expired when heTurned to her and discordantlyIntoned it, manuscript in hand. Voices and hands applaud, and sheMust bow in common courtesy;The poet, modest though so grand, Drank to her health in the first place, Then handed her the song with grace. 

XXXIV

Congratulations, toasts resound, Tattiana thanks to all returned, But, when Oneguine's turn came round, The maiden's weary eye which yearned, Her agitation and distressAroused in him some tenderness. He bowed to her nor silence broke, But somehow there shone in his lookThe witching light of sympathy;I know not if his heart felt painOr if he meant to flirt again, From habit or maliciously, But kindness from his eye had beamedAnd to revive Tattiana seemed. 

XXXV

The chairs are thrust back with a roar, The crowd unto the drawing-room speeds, As bees who leave their dainty storeAnd seek in buzzing swarms the meads. Contented and with victuals stored, Neighbour by neighbour sat and snored, Matrons unto the fireplace go, Maids in the corner whisper low;Behold! green tables are brought forth, And testy gamesters do engageIn boston and the game of age, Ombre, and whist all others worth:A strong resemblance these possess--All sons of mental weariness. 

XXXVI

Eight rubbers were already played, Eight times the heroes of the fightChange of position had essayed, When tea was brought. 'Tis my delightTime to denote by dinner, tea, And supper. In the country weCan count the time without much fuss--The stomach doth admonish us. And, by the way, I here assertThat for that matter in my verseAs many dinners I rehearse, As oft to meat and drink advert, As thou, great Homer, didst of yore, Whom thirty centuries adore. 

XXXVII

I will with thy divinityContend with knife and fork and platter, But grant with magnanimityI'm beaten in another matter;Thy heroes, sanguinary wights, Also thy rough-and-tumble fights, Thy Venus and thy Jupiter, More advantageously appearThan cold Oneguine's oddities, The aspect of a landscape drear. Or e'en Istomina, my dear, And fashion's gay frivolities;But my Tattiana, on my soul, Is sweeter than thy Helen foul. 

XXXVIII

No one the contrary will urge, Though for his Helen MenelausAgain a century should scourgeUs, and like Trojan warriors slay us;Though around honoured Priam's throneTroy's sages should in concert ownOnce more, when she appeared in sight, Paris and Menelaus right. But as to fighting--'twill appear!For patience, reader, I must plead!A little farther please to readAnd be not in advance severe. There'll be a fight. I do not lie. My word of honour given have I. 

XXXIX

The tea, as I remarked, appeared, But scarce had maids their saucers ta'enWhen in the grand saloon was heardOf bassoons and of flutes the strain. His soul by crash of music fired, His tea with rum no more desired, The Paris of those country partsTo Olga Petoushkova darts:To Tania Lenski; Kharlikova, A marriageable maid matured, The poet from Tamboff secured, Bouyanoff whisked off Poustiakova. All to the grand saloon are gone--The ball in all its splendour shone. 

XL

I tried when I began this tale, (See the first canto if ye will), A ball in Peter's capital, To sketch ye in Albano's style. (60)But by fantastic dreams distraught, My memory wandered wide and soughtThe feet of my dear lady friends. O feet, where'er your path extendsI long enough deceived have erred. The perfidies I recollectShould make me much more circumspect, Reform me both in deed and word, And this fifth canto ought to beFrom such digressions wholly free. 

[Note 60: Francesco Albano, a celebrated painter, styled the "Anacreonof Painting, " was born at Bologna 1578, and died in the year 1666. ]

XLI

The whirlwind of the waltz sweeps by, Undeviating and insaneAs giddy youth's hilarity--Pair after pair the race sustain. The moment for revenge, meanwhile, Espying, Eugene with a smileApproaches Olga and the pairAmid the company career. Soon the maid on a chair he seats, Begins to talk of this and that, But when two minutes she had sat, Again the giddy waltz repeats. All are amazed; but Lenski heScarce credits what his eyes can see. 

XLII

Hark! the mazurka. In times past, When the mazurka used to peal, All rattled in the ball-room vast, The parquet cracked beneath the heel, And jolting jarred the window-frames. 'Tis not so now. Like gentle damesWe glide along a floor of wax. However, the mazurka lacksNought of its charms originalIn country towns, where still it keepsIts stamping, capers and high leaps. Fashion is there immutable, Who tyrannizes us with ease, Of modern Russians the disease. 

XLIII

Bouyanoff, wrathful cousin mine, Unto the hero of this layOlga and Tania led. Malign, Oneguine Olga bore away. Gliding in negligent career, He bending whispered in her earSome madrigal not worth a rush, And pressed her hand--the crimson blushUpon her cheek by adulationGrew brighter still. But Lenski hathSeen all, beside himself with wrath, And hot with jealous indignation, Till the mazurka's close he stays, Her hand for the cotillon prays. 

XLIV

She fears she cannot. --Cannot? Why?--She promised Eugene, or she wouldWith great delight. --O God on high!Heard he the truth? And thus she could--And can it be? But late a childAnd now a fickle flirt and wild, Cunning already to displayAnd well-instructed to betray!Lenski the stroke could not sustain, At womankind he growled a curse, Departed, ordered out his horseAnd galloped home. But pistols twain, A pair of bullets--nought beside--His fate shall presently decide. 

END OF CANTO THE FIFTH

CANTO THE SIXTH

The Duel

'La, sotto giorni nubilosi e brevi, Nasce una gente a cui 'l morir non duole. ' Petrarch

Canto The Sixth

[Mikhailovskoe, 1826: the two final stanzas were, however, written at Moscow. ]

I

Having remarked Vladimir's flight, Oneguine, bored to death again, By Olga stood, dejected quiteAnd satisfied with vengeance ta'en. Olga began to long likewiseFor Lenski, sought him with her eyes, And endless the cotillon seemedAs if some troubled dream she dreamed. 'Tis done. To supper they proceed. Bedding is laid out and to allAssigned a lodging, from the hall(61)Up to the attic, and all needTranquil repose. Eugene aloneTo pass the night at home hath gone. 

[Note 61: Hospitality is a national virtue of the Russians. Onfestal occasions in the country the whole party is usuallyaccommodated for the night, or indeed for as many nightsas desired, within the house of the entertainer. This ofcourse is rendered necessary by the great distances whichseparate the residences of the gentry. Still, the alacrity withwhich a Russian hostess will turn her house topsy-turvy forthe accommodation of forty or fifty guests would somewhatastonish the mistress of a modern Belgravian mansion. ]

II

All slumber. In the drawing-roomLoud snores the cumbrous PoustiakoffWith better half as cumbersome;Gvozdine, Bouyanoff, PetoushkoffAnd Flianoff, somewhat indisposed, On chairs in the saloon reposed, Whilst on the floor Monsieur TriquetIn jersey and in nightcap lay. In Olga's and Tattiana's roomsLay all the girls by sleep embraced, Except one by the window placedWhom pale Diana's ray illumes--My poor Tattiana cannot sleepBut stares into the darkness deep. 

III

His visit she had not awaited, His momentary loving glanceHer inmost soul had penetrated, And his strange conduct at the danceWith Olga; nor of this appearedAn explanation: she was scared, Alarmed by jealous agonies:A hand of ice appeared to seize(62)Her heart: it seemed a darksome pitBeneath her roaring opened wide:"I shall expire, " Tattiana cried, "But death from him will be delight. I murmur not! Why mournfulness?He _cannot_ give me happiness. "

[Note 62: There must be a peculiar appropriateness in this expressionas descriptive of the sensation of extreme cold. Mr. Wallacemakes use of an identical phrase in describing an occasionwhen he was frostbitten whilst sledging in Russia. He says(vol. I. P. 33): "My fur cloak flew open, the cold seemed to_grasp me in the region of the heart_, and I fell insensible. "]

IV

Haste, haste thy lagging pace, my story!A new acquaintance we must scan. There dwells five versts from Krasnogory, Vladimir's property, a manWho thrives this moment as I write, A philosophic anchorite:Zaretski, once a bully bold, A gambling troop when he controlled, Chief rascal, pot-house president, Now of a family the head, Simple and kindly and unwed, True friend, landlord benevolent, Yea! and a man of honour, lo!How perfect doth our epoch grow!

V

Time was the flattering voice of fame, His ruffian bravery adored, And true, his pistol's faultless aimAn ace at fifteen paces bored. But I must add to what I writeThat, tipsy once in actual fight, He from his Kalmuck horse did leapIn mud and mire to wallow deep, Drunk as a fly; and thus the FrenchA valuable hostage gained, A modern Regulus unchained, Who to surrender did not blenchThat every morn at Verrey's costThree flasks of wine he might exhaust. 

VI

Time was, his raillery was gay, He loved the simpleton to mock, To make wise men the idiot playOpenly or 'neath decent cloak. Yet sometimes this or that deceitEncountered punishment complete, And sometimes into snares as wellHimself just like a greenhorn fell. He could in disputation shineWith pungent or obtuse retort, At times to silence would resort, At times talk nonsense with design;Quarrels among young friends he bredAnd to the field of honour led;

VII

Or reconciled them, it may be, And all the three to breakfast went;Then he'd malign them secretlyWith jest and gossip gaily blent. _Sed alia tempora_. And bravery(Like love, another sort of knavery!)Diminishes as years decline. But, as I said, Zaretski mineBeneath acacias, cherry-trees, From storms protection having sought, Lived as a really wise man ought, Like Horace, planted cabbages, Both ducks and geese in plenty bredAnd lessons to his children read. 

VIII

He was no fool, and Eugene mine, To friendship making no pretence, Admired his judgment, which was fine, Pervaded with much common sense. He usually was glad to seeThe man and liked his company, So, when he came next day to call, Was not surprised thereby at all. But, after mutual compliments, Zaretski with a knowing grin, Ere conversation could begin, The epistle from the bard presents. Oneguine to the window wentAnd scanned in silence its content. 

IX

It was a cheery, generousCartel, or challenge to a fight, Whereto in language courteousLenski his comrade did invite. Oneguine, by first impulse moved, Turned and replied as it behoved, Curtly announcing for the frayThat he was "ready any day. "Zaretski rose, nor would explain, He cared no longer there to stay, Had much to do at home that day, And so departed. But Eugene, The matter by his conscience tried, Was with himself dissatisfied. 

X

In fact, the subject analysed, Within that secret court discussed, In much his conduct stigmatized;For, from the outset, 'twas unjustTo jest as he had done last eve, A timid, shrinking love to grieve. And ought he not to disregardThe poet's madness? for 'tis hardAt eighteen not to play the fool!Sincerely loving him, EugeneAssuredly should not have beenConventionality's dull tool--Not a mere hot, pugnacious boy, But man of sense and probity. 

XI

He might his motives have narrated, Not bristled up like a wild beast, He ought to have conciliatedThat youthful heart--"But, now at least, The opportunity is flown. Besides, a duellist well-knownHath mixed himself in the affair, Malicious and a slanderer. Undoubtedly, disdain aloneShould recompense his idle jeers, But fools--their calumnies and sneers"--Behold! the world's opinion!(63)Our idol, Honour's motive force, Round which revolves the universe. 

[Note 63: A line of Griboyedoff's. (Woe from Wit. )]

XII

Impatient, boiling o'er with wrath, The bard his answer waits at home, But lo! his braggart neighbour hathTriumphant with the answer come. Now for the jealous youth what joy!He feared the criminal might tryTo treat the matter as a jest, Use subterfuge, and thus his breastFrom the dread pistol turn away. But now all doubt was set aside, Unto the windmill he must rideTo-morrow before break of day, To cock the pistol; barrel bendOn thigh or temple, friend on friend. 

XIII

Resolved the flirt to cast away, The foaming Lenski would refuse, To see his Olga ere the fray--His watch, the sun in turn he views--Finally tost his arms in airAnd lo! he is already there!He deemed his coming would inspireOlga with trepidation dire. He was deceived. Just as beforeThe miserable bard to meet, As hope uncertain and as sweet, Olga ran skipping from the door. She was as heedless and as gay--Well! just as she was yesterday. 

XIV

"Why did you leave last night so soon?"Was the first question Olga made, Lenski, into confusion thrown, All silently hung down his head. Jealousy and vexation tookTo flight before her radiant look, Before such fond simplicityAnd mental elasticity. He eyed her with a fond concern, Perceived that he was still beloved, Already by repentance movedTo ask forgiveness seemed to yearn;But trembles, words he cannot find, Delighted, almost sane in mind. 

XV

But once more pensive and distressedBeside his Olga doth he grieve, Nor enough strength of mind possessedTo mention the foregoing eve, He mused: "I will her saviour be!With ardent sighs and flatteryThe vile seducer shall not dareThe freshness of her heart impair, Nor shall the caterpillar comeThe lily's stem to eat away, Nor shall the bud of yesterdayPerish when half disclosed its bloom!"--All this, my friends, translate aright:"I with my friend intend to fight!"

XVI

If he had only known the woundWhich rankled in Tattiana's breast, And if Tattiana mine had found--If the poor maiden could have guessedThat the two friends with morning's lightAbove the yawning grave would fight, --Ah! it may be, affection trueHad reconciled the pair anew!But of this love, e'en casually, As yet none had discovered aught;Eugene of course related nought, Tattiana suffered secretly;Her nurse, who could have made a guess, Was famous for thick-headedness. 

XVII

Lenski that eve in thought immersed, Now gloomy seemed and cheerful now, But he who by the Muse was nursedIs ever thus. With frowning browTo the pianoforte he movesAnd various chords upon it proves, Then, eyeing Olga, whispers low:"I'm happy, say, is it not so?"--But it grew late; he must not stay;Heavy his heart with anguish grew;To the young girl he said adieu, As it were, tore himself away. Gazing into his face, she said:"What ails thee?"--"Nothing. "--He is fled. 

XVIII

At home arriving he addressedHis care unto his pistols' plight, Replaced them in their box, undressedAnd Schiller read by candlelight. But one thought only filled his mind, His mournful heart no peace could find, Olga he sees before his eyesMiraculously fair arise, Vladimir closes up his book, And grasps a pen: his verse, albeitWith lovers' rubbish filled, was neatAnd flowed harmoniously. He tookAnd spouted it with lyric fire--Like D[elvig] when dinner doth inspire. 

XIX

Destiny hath preserved his lay. I have it. Lo! the very thing!"Oh! whither have ye winged your way, Ye golden days of my young spring?What will the coming dawn reveal?In vain my anxious eyes appeal;In mist profound all yet is hid. So be it! Just the laws which bidThe fatal bullet penetrate, Or innocently past me fly. Good governs all! The hour draws nighOf life or death predestinate. Blest be the labours of the light, And blest the shadows of the night. 

XX

"To-morrow's dawn will glimmer gray, Bright day will then begin to burn, But the dark sepulchre I mayHave entered never to return. The memory of the bard, a dream, Will be absorbed by Lethe's stream;Men will forget me, but my urnTo visit, lovely maid, return, O'er my remains to drop a tear, And think: here lies who loved me well, For consecrate to me he fellIn the dawn of existence drear. Maid whom my heart desires alone, Approach, approach; I am thine own. "

XXI

Thus in a style _obscure_ and _stale_, (64)He wrote ('tis the romantic style, Though of romance therein I failTo see aught--never mind meanwhile)And about dawn upon his breastHis weary head declined at rest, For o'er a word to fashion known, "Ideal, " he had drowsy grown. But scarce had sleep's soft witcherySubdued him, when his neighbour steptInto the chamber where he sleptAnd wakened him with the loud cry:"'Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike. Oneguine waits on us, 'tis like. "

[Note 64: The fact of the above words being italicised suggeststhe idea that the poet is here firing a Parthian shot at someunfriendly critic. ]

XXII

He was in error; for EugeneWas sleeping then a sleep like death;The pall of night was growing thin, To Lucifer the cock must breatheHis song, when still he slumbered deep, The sun had mounted high his steep, A passing snowstorm wreathed awayWith pallid light, but Eugene layUpon his couch insensibly;Slumber still o'er him lingering flies. But finally he oped his eyesAnd turned aside the drapery;He gazed upon the clock which showedHe long should have been on the road. 

XXIII

He rings in haste; in haste arrivesHis Frenchman, good Monsieur Guillot, Who dressing-gown and slippers givesAnd linen on him doth bestow. Dressing as quickly as he can, Eugene directs the trusty manTo accompany him and to escortA box of terrible import. Harnessed the rapid sledge arrived:He enters: to the mill he drives:Descends, the order Guillot gives, The fatal tubes Lepage contrived(65)To bring behind: the triple steedsTo two young oaks the coachman leads. 

[Note 65: Lepage--a celebrated gunmaker of former days. ]

XXIV

Lenski the foeman's apparitionLeaning against the dam expects, Zaretski, village mechanician, In the meantime the mill inspects. Oneguine his excuses says;"But, " cried Zaretski in amaze, "Your second you have left behind!"A duellist of classic mind, Method was dear unto his heartHe would not that a man ye slayIn a lax or informal way, But followed the strict rules of art, And ancient usages observed(For which our praise he hath deserved). 

XXV

"My second!" cried in turn Eugene, "Behold my friend Monsieur Guillot;To this arrangement can be seen, No obstacle of which I know. Although unknown to fame mayhap, He's a straightforward little chap. "Zaretski bit his lip in wrath, But to Vladimir Eugene saith:"Shall we commence?"--"Let it be so, "Lenski replied, and soon they beBehind the mill. Meantime ye seeZaretski and Monsieur GuillotIn consultation stand aside--The foes with downcast eyes abide. 

XXVI

Foes! Is it long since friendship rentAsunder was and hate prepared?Since leisure was together spent, Meals, secrets, occupations shared?Now, like hereditary foes, Malignant fury they disclose, As in some frenzied dream of fearThese friends cold-bloodedly draw nearMutual destruction to contrive. Cannot they amicably smileEre crimson stains their hands defile, Depart in peace and friendly live?But fashionable hatred's flameTrembles at artificial shame. 

XXVII

The shining pistols are uncased, The mallet loud the ramrod strikes, Bullets are down the barrels pressed, For the first time the hammer clicks. Lo! poured in a thin gray cascade, The powder in the pan is laid, The sharp flint, screwed securely on, Is cocked once more. Uneasy grown, Guillot behind a pollard stood;Aside the foes their mantles threw, Zaretski paces thirty-twoMeasured with great exactitude. At each extreme one takes his stand, A loaded pistol in his hand. 

XXVIII

"Advance!"-- Indifferent and sedate, The foes, as yet not taking aim, With measured step and even gaitAthwart the snow four paces came--Four deadly paces do they span;Oneguine slowly then beganTo raise his pistol to his eye, Though he advanced unceasingly. And lo! five paces more they pass, And Lenski, closing his left eye, Took aim--but as immediatelyOneguine fired--Alas! alas!The poet's hour hath sounded--See!He drops his pistol silently. 

XXIX

He on his bosom gently placedHis hand, and fell. His clouded eyeNot agony, but death expressed. So from the mountain lazilyThe avalanche of snow first bends, Then glittering in the sun descends. The cold sweat bursting from his brow, To the youth Eugene hurried now--Gazed on him, called him. Useless care!He was no more! The youthful bardFor evermore had disappeared. The storm was hushed. The blossom fairWas withered ere the morning light--The altar flame was quenched in night. 

XXX

Tranquil he lay, and strange to viewThe peace which on his forehead beamed, His breast was riddled through and through, The blood gushed from the wound and steamedEre this but one brief moment beatThat heart with inspiration sweetAnd enmity and hope and love--The blood boiled and the passions strove. Now, as in a deserted house, All dark and silent hath become;The inmate is for ever dumb, The windows whitened, shutters close--Whither departed is the host?God knows! The very trace is lost. 

XXXI

'Tis sweet the foe to aggravateWith epigrams impertinent, Sweet to behold him obstinate, His butting horns in anger bent, The glass unwittingly inspectAnd blush to own himself reflect. Sweeter it is, my friends, if heHowl like a dolt: 'tis meant for me!But sweeter still it is to arrangeFor him an honourable grave, At his pale brow a shot to have, Placed at the customary range;But home his body to despatchCan scarce in sweetness be a match. 

XXXII

Well, if your pistol ball by chanceThe comrade of your youth should strike, Who by a haughty word or glanceOr any trifle else ye likeYou o'er your wine insulted hath--Or even overcome by wrathScornfully challenged you afield--Tell me, of sentiments concealedWhich in your spirit dominates, When motionless your gaze beneathHe lies, upon his forehead death, And slowly life coagulates--When deaf and silent he doth lieHeedless of your despairing cry?

XXXIII

Eugene, his pistol yet in handAnd with remorseful anguish filled, Gazing on Lenski's corse did stand--Zaretski shouted: "Why, he's killed!"--Killed! at this dreadful exclamationOneguine went with trepidationAnd the attendants called in haste. Most carefully Zaretski placedWithin his sledge the stiffened corse, And hurried home his awful freight. Conscious of death approximate, Loud paws the earth each panting horse, His bit with foam besprinkled o'er, And homeward like an arrow tore. 

XXXIV

My friends, the poet ye regret!When hope's delightful flower but bloomedIn bud of promise incomplete, The manly toga scarce assumed, He perished. Where his troubled dreams, And where the admirable streamsOf youthful impulse, reverie, Tender and elevated, free?And where tempestuous love's desires, The thirst of knowledge and of fame, Horror of sinfulness and shame, Imagination's sacred fires, Ye shadows of a life more high, Ye dreams of heavenly poesy?

XXXV

Perchance to benefit mankind, Or but for fame he saw the light;His lyre, to silence now consigned, Resounding through all ages mightHave echoed to eternity. With worldly honours, it may be, Fortune the poet had repaid. It may be that his martyred shadeCarried a truth divine away;That, for the century designed, Had perished a creative mind, And past the threshold of decay, He ne'er shall hear Time's eulogy, The blessings of humanity. 

XXXVI

Or, it may be, the bard had passedA life in common with the rest;Vanished his youthful years at last, The fire extinguished in his breast, In many things had changed his life--The Muse abandoned, ta'en a wife, Inhabited the country, cladIn dressing-gown, a cuckold glad:A life of fact, not fiction, led--At forty suffered from the gout, Eaten, drunk, gossiped and grown stout:And finally, upon his bedHad finished life amid his sons, Doctors and women, sobs and groans. 

XXXVII

But, howsoe'er his lot were cast, Alas! the youthful lover slain, Poetical enthusiast, A friendly hand thy life hath ta'en!There is a spot the village nearWhere dwelt the Muses' worshipper, Two pines have joined their tangled roots, A rivulet beneath them shootsIts waters to the neighbouring vale. There the tired ploughman loves to lie, The reaping girls approach and plyWithin its wave the sounding pail, And by that shady rivuletA simple tombstone hath been set. 

XXXVIII

There, when the rains of spring we markUpon the meadows showering, The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark, (66)Of Volga fishermen doth sing, And the young damsel from the town, For summer to the country flown, Whene'er across the plain at speedAlone she gallops on her steed, Stops at the tomb in passing by;The tightened leathern rein she draws, Aside she casts her veil of gauzeAnd reads with rapid eager eyeThe simple epitaph--a tearDoth in her gentle eye appear. 

[Note 66: In Russia and other northern countries rude shoes aremade of the inner bark of the lime tree. ]

XXXIX

And meditative from the spotShe leisurely away doth ride, Spite of herself with Lenski's lotLongtime her mind is occupied. She muses: "What was Olga's fate?Longtime was her heart desolateOr did her tears soon cease to flow?And where may be her sister now?Where is the outlaw, banned by men, Of fashionable dames the foe, The misanthrope of gloomy brow, By whom the youthful bard was slain?"--In time I'll give ye without failA true account and in detail. 

XL

But not at present, though sincerelyI on my chosen hero dote;Though I'll return to him right early, Just at this moment I cannot. Years have inclined me to stern prose, Years to light rhyme themselves oppose, And now, I mournfully confess, In rhyming I show laziness. As once, to fill the rapid pageMy pen no longer finds delight, Other and colder thoughts affright, Sterner solicitudes engage, In worldly din or solitudeUpon my visions such intrude. 

XLI

Fresh aspirations I have known, I am acquainted with fresh care, Hopeless are all the first, I own, Yet still remains the old despair. Illusions, dream, where, where your sweetness?Where youth (the proper rhyme is fleetness)?And is it true her garland brightAt last is shrunk and withered quite?And is it true and not a jest, Not even a poetic phrase, That vanished are my youthful days(This joking I used to protest), Never for me to reappear--That soon I reach my thirtieth year?

XLII

And so my noon hath come! If so, I must resign myself, in sooth;Yet let us part in friendship, OMy frivolous and jolly youth. I thank thee for thy joyfulness, Love's tender transports and distress, For riot, frolics, mighty feeds, And all that from thy hand proceeds--I thank thee. In thy company, With tumult or contentment stillOf thy delights I drank my fill, Enough! with tranquil spirit ICommence a new career in lifeAnd rest from bygone days of strife. 

XLIII

But pause! Thou calm retreats, farewell, Where my days in the wildernessOf languor and of love did tellAnd contemplative dreaminess;And thou, youth's early inspiration, Invigorate imaginationAnd spur my spirit's torpid mood!Fly frequent to my solitude, Let not the poet's spirit freeze, Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry, Eventually petrifyIn the world's mortal revelries, Amid the soulless sons of prideAnd glittering simpletons beside;

XLIV

Amid sly, pusillanimousSpoiled children most degenerateAnd tiresome rogues ridiculousAnd stupid censors passionate;Amid coquettes who pray to GodAnd abject slaves who kiss the rod;In haunts of fashion where each dayAll with urbanity betray, Where harsh frivolity proclaimsIts cold unfeeling sentences;Amid the awful emptinessOf conversation, thought and aims--In that morass where you and IWallow, my friends, in company!

END OF CANTO THE SIXTH

CANTO THE SEVENTH

Moscow

Moscow, Russia's darling daughter, Where thine equal shall we find?' Dmitrieff

Who can help loving mother Moscow? Baratynski (Feasts)

A journey to Moscow! To see the world!Where better? Where man is not. Griboyedoff (Woe from Wit)

Canto The Seventh

[Written 1827-1828 at Moscow, Mikhailovskoe, St. Petersburgand Malinniki. ]

I

Impelled by Spring's dissolving beams, The snows from off the hills aroundDescended swift in turbid streamsAnd flooded all the level ground. A smile from slumbering nature clearDid seem to greet the youthful year;The heavens shone in deeper blue, The woods, still naked to the view, Seemed in a haze of green embowered. The bee forth from his cell of waxFlew to collect his rural tax;The valleys dried and gaily flowered;Herds low, and under night's dark veilAlready sings the nightingale. 

II

Mournful is thine approach to me, O Spring, thou chosen time of love!What agitation languidlyMy spirit and my blood doth move, What sad emotions o'er me stealWhen first upon my cheek I feelThe breath of Spring again renewed, Secure in rural quietude--Or, strange to me is happiness?Do all things which to mirth incline. And make a dark existence shineInflict annoyance and distressUpon a soul inert and cloyed?--And is all light within destroyed?

III

Or, heedless of the leaves' returnWhich Autumn late to earth consigned, Do we alone our losses mournOf which the rustling woods remind?Or, when anew all Nature teems, Do we foresee in troubled dreamsThe coming of life's Autumn drear. For which no springtime shall appear?Or, it may be, we inly seek, Wafted upon poetic wing, Some other long-departed Spring, Whose memories make the heart beat quickWith thoughts of a far distant land, Of a strange night when the moon and--

IV

'Tis now the season! Idlers all, Epicurean philosophers, Ye men of fashion cynical, Of Levshin's school ye followers, (67)Priams of country populationsAnd dames of fine organisations, Spring summons you to her green bowers, 'Tis the warm time of labour, flowers;The time for mystic strolls which lateInto the starry night extend. Quick to the country let us wendIn vehicles surcharged with freight;In coach or post-cart duly placedBeyond the city-barriers haste. 

[Note 67: Levshin--a contemporary writer on political economy. ]

V

Thou also, reader generous, The chaise long ordered please employ, Abandon cities riotous, Which in the winter were a joy:The Muse capricious let us coax, Go hear the rustling of the oaksBeside a nameless rivulet, Where in the country Eugene yet, An idle anchorite and sad, A while ago the winter spent, Near young Tattiana resident, My pretty self-deceiving maid--No more the village knows his face, For there he left a mournful trace. 

VI

Let us proceed unto a rill, Which in a hilly neighbourhoodSeeks, winding amid meadows still, The river through the linden wood. The nightingale there all night long, Spring's paramour, pours forth her songThe fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom, And lo! where lies a marble tombAnd two old pines their branches spread--"_Vladimir Lenski lies beneath, Who early died a gallant death_, "Thereon the passing traveller read:"_The date, his fleeting years how long--Repose in peace, thou child of song_. "

VII

Time was, the breath of early dawnWould agitate a mystic wreathHung on a pine branch earthward drawnAbove the humble urn of death. Time was, two maidens from their homeAt eventide would hither come, And, by the light the moonbeams gave, Lament, embrace upon that grave. But now--none heeds the monumentOf woe: effaced the pathway now:There is no wreath upon the bough:Alone beside it, gray and bent, As formerly the shepherd sitsAnd his poor basten sandal knits. 

VIII

My poor Vladimir, bitter tearsThee but a little space bewept, Faithless, alas! thy maid appears, Nor true unto her sorrow kept. Another could her heart engage, Another could her woe assuageBy flattery and lover's art--A lancer captivates her heart!A lancer her soul dotes upon:Before the altar, lo! the pair, Mark ye with what a modest airShe bows her head beneath the crown;(68)Behold her downcast eyes which glow, Her lips where light smiles come and go!

[Note 68: The crown used in celebrating marriages in Russiaaccording to the forms of the Eastern Church. See Note 28. ]

IX

My poor Vladimir! In the tomb, Passed into dull eternity, Was the sad poet filled with gloom, Hearing the fatal perfidy?Or, beyond Lethe lulled to rest, Hath the bard, by indifference blest, Callous to all on earth become--Is the world to him sealed and dumb?The same unmoved oblivionOn us beyond the grave attends, The voice of lovers, foes and friends, Dies suddenly: of heirs aloneRemains on earth the unseemly rage, Whilst struggling for the heritage. 

X

Soon Olga's accents shrill resoundNo longer through her former home;The lancer, to his calling bound, Back to his regiment must roam. The aged mother, bathed in tears, Distracted by her grief appearsWhen the hour came to bid good-bye--But my Tattiana's eyes were dry. Only her countenance assumedA deadly pallor, air distressed;When all around the entrance pressed, To say farewell, and fussed and fumedAround the carriage of the pair--Tattiana gently led them there. 

XI

And long her eyes as through a hazeAfter the wedded couple strain;Alas! the friend of childish daysAway, Tattiana, hath been ta'en. Thy dove, thy darling little petOn whom a sister's heart was setAfar is borne by cruel fate, For evermore is separate. She wanders aimless as a sprite, Into the tangled garden goesBut nowhere can she find repose, Nor even tears afford respite, Of consolation all bereft--Well nigh her heart in twain was cleft. 

XII

In cruel solitude each dayWith flame more ardent passion burns, And to Oneguine far awayHer heart importunately turns. She never more his face may view, For was it not her duty toDetest him for a brother slain?The poet fell; already menNo more remembered him; untoAnother his betrothed was given;The memory of the bard was drivenLike smoke athwart the heaven blue;Two hearts perchance were desolateAnd mourned him still. Why mourn his fate?

XIII

'Twas eve. 'Twas dusk. The river speedsIn tranquil flow. The beetle hums. Already dance to song proceeds;The fisher's fire afar illumesThe river's bank. Tattiana loneBeneath the silver of the moonLong time in meditation deepHer path across the plain doth keep--Proceeds, until she from a hillSees where a noble mansion stood, A village and beneath, a wood, A garden by a shining rill. She gazed thereon, and instant beatHer heart more loudly and more fleet. 

XIV

She hesitates, in doubt is thrown--"Shall I proceed, or homeward flee?He is not there: I am not known:The house and garden I would see. "Tattiana from the hill descendsWith bated breath, around she bendsA countenance perplexed and scared. She enters a deserted yard--Yelping, a pack of dogs rush out, But at her shriek ran forth with noiseThe household troop of little boys, Who with a scuffle and a shoutThe curs away to kennel chase, The damsel under escort place. 

XV

"Can I inspect the mansion, please?"Tattiana asks, and hurriedlyUnto Anicia for the keysThe family of children hie. Anicia soon appears, the doorOpens unto her visitor. Into the lonely house she went, Wherein a space Oneguine spent. She gazed--a cue, forgotten long, Doth on the billiard table rest, Upon the tumbled sofa placed, A riding whip. She strolls along. The beldam saith: "The hearth, by itThe master always used to sit. 

XVI

"Departed Lenski here to dineIn winter time would often come. Please follow this way, lady mine, This is my master's sitting-room. 'Tis here he slept, his coffee took, Into accounts would sometimes look, A book at early morn perused. The room my former master used. On Sundays by yon window he, Spectacles upon nose, all dayWas wont with me at cards to play. God save his soul eternallyAnd grant his weary bones their restDeep in our mother Earth's chill breast!"

XVII

Tattiana's eyes with tender gleamOn everything around her gaze, Of priceless value all things seemAnd in her languid bosom raiseA pleasure though with sorrow knit:The table with its lamp unlit, The pile of books, with carpet spreadBeneath the window-sill his bed, The landscape which the moonbeams fret, The twilight pale which softens all, Lord Byron's portrait on the wallAnd the cast-iron statuetteWith folded arms and eyes bent low, Cocked hat and melancholy brow. (69)

[Note 69: The Russians not unfrequently adorn their apartmentswith effigies of the great Napoleon. ]

XVIII

Long in this fashionable cellTattiana as enchanted stood;But it grew late; cold blew the gale;Dark was the valley and the woodslept o'er the river misty grown. Behind the mountain sank the moon. Long, long the hour had past when homeOur youthful wanderer should roam. She hid the trouble of her breast, Heaved an involuntary sighAnd turned to leave immediately, But first permission did requestThither in future to proceedThat certain volumes she might read. 

XIX

Adieu she to the matron saidAt the front gates, but in brief spaceAt early morn returns the maidTo the abandoned dwelling-place. When in the study's calm retreat, Wrapt in oblivion complete, She found herself alone at last, Longtime her tears flowed thick and fast;But presently she tried to read;At first for books was disinclined, But soon their choice seemed to her mindRemarkable. She then indeedDevoured them with an eager zest. A new world was made manifest!

XX

Although we know that Eugene hadLong ceased to be a reading man, Still certain authors, I may add, He had excepted from the ban:The bard of Juan and the Giaour, With it may be a couple more;Romances three, in which ye scanPortrayed contemporary manAs the reflection of his age, His immorality of mindTo arid selfishness resigned, A visionary personageWith his exasperated sense, His energy and impotence. 

XXI

And numerous pages had preservedThe sharp incisions of his nail, And these the attentive maid observedWith eye precise and without fail. Tattiana saw with trepidationBy what idea or observationOneguine was the most impressed, In what he merely acquiesced. Upon those margins she perceivedOneguine's pencillings. His mindMade revelations undesigned, Of what he thought and what believed, A dagger, asterisk, or noteInterrogation to denote. 

XXII

And my Tattiana now beganTo understand by slow degreesMore clearly, God be praised, the man, Whom autocratic fate's decreesHad bid her sigh for without hope--A dangerous, gloomy misanthrope, Being from hell or heaven sent, Angel or fiend malevolent. Which is he? or an imitation, A bogy conjured up in joke, A Russian in Childe Harold's cloak, Of foreign whims the impersonation--Handbook of fashionable phraseOr parody of modern ways?

XXIII

Hath she found out the riddle yet?Hath she a fitting phrase selected?But time flies and she doth forgetThey long at home have her expected--Whither two neighbouring dames have walkedAnd a long time about her talked. "What can be done? She is no child!"Cried the old dame with anguish filled:"Olinka is her junior, see. 'Tis time to many her, 'tis true, But tell me what am I to do?To all she answers cruelly--I will not wed, and ever weepsAnd lonely through the forest creeps. "

XXIV

"Is she in love?" quoth one. "With whom?Bouyanoff courted. She refused. Petoushkoff met the selfsame doom. The hussar Pikhtin was accused. How the young imp on Tania doted!To captivate her how devoted!I mused: perhaps the matter's squared--O yes! my hopes soon disappeared. ""But, _matushka_, to Moscow you(70)Should go, the market for a maid, With many a vacancy, 'tis said. "--"Alas! my friend, no revenue!""Enough to see one winter's end;If not, the money I will lend. "

[Note 70: "Matushka, " or "little mother, " a term of endearmentin constant use amongst Russian females. ]

XXV

The venerable dame opinedThe counsel good and full of reason, Her money counted, and designedTo visit Moscow in the season. Tattiana learns the intelligence--Of her provincial innocenceThe unaffected traits she nowUnto a carping world must show--Her toilette's antiquated style, Her antiquated mode of speech, For Moscow fops and Circes eachTo mark with a contemptuous smile. Horror! had she not better stayDeep in the greenwood far away?

XXVI

Arising with the morning's light, Unto the fields she makes her way, And with emotional delightSurveying them, she thus doth say:"Ye peaceful valleys all, good-bye!Ye well-known mountain summits high, Ye groves whose depths I know so well, Thou beauteous sky above, farewell!Delicious nature, thee I fly, The calm existence which I prizeI yield for splendid vanities, Thou too farewell, my liberty!Whither and wherefore do I speedAnd what will Destiny concede?"

XXVII

Farther Tattiana's walks extend--'Tis now the hillock now the rillTheir natural attractions lendTo stay the maid against her will. She the acquaintances she loves, Her spacious fields and shady groves, Another visit hastes to pay. But Summer swiftly fades awayAnd golden Autumn draweth nigh, And pallid nature trembling grieves, A victim decked with golden leaves;Dark clouds before the north wind fly;It blew: it howled: till winter e'enCame forth in all her magic sheen. 

XXVIII

The snow descends and buries all, Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs, A white and undulating pallO'er hillock and o'er meadow throws. The channel of the river stilledAs if with eider-down is filled. The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoiceIn mother Winter's strange caprice. But Tania's heart is not at ease, Winter's approach she doth not hailNor the frost particles inhaleNor the first snow of winter seizeHer shoulders, breast and face to lave--Alarm the winter journey gave. 

XXIX

The date was fixed though oft postponed, But ultimately doth approach. Examined, mended, newly foundWas the old and forgotten coach;Kibitkas three, the accustomed train, (71)The household property contain:Saucepans and mattresses and chairs, Portmanteaus and preserves in jars, Feather-beds, also poultry-coops, Basins and jugs--well! everythingTo happiness contributing. Behold! beside their dwelling groupsOf serfs the farewell wail have given. Nags eighteen to the door are driven. 

[Note 71: In former times, and to some extent the practice stillcontinues to the present day, Russian families were wont totravel with every necessary of life, and, in the case of thewealthy, all its luxuries following in their train. As thepoet complains in a subsequent stanza there were no inns;and if the simple Larinas required such ample store of creaturecomforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on hisjourneys may be easily conceived. ]

XXX

These to the coach of state are bound, Breakfast the busy cooks prepare, Baggage is heaped up in a mound, Old women at the coachmen swear. A bearded postillion astrideA lean and shaggy nag doth ride, Unto the gates the servants flyTo bid the gentlefolk good-bye. These take their seats; the coach of stateLeisurely through the gateway glides. "Adieu! thou home where peace abides, Where turmoil cannot penetrate, Shall I behold thee once again?"--Tattiana tears cannot restrain. 

XXXI

The limits of enlightenmentWhen to enlarge we shall succeed, In course of time (the whole extentWill not five centuries exceedBy computation) it is likeOur roads transformed the eye will strike;Highways all Russia will uniteAnd form a network left and right;On iron bridges we shall gazeWhich o'er the waters boldly leap, Mountains we'll level and through deepStreams excavate subaqueous ways, And Christian folk will, I expect, An inn at every stage erect. 

XXXII

But now, what wretched roads one sees, Our bridges long neglected rot, And at the stages bugs and fleasOne moment's slumber suffer not. Inns there are none. Pretentious butMeagre, within a draughty hut, A bill of fare hangs full in sightAnd irritates the appetite. Meantime a Cyclops of those partsBefore a fire which feebly glowsMends with the Russian hammer's blowsThe flimsy wares of Western marts, With blessings on the ditches andThe ruts of his own fatherland. 

XXXIII

Yet on a frosty winter dayThe journey in a sledge doth please, No senseless fashionable layGlides with a more luxurious ease;For our Automedons are fireAnd our swift troikas never tire;The verst posts catch the vacant eyeAnd like a palisade flit by. (72)The Larinas unwisely went, From apprehension of the cost, By their own horses, not the post--So Tania to her heart's contentCould taste the pleasures of the road. Seven days and nights the travellers plod. 

[Note 72: This somewhat musty joke has appeared in more than onenational costume. Most Englishmen, if we were to replaceverst-posts with milestones and substitute a graveyard fora palisade, would instantly recognize its Yankee extraction. In Russia however its origin is as ancient at least as thereign of Catherine the Second. The witticism ran thus: Acourier sent by Prince Potemkin to the Empress drove sofast that his sword, projecting from the vehicle, rattledagainst the verst-posts as if against a palisade!]

XXXIV

But they draw near. Before them, lo!White Moscow raises her old spires, Whose countless golden crosses glowAs with innumerable fires. (73)Ah! brethren, what was my delightWhen I yon semicircle brightOf churches, gardens, belfries highDescried before me suddenly!Moscow, how oft in evil days, Condemned to exile dire by fate, On thee I used to meditate!Moscow! How much is in the phraseFor every loyal Russian breast!How much is in that word expressed!

[Note 73: The aspect of Moscow, especially as seen from the SparrowHills, a low range bordering the river Moskva at a short distancefrom the city, is unique and splendid. It possesses several domescompletely plated with gold and some twelve hundred spires most ofwhich are surmounted by a golden cross. At the time of sunset theyseem literally tipped with flame. It was from this memorable spotthat Napoleon and the Grand Army first obtained a glimpse at thecity of the Tsars. There are three hundred and seventy churches inMoscow. The Kremlin itself is however by far the most interestingobject to the stranger. ]

XXXV

Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks, Petrovski Palace! GloomilyHis recent glory he invokes. Here, drunk with his late victory, Napoleon tarried till it pleaseMoscow approach on bended knees, Time-honoured Kremlin's keys present. Not so! My Moscow never wentTo seek him out with bended head. No gift she bears, no feast proclaims, But lights incendiary flamesFor the impatient chief instead. From hence engrossed in thought profoundHe on the conflagration frowned. (74)

[Note 74: Napoleon on his arrival in Moscow on the 14th Septembertook up his quarters in the Kremlin, but on the 16th had toremove to the Petrovski Palace or Castle on account of theconflagration which broke out in all quarters of the city. Hehowever returned to the Kremlin on the 19th September. The Palaceitself is placed in the midst of extensive grounds just outsidethe city, on the road to Tver, i. E. To the northwest. It isperhaps worthy of remark, as one amongst numerous circumstancesproving how extensively the poet interwove his own life-experienceswith the plot of this poem, that it was by this road that hehimself must have been in the habit of approaching Moscow from hisfavourite country residence of Mikhailovskoe, in the province ofPskoff. ]

XXXVI

Adieu, thou witness of our glory, Petrovski Palace; come, astir!Drive on! the city barriers hoaryAppear; along the road of TverThe coach is borne o'er ruts and holes, Past women, sentry-boxes, rolls, Past palaces and nunneries, Lamp-posts, shops, sledges, families, Bokharians, peasants, beds of greens, Boulevards, belfries, milliners, Huts, chemists, Cossacks, shopkeepersAnd fashionable magazines, Balconies, lion's heads on doors, Jackdaws on every spire--in scores. (75)

[Note 75: The first line refers to the prevailing shape of thecast-iron handles which adorn the _porte cocheres_. TheRussians are fond of tame birds--jackdaws, pigeons, starlings, etc. , abound in Moscow and elsewhere. ]

XXXVII

The weary way still incomplete, An hour passed by--another--till, Near Khariton's in a side streetThe coach before a house stood still. At an old aunt's they had arrivedWho had for four long years survivedAn invalid from lung complaint. A Kalmuck gray, in caftan rentAnd spectacles, his knitting staidAnd the saloon threw open wide;The princess from the sofa criedAnd the newcomers welcome bade. The two old ladies then embracedAnd exclamations interlaced. 

XXXVIII

"Princesse, mon ange!"--"Pachette!"--"Aline!""Who would have thought it? As of yore!Is it for long?"--"Ma chere cousine!""Sit down. How funny, to be sure!'Tis a scene of romance, I vow!""Tania, my eldest child, you know"--"Ah! come, Tattiana, come to me!Is it a dream, and can it be?Cousin, rememb'rest Grandison?""What! Grandison?"--"Yes, certainly!""Oh! I remember, where is he?"--"Here, he resides with Simeon. He called upon me Christmas Eve--His son is married, just conceive!"

XXXIX

"And he--but of him presently--To-morrow Tania we will show, What say you? to the family--Alas! abroad I cannot go. See, I can hardly crawl about--But you must both be quite tired out!Let us go seek a little rest--Ah! I'm so weak--my throbbing breast!Oppressive now is happiness, Not only sorrow--Ah! my dear, Now I am fit for nothing here. In old age life is weariness!"Then weeping she sank back distressedAnd fits of coughing racked her chest. 

XL

By the sick lady's gaietyAnd kindness Tania was impressed, But, her own room in memory, The strange apartment her oppressed:Repose her silken curtains fled, She could not sleep in her new bed. The early tinkling of the bellsWhich of approaching labour tellsAroused Tattiana from her bed. The maiden at her casement sitsAs daylight glimmers, darkness flits, But ah! discerns nor wood nor mead--Beneath her lay a strange courtyard, A stable, kitchen, fence appeared. 

XLI

To consanguineous dinners theyConduct Tattiana constantly, That grandmothers and grandsires mayContemplate her sad reverie. We Russians, friends from distant partsEver receive with kindly heartsAnd exclamations and good cheer. "How Tania grows! Doth it appear""Long since I held thee at the font--Since in these arms I thee did bear--And since I pulled thee by the ear--And I to give thee cakes was wont?"--Then the old dames in chorus sing, "Oh! how our years are vanishing!"

XLII

But nothing changed in them is seen, All in the good old style appears, Our dear old aunt, Princess Helene, Her cap of tulle still ever wears:Luceria Lvovna paint applies, Amy Petrovna utters lies, Ivan Petrovitch still a gaby, Simeon Petrovitch just as shabby;Pelagie Nikolavna hasHer friend Monsieur Finemouche the same, Her wolf-dog and her husband tame;Still of his club he member was--As deaf and silly doth remain, Still eats and drinks enough for twain. 

XLIII

Their daughters kiss Tattiana fair. In the beginning, cold and mute, Moscow's young Graces at her stare, Examine her from head to foot. They deem her somewhat finical, Outlandish and provincial, A trifle pale, a trifle lean, But plainer girls they oft had seen. Obedient then to Nature's law, With her they did associate, Squeeze tiny hands and osculate;Her tresses curled in fashion saw, And oft in whispers would impartA maiden's secrets--of the heart. 

XLIV

Triumphs--their own or those of friends--Hopes, frolics, dreams and sentimentTheir harmless conversation blendsWith scandal's trivial ornament. Then to reward such confidenceHer amorous experienceWith mute appeal to ask they seem--But Tania just as in a dreamWithout participation hears, Their voices nought to her impartAnd the lone secret of her heart, Her sacred hoard of joy and tears, She buries deep within her breastNor aught confides unto the rest. 

XLV

Tattiana would have gladly heardThe converse of the world polite, But in the drawing-room all appearedTo find in gossip such delight, Speech was so tame and colourlessTheir slander e'en was weariness;In their sterility of prattle, Questions and news and tittle-tattle, No sense was ever manifestThough by an error and unsought--The languid mind could smile at nought, Heart would not throb albeit in jest--Even amusing fools we missIn thee, thou world of empty bliss. 

XLVI

In groups, official striplings glanceConceitedly on Tania fair, And views amongst themselves advanceUnfavourable unto her. But one buffoon unhappy deemedHer the ideal which he dreamed, And leaning 'gainst the portal closedTo her an elegy composed. Also one Viazemski, remarkingTattiana by a poor aunt's side, Successfully to please her tried, And an old gent the poet markingBy Tania, smoothing his peruke, To ask her name the trouble took. (76)

[Note 76: One of the obscure satirical allusions contained in thispoem. Doubtless the joke was perfectly intelligible to the_habitues_ of contemporary St. Petersburg society. Viazemski ofcourse is the poet and prince, Pushkin's friend. ]

XLVII

But where Melpomene doth raveWith lengthened howl and accent loud, And her bespangled robe doth waveBefore a cold indifferent crowd, And where Thalia softly dreamsAnd heedless of approval seems, Terpsichore alone amongHer sisterhood delights the young(So 'twas with us in former years, In your young days and also mine), Never upon my heroineThe jealous dame her lorgnette veers, The connoisseur his glances throwsFrom boxes or from stalls in rows. 

XLVIII

To the assembly her they bear. There the confusion, pressure, heat, The crash of music, candles' glareAnd rapid whirl of many feet, The ladies' dresses airy, light, The motley moving mass and bright, Young ladies in a vasty curve, To strike imagination serve. 'Tis there that arrant fops displayTheir insolence and waistcoats whiteAnd glasses unemployed all night;Thither hussars on leave will strayTo clank the spur, delight the fair--And vanish like a bird in air. 

XLIX

Full many a lovely star hath nightAnd Moscow many a beauty fair:Yet clearer shines than every lightThe moon in the blue atmosphere. And she to whom my lyre would fain, Yet dares not, dedicate its strain, Shines in the female firmamentLike a full moon magnificent. Lo! with what pride celestialHer feet the earth beneath her press!Her heart how full of gentleness, Her glance how wild yet genial!Enough, enough, conclude thy lay--For folly's dues thou hadst to pay. 

L

Noise, laughter, bowing, hurrying mixt, Gallop, mazurka, waltzing--see!A pillar by, two aunts betwixt, Tania, observed by nobody, Looks upon all with absent gazeAnd hates the world's discordant ways. 'Tis noisome to her there: in thoughtAgain her rural life she sought, The hamlet, the poor villagers, The little solitary nookWhere shining runs the tiny brook, Her garden, and those books of hers, And the lime alley's twilight dimWhere the first time she met with _him_. 

LI

Thus widely meditation erred, Forgot the world, the noisy ball, Whilst from her countenance ne'er stirredThe eyes of a grave general. Both aunts looked knowing as a judge, Each gave Tattiana's arm a nudgeAnd in a whisper did repeat:"Look quickly to your left, my sweet!""The left? Why, what on earth is there?"--"No matter, look immediately. There, in that knot of company, Two dressed in uniform appear--Ah! he has gone the other way"--"Who? Is it that stout general, pray?"--

LII

Let us congratulations payTo our Tattiana conquering, And for a time our course delay, That I forget not whom I sing. Let me explain that in my song"I celebrate a comrade youngAnd the extent of his caprice;O epic Muse, my powers increaseAnd grant success to labour long;Having a trusty staff bestowed, Grant that I err not on the road. "Enough! my pack is now unslung--To classicism I've homage paid, Though late, have a beginning made. (77)

[Note 77: Many will consider this mode of bringing the cantoto a conclusion of more than doubtful taste. The poet evidentlyaims a stroke at the pedantic and narrow-minded criticism towhich original genius, emancipated from the strait-waistcoat ofconventionality, is not unfrequently subjected. ]

End of Canto The Seventh

CANTO THE EIGHTH

The Great World

'Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever fare thee well. '--Byron

Canto the Eighth

[St. Petersburg, Boldino, Tsarskoe Selo, 1880-1881]

I

In the Lyceum's noiseless shadeAs in a garden when I grew, I Apuleius gladly readBut would not look at Cicero. 'Twas then in valleys lone, remote, In spring-time, heard the cygnet's noteBy waters shining tranquilly, That first the Muse appeared to me. Into the study of the boyThere came a sudden flash of light, The Muse revealed her first delight, Sang childhood's pastimes and its joy, Glory with which our history teemsAnd the heart's agitated dreams. 

II

And the world met her smilingly, A first success light pinions gave, The old Derjavine noticed me, And blest me, sinking to the grave. (78)Then my companions young with pleasureIn the unfettered hours of leisureHer utterances ever heard, And by a partial temper stirredAnd boiling o'er with friendly heat, They first of all my brow did wreatheAnd an encouragement did breatheThat my coy Muse might sing more sweet. O triumphs of my guileless days, How sweet a dream your memories raise!

[Note 78: This touching scene produced a lasting impression onPushkin's mind. It took place at a public examination atthe Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. Theincident recalls the "Mon cher Tibulle" of Voltaire and theyouthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during thereigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. Hispoems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought ofby contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimalendowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperialreward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire. Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder havingbeen expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I havefilled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the authorhaving reference to this canto. ]

III

Passion's wild sway I then allowed, Her promptings unto law did make, Pursuits I followed of the crowd, My sportive Muse I used to takeTo many a noisy feast and fight, Terror of guardians of the night;And wild festivities amongShe brought with her the gift of song. Like a Bacchante in her sportBeside the cup she sang her rhymesAnd the young revellers of past timesVociferously paid her court, And I, amid the friendly crowd, Of my light paramour was proud. 

IV

But I abandoned their array, And fled afar--she followed me. How oft the kindly Muse awayHath whiled the road's monotony, Entranced me by some mystic tale. How oft beneath the moonbeams paleLike Leonora did she ride(79)With me Caucasian rocks beside!How oft to the Crimean shoreShe led me through nocturnal mistUnto the sounding sea to list, Where Nereids murmur evermore, And where the billows hoarsely raiseTo God eternal hymns of praise. 

[Note 79: See Note 30, "Leonora, " a poem by Gottfried AugustusBurger, b. 1748, d. 1794. ]

V

Then, the far capital forgot, Its splendour and its blandishments, In poor Moldavia cast her lot, She visited the humble tentsOf migratory gipsy hordes--And wild among them grew her words--Our godlike tongue she could exchangeFor savage speech, uncouth and strange, And ditties of the steppe she loved. But suddenly all changed around!Lo! in my garden was she foundAnd as a country damsel roved, A pensive sorrow in her glanceAnd in her hand a French romance. 

VI

Now for the first time I my MuseLead into good society, Her steppe-like beauties I peruseWith jealous fear, anxiety. Through dense aristocratic rowsOf diplomats and warlike beauxAnd supercilious dames she glides, Sits down and gazes on all sides--Amazed at the confusing crowd, Variety of speech and vests, Deliberate approach of guestsWho to the youthful hostess bowed, And the dark fringe of men, like framesEnclosing pictures of fair dames. 

VII

Assemblies oligarchicalPlease her by their decorum fixed, The rigour of cold pride and allTitles and ages intermixed. But who in that choice companyWith clouded brow stands silently?Unknown to all he doth appear, A vision desolate and drearDoth seem to him the festal scene. Doth his brow wretchedness declareOr suffering pride? Why is he there?Who may he be? Is it Eugene?Pray is it he? It is the same. "And is it long since back he came?

VIII

"Is he the same or grown more wise?Still doth the misanthrope appear?He has returned, say in what guise?What is his latest character?What doth he act? Is it Melmoth, (80)Philanthropist or patriot, Childe Harold, quaker, devotee, Or other mask donned playfully?Or a good fellow for the nonce, Like you and me and all the rest?--But this is my advice, 'twere bestNot to behave as he did once--Society he duped enow. ""Is he known to you?"--"Yes and No. "

[Note 80: A romance by Maturin. ]

IX

Wherefore regarding him expressPerverse, unfavourable views?Is it that human restlessnessFor ever carps, condemns, pursues?Is it that ardent souls of flameBy recklessness amuse or shameSelfish nonentities around?That mind which yearns for space is bound?And that too often we receiveProfessions eagerly for deeds, That crass stupidity misleads, That we by cant ourselves deceive, That mediocrity aloneWithout disgust we look upon?

X

Happy he who in youth was young, Happy who timely grew mature, He who life's frosts which early wrungHath gradually learnt to endure;By visions who was ne'er derangedNor from the mob polite estranged, At twenty who was prig or swell, At thirty who was married well, At fifty who relief obtainedFrom public and from private ties, Who glory, wealth and dignitiesHath tranquilly in turn attained, And unto whom we all alludeAs to a worthy man and good!

XI

But sad is the reflection made, In vain was youth by us received, That we her constantly betrayedAnd she at last hath us deceived;That our desires which noblest seemed, The purest of the dreams we dreamed, Have one by one all withered grownLike rotten leaves by Autumn strown--'Tis fearful to anticipateNought but of dinners a long row, To look on life as on a show, Eternally to imitateThe seemly crowd, partaking noughtIts passions and its modes of thought. 

XII

The butt of scandal having been, 'Tis dreadful--ye agree, I hope--To pass with reasonable menFor a fictitious misanthrope, A visionary mortified, Or monster of Satanic pride, Or e'en the "Demon" of my strain. (81)Oneguine--take him up again--In duel having killed his friendAnd reached, with nought his mind to engage, The twenty-sixth year of his age, Wearied of leisure in the end, Without profession, business, wife, He knew not how to spend his life. 

[Note 81: The "Demon, " a short poem by Pushkin which at its firstappearance created some excitement in Russian society. A moreappropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have beenthe _Tempter_. It is descriptive of the first manifestation ofdoubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as thevisits of a "demon. " Russian society was moved to embody thisimaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin's. This must not be confounded with Lermontoff's poem bearing thesame title upon which Rubinstein's new opera, "Il Demonio, " isfounded. ]

XIII

Him a disquietude did seize, A wish from place to place to roam, A very troublesome disease, In some a willing martyrdom. Abandoned he his country seat, Of woods and fields the calm retreat, Where every day before his eyesA blood-bespattered shade would rise, And aimless journeys did commence--But still remembrance to him clings, His travels like all other thingsInspired but weariness intense;Returning, from his ship amidA ball he fell as Tchatzki did. (82)

[Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the principal characters in Griboyedoff'scelebrated comedy "Woe from Wit" (_Gore ot Ouma_). ]

XIV

Behold, the crowd begins to stir, A whisper runs along the hall, A lady draws the hostess near, Behind her a grave general. Her manners were deliberate, Reserved, but not inanimate, Her eyes no saucy glance address, There was no angling for success. Her features no grimaces bleared;Of affectation innocent, Calm and without embarrassment, A faithful model she appearedOf "comme il faut. " Shishkoff, forgive!I can't translate the adjective. (83)

[Note 83: Shishkoff was a member of the literary school whichcultivated the vernacular as opposed to the _Arzamass_ orGallic school, to which the poet himself and his uncle VassiliPushkin belonged. He was admiral, author, and minister ofeducation. ]

XV

Ladies in crowds around her close, Her with a smile old women greet, The men salute with lower bowsAnd watch her eye's full glance to meet. Maidens before her meekly moveAlong the hall, and high aboveThe crowd doth head and shoulders riseThe general who accompanies. None could her beautiful declare, Yet viewing her from head to foot, None could a trace of that impute, Which in the elevated sphereOf London life is "vulgar" calledAnd ruthless fashion hath blackballed. 

XVI

I like this word exceedinglyAlthough it will not bear translation, With us 'tis quite a noveltyNot high in general estimation;'Twould serve ye in an epigram--But turn we once more to our dame. Enchanting, but unwittingly, At table she was sitting byThe brilliant Nina Voronskoi, The Neva's Cleopatra, andNone the conviction could withstandThat Nina's marble symmetry, Though dazzling its effulgence white, Could not eclipse her neighbour's light. 

XVII

"And is it, " meditates Eugene. "And is it she? It must be--no--How! from the waste of steppes unseen, "--And the eternal lorgnette throughFrequent and rapid doth his glanceSeek the forgotten countenanceFamiliar to him long ago. "Inform me, prince, pray dost thou knowThe lady in the crimson capWho with the Spanish envoy speaks?"--The prince's eye Oneguine seeks:"Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!But stop! I will present thee, ifYou choose. "--"But who is she?"--"My wife. "

XVIII

"So thou art wed! I did not know. Long ago?"--"'Tis the second year. ""To--?"--"Larina. "--"Tattiana?"--"So. And dost thou know her?"--"We live near. ""Then come with me. " The prince proceeds, His wife approaches, with him leadsHis relative and friend as well. The lady's glance upon him fell--And though her soul might be confused, And vehemently though amazedShe on the apparition gazed, No signs of trouble her accused, A mien unaltered she preserved, Her bow was easy, unreserved. 

XIX

Ah no! no faintness her attackedNor sudden turned she red or white, Her brow she did not e'en contractNor yet her lip compressed did bite. Though he surveyed her at his ease, Not the least trace Oneguine seesOf the Tattiana of times fled. He conversation would have led--But could not. Then she questioned him:--"Had he been long here, and where from?Straight from their province had he come?"--Cast upwards then her eyeballs dimUnto her husband, went away--Transfixed Oneguine mine doth stay. 

XX

Is this the same Tattiana, say, Before whom once in solitude, In the beginning of this lay, Deep in the distant province rude, Impelled by zeal for moral worth, He salutary rules poured forth?The maid whose note he still possessedWherein the heart its vows expressed, Where all upon the surface lies, --That girl--but he must dreaming be--That girl whom once on a time heCould in a humble sphere despise, Can she have been a moment goneThus haughty, careless in her tone?

XXI

He quits the fashionable throngAnd meditative homeward goes, Visions, now sad, now grateful, longDo agitate his late repose. He wakes--they with a letter come--The Princess N. Will be at homeOn such a day. O Heavens, 'tis she!Oh! I accept. And instantlyHe a polite reply doth scrawl. What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?In the recesses what hath stirredOf a heart cold and cynical?Vexation? Vanity? or stroveAgain the plague of boyhood--love?

XXII

The hours once more Oneguine counts, Impatient waits the close of day, But ten strikes and his sledge he mountsAnd gallops to her house away. Trembling he seeks the young princess--Tattiana finds in loneliness. Together moments one or twoThey sat, but conversation's flowDeserted Eugene. He, distraught, Sits by her gloomily, desponds, Scarce to her questions he responds, Full of exasperating thought. He fixedly upon her stares--She calm and unconcerned appears. 

XXIII

The husband comes and interferesWith this unpleasant _tete-a-tete_, With Eugene pranks of former yearsAnd jests doth recapitulate. They talked and laughed. The guests arrived. The conversation was revivedBy the coarse wit of worldly hate;But round the hostess scintillateLight sallies without coxcombry, Awhile sound conversation seemsTo banish far unworthy themesAnd platitudes and pedantry, And never was the ear affrightBy liberties or loose or light. 

XXIV

And yet the city's flower was there, Noblesse and models of the mode, Faces which we meet everywhereAnd necessary fools allowed. Behold the dames who once were fineWith roses, caps and looks malign;Some marriageable maids behold, Blank, unapproachable and cold. Lo, the ambassador who speaksEconomy political, And with gray hair ambrosialThe old man who has had his freaks, Renowned for his acumen, wit, But now ridiculous a bit. 

XXV

Behold Sabouroff, whom the ageFor baseness of the spirit scorns, Saint Priest, who every album's pageWith blunted pencil-point adorns. Another tribune of the ballHung like a print against the wall, Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim, (84)Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim. The traveller, bird of passage he, Stiff, overstarched and insolent, Awakens secret merrimentBy his embarrassed dignity--Mute glances interchanged asideMeet punishment for him provide. 

[Note 84: On Palm Sunday the Russians carry branches, or used todo so. These branches were adorned with little painted picturesof cherubs with the ruddy complexions of tradition. Hence thecomparison. ]

XXVI

But my Oneguine the whole eveWithin his mind Tattiana bore, Not the young timid maid, believe, Enamoured, simple-minded, poor, But the indifferent princess, Divinity without accessOf the imperial Neva's shore. O Men, how very like ye areTo Eve the universal mother, Possession hath no power to please, The serpent to unlawful treesAye bids ye in some way or other--Unless forbidden fruit we eat, Our paradise is no more sweet. 

XXVII

Ah! how Tattiana was transformed, How thoroughly her part she took!How soon to habits she conformedWhich crushing dignity must brook!Who would the maiden innocentIn the unmoved, magnificentAutocrat of the drawing-room seek?And he had made her heart beat quick!'Twas he whom, amid nightly shades, Whilst Morpheus his approach delays, She mourned and to the moon would raiseThe languid eye of love-sick maids, Dreaming perchance in weal or woeTo end with him her path below. 

XXVIII

To Love all ages lowly bend, But the young unpolluted heartHis gusts should fertilize, amend, As vernal storms the fields athwart. Youth freshens beneath Passion's showers, Develops and matures its powers, And thus in season the rich fieldGay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield. But at a later, sterile age, The solstice of our earthly years, Mournful Love's deadly trace appearsAs storms which in chill autumn rageAnd leave a marsh the fertile groundAnd devastate the woods around. 

XXIX

There was no doubt! Eugene, alas!Tattiana loved as when a lad, Both day and night he now must passIn love-lorn meditation sad. Careless of every social rule, The crystals of her vestibuleHe daily in his drives drew nearAnd like a shadow haunted her. Enraptured was he if allowedTo swathe her shoulders in the furs, If his hot hand encountered hers, Or he dispersed the motley crowdOf lackeys in her pathway grouped, Or to pick up her kerchief stooped. 

XXX

She seemed of him oblivious, Despite the anguish of his breast, Received him freely at her house, At times three words to him addressedIn company, or simply bowed, Or recognized not in the crowd. No coquetry was there, I vouch--Society endures not such!Oneguine's cheek grew ashy pale, Either she saw not or ignored;Oneguine wasted; on my word, Already he grew phthisical. All to the doctors Eugene send, And they the waters recommend. 

XXXI

He went not--sooner was preparedTo write his forefathers to warnOf his approach; but nothing caredTattiana--thus the sex is born. --He obstinately will remain, Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain. Sickness more courage doth commandThan health, so with a trembling handA love epistle he doth scrawl. Though correspondence as a ruleHe used to hate--and was no fool--Yet suffering emotionalHad rendered him an invalid;But word for word his letter read. 

Oneguine's Letter to Tattiana

All is foreseen. My secret drearWill sound an insult in your ear. What acrimonious scorn I traceDepicted on your haughty face!What do I ask? What cause assignedThat I to you reveal my mind?To what malicious merriment, It may be, I yield nutriment!

Meeting you in times past by chance, Warmth I imagined in your glance, But, knowing not the actual truth, Restrained the impulses of youth;Also my wretched libertyI would not part with finally;This separated us as well--Lenski, unhappy victim, fell, From everything the heart held dearI then resolved my heart to tear;Unknown to all, without a tie, I thought--retirement, liberty, Will happiness replace. My God!How I have erred and felt the rod!

No, ever to behold your face, To follow you in every place, Your smiling lips, your beaming eyes, To watch with lovers' ecstasies, Long listen, comprehend the wholeOf your perfections in my soul, Before you agonized to die--This, this were true felicity!

But such is not for me. I broodDaily of love in solitude. My days of life approach their end, Yet I in idleness expendThe remnant destiny concedes, And thus each stubbornly proceeds. I feel, allotted is my span;But, that life longer may remain, At morn I must assuredlyKnow that thy face that day I see. 

I tremble lest my humble prayerYou with stern countenance declareThe artifice of villany--I hear your harsh, reproachful cry. If ye but knew how dreadful 'tisTo bear love's parching agonies--To burn, yet reason keep awakeThe fever of the blood to slake--A passionate desire to bendAnd, sobbing at your feet, to blendEntreaties, woes and prayers, confessAll that the heart would fain express--Yet with a feigned frigidityTo arm the tongue and e'en the eye, To be in conversation clearAnd happy unto you appear. 

So be it! But internal strifeI cannot longer wage concealed. The die is cast! Thine is my life!Into thy hands my fate I yield!

XXXII

No answer! He another sent. Epistle second, note the third, Remained unnoticed. Once he wentTo an assembly--she appearedJust as he entered. How severe!She will not see, she will not hear. Alas! she is as hard, behold, And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold. Oh, how her lips compressed restrainThe indignation of her heart!A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!Upon her brow sits wrath alone--

XXXIII

And it may be a secret dreadLest the world or her lord divineA certain little escapadeWell known unto Oneguine mine. 'Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he fleeCursing his own stupidity, And brooding o'er the ills he bore, Society renounced once more. Then in the silent cabinetHe in imagination sawThe time when Melancholy's claw'Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet, Caught him and by the collar tookAnd shut him in a lonely nook. 

XXXIV

He read as vainly as before, perusing Gibbon and Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort, (85)Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:He read the unbelieving Bayle, Also the works of Fontenelle, Some Russian authors he perused--Nought in the universe refused:Nor almanacs nor newspapers, Which lessons unto us repeat, Wherein I castigation get;And where a madrigal occursWrit in my honour now and then--_E sempre bene_, gentlemen!

[Note 85: Owing to the unstable nature of fame the names of someof the above literary worthies necessitate reference at thisperiod in the nineteenth century. 

Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a Germanphilosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friendof Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chiefwork is entitled, "Ideas for a Philosophy of the History ofMankind, " in 4 vols. 

Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a Frenchnovelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to hisreal wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised aconsiderable influence over certain of its leaders, notablyMirabeau and Sieyes. He is said to have originated the title ofthe celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. "What is theTiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything. " Heultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was throwninto prison and though shortly afterwards released, hisincarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committedsuicide. 

Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomistand physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a "Traitedes Membranes, " "Anatomie generale appliquee a la Physiologie et ala Medecine, " and "Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et laMort. " He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxiousexhalations during his researches. 

Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of theRevolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editorof the _Gazette de France_. He wrote histories of the Revolution, of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of awork entitled "Les trois Irlandais Conjures, ou l'ombre d'Emmet, "and is believed to have edited Foy's "History of the PeninsularWar. "

The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fairidea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the EmpressCatherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverishthirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding powerof assimilation. ]

XXXV

But what results? His eyes peruseBut thoughts meander far away--Ideas, desires and woes confuseHis intellect in close array. His eyes, the printed lines betwixt, On lines invisible are fixt;'Twas these he read and these aloneHis spirit was intent upon. They were the wonderful traditionsOf kindly, dim antiquity, Dreams with no continuity, Prophecies, threats and apparitions, The lively trash of stories longOr letters of a maiden young. 

XXXVI

And by degrees upon him grewA lethargy of sense, a trance, And soon imagination threwBefore him her wild game of chance. And now upon the snow in thawA young man motionless he saw, As one who bivouacs afield, And heard a voice cry--_Why! He's killed_!--And now he views forgotten foes, Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue, Bevies of treacherous maidens young;Of thankless friends the circle rose, A mansion--by the window, see!She sits alone--'tis ever _she_!

XXXVII

So frequently his mind would strayHe well-nigh lost the use of sense, Almost became a poet say--Oh! what had been his eminence!Indeed, by force of magnetismA Russian poem's mechanismMy scholar without aptitudeAt this time almost understood. How like a poet was my chumWhen, sitting by his fire aloneWhilst cheerily the embers shone, He "Benedetta" used to hum, Or "Idol mio, " and in the grateWould lose his slippers or gazette. 

XXXVIII

Time flies! a genial air abroad, Winter resigned her empire white, Oneguine ne'er as poet showedNor died nor lost his senses quite. Spring cheered him up, and he resignedHis chambers close wherein confinedHe marmot-like did hibernate, His double sashes and his grate, And sallied forth one brilliant morn--Along the Neva's bank he sleighs, On the blue blocks of ice the raysOf the sun glisten; muddy, worn, The snow upon the streets doth melt--Whither along them doth he pelt?

XXXIX

Oneguine whither gallops? YeHave guessed already. Yes, quite so!Unto his own Tattiana he, Incorrigible rogue, doth go. Her house he enters, ghastly white, The vestibule finds empty quite--He enters the saloon. 'Tis blank!A door he opens. But why shrankHe back as from a sudden blow?--Alone the princess sitteth there, Pallid and with dishevelled hair, Gazing upon a note below. Her tears flow plentifully andHer cheek reclines upon her hand. 

XL

Oh! who her speechless agoniesCould not in that brief moment guess!Who now could fail to recognizeTattiana in the young princess!Tortured by pangs of wild regret, Eugene fell prostrate at her feet--She starts, nor doth a word express, But gazes on Oneguine's faceWithout amaze or wrath displayed:His sunken eye and aspect faint, Imploring looks and mute complaintShe comprehends. The simple maidBy fond illusions once possestIs once again made manifest. 

XLI

His kneeling posture he retains--Calmly her eyes encounter his--Insensible her hand remainsBeneath his lips' devouring kiss. What visions then her fancy thronged--A breathless silence then, prolonged--But finally she softly said:"Enough, arise! for much we needWithout disguise ourselves explain. Oneguine, hast forgotten yetThe hour when--Fate so willed--we metIn the lone garden and the lane?How meekly then I heard you preach--To-day it is my turn to teach. 

XLII

"Oneguine, I was younger then, And better, if I judge aright;I loved you--what did I obtain?Affection how did you requite?But with austerity!--for youNo novelty--is it not true?--Was the meek love a maiden feels. But now--my very blood congeals, Calling to mind your icy lookAnd sermon--but in that dread hourI blame not your behaviour--An honourable course ye took, Displayed a noble rectitude--My soul is filled with gratitude!

XLIII

"Then, in the country, is't not true?And far removed from rumour vain;I did not please you. Why pursueMe now, inflict upon me pain?--Wherefore am I your quarry held?--Is it that I am now compelledTo move in fashionable life, That I am rich, a prince's wife?--Because my lord, in battles maimed, Is petted by the Emperor?--That my dishonour would ensureA notoriety proclaimed, And in society might shedA bastard fame prohibited?

XLIV

"I weep. And if within your breastMy image hath not disappeared, Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed, Your conversation cold and hard, If the choice in my power were, To lawless love I should prefer--And to these letters and these tears. For visions of my childish yearsThen ye were barely generous, Age immature averse to cheat--But now--what brings you to my feet?--How mean, how pusillanimous!A prudent man like you and braveTo shallow sentiment a slave!

XLV

"Oneguine, all this sumptuousness, The gilding of life's vanities, In the world's vortex my success, My splendid house and gaieties--What are they? Gladly would I yieldThis life in masquerade concealed, This glitter, riot, emptiness, For my wild garden and bookcase, --Yes! for our unpretending home, Oneguine--the beloved placeWhere the first time I saw your face, --Or for the solitary tombWherein my poor old nurse doth lieBeneath a cross and shrubbery. 

XLVI

"'Twas possible then, happiness--Nay, near--but destiny decreed--My lot is fixed--with thoughtlessnessIt may be that I did proceed--With bitter tears my mother prayed, And for Tattiana, mournful maid, Indifferent was her future fate. I married--now, I supplicate--For ever your Tattiana leave. Your heart possesses, I know well, Honour and pride inflexible. I love you--to what end deceive?--But I am now another's bride--For ever faithful will abide. "

XLVII

She rose--departed. But EugeneStood as if struck by lightning fire. What a storm of emotions keenRaged round him and of balked desire!And hark! the clank of spurs is heardAnd Tania's husband soon appeared. --But now our hero we must leaveJust at a moment which I grieveMust be pronounced unfortunate--For long--for ever. To be sureTogether we have wandered o'erThe world enough. CongratulateEach other as the shore we climb!Hurrah! it long ago was time!

XLVIII

Reader, whoever thou mayst be, Foeman or friend, I do aspireTo part in amity with thee!Adieu! whate'er thou didst desireFrom careless stanzas such as these, Of passion reminiscences, Pictures of the amusing scene, Repose from labour, satire keen, Or faults of grammar on its page--God grant that all who herein glance, In serious mood or dallianceOr in a squabble to engage, May find a crumb to satisfy. Now we must separate. Good-bye!

XLIX

And farewell thou, my gloomy friend, Thou also, my ideal true, And thou, persistent to the end, My little book. With thee I knewAll that a poet could desire, Oblivion of life's tempest dire, Of friends the grateful intercourse--Oh, many a year hath run its courseSince I beheld Eugene and youngTattiana in a misty dream, And my romance's open themeGlittered in a perspective long, And I discerned through Fancy's prismDistinctly not its mechanism. 

L

But ye to whom, when friendship heard, The first-fruits of my tale I read, As Saadi anciently averred--(86)Some are afar and some are dead. Without them Eugene is complete;And thou, from whom Tattiana sweet;Was drawn, ideal of my lay--Ah! what hath fate not torn away!Happy who quit life's banquet seatBefore the dregs they shall divineOf the cup brimming o'er with wine--Who the romance do not complete, But who abandon it--as IHave my Oneguine--suddenly. 

[Note 86: The celebrated Persian poet. Pushkin uses the passagereferred to as an epigraph to the "Fountain of Baktchiserai. " Itruns thus: "Many, even as I, visited that fountain, but some ofthese are dead and some have journeyed afar. " Saadi was born in1189 at Shiraz and was a reputed descendant from Ali, Mahomet'sson-in-law. In his youth he was a soldier, was taken prisoner bythe Crusaders and forced to work in the ditches of Tripoli, whence he was ransomed by a merchant whose daughter he subsequentlymarried. He did not commence writing till an advanced age. Hisprincipal work is the "Gulistan, " or "Rose Garden, " a work whichhas been translated into almost every European tongue. ]

End of Canto The Eighth

The End