Текст книги "Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse"

Автор книги: Alexander Pushkin

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IV

Haste, haste thy lagging pace, my story!

A new acquaintance we must scan.

There dwells five versts from Krasnogory,

Vladimir's property, a man

Who thrives this moment as I write,

A philosophic anchorite:

Zaretski, once a bully bold,

A gambling troop when he controlled,

Chief rascal, pot-house president,

Now of a family the head,

Simple and kindly and unwed,

True friend, landlord benevolent,

Yea! and a man of honour, lo!

How perfect doth our epoch grow!

V

Time was the flattering voice of fame,

His ruffian bravery adored,

And true, his pistol's faultless aim

An ace at fifteen paces bored.

But I must add to what I write

That, tipsy once in actual fight,

He from his Kalmuck horse did leap

In mud and mire to wallow deep,

Drunk as a fly; and thus the French

A valuable hostage gained,

A modern Regulus unchained,

Who to surrender did not blench

That every morn at Verrey's cost

Three flasks of wine he might exhaust.

VI

Time was, his raillery was gay,

He loved the simpleton to mock,

To make wise men the idiot play

Openly or 'neath decent cloak.

Yet sometimes this or that deceit

Encountered punishment complete,

And sometimes into snares as well

Himself just like a greenhorn fell.

He could in disputation shine

With pungent or obtuse retort,

At times to silence would resort,

At times talk nonsense with design;

Quarrels among young friends he bred

And to the field of honour led;

VII

Or reconciled them, it may be,

And all the three to breakfast went;

Then he'd malign them secretly

With jest and gossip gaily blent.

Sed alia tempora. And bravery

(Like love, another sort of knavery!)

Diminishes as years decline.

But, as I said, Zaretski mine

Beneath acacias, cherry-trees,

From storms protection having sought,

Lived as a really wise man ought,

Like Horace, planted cabbages,

Both ducks and geese in plenty bred

And lessons to his children read.

VIII

He was no fool, and Eugene mine,

To friendship making no pretence,

Admired his judgment, which was fine,

Pervaded with much common sense.

He usually was glad to see

The man and liked his company,

So, when he came next day to call,

Was not surprised thereby at all.

But, after mutual compliments,

Zaretski with a knowing grin,

Ere conversation could begin,

The epistle from the bard presents.

Oneguine to the window went

And scanned in silence its content.

IX

It was a cheery, generous

Cartel, or challenge to a fight,

Whereto in language courteous

Lenski his comrade did invite.

Oneguine, by first impulse moved,

Turned and replied as it behoved,

Curtly announcing for the fray

That he was "ready any day."

Zaretski rose, nor would explain,

He cared no longer there to stay,

Had much to do at home that day,

And so departed. But Eugene,

The matter by his conscience tried,

Was with himself dissatisfied.

X

In fact, the subject analysed,

Within that secret court discussed,

In much his conduct stigmatized;

For, from the outset, 'twas unjust

To jest as he had done last eve,

A timid, shrinking love to grieve.

And ought he not to disregard

The poet's madness? for 'tis hard

At eighteen not to play the fool!

Sincerely loving him, Eugene

Assuredly should not have been

Conventionality's dull tool—

Not a mere hot, pugnacious boy,

But man of sense and probity.

XI

He might his motives have narrated,

Not bristled up like a wild beast,

He ought to have conciliated

That youthful heart—"But, now at least,

The opportunity is flown.

Besides, a duellist well-known

Hath mixed himself in the affair,

Malicious and a slanderer.

Undoubtedly, disdain alone

Should recompense his idle jeers,

But fools—their calumnies and sneers"—

Behold! the world's opinion!(63)

Our idol, Honour's motive force,

Round which revolves the universe.

[Note 63: A line of Griboyedoff's. (Woe from Wit.)]

XII

Impatient, boiling o'er with wrath,

The bard his answer waits at home,

But lo! his braggart neighbour hath

Triumphant with the answer come.

Now for the jealous youth what joy!

He feared the criminal might try

To treat the matter as a jest,

Use subterfuge, and thus his breast

From the dread pistol turn away.

But now all doubt was set aside,

Unto the windmill he must ride

To-morrow before break of day,

To cock the pistol; barrel bend

On thigh or temple, friend on friend.

XIII

Resolved the flirt to cast away,

The foaming Lenski would refuse,

To see his Olga ere the fray—

His watch, the sun in turn he views—

Finally tost his arms in air

And lo! he is already there!

He deemed his coming would inspire

Olga with trepidation dire.

He was deceived. Just as before

The miserable bard to meet,

As hope uncertain and as sweet,

Olga ran skipping from the door.

She was as heedless and as gay—

Well! just as she was yesterday.

XIV

"Why did you leave last night so soon?"

Was the first question Olga made,

Lenski, into confusion thrown,

All silently hung down his head.

Jealousy and vexation took

To flight before her radiant look,

Before such fond simplicity

And mental elasticity.

He eyed her with a fond concern,

Perceived that he was still beloved,

Already by repentance moved

To ask forgiveness seemed to yearn;

But trembles, words he cannot find,

Delighted, almost sane in mind.

XV

But once more pensive and distressed

Beside his Olga doth he grieve,

Nor enough strength of mind possessed

To mention the foregoing eve,

He mused: "I will her saviour be!

With ardent sighs and flattery

The vile seducer shall not dare

The freshness of her heart impair,

Nor shall the caterpillar come

The lily's stem to eat away,

Nor shall the bud of yesterday

Perish when half disclosed its bloom!"—

All this, my friends, translate aright:

"I with my friend intend to fight!"

XVI

If he had only known the wound

Which rankled in Tattiana's breast,

And if Tattiana mine had found—

If the poor maiden could have guessed

That the two friends with morning's light

Above the yawning grave would fight,—

Ah! it may be, affection true

Had reconciled the pair anew!

But of this love, e'en casually,

As yet none had discovered aught;

Eugene of course related nought,

Tattiana suffered secretly;

Her nurse, who could have made a guess,

Was famous for thick-headedness.

XVII

Lenski that eve in thought immersed,

Now gloomy seemed and cheerful now,

But he who by the Muse was nursed

Is ever thus. With frowning brow

To the pianoforte he moves

And various chords upon it proves,

Then, eyeing Olga, whispers low:

"I'm happy, say, is it not so?"—

But it grew late; he must not stay;

Heavy his heart with anguish grew;

To the young girl he said adieu,

As it were, tore himself away.

Gazing into his face, she said:

"What ails thee?"—"Nothing."—He is fled.

XVIII

At home arriving he addressed

His care unto his pistols' plight,

Replaced them in their box, undressed

And Schiller read by candlelight.

But one thought only filled his mind,

His mournful heart no peace could find,

Olga he sees before his eyes

Miraculously fair arise,

Vladimir closes up his book,

And grasps a pen: his verse, albeit

With lovers' rubbish filled, was neat

And flowed harmoniously. He took

And spouted it with lyric fire—

Like D[elvig] when dinner doth inspire.

XIX

Destiny hath preserved his lay.

I have it. Lo! the very thing!

"Oh! whither have ye winged your way,

Ye golden days of my young spring?

What will the coming dawn reveal?

In vain my anxious eyes appeal;

In mist profound all yet is hid.

So be it! Just the laws which bid

The fatal bullet penetrate,

Or innocently past me fly.

Good governs all! The hour draws nigh

Of life or death predestinate.

Blest be the labours of the light,

And blest the shadows of the night.

XX

"To-morrow's dawn will glimmer gray,

Bright day will then begin to burn,

But the dark sepulchre I may

Have entered never to return.

The memory of the bard, a dream,

Will be absorbed by Lethe's stream;

Men will forget me, but my urn

To visit, lovely maid, return,

O'er my remains to drop a tear,

And think: here lies who loved me well,

For consecrate to me he fell

In the dawn of existence drear.

Maid whom my heart desires alone,

Approach, approach; I am thine own."

XXI

Thus in a style obscureand stale,(64)

He wrote ('tis the romantic style,

Though of romance therein I fail

To see aught—never mind meanwhile)

And about dawn upon his breast

His weary head declined at rest,

For o'er a word to fashion known,

"Ideal," he had drowsy grown.

But scarce had sleep's soft witchery

Subdued him, when his neighbour stept

Into the chamber where he slept

And wakened him with the loud cry:

"'Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike.

Oneguine waits on us, 'tis like."

[Note 64: The fact of the above words being italicised suggests the idea that the poet is here firing a Parthian shot at some unfriendly critic.]

XXII

He was in error; for Eugene

Was sleeping then a sleep like death;

The pall of night was growing thin,

To Lucifer the cock must breathe

His song, when still he slumbered deep,

The sun had mounted high his steep,

A passing snowstorm wreathed away

With pallid light, but Eugene lay

Upon his couch insensibly;

Slumber still o'er him lingering flies.

But finally he oped his eyes

And turned aside the drapery;

He gazed upon the clock which showed

He long should have been on the road.

XXIII

He rings in haste; in haste arrives

His Frenchman, good Monsieur Guillot,

Who dressing-gown and slippers gives

And linen on him doth bestow.

Dressing as quickly as he can,

Eugene directs the trusty man

To accompany him and to escort

A box of terrible import.

Harnessed the rapid sledge arrived:

He enters: to the mill he drives:

Descends, the order Guillot gives,

The fatal tubes Lepage contrived(65)

To bring behind: the triple steeds

To two young oaks the coachman leads.

[Note 65: Lepage—a celebrated gunmaker of former days.]

XXIV

Lenski the foeman's apparition

Leaning against the dam expects,

Zaretski, village mechanician,

In the meantime the mill inspects.

Oneguine his excuses says;

"But," cried Zaretski in amaze,

"Your second you have left behind!"

A duellist of classic mind,

Method was dear unto his heart

He would not that a man ye slay

In a lax or informal way,

But followed the strict rules of art,

And ancient usages observed

(For which our praise he hath deserved).

XXV

"My second!" cried in turn Eugene,

"Behold my friend Monsieur Guillot;

To this arrangement can be seen,

No obstacle of which I know.

Although unknown to fame mayhap,

He's a straightforward little chap."

Zaretski bit his lip in wrath,

But to Vladimir Eugene saith:

"Shall we commence?"—"Let it be so,"

Lenski replied, and soon they be

Behind the mill. Meantime ye see

Zaretski and Monsieur Guillot

In consultation stand aside—

The foes with downcast eyes abide.

XXVI

Foes! Is it long since friendship rent

Asunder was and hate prepared?

Since leisure was together spent,

Meals, secrets, occupations shared?

Now, like hereditary foes,

Malignant fury they disclose,

As in some frenzied dream of fear

These friends cold-bloodedly draw near

Mutual destruction to contrive.

Cannot they amicably smile

Ere crimson stains their hands defile,

Depart in peace and friendly live?

But fashionable hatred's flame

Trembles at artificial shame.

XXVII

The shining pistols are uncased,

The mallet loud the ramrod strikes,

Bullets are down the barrels pressed,

For the first time the hammer clicks.

Lo! poured in a thin gray cascade,

The powder in the pan is laid,

The sharp flint, screwed securely on,

Is cocked once more. Uneasy grown,

Guillot behind a pollard stood;

Aside the foes their mantles threw,

Zaretski paces thirty-two

Measured with great exactitude.

At each extreme one takes his stand,

A loaded pistol in his hand.

XXVIII

"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;

Oneguine 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

Oneguine 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

Oneguine 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.

            Griboyedoff (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 Oneguine 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 Oneguine 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

Oneguine was the most impressed,

In what he merely acquiesced.

Upon those margins she perceived