 |
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
"But lo! forth from the valleys dun With purple hand Aurora leads, Swift following in her wake, the sun,"(57) And a grand festival proceeds. The Larinas were since sunrise O'erwhelmed with guests; by families The neighbours come, in sledge approach, Britzka, kibitka, or in coach. Crush and confusion in the hall, Latest arrivals' salutations, Barking, young ladies' osculations, Shouts, laughter, jamming 'gainst the wall, Bows and the scrape of many feet, Nurses who scream and babes who bleat.
[Note 57: The above three lines are a parody on the turgid style of Lomonossoff, a literary man of the second Catherine's era.]
XXVI
Bringing his partner corpulent Fat Poustiakoff drove to the door; Gvozdine, a landlord excellent, Oppressor of the wretched poor; And the Skatenines, aged pair, With all their progeny were there, Who from two years to thirty tell; Petoushkoff, the provincial swell; Bouyanoff too, my cousin, wore(58) His wadded coat and cap with peak (Surely you know him as I speak); And Flianoff, pensioned councillor, Rogue and extortioner of yore, Now buffoon, glutton, and a bore.
[Note 58: Pushkin calls Bouyanoff his cousin because he is a character in the "Dangerous Neighbour," a poem by Vassili Pushkin, the poet's uncle.]
XXVII
The family of Kharlikoff, Came with Monsieur Triquet, a prig, Who arrived lately from Tamboff, In spectacles and chestnut wig. Like a true Frenchman, couplets wrought In Tania's praise in pouch he brought, Known unto children perfectly: Reveillez-vouz, belle endormie. Among some ancient ballads thrust, He found them in an almanac, And the sagacious Triquet back To light had brought them from their dust, Whilst he "belle Nina" had the face By "belle Tattiana" to replace.
XXVIII
Lo! from the nearest barrack came, Of old maids the divinity, And comfort of each country dame, The captain of a company. He enters. Ah! good news to-day! The military band will play. The colonel sent it. Oh! delight! So there will be a dance to-night. Girls in anticipation skip! But dinner-time comes. Two and two They hand in hand to table go. The maids beside Tattiana keep— Men opposite. The cross they sign And chattering loud sit down to dine.
XXIX
Ceased for a space all chattering. Jaws are at work. On every side Plates, knives and forks are clattering And ringing wine-glasses are plied. But by degrees the crowd begin To raise a clamour and a din: They laugh, they argue, and they bawl, They shout and no one lists at all. The doors swing open: Lenski makes His entrance with Oneguine. "Ah! At last the author!" cries Mamma. The guests make room; aside each takes His chair, plate, knife and fork in haste; The friends are called and quickly placed.
XXX
Right opposite Tattiana placed, She, than the morning moon more pale, More timid than a doe long chased, Lifts not her eyes which swimming fail. Anew the flames of passion start Within her; she is sick at heart; The two friends' compliments she hears Not, and a flood of bitter tears With effort she restrains. Well nigh The poor girl fell into a faint, But strength of mind and self-restraint Prevailed at last. She in reply Said something in an undertone And at the table sat her down.
XXXI
To tragedy, the fainting fit, And female tears hysterical, Oneguine could not now submit, For long he had endured them all. Our misanthrope was full of ire, At a great feast against desire, And marking Tania's agitation, Cast down his eyes in trepidation And sulked in silent indignation; Swearing how Lenski he would rile, Avenge himself in proper style. Triumphant by anticipation, Caricatures he now designed Of all the guests within his mind.
XXXII
Certainly not Eugene alone Tattiana's trouble might have spied, But that the eyes of every one By a rich pie were occupied— Unhappily too salt by far; And that a bottle sealed with tar Appeared, Don's effervescing boast,(59) Between the blanc-mange and the roast; Behind, of glasses an array, Tall, slender, like thy form designed, Zizi, thou mirror of my mind, Fair object of my guileless lay, Seductive cup of love, whose flow Made me so tipsy long ago!
[Note 59: The Donskoe Champanskoe is a species of sparkling wine manufactured in the vicinity of the river Don.]
XXXIII
From the moist cork the bottle freed With loud explosion, the bright wine Hissed forth. With serious air indeed, Long tortured by his lay divine, Triquet arose, and for the bard The company deep silence guard. Tania well nigh expired when he Turned to her and discordantly Intoned it, manuscript in hand. Voices and hands applaud, and she Must bow in common courtesy; The poet, modest though so grand, Drank to her health in the first place, Then handed her the song with grace.
XXXIV
Congratulations, toasts resound, Tattiana thanks to all returned, But, when Oneguine's turn came round, The maiden's weary eye which yearned, Her agitation and distress Aroused in him some tenderness. He bowed to her nor silence broke, But somehow there shone in his look The witching light of sympathy; I know not if his heart felt pain Or if he meant to flirt again, From habit or maliciously, But kindness from his eye had beamed And to revive Tattiana seemed.
XXXV
The chairs are thrust back with a roar, The crowd unto the drawing-room speeds, As bees who leave their dainty store And seek in buzzing swarms the meads. Contented and with victuals stored, Neighbour by neighbour sat and snored, Matrons unto the fireplace go, Maids in the corner whisper low; Behold! green tables are brought forth, And testy gamesters do engage In boston and the game of age, Ombre, and whist all others worth: A strong resemblance these possess— All sons of mental weariness.
XXXVI
Eight rubbers were already played, Eight times the heroes of the fight Change of position had essayed, When tea was brought. 'Tis my delight Time to denote by dinner, tea, And supper. In the country we Can count the time without much fuss— The stomach doth admonish us. And, by the way, I here assert That for that matter in my verse As many dinners I rehearse, As oft to meat and drink advert, As thou, great Homer, didst of yore, Whom thirty centuries adore.
XXXVII
I will with thy divinity Contend with knife and fork and platter, But grant with magnanimity I'm beaten in another matter; Thy heroes, sanguinary wights, Also thy rough-and-tumble fights, Thy Venus and thy Jupiter, More advantageously appear Than cold Oneguine's oddities, The aspect of a landscape drear. Or e'en Istomina, my dear, And fashion's gay frivolities; But my Tattiana, on my soul, Is sweeter than thy Helen foul.
XXXVIII
No one the contrary will urge, Though for his Helen Menelaus Again a century should scourge Us, and like Trojan warriors slay us; Though around honoured Priam's throne Troy's sages should in concert own Once more, when she appeared in sight, Paris and Menelaus right. But as to fighting—'twill appear! For patience, reader, I must plead! A little farther please to read And be not in advance severe. There'll be a fight. I do not lie. My word of honour given have I.
XXXIX
The tea, as I remarked, appeared, But scarce had maids their saucers ta'en When in the grand saloon was heard Of bassoons and of flutes the strain. His soul by crash of music fired, His tea with rum no more desired, The Paris of those country parts To Olga Petoushkova darts: To Tania Lenski; Kharlikova, A marriageable maid matured, The poet from Tamboff secured, Bouyanoff whisked off Poustiakova. All to the grand saloon are gone— The ball in all its splendour shone.
XL
I tried when I began this tale, (See the first canto if ye will), A ball in Peter's capital, To sketch ye in Albano's style.(60) But by fantastic dreams distraught, My memory wandered wide and sought The feet of my dear lady friends. O feet, where'er your path extends I long enough deceived have erred. The perfidies I recollect Should make me much more circumspect, Reform me both in deed and word, And this fifth canto ought to be From such digressions wholly free.
[Note 60: Francesco Albano, a celebrated painter, styled the "Anacreon of Painting," was born at Bologna 1578, and died in the year 1666.]
XLI
The whirlwind of the waltz sweeps by, Undeviating and insane As giddy youth's hilarity— Pair after pair the race sustain. The moment for revenge, meanwhile, Espying, Eugene with a smile Approaches Olga and the pair Amid the company career. Soon the maid on a chair he seats, Begins to talk of this and that, But when two minutes she had sat, Again the giddy waltz repeats. All are amazed; but Lenski he Scarce credits what his eyes can see.
XLII
Hark! the mazurka. In times past, When the mazurka used to peal, All rattled in the ball-room vast, The parquet cracked beneath the heel, And jolting jarred the window-frames. 'Tis not so now. Like gentle dames We glide along a floor of wax. However, the mazurka lacks Nought of its charms original In country towns, where still it keeps Its stamping, capers and high leaps. Fashion is there immutable, Who tyrannizes us with ease, Of modern Russians the disease.
XLIII
Bouyanoff, wrathful cousin mine, Unto the hero of this lay Olga and Tania led. Malign, Oneguine Olga bore away. Gliding in negligent career, He bending whispered in her ear Some madrigal not worth a rush, And pressed her hand—the crimson blush Upon her cheek by adulation Grew brighter still. But Lenski hath Seen all, beside himself with wrath, And hot with jealous indignation, Till the mazurka's close he stays, Her hand for the cotillon prays.
XLIV
She fears she cannot.—Cannot? Why?— She promised Eugene, or she would With great delight.—O God on high! Heard he the truth? And thus she could— And can it be? But late a child And now a fickle flirt and wild, Cunning already to display And well-instructed to betray! Lenski the stroke could not sustain, At womankind he growled a curse, Departed, ordered out his horse And galloped home. But pistols twain, A pair of bullets—nought beside— His fate shall presently decide.
END OF CANTO THE FIFTH
CANTO THE SIXTH
The Duel
'La, sotto giorni nubilosi e brevi, Nasce una gente a cui 'l morir non duole.' Petrarch
Canto The Sixth
[Mikhailovskoe, 1826: the two final stanzas were, however, written at Moscow.]
I
Having remarked Vladimir's flight, Oneguine, bored to death again, By Olga stood, dejected quite And satisfied with vengeance ta'en. Olga began to long likewise For Lenski, sought him with her eyes, And endless the cotillon seemed As if some troubled dream she dreamed. 'Tis done. To supper they proceed. Bedding is laid out and to all Assigned a lodging, from the hall(61) Up to the attic, and all need Tranquil repose. Eugene alone To pass the night at home hath gone.
[Note 61: Hospitality is a national virtue of the Russians. On festal occasions in the country the whole party is usually accommodated for the night, or indeed for as many nights as desired, within the house of the entertainer. This of course is rendered necessary by the great distances which separate the residences of the gentry. Still, the alacrity with which a Russian hostess will turn her house topsy-turvy for the accommodation of forty or fifty guests would somewhat astonish the mistress of a modern Belgravian mansion.]
II
All slumber. In the drawing-room Loud snores the cumbrous Poustiakoff With better half as cumbersome; Gvozdine, Bouyanoff, Petoushkoff And Flianoff, somewhat indisposed, On chairs in the saloon reposed, Whilst on the floor Monsieur Triquet In jersey and in nightcap lay. In Olga's and Tattiana's rooms Lay all the girls by sleep embraced, Except one by the window placed Whom pale Diana's ray illumes— My poor Tattiana cannot sleep But stares into the darkness deep.
III
His visit she had not awaited, His momentary loving glance Her inmost soul had penetrated, And his strange conduct at the dance With Olga; nor of this appeared An explanation: she was scared, Alarmed by jealous agonies: A hand of ice appeared to seize(62) Her heart: it seemed a darksome pit Beneath her roaring opened wide: "I shall expire," Tattiana cried, "But death from him will be delight. I murmur not! Why mournfulness? He cannot give me happiness."
[Note 62: There must be a peculiar appropriateness in this expression as descriptive of the sensation of extreme cold. Mr. Wallace makes use of an identical phrase in describing an occasion when he was frostbitten whilst sledging in Russia. He says (vol. i. p. 33): "My fur cloak flew open, the cold seemed to grasp me in the region of the heart, and I fell insensible."]
IV
Haste, haste thy lagging pace, my story! A new acquaintance we must scan. There dwells five versts from Krasnogory, Vladimir's property, a man Who thrives this moment as I write, A philosophic anchorite: Zaretski, once a bully bold, A gambling troop when he controlled, Chief rascal, pot-house president, Now of a family the head, Simple and kindly and unwed, True friend, landlord benevolent, Yea! and a man of honour, lo! How perfect doth our epoch grow!
V
Time was the flattering voice of fame, His ruffian bravery adored, And true, his pistol's faultless aim An ace at fifteen paces bored. But I must add to what I write That, tipsy once in actual fight, He from his Kalmuck horse did leap In mud and mire to wallow deep, Drunk as a fly; and thus the French A valuable hostage gained, A modern Regulus unchained, Who to surrender did not blench That every morn at Verrey's cost Three flasks of wine he might exhaust.
VI
Time was, his raillery was gay, He loved the simpleton to mock, To make wise men the idiot play Openly or 'neath decent cloak. Yet sometimes this or that deceit Encountered punishment complete, And sometimes into snares as well Himself just like a greenhorn fell. He could in disputation shine With pungent or obtuse retort, At times to silence would resort, At times talk nonsense with design; Quarrels among young friends he bred And to the field of honour led;
VII
Or reconciled them, it may be, And all the three to breakfast went; Then he'd malign them secretly With jest and gossip gaily blent. Sed alia tempora. And bravery (Like love, another sort of knavery!) Diminishes as years decline. But, as I said, Zaretski mine Beneath acacias, cherry-trees, From storms protection having sought, Lived as a really wise man ought, Like Horace, planted cabbages, Both ducks and geese in plenty bred And lessons to his children read.
VIII
He was no fool, and Eugene mine, To friendship making no pretence, Admired his judgment, which was fine, Pervaded with much common sense. He usually was glad to see The man and liked his company, So, when he came next day to call, Was not surprised thereby at all. But, after mutual compliments, Zaretski with a knowing grin, Ere conversation could begin, The epistle from the bard presents. Oneguine to the window went And scanned in silence its content.
IX
It was a cheery, generous Cartel, or challenge to a fight, Whereto in language courteous Lenski his comrade did invite. Oneguine, by first impulse moved, Turned and replied as it behoved, Curtly announcing for the fray That he was "ready any day." Zaretski rose, nor would explain, He cared no longer there to stay, Had much to do at home that day, And so departed. But Eugene, The matter by his conscience tried, Was with himself dissatisfied.
X
In fact, the subject analysed, Within that secret court discussed, In much his conduct stigmatized; For, from the outset, 'twas unjust To jest as he had done last eve, A timid, shrinking love to grieve. And ought he not to disregard The poet's madness? for 'tis hard At eighteen not to play the fool! Sincerely loving him, Eugene Assuredly should not have been Conventionality's dull tool— Not a mere hot, pugnacious boy, But man of sense and probity.
XI
He might his motives have narrated, Not bristled up like a wild beast, He ought to have conciliated That youthful heart—"But, now at least, The opportunity is flown. Besides, a duellist well-known Hath mixed himself in the affair, Malicious and a slanderer. Undoubtedly, disdain alone Should recompense his idle jeers, But fools—their calumnies and sneers"— Behold! the world's opinion!(63) Our idol, Honour's motive force, Round which revolves the universe.
[Note 63: A line of Griboyedoff's. (Woe from Wit.)]
XII
Impatient, boiling o'er with wrath, The bard his answer waits at home, But lo! his braggart neighbour hath Triumphant with the answer come. Now for the jealous youth what joy! He feared the criminal might try To treat the matter as a jest, Use subterfuge, and thus his breast From the dread pistol turn away. But now all doubt was set aside, Unto the windmill he must ride To-morrow before break of day, To cock the pistol; barrel bend On thigh or temple, friend on friend.
XIII
Resolved the flirt to cast away, The foaming Lenski would refuse, To see his Olga ere the fray— His watch, the sun in turn he views— Finally tost his arms in air And lo! he is already there! He deemed his coming would inspire Olga with trepidation dire. He was deceived. Just as before The miserable bard to meet, As hope uncertain and as sweet, Olga ran skipping from the door. She was as heedless and as gay— Well! just as she was yesterday.
XIV
"Why did you leave last night so soon?" Was the first question Olga made, Lenski, into confusion thrown, All silently hung down his head. Jealousy and vexation took To flight before her radiant look, Before such fond simplicity And mental elasticity. He eyed her with a fond concern, Perceived that he was still beloved, Already by repentance moved To ask forgiveness seemed to yearn; But trembles, words he cannot find, Delighted, almost sane in mind.
XV
But once more pensive and distressed Beside his Olga doth he grieve, Nor enough strength of mind possessed To mention the foregoing eve, He mused: "I will her saviour be! With ardent sighs and flattery The vile seducer shall not dare The freshness of her heart impair, Nor shall the caterpillar come The lily's stem to eat away, Nor shall the bud of yesterday Perish when half disclosed its bloom!"— All this, my friends, translate aright: "I with my friend intend to fight!"
XVI
If he had only known the wound Which rankled in Tattiana's breast, And if Tattiana mine had found— If the poor maiden could have guessed That the two friends with morning's light Above the yawning grave would fight,— Ah! it may be, affection true Had reconciled the pair anew! But of this love, e'en casually, As yet none had discovered aught; Eugene of course related nought, Tattiana suffered secretly; Her nurse, who could have made a guess, Was famous for thick-headedness.
XVII
Lenski that eve in thought immersed, Now gloomy seemed and cheerful now, But he who by the Muse was nursed Is ever thus. With frowning brow To the pianoforte he moves And various chords upon it proves, Then, eyeing Olga, whispers low: "I'm happy, say, is it not so?"— But it grew late; he must not stay; Heavy his heart with anguish grew; To the young girl he said adieu, As it were, tore himself away. Gazing into his face, she said: "What ails thee?"—"Nothing."—He is fled.
XVIII
At home arriving he addressed His care unto his pistols' plight, Replaced them in their box, undressed And Schiller read by candlelight. But one thought only filled his mind, His mournful heart no peace could find, Olga he sees before his eyes Miraculously fair arise, Vladimir closes up his book, And grasps a pen: his verse, albeit With lovers' rubbish filled, was neat And flowed harmoniously. He took And spouted it with lyric fire— Like D[elvig] when dinner doth inspire.
XIX
Destiny hath preserved his lay. I have it. Lo! the very thing! "Oh! whither have ye winged your way, Ye golden days of my young spring? What will the coming dawn reveal? In vain my anxious eyes appeal; In mist profound all yet is hid. So be it! Just the laws which bid The fatal bullet penetrate, Or innocently past me fly. Good governs all! The hour draws nigh Of life or death predestinate. Blest be the labours of the light, And blest the shadows of the night.
XX
"To-morrow's dawn will glimmer gray, Bright day will then begin to burn, But the dark sepulchre I may Have entered never to return. The memory of the bard, a dream, Will be absorbed by Lethe's stream; Men will forget me, but my urn To visit, lovely maid, return, O'er my remains to drop a tear, And think: here lies who loved me well, For consecrate to me he fell In the dawn of existence drear. Maid whom my heart desires alone, Approach, approach; I am thine own."
XXI
Thus in a style obscure and stale,(64) He wrote ('tis the romantic style, Though of romance therein I fail To see aught—never mind meanwhile) And about dawn upon his breast His weary head declined at rest, For o'er a word to fashion known, "Ideal," he had drowsy grown. But scarce had sleep's soft witchery Subdued him, when his neighbour stept Into the chamber where he slept And wakened him with the loud cry: "'Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike. Oneguine waits on us, 'tis like."
[Note 64: The fact of the above words being italicised suggests the idea that the poet is here firing a Parthian shot at some unfriendly critic.]
XXII
He was in error; for Eugene Was sleeping then a sleep like death; The pall of night was growing thin, To Lucifer the cock must breathe His song, when still he slumbered deep, The sun had mounted high his steep, A passing snowstorm wreathed away With pallid light, but Eugene lay Upon his couch insensibly; Slumber still o'er him lingering flies. But finally he oped his eyes And turned aside the drapery; He gazed upon the clock which showed He long should have been on the road.
XXIII
He rings in haste; in haste arrives His Frenchman, good Monsieur Guillot, Who dressing-gown and slippers gives And linen on him doth bestow. Dressing as quickly as he can, Eugene directs the trusty man To accompany him and to escort A box of terrible import. Harnessed the rapid sledge arrived: He enters: to the mill he drives: Descends, the order Guillot gives, The fatal tubes Lepage contrived(65) To bring behind: the triple steeds To two young oaks the coachman leads.
[Note 65: Lepage—a celebrated gunmaker of former days.]
XXIV
Lenski the foeman's apparition Leaning against the dam expects, Zaretski, village mechanician, In the meantime the mill inspects. Oneguine his excuses says; "But," cried Zaretski in amaze, "Your second you have left behind!" A duellist of classic mind, Method was dear unto his heart He would not that a man ye slay In a lax or informal way, But followed the strict rules of art, And ancient usages observed (For which our praise he hath deserved).
XXV
"My second!" cried in turn Eugene, "Behold my friend Monsieur Guillot; To this arrangement can be seen, No obstacle of which I know. Although unknown to fame mayhap, He's a straightforward little chap." Zaretski bit his lip in wrath, But to Vladimir Eugene saith: "Shall we commence?"—"Let it be so," Lenski replied, and soon they be Behind the mill. Meantime ye see Zaretski and Monsieur Guillot In consultation stand aside— The foes with downcast eyes abide.
XXVI
Foes! Is it long since friendship rent Asunder was and hate prepared? Since leisure was together spent, Meals, secrets, occupations shared? Now, like hereditary foes, Malignant fury they disclose, As in some frenzied dream of fear These friends cold-bloodedly draw near Mutual destruction to contrive. Cannot they amicably smile Ere crimson stains their hands defile, Depart in peace and friendly live? But fashionable hatred's flame Trembles at artificial shame.
XXVII
The shining pistols are uncased, The mallet loud the ramrod strikes, Bullets are down the barrels pressed, For the first time the hammer clicks. Lo! poured in a thin gray cascade, The powder in the pan is laid, The sharp flint, screwed securely on, Is cocked once more. Uneasy grown, Guillot behind a pollard stood; Aside the foes their mantles threw, Zaretski paces thirty-two Measured with great exactitude. At each extreme one takes his stand, A loaded pistol in his hand.
XXVIII
"Advance!"— Indifferent and sedate, The foes, as yet not taking aim, With measured step and even gait Athwart the snow four paces came— Four deadly paces do they span; Oneguine slowly then began To raise his pistol to his eye, Though he advanced unceasingly. And lo! five paces more they pass, And Lenski, closing his left eye, Took aim—but as immediately Oneguine fired—Alas! alas! The poet's hour hath sounded—See! He drops his pistol silently.
XXIX
He on his bosom gently placed His hand, and fell. His clouded eye Not agony, but death expressed. So from the mountain lazily The avalanche of snow first bends, Then glittering in the sun descends. The cold sweat bursting from his brow, To the youth Eugene hurried now— Gazed on him, called him. Useless care! He was no more! The youthful bard For evermore had disappeared. The storm was hushed. The blossom fair Was withered ere the morning light— The altar flame was quenched in night.
XXX
Tranquil he lay, and strange to view The peace which on his forehead beamed, His breast was riddled through and through, The blood gushed from the wound and steamed Ere this but one brief moment beat That heart with inspiration sweet And enmity and hope and love— The blood boiled and the passions strove. Now, as in a deserted house, All dark and silent hath become; The inmate is for ever dumb, The windows whitened, shutters close— Whither departed is the host? God knows! The very trace is lost.
XXXI
'Tis sweet the foe to aggravate With epigrams impertinent, Sweet to behold him obstinate, His butting horns in anger bent, The glass unwittingly inspect And blush to own himself reflect. Sweeter it is, my friends, if he Howl like a dolt: 'tis meant for me! But sweeter still it is to arrange For him an honourable grave, At his pale brow a shot to have, Placed at the customary range; But home his body to despatch Can scarce in sweetness be a match.
XXXII
Well, if your pistol ball by chance The comrade of your youth should strike, Who by a haughty word or glance Or any trifle else ye like You o'er your wine insulted hath— Or even overcome by wrath Scornfully challenged you afield— Tell me, of sentiments concealed Which in your spirit dominates, When motionless your gaze beneath He lies, upon his forehead death, And slowly life coagulates— When deaf and silent he doth lie Heedless of your despairing cry?
XXXIII
Eugene, his pistol yet in hand And with remorseful anguish filled, Gazing on Lenski's corse did stand— Zaretski shouted: "Why, he's killed!"— Killed! at this dreadful exclamation Oneguine went with trepidation And the attendants called in haste. Most carefully Zaretski placed Within his sledge the stiffened corse, And hurried home his awful freight. Conscious of death approximate, Loud paws the earth each panting horse, His bit with foam besprinkled o'er, And homeward like an arrow tore.
XXXIV
My friends, the poet ye regret! When hope's delightful flower but bloomed In bud of promise incomplete, The manly toga scarce assumed, He perished. Where his troubled dreams, And where the admirable streams Of youthful impulse, reverie, Tender and elevated, free? And where tempestuous love's desires, The thirst of knowledge and of fame, Horror of sinfulness and shame, Imagination's sacred fires, Ye shadows of a life more high, Ye dreams of heavenly poesy?
XXXV
Perchance to benefit mankind, Or but for fame he saw the light; His lyre, to silence now consigned, Resounding through all ages might Have echoed to eternity. With worldly honours, it may be, Fortune the poet had repaid. It may be that his martyred shade Carried a truth divine away; That, for the century designed, Had perished a creative mind, And past the threshold of decay, He ne'er shall hear Time's eulogy, The blessings of humanity.
XXXVI
Or, it may be, the bard had passed A life in common with the rest; Vanished his youthful years at last, The fire extinguished in his breast, In many things had changed his life— The Muse abandoned, ta'en a wife, Inhabited the country, clad In dressing-gown, a cuckold glad: A life of fact, not fiction, led— At forty suffered from the gout, Eaten, drunk, gossiped and grown stout: And finally, upon his bed Had finished life amid his sons, Doctors and women, sobs and groans.
XXXVII
But, howsoe'er his lot were cast, Alas! the youthful lover slain, Poetical enthusiast, A friendly hand thy life hath ta'en! There is a spot the village near Where dwelt the Muses' worshipper, Two pines have joined their tangled roots, A rivulet beneath them shoots Its waters to the neighbouring vale. There the tired ploughman loves to lie, The reaping girls approach and ply Within its wave the sounding pail, And by that shady rivulet A simple tombstone hath been set.
XXXVIII
There, when the rains of spring we mark Upon the meadows showering, The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark,(66) Of Volga fishermen doth sing, And the young damsel from the town, For summer to the country flown, Whene'er across the plain at speed Alone she gallops on her steed, Stops at the tomb in passing by; The tightened leathern rein she draws, Aside she casts her veil of gauze And reads with rapid eager eye The simple epitaph—a tear Doth in her gentle eye appear.
[Note 66: In Russia and other northern countries rude shoes are made of the inner bark of the lime tree.]
XXXIX
And meditative from the spot She leisurely away doth ride, Spite of herself with Lenski's lot Longtime her mind is occupied. She muses: "What was Olga's fate? Longtime was her heart desolate Or did her tears soon cease to flow? And where may be her sister now? Where is the outlaw, banned by men, Of fashionable dames the foe, The misanthrope of gloomy brow, By whom the youthful bard was slain?"— In time I'll give ye without fail A true account and in detail.
XL
But not at present, though sincerely I on my chosen hero dote; Though I'll return to him right early, Just at this moment I cannot. Years have inclined me to stern prose, Years to light rhyme themselves oppose, And now, I mournfully confess, In rhyming I show laziness. As once, to fill the rapid page My pen no longer finds delight, Other and colder thoughts affright, Sterner solicitudes engage, In worldly din or solitude Upon my visions such intrude.
XLI
Fresh aspirations I have known, I am acquainted with fresh care, Hopeless are all the first, I own, Yet still remains the old despair. Illusions, dream, where, where your sweetness? Where youth (the proper rhyme is fleetness)? And is it true her garland bright At last is shrunk and withered quite? And is it true and not a jest, Not even a poetic phrase, That vanished are my youthful days (This joking I used to protest), Never for me to reappear— That soon I reach my thirtieth year?
XLII
And so my noon hath come! If so, I must resign myself, in sooth; Yet let us part in friendship, O My frivolous and jolly youth. I thank thee for thy joyfulness, Love's tender transports and distress, For riot, frolics, mighty feeds, And all that from thy hand proceeds— I thank thee. In thy company, With tumult or contentment still Of thy delights I drank my fill, Enough! with tranquil spirit I Commence a new career in life And rest from bygone days of strife.
XLIII
But pause! Thou calm retreats, farewell, Where my days in the wilderness Of languor and of love did tell And contemplative dreaminess; And thou, youth's early inspiration, Invigorate imagination And spur my spirit's torpid mood! Fly frequent to my solitude, Let not the poet's spirit freeze, Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry, Eventually petrify In the world's mortal revelries, Amid the soulless sons of pride And glittering simpletons beside;
XLIV
Amid sly, pusillanimous Spoiled children most degenerate And tiresome rogues ridiculous And stupid censors passionate; Amid coquettes who pray to God And abject slaves who kiss the rod; In haunts of fashion where each day All with urbanity betray, Where harsh frivolity proclaims Its cold unfeeling sentences; Amid the awful emptiness Of conversation, thought and aims— In that morass where you and I Wallow, my friends, in company!
END OF CANTO THE SIXTH
CANTO THE SEVENTH
Moscow
Moscow, Russia's darling daughter, Where thine equal shall we find?' Dmitrieff
Who can help loving mother Moscow? Baratynski (Feasts)
A journey to Moscow! To see the world! Where better? Where man is not. Griboyedoff (Woe from Wit)
Canto The Seventh
[Written 1827-1828 at Moscow, Mikhailovskoe, St. Petersburg and Malinniki.]
I
Impelled by Spring's dissolving beams, The snows from off the hills around Descended swift in turbid streams And flooded all the level ground. A smile from slumbering nature clear Did seem to greet the youthful year; The heavens shone in deeper blue, The woods, still naked to the view, Seemed in a haze of green embowered. The bee forth from his cell of wax Flew to collect his rural tax; The valleys dried and gaily flowered; Herds low, and under night's dark veil Already sings the nightingale.
II
Mournful is thine approach to me, O Spring, thou chosen time of love! What agitation languidly My spirit and my blood doth move, What sad emotions o'er me steal When first upon my cheek I feel The breath of Spring again renewed, Secure in rural quietude— Or, strange to me is happiness? Do all things which to mirth incline. And make a dark existence shine Inflict annoyance and distress Upon a soul inert and cloyed?— And is all light within destroyed?
III
Or, heedless of the leaves' return Which Autumn late to earth consigned, Do we alone our losses mourn Of which the rustling woods remind? Or, when anew all Nature teems, Do we foresee in troubled dreams The coming of life's Autumn drear. For which no springtime shall appear? Or, it may be, we inly seek, Wafted upon poetic wing, Some other long-departed Spring, Whose memories make the heart beat quick With thoughts of a far distant land, Of a strange night when the moon and—
IV
'Tis now the season! Idlers all, Epicurean philosophers, Ye men of fashion cynical, Of Levshin's school ye followers,(67) Priams of country populations And dames of fine organisations, Spring summons you to her green bowers, 'Tis the warm time of labour, flowers; The time for mystic strolls which late Into the starry night extend. Quick to the country let us wend In vehicles surcharged with freight; In coach or post-cart duly placed Beyond the city-barriers haste.
[Note 67: Levshin—a contemporary writer on political economy.]
V
Thou also, reader generous, The chaise long ordered please employ, Abandon cities riotous, Which in the winter were a joy: The Muse capricious let us coax, Go hear the rustling of the oaks Beside a nameless rivulet, Where in the country Eugene yet, An idle anchorite and sad, A while ago the winter spent, Near young Tattiana resident, My pretty self-deceiving maid— No more the village knows his face, For there he left a mournful trace.
VI
Let us proceed unto a rill, Which in a hilly neighbourhood Seeks, winding amid meadows still, The river through the linden wood. The nightingale there all night long, Spring's paramour, pours forth her song The fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom, And lo! where lies a marble tomb And two old pines their branches spread— "Vladimir Lenski lies beneath, Who early died a gallant death," Thereon the passing traveller read: "The date, his fleeting years how long— Repose in peace, thou child of song." |
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