Part 5
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 Onéguine
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,— Onéguine’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 vanishèd.
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, Onéguine 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 Onéguine 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, Onéguine 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 à 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