EUGENE ONEGUINE [Onegin]:

A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

by


ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

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







London Macmillan and Co. 1881




PREFACE

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

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

The biographical sketch is of course a mere outline. I did not think a longer one advisable, as memoirs do not usually excite much interest till the subjects of them are pretty well known. In the "notes" I have endeavored to elucidate a somewhat obscure subject. Some of the poet's allusions remain enigmatical to the present day. The point of each sarcasm naturally passed out of mind together with the society against which it was levelled. If some of the versification is rough and wanting in "go," I must plead in excuse the difficult form of the stanza, and in many instances the inelastic nature of the subject matter to be versified. Stanza XXXV Canto II forms a good example of the latter difficulty, and is omitted in the German and French versions to which I have had access. The translation of foreign verse is comparatively easy so long as it is confined to conventional poetic subjects, but when it embraces abrupt scraps of conversation and the description of local customs it becomes a much more arduous affair. I think I may say that I have adhered closely to the text of 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 da A. 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 polisson


Encore dans les classes;


Point sot, je le dis sans facon,


Et sans fades grimaces.


Oui! il ne fut babillard


Ni docteur de Sorbonne,


Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard


Que 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 nasal sound of m and n excepted) in the following translation. The accent, which is very arbitrary in the Russian language, is indicated unmistakably in a rhythmical composition.




A Short Biographical Notice of Alexander Pushkin.

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

In 1811 he entered the Lyceum, an aristocratic educational establishment at Tsarskoe Selo, near St. Petersburg, where he was the friend and schoolmate of Prince Gortchakoff the Russian Chancellor. As a scholar he displayed no remarkable amount of capacity, but was fond of general reading and much given to versification. Whilst yet a schoolboy he wrote many lyrical compositions and commenced Ruslan and Liudmila, his first poem of any magnitude, and, it is asserted, the first readable one ever produced in the Russian language. During his boyhood he came much into contact with the poets Dmitrieff and Joukovski, who were intimate with his father, and his uncle, Vassili Pushkin, himself an author of no mean repute. The friendship of the historian Karamzine must have exercised a still more beneficial influence upon him.

In 1817 he quitted the Lyceum and obtained an appointment in the Foreign Office at St. Petersburg. Three years of reckless dissipation in the capital, where his lyrical talent made him universally popular, resulted in 1818 in a putrid fever which was near carrying him off. At this period of his life he scarcely slept at all; worked all day and dissipated at night. Society was open to him from the palace of the prince to the officers' quarters of the Imperial Guard. The reflection of this mode of life may be noted in the first canto of Eugene Oneguine and the early dissipations of the "Philosopher just turned eighteen,"— the exact age of Pushkin when he commenced his career in the Russian capital.

In 1820 he was transferred to the bureau of Lieutenant-General Inzoff, at Kishineff in Bessarabia. This event was probably due to his composing and privately circulating an "Ode to Liberty," though the attendant circumstances have never yet been thoroughly brought to light. An indiscreet admiration for Byron most likely involved the young poet in this scrape. The tenor of this production, especially its audacious allusion to the murder of the emperor Paul, father of the then reigning Tsar, assuredly deserved, according to aristocratic ideas, the deportation to Siberia which was said to have been prepared for the author. The intercession of Karamzine and Joukovski procured a commutation of his sentence. Strangely enough, Pushkin appeared anxious to deceive the public as to the real cause of his sudden disappearance from the capital; for in an Ode to Ovid composed about this time he styles himself a "voluntary exile." (See Note 4 to this volume.)

During the four succeeding years he made numerous excursions amid the beautiful countries which from the basin of the Euxine—and amongst these the Crimea and the Caucasus. A nomad life passed amid the beauties of nature acted powerfully in developing his poetical genius. To this period he refers in the final canto of Eugene Oneguine (st. v.), when enumerating the various influences which 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 most delightful poetical works: amongst these, The Prisoner of the Caucasus, The Fountain of Baktchiserai, and the Gipsies. Of the two 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 time Byron's fame—like the setting sun—shone out with dazzling lustre and irresistibly charmed the mind of Pushkin amongst many others. The Gipsies is more original; indeed the poet himself has been identified with Aleko, the hero of the tale, which may well be founded on his own personal adventures without involving the guilt of a double murder. His undisguised admiration for Byron doubtless exposed him to imputations similar to those commonly levelled against that poet. But Pushkin's talent was too genuine for him to remain long subservient to that of another, and in a later period of his career he broke loose from all trammels and selected a line peculiarly his own. Before leaving this stage in our narrative we may point out the fact that during the whole of this period of comparative seclusion the poet was indefatigably occupied in study. Not only were the standard works of European literature perused, but two more languages—namely Italian and Spanish—were added to his original stock: French, English, Latin and German having been acquired at the Lyceum. To this happy union of literary research with the study of nature we must attribute the sudden bound by which he soon afterwards attained the pinnacle of poetic fame amongst his own countrymen.

In 1824 he once more fell under the imperial displeasure. A letter seized in the post, and expressive of atheistical sentiments (possibly but a transient vagary of his youth) was the ostensible cause of his banishment from Odessa to his paternal estate of Mikhailovskoe in the province of Pskoff. Some, however, aver that personal pique on the part of Count Vorontsoff, the Governor of Odessa, played a part in the transaction. Be this as it may, the consequences were serious for the poet, who was not only placed under the surveillance of the police, but expelled from the Foreign Office by express order of the Tsar "for bad conduct." A letter on this subject, addressed by Count Vorontsoff to Count Nesselrode, is an amusing instance of the arrogance with which stolid mediocrity frequently passes judgment on rising genius. I transcribe a portion thereof:


Odessa, 28th March (7th April) 1824

Count—Your Excellency is aware of the reasons for which, some time ago, young Pushkin was sent with a letter from Count Capo d'Istria to General Inzoff. I found him already here when I arrived, the General having placed him at my disposal, though he himself was at Kishineff. I have no reason to complain about him. On the contrary, he is much steadier than formerly. But a desire for the welfare of the young man himself, who is not wanting in ability, and whose faults proceed more from the head than from the heart, impels me to urge upon you his removal from Odessa. Pushkin's chief failing is ambition. He spent the bathing season here, and has gathered round him a crowd of adulators who praise his genius. This maintains in him a baneful delusion which seems to turn his head—namely, that he is a "distinguished writer;" whereas, in reality he is but a feeble imitator of an author in whose favour very little can be said (Byron). This it is which keeps him from a serious study of the great classical poets, which might exercise a beneficial effect upon his talents—which cannot be 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 received him once more into favour. During an interview which took place it is said that the Tsar promised the poet that he alone would in future be the censor of his productions. Pushkin was restored to his position in the Foreign Office and received the appointment of Court Historian. In 1828 he published one of his finest poems, Poltava, which is founded on incidents familiar to English readers in Byron's Mazeppa. In 1829 the hardy poet accompanied the Russian army which under Paskevitch captured Erzeroum. In 1831 he married a beautiful lady of the Gontchareff family and settled in the neighbourhood of St. Petersburg, where he remained for the remainder of his life, only occasionally visiting Moscow and Mikhailovskoe. During this period his chief occupation consisted in collecting and investigating materials for a projected history of Peter the Great, which was undertaken at the express desire of the Emperor. He likewise completed a history of the revolt of Pougatchoff, which occurred in the reign of Catherine II. [Note: this individual having personated Peter III, the deceased husband of the Empress, raised the Orenburg Cossacks in revolt. This revolt was not suppressed without extensive destruction of life and property.] In 1833 the poet visited Orenburg, the scene of the dreadful excesses he recorded; the fruit of his journey being one of 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 of domestic bliss and grateful literary occupation, were what lookers-on style "years of unclouded happiness." They were, however, drawing rapidly to a close. Unrivalled distinction rarely fails to arouse bitter animosity amongst the envious, and Pushkin's existence had latterly been embittered by groundless insinuations against his wife's reputation in the shape of anonymous letters addressed to himself and couched in very insulting language. He fancied he had traced them to one Georges d'Anthes, a Frenchman in the Cavalier Guard, who had been adopted by the Dutch envoy Heeckeren. D'Anthes, though he had espoused Madame Pushkin's sister, had conducted himself with impropriety towards the former lady. The poet displayed in this affair a fierce hostility quite characteristic of his African origin but which drove him to his destruction. D'Anthes, it was subsequently admitted, was not the author of the anonymous letters; but as usual when a duel is proposed, an appeal to reason was thought to smack of cowardice. The encounter took place in February 1837 on one of the islands of the Neva. The weapons used were pistols, and the combat was of a determined, nay ferocious character. Pushkin was shot before he had time to fire, and, in his fall, the barrel of his pistol became clogged with snow which lay deep upon the ground at the time. Raising himself on his elbow, the wounded man called for another pistol, crying, "I've strength left to fire my shot!" He fired, and slightly wounded his opponent, shouting "Bravo!" when he heard him exclaim that he was hit. D'Anthes was, however, but slightly contused whilst Pushkin was shot through the abdomen. He was transported to his residence and expired after several days passed in extreme agony. Thus perished in the thirty-eighth year of his age this distinguished poet, in a manner and amid surroundings which make the duel scene in the sixth canto of this poem seem almost prophetic. His reflections on the premature death of Lenski appear indeed strangely applicable to his own fate, as generally to the premature extinction of genius.

Pushkin was endowed with a powerful physical organisation. He was fond of long walks, unlike the generality of his countrymen, and at one time of his career used daily to foot it into St. Petersburg and back, from his residence in the suburbs, to conduct his investigations in the Government archives when employed on the History of Peter the Great. He was a good swordsman, rode well, and at one time aspired to enter the cavalry; but his father not being able to furnish the necessary funds he declined serving in the less romantic infantry. Latterly he was regular in his habits; rose early, retired late, and managed to get along with but very little sleep. On rising he betook himself forthwith to his literary occupations, which were continued till afternoon, when they gave place to physical exercise. Strange as it will appear to many, he preferred the autumn months, especially when rainy, chill and misty, for the production of his literary compositions, and was proportionally depressed by the approach of spring. (Cf. Canto VII 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 and remained in the country till December. In this space of time it was his custom to develop and perfect the inspirations of the remaining portion of the year. He was of an impetuous yet affectionate nature and much beloved by a numerous circle of friends. An attractive feature in his character was his unalterable attachment to his aged nurse, a sentiment which we find reflected in the pages of Eugene Oneguine and elsewhere.

The preponderating influence which Byron exercised in the formation of his genius has already been noticed. It is indeed probable that we owe Oneguine to the combined impressions of Childe Harold and Don Juan upon his mind. Yet the Russian poem excels these masterpieces of Byron in a single particular—namely, in completeness of narrative, the plots of the latter being mere vehicles for the development of the poet's general reflections. There is ground for believing that Pushkin likewise made this poem the record of his own experience. This has doubtless been the practice of many distinguished authors of fiction whose names will readily occur to the reader. Indeed, as we are never cognizant of the real motives which actuate others, it follows that nowhere can the secret springs of human action be studied to such advantage as within our own breasts. Thus romance is sometimes but the reflection of the writer's own 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 of place. Perhaps I cannot more suitably conclude this sketch than by quoting from his Ode to the Sea the poet's tribute of admiration to the genius of Napoleon and Byron, who of all contemporaries seem the 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 tried by court-martial for his participation in the duel in which Pushkin fell, found guilty, and reduced to the ranks; but, not being a Russian subject, he was conducted by a gendarme across the frontier and then set at liberty.




Eugene Oneguine

Petri de vanite, il avait encore plus de cette espece d'orgueil, qui fait avouer avec la meme indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, 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 esteem


And nothing more important sees;


A paragon of virtue he!


But what a nuisance it will be,


Chained to his bedside night and day


Without a chance to slip away.


Ye need dissimulation base


A 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 drove


Through 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 prevarication


The hero is of my narration!


Oneguine, O my gentle readers,


Was born beside the Neva, where


It may be ye were born, or there


Have 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 first important work, written 1817-20. It is a tale relating the adventures of the knight-errant Ruslan in search of his fair lady Liudmila, who has 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 reprove


And in the Summer Garden rove.


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


IV

When youth's rebellious hour drew near


And 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 he


The 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 education


A something somehow have obtained,


Thus, praised be God! a reputation


With us is easily attained.


Oneguine was—so many deemed


[Unerring critics self-esteemed],


Pedantic although scholar like,


In truth he had the happy trick


Without constraint in conversation


Of touching lightly every theme.


Silent, oracular ye'd see him


Amid a serious disputation,


Then suddenly discharge a joke


The ladies' laughter to provoke.



VI

Latin is just now not in vogue,


But if the truth I must relate,


Oneguine knew enough, the rogue


A mild quotation to translate,


A little Juvenal to spout,


With "vale" finish off a note;


Two verses he could recollect


Of the Aeneid, but incorrect.


In history he took no pleasure,


The dusty chronicles of earth


For him were but of little worth,


Yet still of anecdotes a treasure


Within his memory there lay,


From Romulus unto our day.



VII

For empty sound the rascal swore he


Existence 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 elucidate


How empires store of wealth unfold,


How flourish, why and wherefore less


If the raw product they possess


The medium is required of gold.


The father scarcely understands


His son and mortgages his lands.



VIII

But upon all that Eugene knew


I have no leisure here to dwell,


But say he was a genius who


In one thing really did excel.


It occupied him from a boy,


A labour, torment, yet a joy,


It whiled his idle hours away


And wholly occupied his day—


The amatory science warm,


Which Ovid once immortalized,


For which the poet agonized


Laid down his life of sun and storm


On 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 predicament


as his predecessor in song, though he certainly did not plead


guilty 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 spoke


Of love again, and yet again;


How deftly could he transport feign!


How bright and tender was his look,


Modest yet daring! And a tear


Would at the proper time appear.



X

How well he played the greenhorn's part


To cheat the inexperienced fair,


Sometimes by pleasing flattery's art,


Sometimes by ready-made despair;


The feeble moment would espy


Of tender years the modesty


Conquer 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 meeting


Arrange without the least delay—


Then, then—well, in some solitude


Lessons to give he understood!



XI

How soon he learnt to titillate


The heart of the inveterate flirt!


Desirous to annihilate


His own antagonists expert,


How bitterly he would malign,


With many a snare their pathway line!


But ye, O happy husbands, ye


With him were friends eternally:


The crafty spouse caressed him, who


By 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 a loose 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 day


As 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 dress


And hat surnamed a "Bolivar"(6)


He hies unto the "Boulevard,"


To loiter there in idleness


Until 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 a slang 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 way


By 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 arose


And Comet champagne foaming flows.


Before him red roast beef is seen


And truffles, dear to youthful eyes,


Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies,


The choicest flowers of French cuisine,


And Limburg cheese alive and old


Is seen next pine-apples of gold.


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

[Note 9: Paul Petrovitch Kaverine, a friend for whom Pushkin in his youth appears to have entertained great respect and admiration. He was an officer in the Hussars of the Guard, and a noted "dandy" and man about town. The poet on one occasion addressed 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 compels


To cool the cutlets' seething grease,


When the sonorous Breguet tells


Of the commencement of the piece.


A critic of the stage malicious,


A slave of actresses capricious,


Oneguine was a citizen


Of the domains of the side-scene.


To the theatre he repairs


Where each young critic ready stands,


Capers applauds with clap of hands,


With hisses Cleopatra scares,


Moina recalls for this alone


That all may hear his voice's tone.



XV

Thou fairy-land! Where formerly


Shone pungent Satire's dauntless king,


Von Wisine, friend of liberty,


And Kniajnine, apt at copying.


The young Simeonova too there


With Ozeroff was wont to share


Applause, the people's donative.


There our Katenine did revive


Corneille's majestic genius,


Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out


His comedies, a noisy rout,


There Didelot became glorious,


There, there, beneath the side-scene's shade


The drama of my youth was played.(10)


[Note 10: Denis Von Wisine (1741-92), a favourite Russian dramatist. His first comedy "The Brigadier," procured him the favour 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 were not of equal merit.

Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine (1742-91), a clever adapter of French tragedy.

Simeonova, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine.

Ozeroff, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. "Oedipus in Athens," "Fingal," "Demetrius Donskoi," and "Polyxena," are the best known of his tragedies.

Katenine translated Corneille's tragedies into Russian.

Didelot, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.]


XVI

My goddesses, where are your shades?


Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?


Are ye replaced by other maids


Who cannot conjure former joys?


Shall I your chorus hear anew,


Russia's Terpsichore review


Again in her ethereal dance?


Or will my melancholy glance


On the dull stage find all things changed,


The disenchanted glass direct


Where I can no more recollect?—


A careless looker-on estranged


In silence shall I sit and yawn


And dream of life's delightful dawn?



XVII

The house is crammed. A thousand lamps


On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze,


Impatiently the gallery stamps,


The curtain now they slowly raise.


Obedient to the magic strings,


Brilliant, ethereal, there springs


Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding


Istomina(*) the nimbly-bounding;


With one foot resting on its tip


Slow circling round its fellow swings


And now she skips and now she springs


Like down from Aeolus's lip,


Now her lithe form she arches o'er


And beats with rapid foot the floor.


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


XVIII

Shouts of applause! Oneguine passes


Between the stalls, along the toes;


Seated, a curious look with glasses


On 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 fall


Upon 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 shout


Across the stage still madly sweep,


Whilst the tired serving-men without


Wrapped 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 stands


And 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 press


To array himself in evening dress.


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


XX

Faithfully shall I now depict,


Portray the solitary den


Wherein the child of fashion strict


Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again?


All that industrial London brings


For tallow, wood and other things


Across 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 made


And 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! brushes


Both for the nails and for the tushes.


Rousseau, I would remark in passing,(12)


Could not conceive how serious Grimm


Dared calmly cleanse his nails 'fore him,


Eloquent raver all-surpassing,—


The friend of liberty and laws


In this case quite mistaken was.


[Note 12: "Tout le monde sut qu'il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyait rien, je commencai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouve des tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expres, ouvrage qu'il continua fierement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau." Confessions de J. J. Rousseau]


XXII

The most industrious man alive


May 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 call


A fop, in dress pedantical.


Three mortal hours per diem he


Would loiter by the looking-glass,


And from his dressing-room would pass


Like Venus when, capriciously,


The goddess would a masquerade


Attend in male attire arrayed.



XXIII

On this artistical retreat


Having once fixed your interest,


I might to connoisseurs repeat


The style in which my hero dressed;


Though I confess I hardly dare


Describe 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 origin


Too much I'm given to intersperse,


Though to the Academy I come


And oft its Dictionary thumb.(13)


[Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during the reign 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 go


Eugene in hackney carriage placed.


Past darkened windows and long streets


Of 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 views


Profiles of lovely dames he knows


And 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 espy


Full many a glance like lightning flash,


And by the fiddle's rushing sound


The voice of jealousy is drowned.



XXVI

In my young days of wild delight


On balls I madly used to dote,


Fond declarations they invite


Or the delivery of a note.


So hearken, every worthy spouse,


I would your vigilance arouse,


Attentive be unto my rhymes


And 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 because


I long have ceased to offend the laws.



XXVII

Alas! life's hours which swiftly fly


I've wasted in amusements vain,


But were it not immoral I


Should 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'ertheless


Scarcely in Russia can ye find


Three pairs of handsome female feet;


Ah! I still struggle to forget


A pair; though desolate my mind,


Their memory lingers still and seems


To agitate me in my dreams.



XXVIII

When, where, and in what desert land,


Madman, wilt thou from memory raze


Those feet? Alas! on what far strand


Do ye of spring the blossoms graze?


Lapped in your Eastern luxury,


No trace ye left in passing by


Upon the dreary northern snows,


But better loved the soft repose


Of splendid carpets richly wrought.


I once forgot for your sweet cause


The thirst for fame and man's applause,


My country and an exile's lot;


My joy in youth was fleeting e'en


As your light footprints on the green.



XXIX

Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks,


Are admirable, my dear friend,


But yet Terpsichore bespeaks


Charms more enduring in the end.


For promises her feet reveal


Of untold gain she must conceal,


Their privileged allurements fire


A 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 floor


Or by the ocean's rocky shore.


[Note 14: Elvine, or Elvina, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, "To Her," which commences thus:

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


XXX

Beside the stormy sea one day


I envied sore the billows tall,


Which rushed in eager dense array


Enamoured at her feet to fall.


How like the billow I desired


To kiss the feet which I admired!


No, never in the early blaze


Of fiery youth's untutored days


So ardently did I desire


A young Armida's lips to press,


Her cheek of rosy loveliness


Or bosom full of languid fire,—


A gust of passion never tore


My spirit with such pangs before.



XXXI

Another time, so willed it Fate,


Immersed in secret thought I stand


And grasp a stirrup fortunate—


Her foot was in my other hand.


Again imagination blazed,


The contact of the foot I raised


Rekindled in my withered heart


The fires of passion and its smart—


Away! and cease to ring their praise


For ever with thy tattling lyre,


The proud ones are not worth the fire


Of passion they so often raise.


The words and looks of charmers sweet


Are oft deceptive—like their feet.



XXXII

Where is Oneguine? Half asleep,


Straight from the ball to bed he goes,


Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep


The drum already doth arouse.


The shopman and the pedlar rise


And 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 skies


In column blue the smoke doth rise;


The German baker looks around


His 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 the labouring classes.]


XXXIII

But turning morning into night,


Tired by the ball's incessant noise,


The votary of vain delight


Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,


Late in the afternoon to rise,


When the same life before him lies


Till 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 flattering


And pleasure's daily blandishment,


Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare


Was he in health and void of care?—



XXXIV

Even so! His passions soon abated,


Hateful the hollow world became,


Nor long his mind was agitated


By love's inevitable flame.


For treachery had done its worst;


Friendship and friends he likewise curst,


Because he could not gourmandise


Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies


And irrigate them with champagne;


Nor slander viciously could spread


Whene'er he had an aching head;


And, though a plucky scatterbrain,


He finally lost all delight


In bullets, sabres, and in fight.



XXXV

His malady, whose cause I ween


It now to investigate is time,


Was nothing but the British spleen


Transported to our Russian clime.


It gradually possessed his mind;


Though, God be praised! he ne'er designed


To slay himself with blade or ball,


Indifferent he became to all,


And like Childe Harold gloomily


He to the festival repairs,


Nor boston nor the world's affairs


Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh


Impressed 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 own


The manners of the highest class


Have latterly vexatious grown;


And though perchance a lady may


Discourse of Bentham or of Say,


Yet as a rule their talk I call


Harmless, but quite nonsensical.


Then they're so innocent of vice,


So full of piety, correct,


So prudent, and so circumspect


Stately, devoid of prejudice,


So inaccessible to men,


Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16)


[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian scholiast 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 of Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael." It will occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair "doth protest too much." The poet in all probability wrote the offending stanza in a fit of Byronic "spleen," as he would most likely himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their utterances under its influence for what they are worth.]


XXXVII

And you, my youthful damsels fair,


Whom latterly one often meets


Urging your droshkies swift as air


Along 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 long


Inspired him with disgust and so


Nought from his pen did ever flow,


And thus he never fell among


That vicious set whom I don't blame—


Because a member I became.



XXXVIII

Once more to idleness consigned,


He felt the laudable desire


From mere vacuity of mind


The 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 drape


With 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 satiate


And both of dull existence tired,


Extinct the flame which once had fired;


Both were expectant of the hate


With which blind Fortune oft betrays


The 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 shrinks


From shades of the relentless past.


No fond illusions live to soothe,


But memory like a serpent's tooth


With late repentance gnaws and stings.


All this in many cases brings


A charm with it in conversation.


Oneguine's speeches I abhorred


At first, but soon became inured


To the sarcastic observation,


To witticisms and taunts half-vicious


And gloomy epigrams malicious.



XLI

How oft, when on a summer night


Transparent o'er the Neva beamed


The firmament in mellow light,


And when the watery mirror gleamed


No 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 delight


Who for the greenwood quits his tower,


As on the rapid wings of thought


The early days of life we sought.


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


XLII

Absorbed in melancholy mood


And o'er the granite coping bent,


Oneguine meditative stood,


E'en as the poet says he leant.(18)


'Tis silent all! Alone the cries


Of the night sentinels arise


And 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 delightedly


A jolly song and distant horn;


But sweeter in a midnight dream


Torquato 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 with splendid granite quays.]

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


XLIII

Ye billows of blue Hadria's sea,


O Brenta, once more we shall meet


And, 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 Italy


I'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 tongue


Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.


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


XLIV

When will my hour of freedom come!


Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales


Awaiting on the shore I roam


And beckon to the passing sails.


Upon the highway of the sea


When shall I wing my passage free


On waves by tempests curdled o'er!


'Tis time to quit this weary shore


So uncongenial to my mind,


To dream upon the sunny strand


Of 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 of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal's brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburg for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank of general in the Russian service.]


XLV

Eugene designed with me to start


And visit many a foreign clime,


But Fortune cast our lots apart


For a protracted space of time.


Just at that time his father died,


And soon Oneguine's door beside


Of creditors a hungry rout


Their claims and explanations shout.


But Eugene, hating litigation


And with his lot in life content,


To a surrender gave consent,


Seeing in this no deprivation,


Or counting on his uncle's death


And what the old man might bequeath.



XLVI

And in reality one day


The steward sent a note to tell


How sick to death his uncle lay


And wished to say to him farewell.


Having this mournful document


Perused, Eugene in postchaise went


And hastened to his uncle's side,


But in his heart dissatisfied,


Having for money's sake alone


Sorrow 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 around


Had 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 away


As 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 ways


To vary for a few brief days.



XLVIII

For two whole days it seemed a change


To 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 mead


He took no more the slightest heed;


They made him feel inclined to doze;


And the conviction soon arose,


Ennui can in the country dwell


Though without palaces and streets,


Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fetes;


On him spleen mounted sentinel


And 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 shade


And more imagination teems.


On innocent delights I dote,


Upon my lake I love to float,


For law I far niente take


And every morning I awake


The child of sloth and liberty.


I slumber much, a little read,


Of fleeting glory take no heed.


In former years thus did not I


In idleness and tranquil joy


The happiest days of life employ?



L

Love, flowers, the country, idleness


And fields my joys have ever been;


I like the difference to express


Between myself and my Eugene,


Lest the malicious reader or


Some one or other editor


Of keen sarcastic intellect


Herein my portrait should detect,


And impiously should declare,


To sketch myself that I have tried


Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride,


As if impossible it were


To write of any other elf


Than one's own fascinating self.



LI

Here I remark all poets are


Love to idealize inclined;


I have dreamed many a vision fair


And the recesses of my mind


Retained the image, though short-lived,


Which afterwards the muse revived.


Thus carelessly I once portrayed


Mine own ideal, the mountain maid,


The captives of the Salguir's shore.(22)


But now a question in this wise


Oft upon friendly lips doth rise:


Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?


To whom amongst the jealous throng


Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?


[Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of


the poet. The former line indicates the Prisoner of the


Caucasus, the latter, The Fountain of Baktchiserai. The


Salguir is a river of the Crimea.]



LII

Whose glance reflecting inspiration


With tenderness hath recognized


Thy meditative incantation—


Whom hath thy strain immortalized?


None, be my witness Heaven above!


The malady of hopeless love


I have endured without respite.


Happy who thereto can unite


Poetic transport. They impart


A double force unto their song


Who following Petrarch move along


And 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 by


And my dark soul to light was brought;


Free, I renewed the idolatry


Of harmony enshrining thought.


I write, and anguish flies away,


Nor doth my absent pen portray


Around my stanzas incomplete


Young ladies' faces and their feet.


Extinguished ashes do not blaze—


I mourn, but tears I cannot shed—


Soon, of the tempest which hath fled


Time will the ravages efface—


When that time comes, a poem I'll strive


To 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 can


Canto 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 deglutition


I 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 Eugene


Was a delightful little spot,


There friends of pure delight had been


Grateful to Heaven for their lot.


The lonely mansion-house to screen


From gales a hill behind was seen;


Before it ran a stream. Behold!


Afar, where clothed in green and gold


Meadows and cornfields are displayed,


Villages in the distance show


And herds of oxen wandering low;


Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade,


A thick immense neglected grove


Extended—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 around


And 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 view


Of drawing-rooms or old or new.



III

He took the room wherein the old


Man—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 waste


The ancient barshtchina replaced


By an obrok's indulgent rate:(23)


The peasant blessed his happy fate.


But this a heinous crime appeared


Unto 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 labour of three days per week rendered previous to the emancipation of 1861 by the serfs to their lord.

The obrok was a species of poll-tax paid by a serf, either in lieu of the forced labour or in consideration of being permitted to exercise a trade or profession elsewhere. Very heavy obroks have at times been levied on serfs possessed of skill or accomplishments, or who had amassed wealth; and circumstances may be easily imagined which, under such a system, might lead to great abuses.]


V

All visited him at first, of course;


But since to the backdoor they led


Most usually a Cossack horse


Upon the Don's broad pastures bred


If they but heard domestic loads


Come rumbling up the neighbouring roads,


Most by this circumstance offended


All 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 boot


A new proprietor arrived,


From whose analysis minute


The 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 Germany


The fruits of learning and combined


A fiery and eccentric mind,


Idolatry of liberty,


A wild enthusiastic tongue,


Black curls which to his shoulders hung.



VII

The pervert world with icy chill


Had not yet withered his young breast.


His heart reciprocated still


When Friendship smiled or Love caressed.


He was a dear delightful fool—


A nursling yet for Hope to school.


The riot of the world and glare


Still sovereigns of his spirit were,


And by a sweet delusion he


Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,


He deemed of human life the goal


To be a charming mystery:


He racked his brains to find its clue


And marvels deemed he thus should view.



VIII

This he believed: a kindred spirit


Impelled to union with his own


Lay languishing both day and night—


Waiting his coming—his alone!


He deemed his friends but longed to make


Great sacrifices for his sake!


That a friend's arm in every case


Felled a calumniator base!


That chosen heroes consecrate,


Friends of the sons of every land,


Exist—that their immortal band


Shall surely, be it soon or late,


Pour on this orb a dazzling light


And bless mankind with full delight.



IX

Compassion now or wrath inspires


And now philanthropy his soul,


And now his youthful heart desires


The path which leads to glory's goal.


His harp beneath that sky had rung


Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,


And at the altar of their fame


He kindled his poetic flame.


But from the Muses' loftiest height


The gifted songster never swerved,


But proudly in his song preserved


An 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 bright


As thoughts which gentle maidens have,


As a babe's slumber, or the light


Of 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 solitude


Had let fall many a bitter tear:


He sang of life's fresh colours stained


Before he eighteen years attained.



XI

Since Eugene in that solitude


Gifts such as these alone could prize,


A scant attendance Lenski showed


At neighbouring hospitalities.


He shunned those parties boisterous;


The conversation tedious


About the crop of hay, the wine,


The kennel or a kindred line,


Was certainly not erudite


Nor sparkled with poetic fire,


Nor wit, nor did the same inspire


A sense of social delight,


But still more stupid did appear


The gossip of their ladies fair.



XII

Handsome and rich, the neighbourhood


Lenski as a good match received,—


Such is the country custom good;


All mothers their sweet girls believed


Suitable for this semi-Russian.


He enters: rapidly discussion


Shifts, tacks about, until they prate


The sorrows of a single state.


Perchance where Dunia pours out tea


The 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 desire


Vows matrimonial to break,


With our Oneguine doth aspire


Acquaintance instantly to make.


They met. Earth, water, prose and verse,


Or ice and flame, are not diverse


If they were similar in aught.


At first such contradictions wrought


Mutual repulsion and ennui,


But grown familiar side by side


On 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 wont


As cyphers others to appraise,


Ourselves as unities to count;


And like Napoleons each of us


A million bipeds reckons thus


One instrument for his own use—


Feeling is silly, dangerous.


Eugene, more tolerant than this


(Though certainly mankind he knew


And 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 conversation


And judgment which unsteady veers


And eye which gleams with inspiration—


All this was novel to Eugene.


The cold reply with gloomy mien


He oft upon his lips would curb,


Thinking: 'tis foolish to disturb


This evanescent boyish bliss.


Time without me will lessons give,


So meantime let him joyous live


And 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 selected


Were 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 occupy


The 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 agonies


Hath 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 spends


Existence without wife or friends,


Whom jealous transport cannot move,


And who the rent-roll of his race


Ne'er trusted to the treacherous ace.



XVIII

When, wise at length, we seek repose


Beneath the flag of Quietude,


When Passion's fire no longer glows


And when her violence reviewed—


Each gust of temper, silly word,


Seems so unnatural and absurd:


Reduced with effort unto sense,


We hear with interest intense


The accents wild of other's woes,


They stir the heart as heretofore.


So ancient warriors, battles o'er,


A curious interest disclose


In yarns of youthful troopers gay,


Lost in the hamlet far away.



XIX

And in addition youth is flame


And cannot anything conceal,


Is ever ready to proclaim


The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.


Deeming himself a veteran scarred


In love's campaigns Oneguine heard


With quite a lachrymose expression


The youthful poet's fond confession.


He with an innocence extreme


His inner consciousness laid bare,


And Eugene soon discovered there


The story of his young love's dream,


Where plentifully feelings flow


Which we experienced long ago.



XX

Alas! he loved as in our times


Men love no more, as only the


Mad spirit of the man who rhymes


Is still condemned in love to be;


One image occupied his mind,


Constant affection intertwined


And an habitual sense of pain;


And distance interposed in vain,


Nor years of separation all


Nor homage which the Muse demands


Nor beauties of far distant lands


Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball


His constant soul could ever tire,


Which glowed with virginal desire.



XXI

When but a boy he Olga loved


Unknown as yet the aching heart,


He witnessed tenderly and moved


Her girlish gaiety and sport.


Beneath the sheltering oak tree's shade


He 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 maid


Grew like a lily pure and white,


Unseen in thick and tangled grass


By bee and butterfly which pass.



XXII

'Twas she who first within his breast


Poetic transport did infuse,


And thoughts of Olga first impressed


A mournful temper on his Muse.


Farewell! thou golden days of love!


'Twas then he loved the tangled grove


And solitude and calm delight,


The moon, the stars, and shining night—


The moon, the lamp of heaven above,


To whom we used to consecrate


A promenade in twilight late


With tears which secret sufferers love—


But now in her effulgence pale


A substitute for lamps we hail!



XXIII

Obedient she had ever been


And 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 light


Romance of love I pray refer,


You'll find her portrait there, I vouch;


I formerly admired her much


But finally grew bored by her.


But with her elder sister I


Must now my stanzas occupy.



XXIV

Tattiana was her appellation.


We are the first who such a name


In pages of a love narration


With such a perversity proclaim.


But wherefore not?—'Tis pleasant, nice,


Euphonious, though I know a spice


It carries of antiquity


And of the attic. Honestly,


We must admit but little taste


Doth in us or our names appear(26)


(I speak not of our poems here),


And education runs to waste,


Endowing us from out her store


With affectation,—nothing more.


[Note 26: The Russian annotator remarks: "The most euphonious Greek 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 brilliancy


Nor by her beauty she became


The cynosure of every eye.


Shy, silent did the maid appear


As in the timid forest deer,


Even beneath her parents' roof


Stood as estranged from all aloof,


Nearest and dearest knew not how


To fawn upon and love express;


A child devoid of childishness


To romp and play she ne'er would go:


Oft staring through the window pane


Would she in silence long remain.



XXVI

Contemplativeness, her delight,


E'en from her cradle's earliest dream,


Adorned with many a vision bright


Of rural life the sluggish stream;


Ne'er touched her fingers indolent


The needle nor, o'er framework bent,


Would she the canvas tight enrich


With gay design and silken stitch.


Desire to rule ye may observe


When the obedient doll in sport


An infant maiden doth exhort


Polite demeanour to preserve,


Gravely repeating to another


Recent instructions of its mother.



XXVII

But Tania ne'er displayed a passion


For dolls, e'en from her earliest years,


And gossip of the town and fashion


She ne'er repeated unto hers.


Strange unto her each childish game,


But when the winter season came


And dark and drear the evenings were,


Terrible tales she loved to hear.


And when for Olga nurse arrayed


In 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 balcony


To anticipate the break of day,


When on the pallid eastern sky


The starry beacons fade away,


The horizon luminous doth grow,


Morning's forerunners, breezes blow


And gradually day unfolds.


In winter, when Night longer holds


A hemisphere beneath her sway,


Longer the East inert reclines


Beneath the moon which dimly shines,


And calmly sleeps the hours away,


At the same hour she oped her eyes


And 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 father


Though superannuated rather;


In books he saw nought to condemn


But, as he never opened them,


Viewed them with not a little scorn,


And gave himself but little pain


His daughter's book to ascertain


Which 'neath her pillow lay till morn.


His wife was also mad upon


The works of Mr. Richardson.



XXX

She was thus fond of Richardson


Not that she had his works perused,


Or that adoring Grandison


That rascal Lovelace she abused;


But that Princess Pauline of old,


Her Moscow cousin, often told


The tale of these romantic men;


Her husband was a bridegroom then,


And she despite herself would waste


Sighs on another than her lord


Whose qualities appeared to afford


More 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 advice


The girl in marriage they unite.


Then, her distraction to allay,


The bridegroom sage without delay


Removed 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 distress


By Heaven in lieu of happiness.



XXXII

Habit alleviates the grief


Inseparable from our lot;


This great discovery relief


And consolation soon begot.


And then she soon 'twixt work and leisure


Found out the secret how at pleasure


To 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 have a 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 sound


She 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 call


Akulka who was once Celine,


And had with waddling in the end


Her 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 throng


Of friends unceremonious would


Assemble from the neighbourhood:


They growl a bit—they scandalise—


They crack a feeble joke and smile—


Thus the time passes and meanwhile


Olga the tea must supervise—


'Tis time for supper, now for bed,


And soon the friendly troop hath fled.



XXXV

They in a peaceful life preserved


Customs 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 countenance


On Trinity Sunday yawned at prayer,


Three tears they dropt with humble mein


Upon a bunch of lovage green;


Kvass needful was to them as air;


On guests their servants used to wait


By rank as settled by the State.(27)


[Note 27: The foregoing stanza requires explanation. Russian pancakes or "blinni" are consumed vigorously by the lower orders during the Carnival. At other times it is difficult to procure them, at any rate in the large towns.

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

"Christmas Carols" is not an exact equivalent for the Russian phrase. "Podbliudni pessni," are literally "dish songs," or songs used with dishes (of water) during the "sviatki" or Holy Nights, which extend from Christmas to Twelfth Night, for purposes of divination. Reference will again be made to this superstitious practice, which is not confined to Russia. See Note 52.

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

"Lovage," the Levisticum officinalis, is a hardy plant growing very far north, though an inhabitant of our own kitchen gardens. The passage containing the reference to the three tears and Trinity Sunday was at first deemed irreligious by the Russian censors, and consequently expunged.

Kvass is of various sorts: there is the common kvass of fermented 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 social hierarchy. There are fourteen grades in the Tchin assigning relative rank and precedence to the members of the various departments of the State, civil, military, naval, court, scientific and educational. The military and naval grades from the 14th up to the 7th confer personal nobility only, whilst above the 7th hereditary rank is acquired. In the remaining departments, civil or otherwise, personal nobility is only attained with the 9th grade, hereditary with the 4th.]


XXXVI

Thus age approached, the common doom,


And death before the husband wide


Opened the portals of the tomb


And a new diadem supplied.(28)


Just before dinner-time he slept,


By neighbouring families bewept,


By children and by faithful wife


With deeper woe than others' grief.


He was an honest gentleman,


And where at last his bones repose


The 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 also signifies a nimbus or glory, and is the symbol of marriage from the fact of two gilt crowns being held over the heads of the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony. The literal meaning of the passage is therefore: his earthly marriage was dissolved and a heavenly one was contracted.]


XXXVII

To his Penates now returned,


Vladimir Lenski visited


His neighbour's lowly tomb and mourned


Above 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 out


And an elegiac poem wrote.


[Note 29: The fortress of Otchakoff was taken by storm on the 18th December 1788 by a Russian army under Prince Potemkin. Thirty thousand Turks are said to have perished during the assault and ensuing massacre.]


XXXVIII

Likewise an epitaph with tears


He writes upon his parents' tomb,


And thus ancestral dust reveres.


Oh! on the fields of life how bloom


Harvests of souls unceasingly


By Providence's dark decree!


They blossom, ripen and they fall


And 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 drive


Us from the world wherein we live.



XXXIX

Meantime, drink deeply of the flow


Of frivolous existence, friends;


Its insignificance I know


And care but little for its ends.


To dreams I long have closed mine eyes,


Yet sometimes banished hopes will rise


And agitate my heart again;


And thus it is 'twould cause me pain


Without the faintest trace to leave


This world. I do not praise desire,


Yet still apparently aspire


My mournful fate in verse to weave,


That like a friendly voice its tone


Rescue me from oblivion.



XL

Perchance some heart 'twill agitate,


And then the stanzas of my theme


Will not, preserved by kindly Fate,


Perish absorbed by Lethe's stream.


Then it may be, O flattering tale,


Some future ignoramus shall


My famous portrait indicate


And cry: he was a poet great!


My gratitude do not disdain,


Admirer of the peaceful Muse,


Whose memory doth not refuse


My light productions to retain,


Whose hands indulgently caress


The 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 hard


To guess how you the eve pull through."—


"At Larina's."—"Hem, that is queer!


Pray is it not a tough affair


Thus 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 prattle


About 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 glad


Would 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 route


Our heroes at full gallop sped,


Can we not stealthily make out


What they in conversation said?—


"How now, Oneguine, yawning still?"—


"'Tis habit, Lenski."—"Is your ill


More troublesome than usual?"—"No!


How dark the night is getting though!


Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!


The drive becomes monotonous—


Well! Larina appears to us


An 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 face


And 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 brink


Of the horizon she is like!"—


Vladimir something curtly said


Nor further comment that night made.


[Note 30: "Svetlana," a short poem by Joukovski, upon which his fame mainly rests. Joukovski was an unblushing plagiarist. Many eminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him, often without going through the form of acknowledging the source of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot be pronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty is unquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger's poem "Leonora," which has found so many English translators. Not content with a single development of Burger's ghastly production the Russian poet has directly paraphrased "Leonora" under its own title, and also written a poem "Liudmila" in imitation of it. The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: A maiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providence and 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 unfortunate maiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamber the unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs to his own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute his errand. It is a repulsive subject. "Svetlana," however, is more agreeable than its prototype "Leonora," inasmuch as the whole catastrophe turns out a dream brought on by "sorcery," during the "sviatki" or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamer awakes to hear the tinkling of her lover's sledge approaching. "Svetlana" has been translated by Sir John Bowring.]


V

Meantime Oneguine's apparition


At Larina's abode produced


Quite a sensation; the position


To all good neighbours' sport conduced.


Endless conjectures all propound


And secretly their views expound.


What jokes and guesses now abound,


A beau is for Tattiana found!


In fact, some people were assured


The wedding-day had been arranged,


But the date subsequently changed


Till proper rings could be procured.


On Lenski's matrimonial fate


They long ago had held debate.



VI

Of course Tattiana was annoyed


By such allusions scandalous,


Yet was her inmost soul o'erjoyed


With satisfaction marvellous,


As in her heart the thought sank home,


I am in love, my hour hath come!


Thus in the earth the seed expands


Obedient to warm Spring's commands.


Long time her young imagination


By indolence and languor fired


The fated nutriment desired;


And long internal agitation


Had 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 passed


The same warm vision constantly;


Now all things round about repeat


Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet


His name: the tenderness of home


Tiresome unto her hath become


And the kind-hearted servitors:


Immersed in melancholy thought,


She hears of conversation nought


And hated casual visitors,


Their coming which no man expects,


And stay whose length none recollects.



VIII

Now with what eager interest


She the delicious novel reads,


With what avidity and zest


She drinks in those seductive deeds!


All the creations which below


From 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 enrolled


A single being: 'twas in fine


No other than Oneguine mine.


[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin's time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One has now to search for the very names of most of the popular authors of Pushkin's day and rummage biographical dictionaries for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet's prime was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson's popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]


IX

Dreaming herself the heroine


Of the romances she preferred,


Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,—(32)


Tattiana through the forest erred,


And the bad book accompanies.


Upon those pages she descries


Her passion's faithful counterpart,


Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.


She heaves a sigh and deep intent


On raptures, sorrows not her own,


She murmurs in an undertone


A letter for her hero meant:


That hero, though his merit shone,


Was certainly no Grandison.


[Note 32: Referring to Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," "La


Nouvelle Heloise," and Madame de Stael's "Delphine."]



X

Alas! my friends, the years flit by


And after them at headlong pace


The evanescent fashions fly


In motley and amusing chase.


The world is ever altering!


Farthingales, patches, were the thing,


And courtier, fop, and usurer


Would once in powdered wig appear;


Time was, the poet's tender quill


In hopes of everlasting fame


A finished madrigal would frame


Or couplets more ingenious still;


Time was, a valiant general might


Serve who could neither read nor write.



XI

Time was, in style magniloquent


Authors replete with sacred fire


Their heroes used to represent


All that perfection could desire;


Ever by adverse fate oppressed,


Their idols they were wont to invest


With intellect, a taste refined,


And handsome countenance combined,


A heart wherein pure passion burnt;


The excited hero in a trice


Was 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 mystified


And Virtue acts as a narcotic,


Vice in romance is glorified


And triumphs in career erotic.


The monsters of the British Muse


Deprive our schoolgirls of repose,


The idols of their adoration


A Vampire fond of meditation,


Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,


The Eternal Jew or the Corsair


Or the mysterious Sbogar.(33)


Byron's capricious phantasy


Could in romantic mantle drape


E'en hopeless egoism's dark shape.


[Note 33: "Melmoth," a romance by Maturin, and "Jean Sbogar," by


Ch. Nodier. "The Vampire," a tale published in 1819, was


erroneously attributed to Lord Byron. "Salathiel; the Eternal


Jew," a romance by Geo. Croly.]



XIII

My friends, what means this odd digression?


May be that I by heaven's decrees


Shall abdicate the bard's profession,


And shall adopt some new caprice.


Thus having braved Apollo's rage


With humble prose I'll fill my page


And a romance in ancient style


Shall my declining years beguile;


Nor shall my pen paint terribly


The torment born of crime unseen,


But shall depict the touching scene


Of Russian domesticity;


I will descant on love's sweet dream,


The olden time shall be my theme.



XIV

Old people's simple conversations


My unpretending page shall fill,


Their offspring's innocent flirtations


By the old lime-tree or the rill,


Their Jealousy and separation


And 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 despair


I uttered to my lady fair


Long 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 destiny


Unto a ruthless tyrant dread.


Thou'lt suffer, dearest, but before,


Hope with her fascinating power


To dire contentment shall give birth


And thou shalt taste the joys of earth.


Thou'lt quaff love's sweet envenomed stream,


Fantastic images shall swarm


In 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 eyes


And cares not farther to proceed;


Her bosom heaves whilst crimson hues


With sudden flush her cheeks suffuse,


Barely to draw her breath she seems,


Her eye with fire unwonted gleams.


And now 'tis night, the guardian moon


Sails her allotted course on high,


And from the misty woodland nigh


The nightingale trills forth her tune;


Restless Tattiana sleepless lay


And 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 yore


Within my memory I bore


Many an ancient legend which


In 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 relate


The 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 Ivan


Was 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 peasants reside 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 to take place at ridiculously early ages. Haxthausen asserts that strong hearty peasant women were to be seen at work in the fields with their infant husbands in their arms. The inducement lay in the fact that the "tiaglo" (see previous note) received an additional lot of the communal land for every male added to its number, though this could have formed an inducement in the southern and fertile provinces of Russia only, as it is believed that agriculture in the north is so unremunerative that land has often to be forced upon the peasants, in order that the taxes, for which the whole Commune is responsible to Government, may be paid. The abuse of early marriages was regulated by Tsar Nicholas.]

[Note 36: Courtships were not unfrequently carried on in the larger villages, which alone could support such an individual, by means of a "svakha," or matchmaker. In Russia unmarried girls wear their hair in a single long plait or tail, "kossa;" the married women, on the other hand, in two, which are twisted into 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 said


And crossed with trembling hand the maid.



XX

"I am in love," her whispers tell


The 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 bright


And showed with an uncertain light


Tattiana's beauty, pale with care,


Her tears and her dishevelled hair;


And on the footstool sitting down


Beside our youthful heroine fair,


A kerchief round her silver hair


The aged nurse in ample gown,(37)


Whilst all creation seemed to dream


Enchanted by the moon's pale beam.


[Note 37: It is thus that I am compelled to render a female garment 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. It is a species of thick pelisse worn over the "sarafan," or gown.]


XXI

But borne in spirit far away


Tattiana gazes on the moon,


And starting suddenly doth say:


"Nurse, leave me. I would be alone.


Pen, paper bring: the table too


Draw 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 soul


Indites an inconsiderate scroll


Wherein love innocently pines.


Now it is ready to be sent—


For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?



XXII

I have known beauties cold and raw


As Winter in their purity,


Striking the intellect with awe


By dull insensibility,


And I admired their common sense


And natural benevolence,


But, I acknowledge, from them fled;


For on their brows I trembling read


The inscription o'er the gates of Hell


"Abandon hope for ever here!"(38)


Love to inspire doth woe appear


To such—delightful to repel.


Perchance upon the Neva e'en


Similar dames ye may have seen.


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


XXIII

Amid submissive herds of men


Virgins miraculous I see,


Who selfishly unmoved remain


Alike by sighs and flattery.


But what astonished do I find


When harsh demeanour hath consigned


A timid love to banishment?—


On fresh allurements they are bent,


At least by show of sympathy;


At least their accents and their words


Appear attuned to softer chords;


And then with blind credulity


The youthful lover once again


Pursues phantasmagoria vain.



XXIV

Why is Tattiana guiltier deemed?—


Because in singleness of thought


She never of deception dreamed


But 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 blent


With an imagination wild,


With intellect and strong volition


And a determined disposition,


An ardent heart and yet so mild?—


Doth love's incautiousness in her


So irremissible appear?



XXV

O ye whom tender love hath pained


Without the ken of parents both,


Whose hearts responsive have remained


To the impressions of our youth,


The all-entrancing joys of love—


Young ladies, if ye ever strove


The mystic lines to tear away


A lover's letter might convey,


Or into bold hands anxiously


Have e'er a precious tress consigned,


Or even, silent and resigned,


When separation's hour drew nigh,


Have felt love's agitated kiss


With tears, confused emotions, bliss,—



XXVI

With unanimity complete,


Condemn not weak Tattiana mine;


Do not cold-bloodedly repeat


The sneers of critics superfine;


And you, O maids immaculate,


Whom vice, if named, doth agitate


E'en as the presence of a snake,


I the same admonition make.


Who knows? with love's consuming flame


Perchance you also soon may burn,


Then to some gallant in your turn


Will be ascribed by treacherous Fame


The 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 "procrastination


Enhances love in estimation


And thus secures the prey we seek.


His vanity first let us pique


With hope and then perplexity,


Excruciate the heart and late


With jealous fire resuscitate,


Lest jaded with satiety,


The artful prisoner should seek


Incessantly his chains to break."



XXVIII

I still a complication view,


My country's honour and repute


Demands that I translate for you


The letter which Tattiana wrote.


At Russ she was by no means clever


And read our newspapers scarce ever,


And in her native language she


Possessed nor ease nor fluency,


So she in French herself expressed.


I cannot help it I declare,


Though hitherto a lady ne'er


In Russ her love made manifest,


And never hath our language proud


In correspondence been allowed.(39)


[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late Tsar French was the language of the Russian court and of Russian fashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the time this poem was written literary warfare more or less open was being waged between two hostile schools of Russian men of letters. These consisted of the Arzamass, or French school, to which Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkin the "Nestor of the Arzamass" belonged, and their opponents who devoted 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 dear


With 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 crimes


Had to compose in secret rhymes,


To whom your hearts were consecrate,—


Did they not all the Russian tongue


With little knowledge and that wrong


In charming fashion mutilate?


Did not their lips with foreign speech


The native Russian tongue impeach?


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


XXX

God grant I meet not at a ball


Or at a promenade mayhap,


A schoolmaster in yellow shawl


Or a professor in tulle cap.


As rosy lips without a smile,


The Russian language I deem vile


Without 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 pronunciation


Raises within my breast as oft


As formerly much agitation.


Repentance wields not now her spell


And gallicisms I love as well


As the sins of my youthful days


Or Bogdanovitch's sweet lays.(41)


But I must now employ my Muse


With 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—though possessing considerable poetical talent was like many other Russian authors more remarkable for successful imitation than for original genius. His most remarkable production is "Doushenka," "The Darling," a composition somewhat in the style of La Fontaine's "Psyche." Its merit consists in graceful 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 during his last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands upon the youth's head and exclaimed: "Mon cher Tibulle." He is chiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted the affectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a student at the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted a pension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damage his literary reputation by inditing an "epic" poem entitled "Goddam! Goddam! par un French—Dog." It is descriptive of the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, and treats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to a successful conclusion and become matter of history. A good account 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 request


I should alarm our friendship tried:


In one of thine enchanting lays


To russify the foreign phrase


Of my impassioned heroine.


Where art thou? Come! pretensions mine


I yield with a low reverence;


But lonely beneath Finnish skies


Where melancholy rocks arise


He wanders in his indolence;


Careless of fame his spirit high


Hears not my importunity!


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


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' score


Strummed 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 unfortunate


You in the least commiserate


You will not all abandon me.


At first, I clung to secrecy:


Believe me, of my present shame


You never would have heard the name,


If the fond hope I could have fanned


At 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 phrase


And then to meditate for days


Of 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 face


And bitter torment never known.


The untutored spirit's pangs calmed down


By time (who can anticipate?)


I had found my predestinate,


Become a faithful wife and e'en


A fond and careful mother been.


Another! to none other I


My 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 gone


But promise of our meeting gave,


I feel thou wast by God sent down


My 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 resonance


Long 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 suppressed


With thee I conversed when I bore


Comfort and succour to the poor,


And when I prayer to Heaven addressed


To ease the anguish of my breast.


Nay! even as this instant fled,


Was it not thou, O vision bright,


That glimmered through the radiant night


And gently hovered o'er my head?


Was it not thou who thus didst stoop


To whisper comfort, love and hope?


Who art thou? Guardian angel sent


Or 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 destiny


From henceforth I confide to thee!


Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour


And 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 alive


My heart with but one look revive;


Or to disturb my dreams approach


Alas! 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 sighs


And in her grasp the letter shakes,


Even the rosy wafer dries


Upon her tongue which fever bakes.


Her head upon her breast declines


And an enchanting shoulder shines


From her half-open vest of night.


But lo! already the moon's light


Is waning. Yonder valley deep


Looms gray behind the mist and morn


Silvers the brook; the shepherd's horn


Arouses 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 she


The image of her seal impressed.


But gray Phillippevna the door


Opened with care, and entering bore


A cup of tea upon a tray.


"'Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!


My beauty, thou art ready too.


My morning birdie, yesternight


I 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 quietly


To 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 morn


Tattiana 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 looked


As if he cruelly had joked!



XXXIX

'Twas dusk! Upon the table bright


Shrill sang the samovar at eve,(44)


The china teapot too ye might


In clouds of steam above perceive.


Into the cups already sped


By Olga's hand distributed


The fragrant tea in darkling stream,


And a boy handed round the cream.


Tania doth by the casement linger


And breathes upon the chilly glass,


Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,


And traces with a slender finger


Upon its damp opacity,


The mystic monogram, O. E.


[Note 44: The samovar, i.e. "self-boiler," is merely an urn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observe a similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns which are provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder in center. 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 dead


More 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 rushes


Through 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 chorus


The secrets of maidens.


Allure the young gallant


With 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 hearken


To secrets of virgins,


Approach not to gaze at


The frolics of maidens.



XLII

They sang, whilst negligently seated,


Attentive to the echoing sound,


Tattiana with impatience waited


Until 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 flap


When captured in a schoolboy's cap;


Thus shakes the hare when suddenly


She from the winter corn espies


A 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 rise


Before her straight with roguish eyes.


Tattiana faltered, and became


Scarlet as burnt by inward flame.


But this adventure's consequence


To-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 fair


The easier 'tis to gain her grace,


And the more surely we ensnare


Her in the pitfalls which we place.


Time was when cold seduction strove


To swagger as the art of love,


Everywhere trumpeting its feats,


Not seeking love but sensual sweets.


But this amusement delicate


Was worthy of that old baboon,


Our fathers used to dote upon;


The Lovelaces are out of date,


Their glory with their heels of red


And long perukes hath vanished.



II

For who imposture can endure,


A constant harping on one tune,


Serious endeavours to assure


What everybody long has known;


Ever to hear the same replies


And overcome antipathies


Which never have existed, e'en


In 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 life


Had a deluded victim been


Of 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 met


The fair, nor parted with regret,


Scarce mindful of their love and guile.


Thus a guest with composure will


To 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 know


Whither that evening he will go.



V

However, Tania's letter reading,


Eugene was touched with sympathy;


The language of her girlish pleading


Aroused 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 beguile


Such open-hearted innocence.


But to the garden once again


Wherein 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 read


Confessions which a trusting heart


May well in innocence impart.


Charming is your sincerity,


Feelings which long had ceased to be


It wakens in my breast again.


But I came not to adulate:


Your frankness I shall compensate


By 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 possess


A happy destiny ordained:


If in the scenes of home I might


E'en for an instant find delight,


Then, I say truly, none but thee


I 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 belief


Our union would produce but grief.


Though now my love might be intense,


Habit would bring indifference.


I see you weep. Those tears of yours


Tend not my heart to mitigate,


But merely to exasperate;


Judge then what roses would be ours,


What pleasures Hymen would prepare


For us, may be for many a year.



IX

"What can be drearier than the house,


Wherein the miserable wife


Deplores a most unworthy spouse


And 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 wrote


Your innocent and charming note


With so much warmth and intellect?


Hath fate apportioned unto thee


This 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 again


Replace the visions fancy drew;


Thus trees in spring their leaves renew


As in their turn the seasons roll.


'Tis evidently Heaven's will


You 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 maid


Around the garden homeward hies.


Together they returned, nor word


Of censure for the same incurred;


The country hath its liberties


And privileges nice allowed,


Even as Moscow, city proud.



XII

Confess, O ye who this peruse,


Oneguine acted very well


By poor Tattiana in the blues;


'Twas not the first time, I can tell


You, 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, amends


I've had to make for having friends!



XIII

But how? Quite so. Though I dismiss


Dark, unavailing reverie,


I just hint, in parenthesis,


There is no stupid calumny


Born of a babbler in a loft


And by the world repeated oft,


There is no fishmarket retort


And no ridiculous report,


Which your true friend with a sweet smile


Where fashionable circles meet


A hundred times will not repeat,


Quite inadvertently meanwhile;


And yet he in your cause would strive


And loves you as—a relative!



XIV

Ahem! Ahem! My reader noble,


Are all your relatives quite well?


Permit me; is it worth the trouble


For your instruction here to tell


What 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 again


They may forget that we exist.


And so—God bless them, if He list.



XV

In this the love of the fair sex


Beats 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 spouse


Should be respected throughout life


By 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 adjust


To standards in which we believe?


Oh! who is not calumnious?


Who labours hard to humour us?


To whom are our misfortunes grief


And who is not a tiresome thief?


My venerated reader, oh!


Cease the pursuit of shadows vain,


Spare yourself unavailing pain


And all your love on self bestow;


A worthy object 'tis, and well


I 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 glowed


Nor discontinued to distress


A spirit which for sorrow yearned.


Tattiana more than ever burned


With hopeless passion: from her bed


Sweet 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 drawn


Across the smiling face of dawn.



XVIII

Alas! Tattiana fades away,


Grows pale and sinks, but nothing says;


Listless is she the livelong day


Nor 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 intent


The imagination to enliven


With love which happiness extends;


Against my inclination, friends,


By sympathy I have been driven.


Forgive me! Such the love I bear


My heroine, Tattiana dear.



XIX

Vladimir, hourly more a slave


To youthful Olga's beauty bright,


Into delicious bondage gave


His ardent soul with full delight.


Always together, eventide


Found them in darkness side by side,


At morn, hand clasped in hand, they rove


Around 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 tress


Or kiss the border of her dress.



XX

To Olga frequently he would


Some nice instructive novel read,


Whose author nature understood


Better than Chateaubriand did


Yet 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 creep


And (elbows on the table) they


A game of chess would often play,


Buried in meditation deep,


Till absently Vladimir took


With his own pawn alas! his rook!



XXI

Homeward returning, he at home


Is 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 signed


A tender couplet he combined,


A register of fleeting thought,


A flimsy trace of musings past


Which might for many ages last.



XXII

Surely ye all have overhauled


A country damsel's album trim,


Which all her darling friends have scrawled


From first to last page to the rim.


Behold! orthography despising,


Metreless verses recognizing


By 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 delight


Beyond this may attempt to write.



XXIII

Infallibly you there will find


Two hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath,


And vows will probably be signed:


Affectionately yours till death.


Some army poet therein may


Have smuggled his flagitious lay.


In such an album with delight


I would, my friends, inscriptions write,


Because I should be sure, meanwhile,


My verses, kindly meant, would earn


Delighted glances in return;


That afterwards with evil smile


They would not solemnly debate


If cleverly or not I prate.



XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare,


Which from the devil's bookcase start,


Albums magnificent which scare


The fashionable rhymester's heart!


Yea! although rendered beauteous


By Tolstoy's pencil marvellous,


Though Baratynski verses penned,(45)


The thunderbolt on you descend!


Whene'er a brilliant courtly dame


Presents her quarto amiably,


Despair and anger seize on me,


And a malicious epigram


Trembles upon my lips from spite,—


And madrigals I'm asked to write!


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


XXV

But Lenski madrigals ne'er wrote


In Olga's album, youthful maid,


To purest love he tuned his note


Nor frigid adulation paid.


What never was remarked or heard


Of 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 relate


The story of thy life and fate.


[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise—unfulfilled.]


XXVI

Since Fame and Freedom he adored,


Incited by his stormy Muse


Odes Lenski also had outpoured,


But Olga would not such peruse.


When poets lachrymose recite


Beneath the eyes of ladies bright


Their own productions, some insist


No greater pleasure can exist


Just so! that modest swain is blest


Who reads his visionary theme


To the fair object of his dream,


A beauty languidly at rest,


Yes, happy—though she at his side


By 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 fast


My 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 times


And 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 took


His course unto the running brook.


There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned


His 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 kiss


Of a young dark-eyed country maid,


A fiery, yet well-broken horse,


A dinner, whimsical each course,


A bottle of a vintage white


And solitude and calm delight.


Such was Oneguine's sainted life,


And such unconsciously he led,


Nor marked how summer's prime had fled


In 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 high


And shorter had the days become.


The forests in mysterious gloom


Were stripped with melancholy sound,


Upon the earth a mist did lie


And many a caravan on high


Of 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 bold


With his ferocious mate appears.


Detecting him the passing horse


snorts, and his rider bends his course


And wisely gallops to the hill.


No more at dawn the shepherd will


Drive out the cattle from their shed,


Nor at the hour of noon with sound


Of horn in circle call them round.


Singing inside her hut the maid


Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night,


The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.



XXXII

Already crisp hoar frosts impose


O'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 nice


The shining river clothed in ice;


A joyous troop of little boys


Engrave 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 greet


The first bright wreathing storm of snow


Which falls in starry flakes below.



XXXIII

How in the country pass this time?


Walking? The landscape tires the eye


In winter by its blank and dim


And naked uniformity.


On horseback gallop o'er the steppe!


Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep


His footing on the treacherous rime


And may fall headlong any time.


Alone beneath your rooftree stay


And read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47)


Keep your accounts! You'd rather not?


Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day


Will pass; the same to-morrow try—


You'll spend your winter famously!


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


XXXIV

A true Childe Harold my Eugene


To idle musing was a prey;


At morn an icy bath within


He sat, and then the livelong day,


Alone within his habitation


And 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 trice


Of widow Clicquot or Moet


A 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 wave


Full many a foolish prank brought forth;


And oh! what verses, what delights,


Delicious visions, jests and fights!



XXXVI

Alas! my stomach it betrays


With its exhilarating flow,


And I confess that now-a-days


I 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 friend


Who in the agony of grief


Is 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 cloak


The golden ember now enshrines,


And barely visible the smoke


Upward 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 jogs


When o'er a glass with friends we prate


Just at the hour we designate


The 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 sometime


Must visit them. Come! you must own,


My friend, 'tis but to pay a debt,


For twice you came to them and yet


You 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 fete


Next Saturday. The Larina


Told me to ask you. Ere that date


Make up your mind to go there."—"Ah!


It will be by a mob beset


Of 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 drained


His cup unto his maiden dear.


Then touching Olga they depart


In fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!



XL

He was most gay. The happy date


In three weeks would arrive for them;


The secrets of the marriage state


And love's delicious diadem


With rapturous longing he awaits,


Nor in his dreams anticipates


Hymen's embarrassments, distress,


And freezing fits of weariness.


Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile,


In life domestic see a string


Of 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 steep


As 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 phrase


In true interpretation hates:


Whose heart experience icy made


And 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 late


Kept lingering on as loath to go,


All Nature winter seemed to await,


Till January fell no snow—


The third at night. Tattiana wakes


Betimes, and sees, when morning breaks,


Park, garden, palings, yard below


And 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 daintily


O'erspread with Winter's carpet bright,


All so distinct, and all so white!



II

Winter! The peasant blithely goes


To labour in his sledge forgot,


His pony sniffing the fresh snows


Just manages a feeble trot


Though deep he sinks into the drift;


Forth the kibitka gallops swift,(48)


Its driver seated on the rim


In 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 wheels or 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 divine


Hath pictured in his gorgeous line


The first appearance of the snows


And all the joys which Winter knows.


He will delight you, I am sure,


When he in ardent verse portrays


Secret excursions made in sleighs;


But competition I abjure


Either with him or thee in song,


Bard of the Finnish maiden young.(49)


[Note 49: The allusions in the foregoing stanza are in the first place to a poem entitled "The First Snow," by Prince Viazemski and secondly to "Eda," by Baratynski, a poem descriptive of life in Finland.]


IV

Tattiana, Russian to the core,


Herself not knowing well the reason,


The Russian winter did adore


And the cold beauties of the season:


On sunny days the glistening rime,


Sledging, the snows, which at the time


Of sunset glow with rosy light,


The misty evenings ere Twelfth Night.


These evenings as in days of old


The Larinas would celebrate,


The servants used to congregate


And the young ladies fortunes told,


And every year distributed


Journeys and warriors to wed.



V

Tattiana in traditions old


Believed, the people's wisdom weird,


In dreams and what the moon foretold


And what she from the cards inferred.


Omens inspired her soul with fear,


Mysteriously all objects near


A hidden meaning could impart,


Presentiments oppressed her heart.


Lo! the prim cat upon the stove


With one paw strokes her face and purrs,


Tattiana certainly infers


That guests approach: and when above


The 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 sail


And disappear in space; then she


Would haste in agitation dire


To mutter her concealed desire


Ere the bright messenger had set.


When in her walks abroad she met


A friar black approaching near,(50)


Or a swift hare from mead to mead


Had 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 parish priests, and the black who inhabit the monasteries, furnish the high dignitaries of the Church, and constitute that swarm of useless drones for whom Peter the Great felt such a deep repugnance.]


VII

Wherefore? She found a secret joy


In 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 sight


Life 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 these


With childlike lisp will lie to please.


[Note 51: Refers to the "Sviatki" or Holy Nights between Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night. Divination, or the telling of fortunes by various expedients, is the favourite pastime on these occasions.]


VIII

Tattiana gazed with curious eye


On melted wax in water poured;


The clue unto some mystery


She deemed its outline might afford.


Rings from a dish of water full


In order due the maidens pull;


But when Tattiana's hand had ta'en


A 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 made


Happy and glorious. But this brings


With sad refrain misfortune near.


Girls the kashourka much prefer.(52)


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


IX

Frosty the night; the heavens shone;


The wondrous host of heavenly spheres


Sailed silently in unison—


Tattiana in the yard appears


In a half-open dressing-gown


And bends her mirror on the moon,


But trembling on the mirror dark


The sad moon only could remark.


List! the snow crunches—he draws nigh!


The girl on tiptoe forward bounds


And her voice sweeter than the sounds


Of 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 husband may thus be discovered.]


X

Tattiana (nurse the project planned)


By night prepared for sorcery,


And in the bathroom did command


To 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 bed


And 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 Morpheus of 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 field


All covered up with snow in heaps,


By melancholy fogs concealed.


Amid the snowdrifts which surround


A stream, by winter's ice unbound,


Impetuously clove its way


With 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 abyss


Tattiana in despair unfeigned


Rooted unto the spot remained.



XII

As if against obstruction sore


Tattiana o'er the stream complained;


To help her to the other shore


No 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 alarm


And leans upon the monster's arm,


With footsteps tremulous with awe


Passes 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 evade


Her shaggy myrmidon in chase.


The bear rolls on with many a grunt:


A forest now she sees in front


With fir-trees standing motionless


In 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 strewn


Both 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 entwined


Around her neck, now violently


Away 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 dress


For 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 Bruin


Adroitly seized and carried her;


Submissive as if in a swoon,


She cannot draw a breath or stir.


He dragged her by a forest road


Till 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 made


And her upon the threshold laid.



XVI

Recovering, Tania gazes round;


Bear gone—she at the threshold placed;


Inside clink glasses, cries resound


As 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 board


Sit 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, again


A 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 skull


In scarlet cap revolving glides.


A windmill too a jig performs


And wildly waves its arms and storms;


Barking, songs, whistling, laughter coarse,


The speech of man and tramp of horse.


But wide Tattiana oped her eyes


When in that company she saw


Him who inspired both love and awe,


The hero we immortalize.


Oneguine sat the table by


And 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 regain


And grown more curious by far


Just placed the entrance door ajar.


The wind rose instantly, blew out


The 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. Hastily


Tattiana would attempt to fly,


She cannot—then impatiently


She strains her throat to force a cry—


She cannot—Eugene oped the door


And the young girl appeared before


Those hellish phantoms. Peals arise


Of frantic laughter, and all eyes


And 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 combine


In 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 alone


Remained with him the youthful maid.


With tranquil air Oneguine leads


Tattiana to a corner, bids


Her on a shaky bench sit down;


His head sinks slowly, rests upon


Her shoulder—Olga swiftly came—


And Lenski followed—a light broke—


His fist Oneguine fiercely shook


And gazed around with eyes of flame;


The unbidden guests he roughly chides—


Tattiana motionless abides.



XXI

The strife grew furious and Eugene


Grasped a long knife and instantly


Struck Lenski dead—across the scene


Dark shadows thicken—a dread cry


Was uttered, and the cabin shook—


Tattiana terrified awoke.


She gazed around her—it was day.


Lo! through the frozen windows play


Aurora's ruddy rays of light—


The door flew open—Olga came,


More blooming than the Boreal flame


And swifter than the swallow's flight.


"Come," she cried, "sister, tell me e'en


Whom 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 contain


The bard's enthusiastic strain,


Nor precepts sage nor pictures e'en,


Yet neither Virgil nor Racine


Nor 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 vagabond


Unto their solitude one day,


This monument of thought profound


Tattiana purchased with a stray


Tome 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 conferred


With Martin Zadeka. In woe


She 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 obtain


Of such a dread hallucination.


Tattiana to the index flies


And alphabetically tries


The words bear, bridge, fir, darkness, bog,


Raven, snowstorm, tempest, fog,


Et cetera; but nothing showed


Her Martin Zadeka in aid,


Though the foul vision promise made


Of a most mournful episode,


And many a day thereafter laid


A load of care upon the maid.



XXV

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