Part 6

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 Onéguine! _A propos!_ Friends, I must your indulgence pray. His daily occupations, lo! Minutely I will now portray. A hermit’s life Onéguine 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 Onéguine’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 Abbé 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 fête Next Saturday. The Làrina 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 Fête

‘Oh, do not dream these fearful dreams, O my Svetlana.’—Joukóvski

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 Làrinas 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. Onéguine 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; Onéguine 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 Onéguine 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 Onéguine 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 Làrinas 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 Skatènines, aged pair, With all their progeny were there, Who from two years to thirty tell; Pétòushkoff, the provincial swell; Bouyànoff too, my cousin, wore(58) His wadded coat and cap with peak (Surely you know him as I speak); And Fliànoff, pensioned councillor, Rogue and extortioner of yore, Now buffoon, glutton, and a bore.

[Note 58: Pushkin calls Bouyànoff his cousin because he is a character in the “Dangerous Neighbour,” a poem by Vassili Pushkin, the poet’s uncle.]

XXVII