Part 10

“And is it,” meditates Eugene. “And is it she? It must be—no— How! from the waste of steppes unseen,”— And the eternal lorgnette through Frequent and rapid doth his glance Seek the forgotten countenance Familiar to him long ago. “Inform me, prince, pray dost thou know The lady in the crimson cap Who with the Spanish envoy speaks?”— The prince’s eye Onéguine seeks: “Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape! But stop! I will present thee, if You choose.”—“But who is she?”—“My wife.”

XVIII

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

XIX

Ah no! no faintness her attacked Nor sudden turned she red or white, Her brow she did not e’en contract Nor yet her lip compressed did bite. Though he surveyed her at his ease, Not the least trace Onéguine sees Of the Tattiana of times fled. He conversation would have led— But could not. Then she questioned him:— “Had he been long here, and where from? Straight from their province had he come?”— Cast upwards then her eyeballs dim Unto her husband, went away— Transfixed Onéguine mine doth stay.

XX

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

XXI

He quits the fashionable throng And meditative homeward goes, Visions, now sad, now grateful, long Do agitate his late repose. He wakes—they with a letter come— The Princess N. will be at home On such a day. O Heavens, ’tis she! Oh! I accept. And instantly He a polite reply doth scrawl. What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred? In the recesses what hath stirred Of a heart cold and cynical? Vexation? Vanity? or strove Again the plague of boyhood—love?

XXII

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

XXIII

The husband comes and interferes With this unpleasant _tête-à-tête_, With Eugene pranks of former years And jests doth recapitulate. They talked and laughed. The guests arrived. The conversation was revived By the coarse wit of worldly hate; But round the hostess scintillate Light sallies without coxcombry, Awhile sound conversation seems To banish far unworthy themes And platitudes and pedantry, And never was the ear affright By liberties or loose or light.

XXIV

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

XXV

Behold Sabouroff, whom the age For baseness of the spirit scorns, Saint Priest, who every album’s page With blunted pencil-point adorns. Another tribune of the ball Hung like a print against the wall, Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim,(84) Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim. The traveller, bird of passage he, Stiff, overstarched and insolent, Awakens secret merriment By his embarrassed dignity— Mute glances interchanged aside Meet punishment for him provide.

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

XXVI

But my Onéguine the whole eve Within his mind Tattiana bore, Not the young timid maid, believe, Enamoured, simple-minded, poor, But the indifferent princess, Divinity without access Of the imperial Neva’s shore. O Men, how very like ye are To Eve the universal mother, Possession hath no power to please, The serpent to unlawful trees Aye bids ye in some way or other— Unless forbidden fruit we eat, Our paradise is no more sweet.

XXVII

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

XXVIII

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

XXIX

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

XXX

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

XXXI

He went not—sooner was prepared To write his forefathers to warn Of his approach; but nothing cared Tattiana—thus the sex is born.— He obstinately will remain, Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain. Sickness more courage doth command Than health, so with a trembling hand A love epistle he doth scrawl. Though correspondence as a rule He used to hate—and was no fool— Yet suffering emotional Had rendered him an invalid; But word for word his letter read.

Onéguine’s Letter to Tattiana

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

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

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

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

I tremble lest my humble prayer You with stern countenance declare The artifice of villany— I hear your harsh, reproachful cry. If ye but knew how dreadful ’tis To bear love’s parching agonies— To burn, yet reason keep awake The fever of the blood to slake— A passionate desire to bend And, sobbing at your feet, to blend Entreaties, woes and prayers, confess All that the heart would fain express— Yet with a feigned frigidity To arm the tongue and e’en the eye, To be in conversation clear And happy unto you appear.

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

XXXII

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

XXXIII

And it may be a secret dread Lest the world or her lord divine A certain little escapade Well known unto Onéguine mine. ’Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee Cursing his own stupidity, And brooding o’er the ills he bore, Society renounced once more. Then in the silent cabinet He in imagination saw The time when Melancholy’s claw ’Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet, Caught him and by the collar took And shut him in a lonely nook.

XXXIV

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

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

Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a German philosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friend of Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chief work is entitled, “Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind,” in 4 vols.

Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a French novelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to his real wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised a considerable influence over certain of its leaders, notably Mirabeau and Sieyès. He is said to have originated the title of the celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. “What is the Tiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything.” He ultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was thrown into prison and though shortly afterwards released, his incarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committed suicide.

Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomist and physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a “Traité des Membranes,” “Anatomie générale appliquée à la Physiologie et à la Médecine,” and “Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et la Mort.” He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxious exhalations during his researches.

Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of the Revolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editor of the _Gazette de France_. He wrote histories of the Revolution, of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of a work entitled “Les trois Irlandais Conjurés, ou l’ombre d’Emmet,” and is believed to have edited Foy’s “History of the Peninsular War.”

The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fair idea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the Empress Catherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverish thirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding power of assimilation.]

XXXV

But what results? His eyes peruse But thoughts meander far away— Ideas, desires and woes confuse His intellect in close array. His eyes, the printed lines betwixt, On lines invisible are fixt; ’Twas these he read and these alone His spirit was intent upon. They were the wonderful traditions Of kindly, dim antiquity, Dreams with no continuity, Prophecies, threats and apparitions, The lively trash of stories long Or letters of a maiden young.

XXXVI

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

XXXVII

So frequently his mind would stray He well-nigh lost the use of sense, Almost became a poet say— Oh! what had been his eminence! Indeed, by force of magnetism A Russian poem’s mechanism My scholar without aptitude At this time almost understood. How like a poet was my chum When, sitting by his fire alone Whilst cheerily the embers shone, He “Benedetta” used to hum, Or “Idol mio,” and in the grate Would lose his slippers or gazette.

XXXVIII

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

XXXIX

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

XL

Oh! who her speechless agonies Could not in that brief moment guess! Who now could fail to recognize Tattiana in the young princess! Tortured by pangs of wild regret, Eugene fell prostrate at her feet— She starts, nor doth a word express, But gazes on Onéguine’s face Without amaze or wrath displayed: His sunken eye and aspect faint, Imploring looks and mute complaint She comprehends. The simple maid By fond illusions once possest Is once again made manifest.

XLI

His kneeling posture he retains— Calmly her eyes encounter his— Insensible her hand remains Beneath his lips’ devouring kiss. What visions then her fancy thronged— A breathless silence then, prolonged— But finally she softly said: “Enough, arise! for much we need Without disguise ourselves explain. Onéguine, hast forgotten yet The hour when—Fate so willed—we met In the lone garden and the lane? How meekly then I heard you preach— To-day it is my turn to teach.

XLII

“Onéguine, I was younger then, And better, if I judge aright; I loved you—what did I obtain? Affection how did you requite? But with austerity!—for you No novelty—is it not true?— Was the meek love a maiden feels. But now—my very blood congeals, Calling to mind your icy look And sermon—but in that dread hour I blame not your behaviour— An honourable course ye took, Displayed a noble rectitude— My soul is filled with gratitude!

XLIII

“Then, in the country, is’t not true? And far removed from rumour vain; I did not please you. Why pursue Me now, inflict upon me pain?— Wherefore am I your quarry held?— Is it that I am now compelled To move in fashionable life, That I am rich, a prince’s wife?— Because my lord, in battles maimed, Is petted by the Emperor?— That my dishonour would ensure A notoriety proclaimed, And in society might shed A bastard fame prohibited?

XLIV

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

XLV

“Onéguine, all this sumptuousness, The gilding of life’s vanities, In the world’s vortex my success, My splendid house and gaieties— What are they? Gladly would I yield This life in masquerade concealed, This glitter, riot, emptiness, For my wild garden and bookcase,— Yes! for our unpretending home, Onéguine—the beloved place Where the first time I saw your face,— Or for the solitary tomb Wherein my poor old nurse doth lie Beneath a cross and shrubbery.

XLVI

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

XLVII

She rose—departed. But Eugene Stood as if struck by lightning fire. What a storm of emotions keen Raged round him and of balked desire! And hark! the clank of spurs is heard And Tania’s husband soon appeared.— But now our hero we must leave Just at a moment which I grieve Must be pronounced unfortunate— For long—for ever. To be sure Together we have wandered o’er The world enough. Congratulate Each other as the shore we climb! Hurrah! it long ago was time!

XLVIII

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

XLIX

And farewell thou, my gloomy friend, Thou also, my ideal true, And thou, persistent to the end, My little book. With thee I knew All that a poet could desire, Oblivion of life’s tempest dire, Of friends the grateful intercourse— Oh, many a year hath run its course Since I beheld Eugene and young Tattiana in a misty dream, And my romance’s open theme Glittered in a perspective long, And I discerned through Fancy’s prism Distinctly not its mechanism.

L

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

[Note 86: The celebrated Persian poet. Pushkin uses the passage referred to as an epigraph to the “Fountain of Baktchiserai.” It runs thus: “Many, even as I, visited that fountain, but some of these are dead and some have journeyed afar.” Saadi was born in 1189 at Shiraz and was a reputed descendant from Ali, Mahomet’s son-in-law. In his youth he was a soldier, was taken prisoner by the Crusaders and forced to work in the ditches of Tripoli, whence he was ransomed by a merchant whose daughter he subsequently married. He did not commence writing till an advanced age. His principal work is the “Gulistan,” or “Rose Garden,” a work which has been translated into almost every European tongue.]

End of Canto The Eighth

The End