Part 9
These to the coach of state are bound, Breakfast the busy cooks prepare, Baggage is heaped up in a mound, Old women at the coachmen swear. A bearded postillion astride A lean and shaggy nag doth ride, Unto the gates the servants fly To bid the gentlefolk good-bye. These take their seats; the coach of state Leisurely through the gateway glides. “Adieu! thou home where peace abides, Where turmoil cannot penetrate, Shall I behold thee once again?”— Tattiana tears cannot restrain.
XXXI
The limits of enlightenment When to enlarge we shall succeed, In course of time (the whole extent Will not five centuries exceed By computation) it is like Our roads transformed the eye will strike; Highways all Russia will unite And form a network left and right; On iron bridges we shall gaze Which o’er the waters boldly leap, Mountains we’ll level and through deep Streams excavate subaqueous ways, And Christian folk will, I expect, An inn at every stage erect.
XXXII
But now, what wretched roads one sees, Our bridges long neglected rot, And at the stages bugs and fleas One moment’s slumber suffer not. Inns there are none. Pretentious but Meagre, within a draughty hut, A bill of fare hangs full in sight And irritates the appetite. Meantime a Cyclops of those parts Before a fire which feebly glows Mends with the Russian hammer’s blows The flimsy wares of Western marts, With blessings on the ditches and The ruts of his own fatherland.
XXXIII
Yet on a frosty winter day The journey in a sledge doth please, No senseless fashionable lay Glides with a more luxurious ease; For our Automedons are fire And our swift troikas never tire; The verst posts catch the vacant eye And like a palisade flit by.(72) The Làrinas unwisely went, From apprehension of the cost, By their own horses, not the post— So Tania to her heart’s content Could taste the pleasures of the road. Seven days and nights the travellers plod.
[Note 72: This somewhat musty joke has appeared in more than one national costume. Most Englishmen, if we were to replace verst-posts with milestones and substitute a graveyard for a palisade, would instantly recognize its Yankee extraction. In Russia however its origin is as ancient at least as the reign of Catherine the Second. The witticism ran thus: A courier sent by Prince Potemkin to the Empress drove so fast that his sword, projecting from the vehicle, rattled against the verst-posts as if against a palisade!]
XXXIV
But they draw near. Before them, lo! White Moscow raises her old spires, Whose countless golden crosses glow As with innumerable fires.(73) Ah! brethren, what was my delight When I yon semicircle bright Of churches, gardens, belfries high Descried before me suddenly! Moscow, how oft in evil days, Condemned to exile dire by fate, On thee I used to meditate! Moscow! How much is in the phrase For every loyal Russian breast! How much is in that word expressed!
[Note 73: The aspect of Moscow, especially as seen from the Sparrow Hills, a low range bordering the river Moskva at a short distance from the city, is unique and splendid. It possesses several domes completely plated with gold and some twelve hundred spires most of which are surmounted by a golden cross. At the time of sunset they seem literally tipped with flame. It was from this memorable spot that Napoleon and the Grand Army first obtained a glimpse at the city of the Tsars. There are three hundred and seventy churches in Moscow. The Kremlin itself is however by far the most interesting object to the stranger.]
XXXV
Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks, Petrovski Palace! Gloomily His recent glory he invokes. Here, drunk with his late victory, Napoleon tarried till it please Moscow approach on bended knees, Time-honoured Kremlin’s keys present. Not so! My Moscow never went To seek him out with bended head. No gift she bears, no feast proclaims, But lights incendiary flames For the impatient chief instead. From hence engrossed in thought profound He on the conflagration frowned.(74)
[Note 74: Napoleon on his arrival in Moscow on the 14th September took up his quarters in the Kremlin, but on the 16th had to remove to the Petrovski Palace or Castle on account of the conflagration which broke out in all quarters of the city. He however returned to the Kremlin on the 19th September. The Palace itself is placed in the midst of extensive grounds just outside the city, on the road to Tver, i.e. to the northwest. It is perhaps worthy of remark, as one amongst numerous circumstances proving how extensively the poet interwove his own life-experiences with the plot of this poem, that it was by this road that he himself must have been in the habit of approaching Moscow from his favourite country residence of Mikhailovskoe, in the province of Pskoff.]
XXXVI
Adieu, thou witness of our glory, Petrovski Palace; come, astir! Drive on! the city barriers hoary Appear; along the road of Tver The coach is borne o’er ruts and holes, Past women, sentry-boxes, rolls, Past palaces and nunneries, Lamp-posts, shops, sledges, families, Bokharians, peasants, beds of greens, Boulevards, belfries, milliners, Huts, chemists, Cossacks, shopkeepers And fashionable magazines, Balconies, lion’s heads on doors, Jackdaws on every spire—in scores.(75)
[Note 75: The first line refers to the prevailing shape of the cast-iron handles which adorn the _porte cochères_. The Russians are fond of tame birds—jackdaws, pigeons, starlings, etc., abound in Moscow and elsewhere.]
XXXVII
The weary way still incomplete, An hour passed by—another—till, Near Khariton’s in a side street The coach before a house stood still. At an old aunt’s they had arrived Who had for four long years survived An invalid from lung complaint. A Kalmuck gray, in caftan rent And spectacles, his knitting staid And the saloon threw open wide; The princess from the sofa cried And the newcomers welcome bade. The two old ladies then embraced And exclamations interlaced.
XXXVIII
“Princesse, mon ange!”—“Pachette!”— “Aline!” “Who would have thought it? As of yore! Is it for long?”—“Ma chère cousine!” “Sit down. How funny, to be sure! ’Tis a scene of romance, I vow!” “Tania, my eldest child, you know”— “Ah! come, Tattiana, come to me! Is it a dream, and can it be? Cousin, rememb’rest Grandison?” “What! Grandison?”—“Yes, certainly!” “Oh! I remember, where is he?”— “Here, he resides with Simeon. He called upon me Christmas Eve— His son is married, just conceive!”
XXXIX
“And he—but of him presently— To-morrow Tania we will show, What say you? to the family— Alas! abroad I cannot go. See, I can hardly crawl about— But you must both be quite tired out! Let us go seek a little rest— Ah! I’m so weak—my throbbing breast! Oppressive now is happiness, Not only sorrow—Ah! my dear, Now I am fit for nothing here. In old age life is weariness!” Then weeping she sank back distressed And fits of coughing racked her chest.
XL
By the sick lady’s gaiety And kindness Tania was impressed, But, her own room in memory, The strange apartment her oppressed: Repose her silken curtains fled, She could not sleep in her new bed. The early tinkling of the bells Which of approaching labour tells Aroused Tattiana from her bed. The maiden at her casement sits As daylight glimmers, darkness flits, But ah! discerns nor wood nor mead— Beneath her lay a strange courtyard, A stable, kitchen, fence appeared.
XLI
To consanguineous dinners they Conduct Tattiana constantly, That grandmothers and grandsires may Contemplate her sad reverie. We Russians, friends from distant parts Ever receive with kindly hearts And exclamations and good cheer. “How Tania grows! Doth it appear Long since I held thee at the font— Since in these arms I thee did bear— And since I pulled thee by the ear— And I to give thee cakes was wont?”— Then the old dames in chorus sing, “Oh! how our years are vanishing!”
XLII
But nothing changed in them is seen, All in the good old style appears, Our dear old aunt, Princess Helène, Her cap of tulle still ever wears: Luceria Lvovna paint applies, Amy Petrovna utters lies, Ivan Petròvitch still a gaby, Simeon Petròvitch just as shabby; Pélagie Nikolavna has Her friend Monsieur Finemouche the same, Her wolf-dog and her husband tame; Still of his club he member was— As deaf and silly doth remain, Still eats and drinks enough for twain.
XLIII
Their daughters kiss Tattiana fair. In the beginning, cold and mute, Moscow’s young Graces at her stare, Examine her from head to foot. They deem her somewhat finical, Outlandish and provincial, A trifle pale, a trifle lean, But plainer girls they oft had seen. Obedient then to Nature’s law, With her they did associate, Squeeze tiny hands and osculate; Her tresses curled in fashion saw, And oft in whispers would impart A maiden’s secrets—of the heart.
XLIV
Triumphs—their own or those of friends— Hopes, frolics, dreams and sentiment Their harmless conversation blends With scandal’s trivial ornament. Then to reward such confidence Her amorous experience With mute appeal to ask they seem— But Tania just as in a dream Without participation hears, Their voices nought to her impart And the lone secret of her heart, Her sacred hoard of joy and tears, She buries deep within her breast Nor aught confides unto the rest.
XLV
Tattiana would have gladly heard The converse of the world polite, But in the drawing-room all appeared To find in gossip such delight, Speech was so tame and colourless Their slander e’en was weariness; In their sterility of prattle, Questions and news and tittle-tattle, No sense was ever manifest Though by an error and unsought— The languid mind could smile at nought, Heart would not throb albeit in jest— Even amusing fools we miss In thee, thou world of empty bliss.
XLVI
In groups, official striplings glance Conceitedly on Tania fair, And views amongst themselves advance Unfavourable unto her. But one buffoon unhappy deemed Her the ideal which he dreamed, And leaning ’gainst the portal closed To her an elegy composed. Also one Viázemski, remarking Tattiana by a poor aunt’s side, Successfully to please her tried, And an old gent the poet marking By Tania, smoothing his peruke, To ask her name the trouble took.(76)
[Note 76: One of the obscure satirical allusions contained in this poem. Doubtless the joke was perfectly intelligible to the _habitués_ of contemporary St. Petersburg society. Viazemski of course is the poet and prince, Pushkin’s friend.]
XLVII
But where Melpomene doth rave With lengthened howl and accent loud, And her bespangled robe doth wave Before a cold indifferent crowd, And where Thalia softly dreams And heedless of approval seems, Terpsichore alone among Her sisterhood delights the young (So ’twas with us in former years, In your young days and also mine), Never upon my heroine The jealous dame her lorgnette veers, The connoisseur his glances throws From boxes or from stalls in rows.
XLVIII
To the assembly her they bear. There the confusion, pressure, heat, The crash of music, candles’ glare And rapid whirl of many feet, The ladies’ dresses airy, light, The motley moving mass and bright, Young ladies in a vasty curve, To strike imagination serve. ’Tis there that arrant fops display Their insolence and waistcoats white And glasses unemployed all night; Thither hussars on leave will stray To clank the spur, delight the fair— And vanish like a bird in air.
XLIX
Full many a lovely star hath night And Moscow many a beauty fair: Yet clearer shines than every light The moon in the blue atmosphere. And she to whom my lyre would fain, Yet dares not, dedicate its strain, Shines in the female firmament Like a full moon magnificent. Lo! with what pride celestial Her feet the earth beneath her press! Her heart how full of gentleness, Her glance how wild yet genial! Enough, enough, conclude thy lay— For folly’s dues thou hadst to pay.
L
Noise, laughter, bowing, hurrying mixt, Gallop, mazurka, waltzing—see! A pillar by, two aunts betwixt, Tania, observed by nobody, Looks upon all with absent gaze And hates the world’s discordant ways. ’Tis noisome to her there: in thought Again her rural life she sought, The hamlet, the poor villagers, The little solitary nook Where shining runs the tiny brook, Her garden, and those books of hers, And the lime alley’s twilight dim Where the first time she met with _him_.
LI
Thus widely meditation erred, Forgot the world, the noisy ball, Whilst from her countenance ne’er stirred The eyes of a grave general. Both aunts looked knowing as a judge, Each gave Tattiana’s arm a nudge And in a whisper did repeat: “Look quickly to your left, my sweet!” “The left? Why, what on earth is there?”— “No matter, look immediately. There, in that knot of company, Two dressed in uniform appear— Ah! he has gone the other way”— “Who? Is it that stout general, pray?”—
LII
Let us congratulations pay To our Tattiana conquering, And for a time our course delay, That I forget not whom I sing. Let me explain that in my song “I celebrate a comrade young And the extent of his caprice; O epic Muse, my powers increase And grant success to labour long; Having a trusty staff bestowed, Grant that I err not on the road.” Enough! my pack is now unslung— To classicism I’ve homage paid, Though late, have a beginning made.(77)
[Note 77: Many will consider this mode of bringing the canto to a conclusion of more than doubtful taste. The poet evidently aims a stroke at the pedantic and narrow-minded criticism to which original genius, emancipated from the strait-waistcoat of conventionality, is not unfrequently subjected.]
End of Canto The Seventh
CANTO THE EIGHTH
The Great World
‘Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever fare thee well.’—Byron
Canto the Eighth
[St. Petersburg, Boldino, Tsarskoe Selo, 1880-1881]
I
In the Lyceum’s noiseless shade As in a garden when I grew, I Apuleius gladly read But would not look at Cicero. ’Twas then in valleys lone, remote, In spring-time, heard the cygnet’s note By waters shining tranquilly, That first the Muse appeared to me. Into the study of the boy There came a sudden flash of light, The Muse revealed her first delight, Sang childhood’s pastimes and its joy, Glory with which our history teems And the heart’s agitated dreams.
II
And the world met her smilingly, A first success light pinions gave, The old Derjavine noticed me, And blest me, sinking to the grave.(78) Then my companions young with pleasure In the unfettered hours of leisure Her utterances ever heard, And by a partial temper stirred And boiling o’er with friendly heat, They first of all my brow did wreathe And an encouragement did breathe That my coy Muse might sing more sweet. O triumphs of my guileless days, How sweet a dream your memories raise!
[Note 78: This touching scene produced a lasting impression on Pushkin’s mind. It took place at a public examination at the Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. The incident recalls the “Mon cher Tibulle” of Voltaire and the youthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during the reigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. His poems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought of by contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimal endowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperial reward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire. Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder having been expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I have filled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the author having reference to this canto.]
III
Passion’s wild sway I then allowed, Her promptings unto law did make, Pursuits I followed of the crowd, My sportive Muse I used to take To many a noisy feast and fight, Terror of guardians of the night; And wild festivities among She brought with her the gift of song. Like a Bacchante in her sport Beside the cup she sang her rhymes And the young revellers of past times Vociferously paid her court, And I, amid the friendly crowd, Of my light paramour was proud.
IV
But I abandoned their array, And fled afar—she followed me. How oft the kindly Muse away Hath whiled the road’s monotony, Entranced me by some mystic tale. How oft beneath the moonbeams pale Like Leonora did she ride(79) With me Caucasian rocks beside! How oft to the Crimean shore She led me through nocturnal mist Unto the sounding sea to list, Where Nereids murmur evermore, And where the billows hoarsely raise To God eternal hymns of praise.
[Note 79: See Note 30, “Leonora,” a poem by Gottfried Augustus Burger, b. 1748, d. 1794.]
V
Then, the far capital forgot, Its splendour and its blandishments, In poor Moldavia cast her lot, She visited the humble tents Of migratory gipsy hordes— And wild among them grew her words— Our godlike tongue she could exchange For savage speech, uncouth and strange, And ditties of the steppe she loved. But suddenly all changed around! Lo! in my garden was she found And as a country damsel roved, A pensive sorrow in her glance And in her hand a French romance.
VI
Now for the first time I my Muse Lead into good society, Her steppe-like beauties I peruse With jealous fear, anxiety. Through dense aristocratic rows Of diplomats and warlike beaux And supercilious dames she glides, Sits down and gazes on all sides— Amazed at the confusing crowd, Variety of speech and vests, Deliberate approach of guests Who to the youthful hostess bowed, And the dark fringe of men, like frames Enclosing pictures of fair dames.
VII
Assemblies oligarchical Please her by their decorum fixed, The rigour of cold pride and all Titles and ages intermixed. But who in that choice company With clouded brow stands silently? Unknown to all he doth appear, A vision desolate and drear Doth seem to him the festal scene. Doth his brow wretchedness declare Or suffering pride? Why is he there? Who may he be? Is it Eugene? Pray is it he? It is the same. “And is it long since back he came?
VIII
“Is he the same or grown more wise? Still doth the misanthrope appear? He has returned, say in what guise? What is his latest character? What doth he act? Is it Melmoth,(80) Philanthropist or patriot, Childe Harold, quaker, devotee, Or other mask donned playfully? Or a good fellow for the nonce, Like you and me and all the rest?— But this is my advice, ’twere best Not to behave as he did once— Society he duped enow.” “Is he known to you?”—“Yes and No.”
[Note 80: A romance by Maturin.]
IX
Wherefore regarding him express Perverse, unfavourable views? Is it that human restlessness For ever carps, condemns, pursues? Is it that ardent souls of flame By recklessness amuse or shame Selfish nonentities around? That mind which yearns for space is bound? And that too often we receive Professions eagerly for deeds, That crass stupidity misleads, That we by cant ourselves deceive, That mediocrity alone Without disgust we look upon?
X
Happy he who in youth was young, Happy who timely grew mature, He who life’s frosts which early wrung Hath gradually learnt to endure; By visions who was ne’er deranged Nor from the mob polite estranged, At twenty who was prig or swell, At thirty who was married well, At fifty who relief obtained From public and from private ties, Who glory, wealth and dignities Hath tranquilly in turn attained, And unto whom we all allude As to a worthy man and good!
XI
But sad is the reflection made, In vain was youth by us received, That we her constantly betrayed And she at last hath us deceived; That our desires which noblest seemed, The purest of the dreams we dreamed, Have one by one all withered grown Like rotten leaves by Autumn strown— ’Tis fearful to anticipate Nought but of dinners a long row, To look on life as on a show, Eternally to imitate The seemly crowd, partaking nought Its passions and its modes of thought.
XII
The butt of scandal having been, ’Tis dreadful—ye agree, I hope— To pass with reasonable men For a fictitious misanthrope, A visionary mortified, Or monster of Satanic pride, Or e’en the “Demon” of my strain.(81) Onéguine—take him up again— In duel having killed his friend And reached, with nought his mind to engage, The twenty-sixth year of his age, Wearied of leisure in the end, Without profession, business, wife, He knew not how to spend his life.
[Note 81: The “Demon,” a short poem by Pushkin which at its first appearance created some excitement in Russian society. A more appropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have been the _Tempter_. It is descriptive of the first manifestation of doubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as the visits of a “demon.” Russian society was moved to embody this imaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin’s. This must not be confounded with Lermontoff’s poem bearing the same title upon which Rubinstein’s new opera, “Il Demonio,” is founded.]
XIII
Him a disquietude did seize, A wish from place to place to roam, A very troublesome disease, In some a willing martyrdom. Abandoned he his country seat, Of woods and fields the calm retreat, Where every day before his eyes A blood-bespattered shade would rise, And aimless journeys did commence— But still remembrance to him clings, His travels like all other things Inspired but weariness intense; Returning, from his ship amid A ball he fell as Tchatzki did.(82)
[Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the principal characters in Griboyédoff’s celebrated comedy “Woe from Wit” (_Gore ot Ouma_).]
XIV
Behold, the crowd begins to stir, A whisper runs along the hall, A lady draws the hostess near, Behind her a grave general. Her manners were deliberate, Reserved, but not inanimate, Her eyes no saucy glance address, There was no angling for success. Her features no grimaces bleared; Of affectation innocent, Calm and without embarrassment, A faithful model she appeared Of “comme il faut.” Shishkòff, forgive! I can’t translate the adjective.(83)
[Note 83: Shishkòff was a member of the literary school which cultivated the vernacular as opposed to the _Arzamass_ or Gallic school, to which the poet himself and his uncle Vassili Pushkin belonged. He was admiral, author, and minister of education.]
XV
Ladies in crowds around her close, Her with a smile old women greet, The men salute with lower bows And watch her eye’s full glance to meet. Maidens before her meekly move Along the hall, and high above The crowd doth head and shoulders rise The general who accompanies. None could her beautiful declare, Yet viewing her from head to foot, None could a trace of that impute, Which in the elevated sphere Of London life is “vulgar” called And ruthless fashion hath blackballed.
XVI
I like this word exceedingly Although it will not bear translation, With us ’tis quite a novelty Not high in general estimation; ’Twould serve ye in an epigram— But turn we once more to our dame. Enchanting, but unwittingly, At table she was sitting by The brilliant Nina Voronskoi, The Neva’s Cleopatra, and None the conviction could withstand That Nina’s marble symmetry, Though dazzling its effulgence white, Could not eclipse her neighbour’s light.
XVII