Part 8
“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; Onéguine 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 Onéguine 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 Onéguine 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. Griboyédoff (_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_.”
VII
Time was, the breath of early dawn Would agitate a mystic wreath Hung on a pine branch earthward drawn Above the humble urn of death. Time was, two maidens from their home At eventide would hither come, And, by the light the moonbeams gave, Lament, embrace upon that grave. But now—none heeds the monument Of woe: effaced the pathway now: There is no wreath upon the bough: Alone beside it, gray and bent, As formerly the shepherd sits And his poor basten sandal knits.
VIII
My poor Vladimir, bitter tears Thee but a little space bewept, Faithless, alas! thy maid appears, Nor true unto her sorrow kept. Another could her heart engage, Another could her woe assuage By flattery and lover’s art— A lancer captivates her heart! A lancer her soul dotes upon: Before the altar, lo! the pair, Mark ye with what a modest air She bows her head beneath the crown;(68) Behold her downcast eyes which glow, Her lips where light smiles come and go!
[Note 68: The crown used in celebrating marriages in Russia according to the forms of the Eastern Church. See Note 28.]
IX
My poor Vladimir! In the tomb, Passed into dull eternity, Was the sad poet filled with gloom, Hearing the fatal perfidy? Or, beyond Lethe lulled to rest, Hath the bard, by indifference blest, Callous to all on earth become— Is the world to him sealed and dumb? The same unmoved oblivion On us beyond the grave attends, The voice of lovers, foes and friends, Dies suddenly: of heirs alone Remains on earth the unseemly rage, Whilst struggling for the heritage.
X
Soon Olga’s accents shrill resound No longer through her former home; The lancer, to his calling bound, Back to his regiment must roam. The aged mother, bathed in tears, Distracted by her grief appears When the hour came to bid good-bye— But my Tattiana’s eyes were dry. Only her countenance assumed A deadly pallor, air distressed; When all around the entrance pressed, To say farewell, and fussed and fumed Around the carriage of the pair— Tattiana gently led them there.
XI
And long her eyes as through a haze After the wedded couple strain; Alas! the friend of childish days Away, Tattiana, hath been ta’en. Thy dove, thy darling little pet On whom a sister’s heart was set Afar is borne by cruel fate, For evermore is separate. She wanders aimless as a sprite, Into the tangled garden goes But nowhere can she find repose, Nor even tears afford respite, Of consolation all bereft— Well nigh her heart in twain was cleft.
XII
In cruel solitude each day With flame more ardent passion burns, And to Onéguine far away Her heart importunately turns. She never more his face may view, For was it not her duty to Detest him for a brother slain? The poet fell; already men No more remembered him; unto Another his betrothed was given; The memory of the bard was driven Like smoke athwart the heaven blue; Two hearts perchance were desolate And mourned him still. Why mourn his fate?
XIII
’Twas eve. ’Twas dusk. The river speeds In tranquil flow. The beetle hums. Already dance to song proceeds; The fisher’s fire afar illumes The river’s bank. Tattiana lone Beneath the silver of the moon Long time in meditation deep Her path across the plain doth keep— Proceeds, until she from a hill Sees where a noble mansion stood, A village and beneath, a wood, A garden by a shining rill. She gazed thereon, and instant beat Her heart more loudly and more fleet.
XIV
She hesitates, in doubt is thrown— “Shall I proceed, or homeward flee? He is not there: I am not known: The house and garden I would see.” Tattiana from the hill descends With bated breath, around she bends A countenance perplexed and scared. She enters a deserted yard— Yelping, a pack of dogs rush out, But at her shriek ran forth with noise The household troop of little boys, Who with a scuffle and a shout The curs away to kennel chase, The damsel under escort place.
XV
“Can I inspect the mansion, please?” Tattiana asks, and hurriedly Unto Anicia for the keys The family of children hie. Anicia soon appears, the door Opens unto her visitor. Into the lonely house she went, Wherein a space Onéguine spent. She gazed—a cue, forgotten long, Doth on the billiard table rest, Upon the tumbled sofa placed, A riding whip. She strolls along. The beldam saith: “The hearth, by it The master always used to sit.
XVI
“Departed Lenski here to dine In winter time would often come. Please follow this way, lady mine, This is my master’s sitting-room. ’Tis here he slept, his coffee took, Into accounts would sometimes look, A book at early morn perused. The room my former master used. On Sundays by yon window he, Spectacles upon nose, all day Was wont with me at cards to play. God save his soul eternally And grant his weary bones their rest Deep in our mother Earth’s chill breast!”
XVII
Tattiana’s eyes with tender gleam On everything around her gaze, Of priceless value all things seem And in her languid bosom raise A pleasure though with sorrow knit: The table with its lamp unlit, The pile of books, with carpet spread Beneath the window-sill his bed, The landscape which the moonbeams fret, The twilight pale which softens all, Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall And the cast-iron statuette With folded arms and eyes bent low, Cocked hat and melancholy brow.(69)
[Note 69: The Russians not unfrequently adorn their apartments with effigies of the great Napoleon.]
XVIII
Long in this fashionable cell Tattiana as enchanted stood; But it grew late; cold blew the gale; Dark was the valley and the wood Slept o’er the river misty grown. Behind the mountain sank the moon. Long, long the hour had past when home Our youthful wanderer should roam. She hid the trouble of her breast, Heaved an involuntary sigh And turned to leave immediately, But first permission did request Thither in future to proceed That certain volumes she might read.
XIX
Adieu she to the matron said At the front gates, but in brief space At early morn returns the maid To the abandoned dwelling-place. When in the study’s calm retreat, Wrapt in oblivion complete, She found herself alone at last, Longtime her tears flowed thick and fast; But presently she tried to read; At first for books was disinclined, But soon their choice seemed to her mind Remarkable. She then indeed Devoured them with an eager zest. A new world was made manifest!
XX
Although we know that Eugene had Long ceased to be a reading man, Still certain authors, I may add, He had excepted from the ban: The bard of Juan and the Giaour, With it may be a couple more; Romances three, in which ye scan Portrayed contemporary man As the reflection of his age, His immorality of mind To arid selfishness resigned, A visionary personage With his exasperated sense, His energy and impotence.
XXI
And numerous pages had preserved The sharp incisions of his nail, And these the attentive maid observed With eye precise and without fail. Tattiana saw with trepidation By what idea or observation Onéguine was the most impressed, In what he merely acquiesced. Upon those margins she perceived Onéguine’s pencillings. His mind Made revelations undesigned, Of what he thought and what believed, A dagger, asterisk, or note Interrogation to denote.
XXII
And my Tattiana now began To understand by slow degrees More clearly, God be praised, the man, Whom autocratic fate’s decrees Had bid her sigh for without hope— A dangerous, gloomy misanthrope, Being from hell or heaven sent, Angel or fiend malevolent. Which is he? or an imitation, A bogy conjured up in joke, A Russian in Childe Harold’s cloak, Of foreign whims the impersonation— Handbook of fashionable phrase Or parody of modern ways?
XXIII
Hath she found out the riddle yet? Hath she a fitting phrase selected? But time flies and she doth forget They long at home have her expected— Whither two neighbouring dames have walked And a long time about her talked. “What can be done? She is no child!” Cried the old dame with anguish filled: “Olinka is her junior, see. ’Tis time to marry her, ’tis true, But tell me what am I to do? To all she answers cruelly— I will not wed, and ever weeps And lonely through the forest creeps.”
XXIV
“Is she in love?” quoth one. “With whom? Bouyànoff courted. She refused. Pétòushkoff met the selfsame doom. The hussar Pykhtin was accused. How the young imp on Tania doted! To captivate her how devoted! I mused: perhaps the matter’s squared— O yes! my hopes soon disappeared.” “But, _mátushka_, to Moscow you(70) Should go, the market for a maid, With many a vacancy, ’tis said.”— “Alas! my friend, no revenue!” “Enough to see one winter’s end; If not, the money I will lend.”
[Note 70: “Mátushka,” or “little mother,” a term of endearment in constant use amongst Russian females.]
XXV
The venerable dame opined The counsel good and full of reason, Her money counted, and designed To visit Moscow in the season. Tattiana learns the intelligence— Of her provincial innocence The unaffected traits she now Unto a carping world must show— Her toilette’s antiquated style, Her antiquated mode of speech, For Moscow fops and Circes each To mark with a contemptuous smile. Horror! had she not better stay Deep in the greenwood far away?
XXVI
Arising with the morning’s light, Unto the fields she makes her way, And with emotional delight Surveying them, she thus doth say: “Ye peaceful valleys all, good-bye! Ye well-known mountain summits high, Ye groves whose depths I know so well, Thou beauteous sky above, farewell! Delicious nature, thee I fly, The calm existence which I prize I yield for splendid vanities, Thou too farewell, my liberty! Whither and wherefore do I speed And what will Destiny concede?”
XXVII
Farther Tattiana’s walks extend— ’Tis now the hillock now the rill Their natural attractions lend To stay the maid against her will. She the acquaintances she loves, Her spacious fields and shady groves, Another visit hastes to pay. But Summer swiftly fades away And golden Autumn draweth nigh, And pallid nature trembling grieves, A victim decked with golden leaves; Dark clouds before the north wind fly; It blew: it howled: till winter e’en Came forth in all her magic sheen.
XXVIII
The snow descends and buries all, Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs, A white and undulating pall O’er hillock and o’er meadow throws. The channel of the river stilled As if with eider-down is filled. The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoice In mother Winter’s strange caprice. But Tania’s heart is not at ease, Winter’s approach she doth not hail Nor the frost particles inhale Nor the first snow of winter seize Her shoulders, breast and face to lave— Alarm the winter journey gave.
XXIX
The date was fixed though oft postponed, But ultimately doth approach. Examined, mended, newly found Was the old and forgotten coach; Kibitkas three, the accustomed train,(71) The household property contain: Saucepans and mattresses and chairs, Portmanteaus and preserves in jars, Feather-beds, also poultry-coops, Basins and jugs—well! everything To happiness contributing. Behold! beside their dwelling groups Of serfs the farewell wail have given. Nags eighteen to the door are driven.
[Note 71: In former times, and to some extent the practice still continues to the present day, Russian families were wont to travel with every necessary of life, and, in the case of the wealthy, all its luxuries following in their train. As the poet complains in a subsequent stanza there were no inns; and if the simple Làrinas required such ample store of creature comforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on his journeys may be easily conceived.]
XXX