CANTO THE EIGHTHThe Great World‘Fare thee well, and if for ever,Still for ever fare thee well.’—ByronCanto the Eighth[St. Petersburg, Boldino, Tsarskoe Selo, 1880-1881]IIn the Lyceum’s noiseless shadeAs in a garden when I grew,I Apuleius gladly readBut would not look at Cicero.’Twas then in valleys lone, remote,In spring-time, heard the cygnet’s noteBy waters shining tranquilly,That first the Muse appeared to me.Into the study of the boyThere came a sudden flash of light,The Muse revealed her first delight,Sang childhood’s pastimes and its joy,Glory with which our history teemsAnd the heart’s agitated dreams.IIAnd 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 pleasureIn the unfettered hours of leisureHer utterances ever heard,And by a partial temper stirredAnd boiling o’er with friendly heat,They first of all my brow did wreatheAnd an encouragement did breatheThat 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 onPushkin’s mind. It took place at a public examination atthe Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. Theincident recalls the “Mon cher Tibulle” of Voltaire and theyouthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during thereigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. Hispoems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought ofby contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimalendowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperialreward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire.Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder havingbeen expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I havefilled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the authorhaving reference to this canto.]IIIPassion’s wild sway I then allowed,Her promptings unto law did make,Pursuits I followed of the crowd,My sportive Muse I used to takeTo many a noisy feast and fight,Terror of guardians of the night;And wild festivities amongShe brought with her the gift of song.Like a Bacchante in her sportBeside the cup she sang her rhymesAnd the young revellers of past timesVociferously paid her court,And I, amid the friendly crowd,Of my light paramour was proud.IVBut I abandoned their array,And fled afar—she followed me.How oft the kindly Muse awayHath whiled the road’s monotony,Entranced me by some mystic tale.How oft beneath the moonbeams paleLike Leonora did she ride(79)With me Caucasian rocks beside!How oft to the Crimean shoreShe led me through nocturnal mistUnto the sounding sea to list,Where Nereids murmur evermore,And where the billows hoarsely raiseTo God eternal hymns of praise.[Note 79: See Note 30, “Leonora,” a poem by Gottfried AugustusBurger, b. 1748, d. 1794.]VThen, the far capital forgot,Its splendour and its blandishments,In poor Moldavia cast her lot,She visited the humble tentsOf migratory gipsy hordes—And wild among them grew her words—Our godlike tongue she could exchangeFor savage speech, uncouth and strange,And ditties of the steppe she loved.But suddenly all changed around!Lo! in my garden was she foundAnd as a country damsel roved,A pensive sorrow in her glanceAnd in her hand a French romance.VINow for the first time I my MuseLead into good society,Her steppe-like beauties I peruseWith jealous fear, anxiety.Through dense aristocratic rowsOf diplomats and warlike beauxAnd supercilious dames she glides,Sits down and gazes on all sides—Amazed at the confusing crowd,Variety of speech and vests,Deliberate approach of guestsWho to the youthful hostess bowed,And the dark fringe of men, like framesEnclosing pictures of fair dames.VIIAssemblies oligarchicalPlease her by their decorum fixed,The rigour of cold pride and allTitles and ages intermixed.But who in that choice companyWith clouded brow stands silently?Unknown to all he doth appear,A vision desolate and drearDoth seem to him the festal scene.Doth his brow wretchedness declareOr 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 bestNot to behave as he did once—Society he duped enow.”“Is he known to you?”—“Yes and No.”[Note 80: A romance by Maturin.]IXWherefore regarding him expressPerverse, unfavourable views?Is it that human restlessnessFor ever carps, condemns, pursues?Is it that ardent souls of flameBy recklessness amuse or shameSelfish nonentities around?That mind which yearns for space is bound?And that too often we receiveProfessions eagerly for deeds,That crass stupidity misleads,That we by cant ourselves deceive,That mediocrity aloneWithout disgust we look upon?XHappy he who in youth was young,Happy who timely grew mature,He who life’s frosts which early wrungHath gradually learnt to endure;By visions who was ne’er derangedNor from the mob polite estranged,At twenty who was prig or swell,At thirty who was married well,At fifty who relief obtainedFrom public and from private ties,Who glory, wealth and dignitiesHath tranquilly in turn attained,And unto whom we all alludeAs to a worthy man and good!XIBut sad is the reflection made,In vain was youth by us received,That we her constantly betrayedAnd 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 grownLike rotten leaves by Autumn strown—’Tis fearful to anticipateNought but of dinners a long row,To look on life as on a show,Eternally to imitateThe seemly crowd, partaking noughtIts passions and its modes of thought.XIIThe butt of scandal having been,’Tis dreadful—ye agree, I hope—To pass with reasonable menFor 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 friendAnd 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 firstappearance created some excitement in Russian society. A moreappropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have beentheTempter. It is descriptive of the first manifestation ofdoubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as thevisits of a “demon.” Russian society was moved to embody thisimaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin’s.This must not be confounded with Lermontoff’s poem bearing thesame title upon which Rubinstein’s new opera, “Il Demonio,” isfounded.]XIIIHim 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 eyesA blood-bespattered shade would rise,And aimless journeys did commence—But still remembrance to him clings,His travels like all other thingsInspired but weariness intense;Returning, from his ship amidA ball he fell as Tchatzki did.(82)[Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the principal characters in Griboyédoff’scelebrated comedy “Woe from Wit” (Gore ot Ouma).]XIVBehold, 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 appearedOf “comme il faut.” Shishkòff, forgive!I can’t translate the adjective.(83)[Note 83: Shishkòff was a member of the literary school whichcultivated the vernacular as opposed to theArzamassorGallic school, to which the poet himself and his uncle VassiliPushkin belonged. He was admiral, author, and minister ofeducation.]XVLadies in crowds around her close,Her with a smile old women greet,The men salute with lower bowsAnd watch her eye’s full glance to meet.Maidens before her meekly moveAlong the hall, and high aboveThe crowd doth head and shoulders riseThe 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 sphereOf London life is “vulgar” calledAnd ruthless fashion hath blackballed.XVII like this word exceedinglyAlthough it will not bear translation,With us ’tis quite a noveltyNot 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 byThe brilliant Nina Voronskoi,The Neva’s Cleopatra, andNone the conviction could withstandThat 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 throughFrequent and rapid doth his glanceSeek the forgotten countenanceFamiliar to him long ago.“Inform me, prince, pray dost thou knowThe lady in the crimson capWho with the Spanish envoy speaks?”—The prince’s eye Onéguine seeks:“Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!But stop! I will present thee, ifYou choose.”—“But who is she?”—“My wife.”XVIII“So thou art wed! I did not know.Long ago?”—“’Tis the second year.”“To—?”—“Làrina.”—“Tattiana?”—“So.And dost thou know her?”—“We live near.”“Then come with me.” The prince proceeds,His wife approaches, with him leadsHis relative and friend as well.The lady’s glance upon him fell—And though her soul might be confused,And vehemently though amazedShe on the apparition gazed,No signs of trouble her accused,A mien unaltered she preserved,Her bow was easy, unreserved.XIXAh no! no faintness her attackedNor sudden turned she red or white,Her brow she did not e’en contractNor yet her lip compressed did bite.Though he surveyed her at his ease,Not the least trace Onéguine seesOf 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 dimUnto her husband, went away—Transfixed Onéguine mine doth stay.XXIs 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 possessedWherein 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 heCould in a humble sphere despise,Can she have been a moment goneThus haughty, careless in her tone?XXIHe quits the fashionable throngAnd meditative homeward goes,Visions, now sad, now grateful, longDo agitate his late repose.He wakes—they with a letter come—The Princess N. will be at homeOn such a day. O Heavens, ’tis she!Oh! I accept. And instantlyHe a polite reply doth scrawl.What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?In the recesses what hath stirredOf a heart cold and cynical?Vexation? Vanity? or stroveAgain the plague of boyhood—love?XXIIThe hours once more Onéguine counts,Impatient waits the close of day,But ten strikes and his sledge he mountsAnd gallops to her house away.Trembling he seeks the young princess—Tattiana finds in loneliness.Together moments one or twoThey sat, but conversation’s flowDeserted Eugene. He, distraught,Sits by her gloomily, desponds,Scarce to her questions he responds,Full of exasperating thought.He fixedly upon her stares—She calm and unconcerned appears.XXIIIThe husband comes and interferesWith this unpleasanttête-à-tête,With Eugene pranks of former yearsAnd jests doth recapitulate.They talked and laughed. The guests arrived.The conversation was revivedBy the coarse wit of worldly hate;But round the hostess scintillateLight sallies without coxcombry,Awhile sound conversation seemsTo banish far unworthy themesAnd platitudes and pedantry,And never was the ear affrightBy liberties or loose or light.XXIVAnd yet the city’s flower was there,Noblesse and models of the mode,Faces which we meet everywhereAnd necessary fools allowed.Behold the dames who once were fineWith roses, caps and looks malign;Some marriageable maids behold,Blank, unapproachable and cold.Lo, the ambassador who speaksEconomy political,And with gray hair ambrosialThe old man who has had his freaks,Renowned for his acumen, wit,But now ridiculous a bit.XXVBehold Sabouroff, whom the ageFor baseness of the spirit scorns,Saint Priest, who every album’s pageWith blunted pencil-point adorns.Another tribune of the ballHung like a print against the wall,Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim,(84)Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim.The traveller, bird of passage he,Stiff, overstarched and insolent,Awakens secret merrimentBy his embarrassed dignity—Mute glances interchanged asideMeet punishment for him provide.[Note 84: On Palm Sunday the Russians carry branches, or used todo so. These branches were adorned with little painted picturesof cherubs with the ruddy complexions of tradition. Hence thecomparison.]XXVIBut my Onéguine the whole eveWithin his mind Tattiana bore,Not the young timid maid, believe,Enamoured, simple-minded, poor,But the indifferent princess,Divinity without accessOf the imperial Neva’s shore.O Men, how very like ye areTo Eve the universal mother,Possession hath no power to please,The serpent to unlawful treesAye bids ye in some way or other—Unless forbidden fruit we eat,Our paradise is no more sweet.XXVIIAh! how Tattiana was transformed,How thoroughly her part she took!How soon to habits she conformedWhich crushing dignity must brook!Who would the maiden innocentIn the unmoved, magnificentAutocrat of the drawing-room seek?And he had made her heart beat quick!’Twas he whom, amid nightly shades,Whilst Morpheus his approach delays,She mourned and to the moon would raiseThe languid eye of love-sick maids,Dreaming perchance in weal or woeTo end with him her path below.XXVIIITo Love all ages lowly bend,But the young unpolluted heartHis gusts should fertilize, amend,As vernal storms the fields athwart.Youth freshens beneath Passion’s showers,Develops and matures its powers,And thus in season the rich fieldGay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield.But at a later, sterile age,The solstice of our earthly years,Mournful Love’s deadly trace appearsAs storms which in chill autumn rageAnd leave a marsh the fertile groundAnd devastate the woods around.XXIXThere was no doubt! Eugene, alas!Tattiana loved as when a lad,Both day and night he now must passIn love-lorn meditation sad.Careless of every social rule,The crystals of her vestibuleHe daily in his drives drew nearAnd like a shadow haunted her.Enraptured was he if allowedTo swathe her shoulders in the furs,If his hot hand encountered hers,Or he dispersed the motley crowdOf lackeys in her pathway grouped,Or to pick up her kerchief stooped.XXXShe seemed of him oblivious,Despite the anguish of his breast,Received him freely at her house,At times three words to him addressedIn company, or simply bowed,Or recognized not in the crowd.No coquetry was there, I vouch—Society endures not such!Onéguine’s cheek grew ashy pale,Either she saw not or ignored;Onéguine wasted; on my word,Already he grew phthisical.All to the doctors Eugene send,And they the waters recommend.XXXIHe went not—sooner was preparedTo write his forefathers to warnOf his approach; but nothing caredTattiana—thus the sex is born.—He obstinately will remain,Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain.Sickness more courage doth commandThan health, so with a trembling handA love epistle he doth scrawl.Though correspondence as a ruleHe used to hate—and was no fool—Yet suffering emotionalHad rendered him an invalid;But word for word his letter read.Onéguine’s Letter to TattianaAll is foreseen. My secret drearWill sound an insult in your ear.What acrimonious scorn I traceDepicted on your haughty face!What do I ask? What cause assignedThat I to you reveal my mind?To what malicious merriment,It may be, I yield nutriment!Meeting you in times past by chance,Warmth I imagined in your glance,But, knowing not the actual truth,Restrained the impulses of youth;Also my wretched libertyI would not part with finally;This separated us as well—Lenski, unhappy victim, fell,From everything the heart held dearI then resolved my heart to tear;Unknown to all, without a tie,I thought—retirement, liberty,Will happiness replace. My God!How I have erred and felt the rod!No, ever to behold your face,To follow you in every place,Your smiling lips, your beaming eyes,To watch with lovers’ ecstasies,Long listen, comprehend the wholeOf your perfections in my soul,Before you agonized to die—This, this were true felicity!But such is not for me. I broodDaily of love in solitude.My days of life approach their end,Yet I in idleness expendThe remnant destiny concedes,And thus each stubbornly proceeds.I feel, allotted is my span;But, that life longer may remain,At morn I must assuredlyKnow that thy face that day I see.I tremble lest my humble prayerYou with stern countenance declareThe artifice of villany—I hear your harsh, reproachful cry.If ye but knew how dreadful ’tisTo bear love’s parching agonies—To burn, yet reason keep awakeThe fever of the blood to slake—A passionate desire to bendAnd, sobbing at your feet, to blendEntreaties, woes and prayers, confessAll that the heart would fain express—Yet with a feigned frigidityTo arm the tongue and e’en the eye,To be in conversation clearAnd happy unto you appear.So be it! But internal strifeI cannot longer wage concealed.The die is cast! Thine is my life!Into thy hands my fate I yield!XXXIINo answer! He another sent.Epistle second, note the third,Remained unnoticed. Once he wentTo an assembly—she appearedJust as he entered. How severe!She will not see, she will not hear.Alas! she is as hard, behold,And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold.Oh, how her lips compressed restrainThe indignation of her heart!A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!Upon her brow sits wrath alone—XXXIIIAnd it may be a secret dreadLest the world or her lord divineA certain little escapadeWell known unto Onéguine mine.’Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he fleeCursing his own stupidity,And brooding o’er the ills he bore,Society renounced once more.Then in the silent cabinetHe in imagination sawThe time when Melancholy’s claw’Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet,Caught him and by the collar tookAnd shut him in a lonely nook.XXXIVHe read as vainly as before,Perusing Gibbon and Rousseau,Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,(85)Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:He read the unbelieving Bayle,Also the works of Fontenelle,Some Russian authors he perused—Nought in the universe refused:Nor almanacs nor newspapers,Which lessons unto us repeat,Wherein I castigation get;And where a madrigal occursWrit in my honour now and then—E sempre bene, gentlemen![Note 85: Owing to the unstable nature of fame the names of someof the above literary worthies necessitate reference at thisperiod in the nineteenth century.Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a Germanphilosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friendof Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chiefwork is entitled, “Ideas for a Philosophy of the History ofMankind,” in 4 vols.Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a Frenchnovelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to hisreal wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised aconsiderable influence over certain of its leaders, notablyMirabeau and Sieyès. He is said to have originated the title ofthe celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. “What is theTiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything.” Heultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was throwninto prison and though shortly afterwards released, hisincarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committedsuicide.Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomistand physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a “Traitédes Membranes,” “Anatomie générale appliquée à la Physiologie et àla Médecine,” and “Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et laMort.” He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxiousexhalations during his researches.Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of theRevolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editorof theGazette de France. He wrote histories of the Revolution,of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of awork entitled “Les trois Irlandais Conjurés, ou l’ombre d’Emmet,”and is believed to have edited Foy’s “History of the PeninsularWar.”The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fairidea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the EmpressCatherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverishthirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding powerof assimilation.]XXXVBut what results? His eyes peruseBut thoughts meander far away—Ideas, desires and woes confuseHis intellect in close array.His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,On lines invisible are fixt;’Twas these he read and these aloneHis spirit was intent upon.They were the wonderful traditionsOf kindly, dim antiquity,Dreams with no continuity,Prophecies, threats and apparitions,The lively trash of stories longOr letters of a maiden young.XXXVIAnd by degrees upon him grewA lethargy of sense, a trance,And soon imagination threwBefore him her wild game of chance.And now upon the snow in thawA young man motionless he saw,As one who bivouacs afield,And heard a voice cry—Why! He’s killed!—And now he views forgotten foes,Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,Bevies of treacherous maidens young;Of thankless friends the circle rose,A mansion—by the window, see!She sits alone—’tis evershe!XXXVIISo frequently his mind would strayHe well-nigh lost the use of sense,Almost became a poet say—Oh! what had been his eminence!Indeed, by force of magnetismA Russian poem’s mechanismMy scholar without aptitudeAt this time almost understood.How like a poet was my chumWhen, sitting by his fire aloneWhilst cheerily the embers shone,He “Benedetta” used to hum,Or “Idol mio,” and in the grateWould lose his slippers or gazette.XXXVIIITime flies! a genial air abroad,Winter resigned her empire white,Onéguine ne’er as poet showedNor died nor lost his senses quite.Spring cheered him up, and he resignedHis chambers close wherein confinedHe marmot-like did hibernate,His double sashes and his grate,And sallied forth one brilliant morn—Along the Neva’s bank he sleighs,On the blue blocks of ice the raysOf the sun glisten; muddy, worn,The snow upon the streets doth melt—Whither along them doth he pelt?XXXIXOnéguine whither gallops? YeHave guessed already. Yes, quite so!Unto his own Tattiana he,Incorrigible rogue, doth go.Her house he enters, ghastly white,The vestibule finds empty quite—He enters the saloon. ’Tis blank!A door he opens. But why shrankHe back as from a sudden blow?—Alone the princess sitteth there,Pallid and with dishevelled hair,Gazing upon a note below.Her tears flow plentifully andHer cheek reclines upon her hand.XLOh! who her speechless agoniesCould not in that brief moment guess!Who now could fail to recognizeTattiana in the young princess!Tortured by pangs of wild regret,Eugene fell prostrate at her feet—She starts, nor doth a word express,But gazes on Onéguine’s faceWithout amaze or wrath displayed:His sunken eye and aspect faint,Imploring looks and mute complaintShe comprehends. The simple maidBy fond illusions once possestIs once again made manifest.XLIHis kneeling posture he retains—Calmly her eyes encounter his—Insensible her hand remainsBeneath his lips’ devouring kiss.What visions then her fancy thronged—A breathless silence then, prolonged—But finally she softly said:“Enough, arise! for much we needWithout disguise ourselves explain.Onéguine, hast forgotten yetThe hour when—Fate so willed—we metIn the lone garden and the lane?How meekly then I heard you preach—To-day it is my turn to teach.XLII“Onéguine, I was younger then,And better, if I judge aright;I loved you—what did I obtain?Affection how did you requite?But with austerity!—for youNo novelty—is it not true?—Was the meek love a maiden feels.But now—my very blood congeals,Calling to mind your icy lookAnd sermon—but in that dread hourI blame not your behaviour—An honourable course ye took,Displayed a noble rectitude—My soul is filled with gratitude!XLIII“Then, in the country, is’t not true?And far removed from rumour vain;I did not please you. Why pursueMe now, inflict upon me pain?—Wherefore am I your quarry held?—Is it that I am now compelledTo move in fashionable life,That I am rich, a prince’s wife?—Because my lord, in battles maimed,Is petted by the Emperor?—That my dishonour would ensureA notoriety proclaimed,And in society might shedA bastard fame prohibited?XLIV“I weep. And if within your breastMy image hath not disappeared,Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed,Your conversation cold and hard,If the choice in my power were,To lawless love I should prefer—And to these letters and these tears.For visions of my childish yearsThen ye were barely generous,Age immature averse to cheat—But now—what brings you to my feet?—How mean, how pusillanimous!A prudent man like you and braveTo shallow sentiment a slave!XLV“Onéguine, all this sumptuousness,The gilding of life’s vanities,In the world’s vortex my success,My splendid house and gaieties—What are they? Gladly would I yieldThis life in masquerade concealed,This glitter, riot, emptiness,For my wild garden and bookcase,—Yes! for our unpretending home,Onéguine—the beloved placeWhere the first time I saw your face,—Or for the solitary tombWherein my poor old nurse doth lieBeneath a cross and shrubbery.XLVI“’Twas possible then, happiness—Nay, near—but destiny decreed—My lot is fixed—with thoughtlessnessIt may be that I did proceed—With bitter tears my mother prayed,And for Tattiana, mournful maid,Indifferent was her future fate.I married—now, I supplicate—For ever your Tattiana leave.Your heart possesses, I know well,Honour and pride inflexible.I love you—to what end deceive?—But I am now another’s bride—For ever faithful will abide.”XLVIIShe rose—departed. But EugeneStood as if struck by lightning fire.What a storm of emotions keenRaged round him and of balked desire!And hark! the clank of spurs is heardAnd Tania’s husband soon appeared.—But now our hero we must leaveJust at a moment which I grieveMust be pronounced unfortunate—For long—for ever. To be sureTogether we have wandered o’erThe world enough. CongratulateEach other as the shore we climb!Hurrah! it long ago was time!XLVIIIReader, whoever thou mayst be,Foeman or friend, I do aspireTo part in amity with thee!Adieu! whate’er thou didst desireFrom careless stanzas such as these,Of passion reminiscences,Pictures of the amusing scene,Repose from labour, satire keen,Or faults of grammar on its page—God grant that all who herein glance,In serious mood or dallianceOr in a squabble to engage,May find a crumb to satisfy.Now we must separate. Good-bye!XLIXAnd farewell thou, my gloomy friend,Thou also, my ideal true,And thou, persistent to the end,My little book. With thee I knewAll that a poet could desire,Oblivion of life’s tempest dire,Of friends the grateful intercourse—Oh, many a year hath run its courseSince I beheld Eugene and youngTattiana in a misty dream,And my romance’s open themeGlittered in a perspective long,And I discerned through Fancy’s prismDistinctly not its mechanism.LBut ye to whom, when friendship heard,The first-fruits of my tale I read,As Saadi anciently averred—(86)Some are afar and some are dead.Without them Eugene is complete;And thou, from whom Tattiana sweet;Was drawn, ideal of my lay—Ah! what hath fate not torn away!Happy who quit life’s banquet seatBefore the dregs they shall divineOf the cup brimming o’er with wine—Who the romance do not complete,But who abandon it—as IHave my Onéguine—suddenly.[Note 86: The celebrated Persian poet. Pushkin uses the passagereferred to as an epigraph to the “Fountain of Baktchiserai.” Itruns thus: “Many, even as I, visited that fountain, but some ofthese are dead and some have journeyed afar.” Saadi was born in1189 at Shiraz and was a reputed descendant from Ali, Mahomet’sson-in-law. In his youth he was a soldier, was taken prisoner bythe Crusaders and forced to work in the ditches of Tripoli,whence he was ransomed by a merchant whose daughter he subsequentlymarried. He did not commence writing till an advanced age. Hisprincipal work is the “Gulistan,” or “Rose Garden,” a work whichhas been translated into almost every European tongue.]End of Canto The EighthThe End
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]
IIn the Lyceum’s noiseless shadeAs in a garden when I grew,I Apuleius gladly readBut would not look at Cicero.’Twas then in valleys lone, remote,In spring-time, heard the cygnet’s noteBy waters shining tranquilly,That first the Muse appeared to me.Into the study of the boyThere came a sudden flash of light,The Muse revealed her first delight,Sang childhood’s pastimes and its joy,Glory with which our history teemsAnd the heart’s agitated dreams.IIAnd 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 pleasureIn the unfettered hours of leisureHer utterances ever heard,And by a partial temper stirredAnd boiling o’er with friendly heat,They first of all my brow did wreatheAnd an encouragement did breatheThat 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 onPushkin’s mind. It took place at a public examination atthe Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. Theincident recalls the “Mon cher Tibulle” of Voltaire and theyouthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during thereigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. Hispoems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought ofby contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimalendowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperialreward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire.Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder havingbeen expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I havefilled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the authorhaving reference to this canto.]IIIPassion’s wild sway I then allowed,Her promptings unto law did make,Pursuits I followed of the crowd,My sportive Muse I used to takeTo many a noisy feast and fight,Terror of guardians of the night;And wild festivities amongShe brought with her the gift of song.Like a Bacchante in her sportBeside the cup she sang her rhymesAnd the young revellers of past timesVociferously paid her court,And I, amid the friendly crowd,Of my light paramour was proud.IVBut I abandoned their array,And fled afar—she followed me.How oft the kindly Muse awayHath whiled the road’s monotony,Entranced me by some mystic tale.How oft beneath the moonbeams paleLike Leonora did she ride(79)With me Caucasian rocks beside!How oft to the Crimean shoreShe led me through nocturnal mistUnto the sounding sea to list,Where Nereids murmur evermore,And where the billows hoarsely raiseTo God eternal hymns of praise.[Note 79: See Note 30, “Leonora,” a poem by Gottfried AugustusBurger, b. 1748, d. 1794.]VThen, the far capital forgot,Its splendour and its blandishments,In poor Moldavia cast her lot,She visited the humble tentsOf migratory gipsy hordes—And wild among them grew her words—Our godlike tongue she could exchangeFor savage speech, uncouth and strange,And ditties of the steppe she loved.But suddenly all changed around!Lo! in my garden was she foundAnd as a country damsel roved,A pensive sorrow in her glanceAnd in her hand a French romance.VINow for the first time I my MuseLead into good society,Her steppe-like beauties I peruseWith jealous fear, anxiety.Through dense aristocratic rowsOf diplomats and warlike beauxAnd supercilious dames she glides,Sits down and gazes on all sides—Amazed at the confusing crowd,Variety of speech and vests,Deliberate approach of guestsWho to the youthful hostess bowed,And the dark fringe of men, like framesEnclosing pictures of fair dames.VIIAssemblies oligarchicalPlease her by their decorum fixed,The rigour of cold pride and allTitles and ages intermixed.But who in that choice companyWith clouded brow stands silently?Unknown to all he doth appear,A vision desolate and drearDoth seem to him the festal scene.Doth his brow wretchedness declareOr 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 bestNot to behave as he did once—Society he duped enow.”“Is he known to you?”—“Yes and No.”[Note 80: A romance by Maturin.]IXWherefore regarding him expressPerverse, unfavourable views?Is it that human restlessnessFor ever carps, condemns, pursues?Is it that ardent souls of flameBy recklessness amuse or shameSelfish nonentities around?That mind which yearns for space is bound?And that too often we receiveProfessions eagerly for deeds,That crass stupidity misleads,That we by cant ourselves deceive,That mediocrity aloneWithout disgust we look upon?XHappy he who in youth was young,Happy who timely grew mature,He who life’s frosts which early wrungHath gradually learnt to endure;By visions who was ne’er derangedNor from the mob polite estranged,At twenty who was prig or swell,At thirty who was married well,At fifty who relief obtainedFrom public and from private ties,Who glory, wealth and dignitiesHath tranquilly in turn attained,And unto whom we all alludeAs to a worthy man and good!XIBut sad is the reflection made,In vain was youth by us received,That we her constantly betrayedAnd 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 grownLike rotten leaves by Autumn strown—’Tis fearful to anticipateNought but of dinners a long row,To look on life as on a show,Eternally to imitateThe seemly crowd, partaking noughtIts passions and its modes of thought.XIIThe butt of scandal having been,’Tis dreadful—ye agree, I hope—To pass with reasonable menFor 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 friendAnd 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 firstappearance created some excitement in Russian society. A moreappropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have beentheTempter. It is descriptive of the first manifestation ofdoubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as thevisits of a “demon.” Russian society was moved to embody thisimaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin’s.This must not be confounded with Lermontoff’s poem bearing thesame title upon which Rubinstein’s new opera, “Il Demonio,” isfounded.]XIIIHim 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 eyesA blood-bespattered shade would rise,And aimless journeys did commence—But still remembrance to him clings,His travels like all other thingsInspired but weariness intense;Returning, from his ship amidA ball he fell as Tchatzki did.(82)[Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the principal characters in Griboyédoff’scelebrated comedy “Woe from Wit” (Gore ot Ouma).]XIVBehold, 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 appearedOf “comme il faut.” Shishkòff, forgive!I can’t translate the adjective.(83)[Note 83: Shishkòff was a member of the literary school whichcultivated the vernacular as opposed to theArzamassorGallic school, to which the poet himself and his uncle VassiliPushkin belonged. He was admiral, author, and minister ofeducation.]XVLadies in crowds around her close,Her with a smile old women greet,The men salute with lower bowsAnd watch her eye’s full glance to meet.Maidens before her meekly moveAlong the hall, and high aboveThe crowd doth head and shoulders riseThe 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 sphereOf London life is “vulgar” calledAnd ruthless fashion hath blackballed.XVII like this word exceedinglyAlthough it will not bear translation,With us ’tis quite a noveltyNot 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 byThe brilliant Nina Voronskoi,The Neva’s Cleopatra, andNone the conviction could withstandThat 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 throughFrequent and rapid doth his glanceSeek the forgotten countenanceFamiliar to him long ago.“Inform me, prince, pray dost thou knowThe lady in the crimson capWho with the Spanish envoy speaks?”—The prince’s eye Onéguine seeks:“Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!But stop! I will present thee, ifYou choose.”—“But who is she?”—“My wife.”XVIII“So thou art wed! I did not know.Long ago?”—“’Tis the second year.”“To—?”—“Làrina.”—“Tattiana?”—“So.And dost thou know her?”—“We live near.”“Then come with me.” The prince proceeds,His wife approaches, with him leadsHis relative and friend as well.The lady’s glance upon him fell—And though her soul might be confused,And vehemently though amazedShe on the apparition gazed,No signs of trouble her accused,A mien unaltered she preserved,Her bow was easy, unreserved.XIXAh no! no faintness her attackedNor sudden turned she red or white,Her brow she did not e’en contractNor yet her lip compressed did bite.Though he surveyed her at his ease,Not the least trace Onéguine seesOf 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 dimUnto her husband, went away—Transfixed Onéguine mine doth stay.XXIs 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 possessedWherein 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 heCould in a humble sphere despise,Can she have been a moment goneThus haughty, careless in her tone?XXIHe quits the fashionable throngAnd meditative homeward goes,Visions, now sad, now grateful, longDo agitate his late repose.He wakes—they with a letter come—The Princess N. will be at homeOn such a day. O Heavens, ’tis she!Oh! I accept. And instantlyHe a polite reply doth scrawl.What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?In the recesses what hath stirredOf a heart cold and cynical?Vexation? Vanity? or stroveAgain the plague of boyhood—love?XXIIThe hours once more Onéguine counts,Impatient waits the close of day,But ten strikes and his sledge he mountsAnd gallops to her house away.Trembling he seeks the young princess—Tattiana finds in loneliness.Together moments one or twoThey sat, but conversation’s flowDeserted Eugene. He, distraught,Sits by her gloomily, desponds,Scarce to her questions he responds,Full of exasperating thought.He fixedly upon her stares—She calm and unconcerned appears.XXIIIThe husband comes and interferesWith this unpleasanttête-à-tête,With Eugene pranks of former yearsAnd jests doth recapitulate.They talked and laughed. The guests arrived.The conversation was revivedBy the coarse wit of worldly hate;But round the hostess scintillateLight sallies without coxcombry,Awhile sound conversation seemsTo banish far unworthy themesAnd platitudes and pedantry,And never was the ear affrightBy liberties or loose or light.XXIVAnd yet the city’s flower was there,Noblesse and models of the mode,Faces which we meet everywhereAnd necessary fools allowed.Behold the dames who once were fineWith roses, caps and looks malign;Some marriageable maids behold,Blank, unapproachable and cold.Lo, the ambassador who speaksEconomy political,And with gray hair ambrosialThe old man who has had his freaks,Renowned for his acumen, wit,But now ridiculous a bit.XXVBehold Sabouroff, whom the ageFor baseness of the spirit scorns,Saint Priest, who every album’s pageWith blunted pencil-point adorns.Another tribune of the ballHung like a print against the wall,Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim,(84)Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim.The traveller, bird of passage he,Stiff, overstarched and insolent,Awakens secret merrimentBy his embarrassed dignity—Mute glances interchanged asideMeet punishment for him provide.[Note 84: On Palm Sunday the Russians carry branches, or used todo so. These branches were adorned with little painted picturesof cherubs with the ruddy complexions of tradition. Hence thecomparison.]XXVIBut my Onéguine the whole eveWithin his mind Tattiana bore,Not the young timid maid, believe,Enamoured, simple-minded, poor,But the indifferent princess,Divinity without accessOf the imperial Neva’s shore.O Men, how very like ye areTo Eve the universal mother,Possession hath no power to please,The serpent to unlawful treesAye bids ye in some way or other—Unless forbidden fruit we eat,Our paradise is no more sweet.XXVIIAh! how Tattiana was transformed,How thoroughly her part she took!How soon to habits she conformedWhich crushing dignity must brook!Who would the maiden innocentIn the unmoved, magnificentAutocrat of the drawing-room seek?And he had made her heart beat quick!’Twas he whom, amid nightly shades,Whilst Morpheus his approach delays,She mourned and to the moon would raiseThe languid eye of love-sick maids,Dreaming perchance in weal or woeTo end with him her path below.XXVIIITo Love all ages lowly bend,But the young unpolluted heartHis gusts should fertilize, amend,As vernal storms the fields athwart.Youth freshens beneath Passion’s showers,Develops and matures its powers,And thus in season the rich fieldGay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield.But at a later, sterile age,The solstice of our earthly years,Mournful Love’s deadly trace appearsAs storms which in chill autumn rageAnd leave a marsh the fertile groundAnd devastate the woods around.XXIXThere was no doubt! Eugene, alas!Tattiana loved as when a lad,Both day and night he now must passIn love-lorn meditation sad.Careless of every social rule,The crystals of her vestibuleHe daily in his drives drew nearAnd like a shadow haunted her.Enraptured was he if allowedTo swathe her shoulders in the furs,If his hot hand encountered hers,Or he dispersed the motley crowdOf lackeys in her pathway grouped,Or to pick up her kerchief stooped.XXXShe seemed of him oblivious,Despite the anguish of his breast,Received him freely at her house,At times three words to him addressedIn company, or simply bowed,Or recognized not in the crowd.No coquetry was there, I vouch—Society endures not such!Onéguine’s cheek grew ashy pale,Either she saw not or ignored;Onéguine wasted; on my word,Already he grew phthisical.All to the doctors Eugene send,And they the waters recommend.XXXIHe went not—sooner was preparedTo write his forefathers to warnOf his approach; but nothing caredTattiana—thus the sex is born.—He obstinately will remain,Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain.Sickness more courage doth commandThan health, so with a trembling handA love epistle he doth scrawl.Though correspondence as a ruleHe used to hate—and was no fool—Yet suffering emotionalHad rendered him an invalid;But word for word his letter read.Onéguine’s Letter to TattianaAll is foreseen. My secret drearWill sound an insult in your ear.What acrimonious scorn I traceDepicted on your haughty face!What do I ask? What cause assignedThat I to you reveal my mind?To what malicious merriment,It may be, I yield nutriment!Meeting you in times past by chance,Warmth I imagined in your glance,But, knowing not the actual truth,Restrained the impulses of youth;Also my wretched libertyI would not part with finally;This separated us as well—Lenski, unhappy victim, fell,From everything the heart held dearI then resolved my heart to tear;Unknown to all, without a tie,I thought—retirement, liberty,Will happiness replace. My God!How I have erred and felt the rod!No, ever to behold your face,To follow you in every place,Your smiling lips, your beaming eyes,To watch with lovers’ ecstasies,Long listen, comprehend the wholeOf your perfections in my soul,Before you agonized to die—This, this were true felicity!But such is not for me. I broodDaily of love in solitude.My days of life approach their end,Yet I in idleness expendThe remnant destiny concedes,And thus each stubbornly proceeds.I feel, allotted is my span;But, that life longer may remain,At morn I must assuredlyKnow that thy face that day I see.I tremble lest my humble prayerYou with stern countenance declareThe artifice of villany—I hear your harsh, reproachful cry.If ye but knew how dreadful ’tisTo bear love’s parching agonies—To burn, yet reason keep awakeThe fever of the blood to slake—A passionate desire to bendAnd, sobbing at your feet, to blendEntreaties, woes and prayers, confessAll that the heart would fain express—Yet with a feigned frigidityTo arm the tongue and e’en the eye,To be in conversation clearAnd happy unto you appear.So be it! But internal strifeI cannot longer wage concealed.The die is cast! Thine is my life!Into thy hands my fate I yield!XXXIINo answer! He another sent.Epistle second, note the third,Remained unnoticed. Once he wentTo an assembly—she appearedJust as he entered. How severe!She will not see, she will not hear.Alas! she is as hard, behold,And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold.Oh, how her lips compressed restrainThe indignation of her heart!A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!Upon her brow sits wrath alone—XXXIIIAnd it may be a secret dreadLest the world or her lord divineA certain little escapadeWell known unto Onéguine mine.’Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he fleeCursing his own stupidity,And brooding o’er the ills he bore,Society renounced once more.Then in the silent cabinetHe in imagination sawThe time when Melancholy’s claw’Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet,Caught him and by the collar tookAnd shut him in a lonely nook.XXXIVHe read as vainly as before,Perusing Gibbon and Rousseau,Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,(85)Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:He read the unbelieving Bayle,Also the works of Fontenelle,Some Russian authors he perused—Nought in the universe refused:Nor almanacs nor newspapers,Which lessons unto us repeat,Wherein I castigation get;And where a madrigal occursWrit in my honour now and then—E sempre bene, gentlemen![Note 85: Owing to the unstable nature of fame the names of someof the above literary worthies necessitate reference at thisperiod in the nineteenth century.Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a Germanphilosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friendof Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chiefwork is entitled, “Ideas for a Philosophy of the History ofMankind,” in 4 vols.Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a Frenchnovelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to hisreal wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised aconsiderable influence over certain of its leaders, notablyMirabeau and Sieyès. He is said to have originated the title ofthe celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. “What is theTiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything.” Heultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was throwninto prison and though shortly afterwards released, hisincarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committedsuicide.Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomistand physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a “Traitédes Membranes,” “Anatomie générale appliquée à la Physiologie et àla Médecine,” and “Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et laMort.” He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxiousexhalations during his researches.Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of theRevolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editorof theGazette de France. He wrote histories of the Revolution,of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of awork entitled “Les trois Irlandais Conjurés, ou l’ombre d’Emmet,”and is believed to have edited Foy’s “History of the PeninsularWar.”The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fairidea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the EmpressCatherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverishthirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding powerof assimilation.]XXXVBut what results? His eyes peruseBut thoughts meander far away—Ideas, desires and woes confuseHis intellect in close array.His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,On lines invisible are fixt;’Twas these he read and these aloneHis spirit was intent upon.They were the wonderful traditionsOf kindly, dim antiquity,Dreams with no continuity,Prophecies, threats and apparitions,The lively trash of stories longOr letters of a maiden young.XXXVIAnd by degrees upon him grewA lethargy of sense, a trance,And soon imagination threwBefore him her wild game of chance.And now upon the snow in thawA young man motionless he saw,As one who bivouacs afield,And heard a voice cry—Why! He’s killed!—And now he views forgotten foes,Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,Bevies of treacherous maidens young;Of thankless friends the circle rose,A mansion—by the window, see!She sits alone—’tis evershe!XXXVIISo frequently his mind would strayHe well-nigh lost the use of sense,Almost became a poet say—Oh! what had been his eminence!Indeed, by force of magnetismA Russian poem’s mechanismMy scholar without aptitudeAt this time almost understood.How like a poet was my chumWhen, sitting by his fire aloneWhilst cheerily the embers shone,He “Benedetta” used to hum,Or “Idol mio,” and in the grateWould lose his slippers or gazette.XXXVIIITime flies! a genial air abroad,Winter resigned her empire white,Onéguine ne’er as poet showedNor died nor lost his senses quite.Spring cheered him up, and he resignedHis chambers close wherein confinedHe marmot-like did hibernate,His double sashes and his grate,And sallied forth one brilliant morn—Along the Neva’s bank he sleighs,On the blue blocks of ice the raysOf the sun glisten; muddy, worn,The snow upon the streets doth melt—Whither along them doth he pelt?XXXIXOnéguine whither gallops? YeHave guessed already. Yes, quite so!Unto his own Tattiana he,Incorrigible rogue, doth go.Her house he enters, ghastly white,The vestibule finds empty quite—He enters the saloon. ’Tis blank!A door he opens. But why shrankHe back as from a sudden blow?—Alone the princess sitteth there,Pallid and with dishevelled hair,Gazing upon a note below.Her tears flow plentifully andHer cheek reclines upon her hand.XLOh! who her speechless agoniesCould not in that brief moment guess!Who now could fail to recognizeTattiana in the young princess!Tortured by pangs of wild regret,Eugene fell prostrate at her feet—She starts, nor doth a word express,But gazes on Onéguine’s faceWithout amaze or wrath displayed:His sunken eye and aspect faint,Imploring looks and mute complaintShe comprehends. The simple maidBy fond illusions once possestIs once again made manifest.XLIHis kneeling posture he retains—Calmly her eyes encounter his—Insensible her hand remainsBeneath his lips’ devouring kiss.What visions then her fancy thronged—A breathless silence then, prolonged—But finally she softly said:“Enough, arise! for much we needWithout disguise ourselves explain.Onéguine, hast forgotten yetThe hour when—Fate so willed—we metIn the lone garden and the lane?How meekly then I heard you preach—To-day it is my turn to teach.XLII“Onéguine, I was younger then,And better, if I judge aright;I loved you—what did I obtain?Affection how did you requite?But with austerity!—for youNo novelty—is it not true?—Was the meek love a maiden feels.But now—my very blood congeals,Calling to mind your icy lookAnd sermon—but in that dread hourI blame not your behaviour—An honourable course ye took,Displayed a noble rectitude—My soul is filled with gratitude!XLIII“Then, in the country, is’t not true?And far removed from rumour vain;I did not please you. Why pursueMe now, inflict upon me pain?—Wherefore am I your quarry held?—Is it that I am now compelledTo move in fashionable life,That I am rich, a prince’s wife?—Because my lord, in battles maimed,Is petted by the Emperor?—That my dishonour would ensureA notoriety proclaimed,And in society might shedA bastard fame prohibited?XLIV“I weep. And if within your breastMy image hath not disappeared,Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed,Your conversation cold and hard,If the choice in my power were,To lawless love I should prefer—And to these letters and these tears.For visions of my childish yearsThen ye were barely generous,Age immature averse to cheat—But now—what brings you to my feet?—How mean, how pusillanimous!A prudent man like you and braveTo shallow sentiment a slave!XLV“Onéguine, all this sumptuousness,The gilding of life’s vanities,In the world’s vortex my success,My splendid house and gaieties—What are they? Gladly would I yieldThis life in masquerade concealed,This glitter, riot, emptiness,For my wild garden and bookcase,—Yes! for our unpretending home,Onéguine—the beloved placeWhere the first time I saw your face,—Or for the solitary tombWherein my poor old nurse doth lieBeneath a cross and shrubbery.XLVI“’Twas possible then, happiness—Nay, near—but destiny decreed—My lot is fixed—with thoughtlessnessIt may be that I did proceed—With bitter tears my mother prayed,And for Tattiana, mournful maid,Indifferent was her future fate.I married—now, I supplicate—For ever your Tattiana leave.Your heart possesses, I know well,Honour and pride inflexible.I love you—to what end deceive?—But I am now another’s bride—For ever faithful will abide.”XLVIIShe rose—departed. But EugeneStood as if struck by lightning fire.What a storm of emotions keenRaged round him and of balked desire!And hark! the clank of spurs is heardAnd Tania’s husband soon appeared.—But now our hero we must leaveJust at a moment which I grieveMust be pronounced unfortunate—For long—for ever. To be sureTogether we have wandered o’erThe world enough. CongratulateEach other as the shore we climb!Hurrah! it long ago was time!XLVIIIReader, whoever thou mayst be,Foeman or friend, I do aspireTo part in amity with thee!Adieu! whate’er thou didst desireFrom careless stanzas such as these,Of passion reminiscences,Pictures of the amusing scene,Repose from labour, satire keen,Or faults of grammar on its page—God grant that all who herein glance,In serious mood or dallianceOr in a squabble to engage,May find a crumb to satisfy.Now we must separate. Good-bye!XLIXAnd farewell thou, my gloomy friend,Thou also, my ideal true,And thou, persistent to the end,My little book. With thee I knewAll that a poet could desire,Oblivion of life’s tempest dire,Of friends the grateful intercourse—Oh, many a year hath run its courseSince I beheld Eugene and youngTattiana in a misty dream,And my romance’s open themeGlittered in a perspective long,And I discerned through Fancy’s prismDistinctly not its mechanism.LBut ye to whom, when friendship heard,The first-fruits of my tale I read,As Saadi anciently averred—(86)Some are afar and some are dead.Without them Eugene is complete;And thou, from whom Tattiana sweet;Was drawn, ideal of my lay—Ah! what hath fate not torn away!Happy who quit life’s banquet seatBefore the dregs they shall divineOf the cup brimming o’er with wine—Who the romance do not complete,But who abandon it—as IHave my Onéguine—suddenly.[Note 86: The celebrated Persian poet. Pushkin uses the passagereferred to as an epigraph to the “Fountain of Baktchiserai.” Itruns thus: “Many, even as I, visited that fountain, but some ofthese are dead and some have journeyed afar.” Saadi was born in1189 at Shiraz and was a reputed descendant from Ali, Mahomet’sson-in-law. In his youth he was a soldier, was taken prisoner bythe Crusaders and forced to work in the ditches of Tripoli,whence he was ransomed by a merchant whose daughter he subsequentlymarried. He did not commence writing till an advanced age. Hisprincipal work is the “Gulistan,” or “Rose Garden,” a work whichhas been translated into almost every European tongue.]
End of Canto The Eighth
The End