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

Автор книги: Alexander Pushkin

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Oneguine'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 many 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?

Bouyanoff courted. She refused.

Petoushkoff met the selfsame doom.

The hussar Pikhtin 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, matushka, 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: "Matushka," 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 Larinas required such ample store of creature comforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on his journeys may be easily conceived.]

XXX

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 Larinas 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 cocheres. 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 chere 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 Helene,

Her cap of tulle still ever wears:

Luceria Lvovna paint applies,

Amy Petrovna utters lies,

Ivan Petrovitch still a gaby,

Simeon Petrovitch just as shabby;

Pelagie 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 Viazemski, 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 habituesof 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)

Oneguine—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 Griboyedoff'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." Shishkoff, forgive!

I can't translate the adjective.(83)

[Note 83: Shishkoff was a member of the literary school which cultivated the vernacular as opposed to the Arzamassor 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

"And is it," meditates Eugene.

"And is it she? It must be—no—

How! from the waste of steppes unseen,"—

And the eternal lorgnette through

Frequent and rapid doth his glance

Seek the forgotten countenance

Familiar to him long ago.

"Inform me, prince, pray dost thou know

The lady in the crimson cap

Who with the Spanish envoy speaks?"—

The prince's eye Oneguine seeks:

"Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!

But stop! I will present thee, if

You choose."—"But who is she?"—"My wife."

XVIII

"So thou art wed! I did not know.

Long ago?"—"'Tis the second year."

"To—?"—"Larina."—"Tattiana?"—"So.

And dost thou know her?"—"We live near."

"Then come with me." The prince proceeds,

His wife approaches, with him leads

His relative and friend as well.

The lady's glance upon him fell—

And though her soul might be confused,

And vehemently though amazed

She on the apparition gazed,

No signs of trouble her accused,

A mien unaltered she preserved,

Her bow was easy, unreserved.

XIX

Ah no! no faintness her attacked

Nor sudden turned she red or white,

Her brow she did not e'en contract

Nor yet her lip compressed did bite.

Though he surveyed her at his ease,

Not the least trace Oneguine sees

Of the Tattiana of times fled.

He conversation would have led—

But could not. Then she questioned him:—

"Had he been long here, and where from?

Straight from their province had he come?"—

Cast upwards then her eyeballs dim

Unto her husband, went away—

Transfixed Oneguine mine doth stay.

XX

Is this the same Tattiana, say,

Before whom once in solitude,

In the beginning of this lay,

Deep in the distant province rude,

Impelled by zeal for moral worth,

He salutary rules poured forth?

The maid whose note he still possessed

Wherein the heart its vows expressed,

Where all upon the surface lies,—

That girl—but he must dreaming be—

That girl whom once on a time he

Could in a humble sphere despise,

Can she have been a moment gone

Thus haughty, careless in her tone?

XXI

He quits the fashionable throng

And meditative homeward goes,

Visions, now sad, now grateful, long

Do agitate his late repose.

He wakes—they with a letter come—

The Princess N. will be at home

On such a day. O Heavens, 'tis she!

Oh! I accept. And instantly

He a polite reply doth scrawl.

What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?

In the recesses what hath stirred

Of a heart cold and cynical?

Vexation? Vanity? or strove

Again the plague of boyhood—love?