CANTO THE FOURTHRural Life‘La Morale est dans la nature des choses.’—NeckerCanto The Fourth[Mikhailovskoe, 1825]IThe less we love a lady fairThe easier ’tis to gain her grace,And the more surely we ensnareHer in the pitfalls which we place.Time was when cold seduction stroveTo swagger as the art of love,Everywhere trumpeting its feats,Not seeking love but sensual sweets.But this amusement delicateWas worthy of that old baboon,Our fathers used to dote upon;The Lovelaces are out of date,Their glory with their heels of redAnd long perukes hath vanishèd.IIFor who imposture can endure,A constant harping on one tune,Serious endeavours to assureWhat everybody long has known;Ever to hear the same repliesAnd overcome antipathiesWhich never have existed, e’enIn little maidens of thirteen?And what like menaces fatigues,Entreaties, oaths, fictitious fear,Epistles of six sheets or near,Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues,Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny,And husbands’ tedious amity?IIISuch were the musings of Eugene.He in the early years of lifeHad a deluded victim beenOf error and the passions’ strife.By daily life deteriorated,Awhile this beauty captivated,And that no longer could inspire.Slowly exhausted by desire,Yet satiated with success,In solitude or worldly din,He heard his soul’s complaint within,With laughter smothered weariness:And thus he spent eight years of time,Destroyed the blossom of his prime.IVThough beauty he no more adored,He still made love in a queer way;Rebuffed—as quickly reassured,Jilted—glad of a holiday.Without enthusiasm he metThe fair, nor parted with regret,Scarce mindful of their love and guile.Thus a guest with composure willTo take a hand at whist oft come:He takes his seat, concludes his game,And straight returning whence he came,Tranquilly goes to sleep at home,And in the morning doth not knowWhither that evening he will go.VHowever, Tania’s letter reading,Eugene was touched with sympathy;The language of her girlish pleadingAroused in him sweet reverie.He called to mind Tattiana’s grace,Pallid and melancholy face,And in a vision, sinless, bright,His spirit sank with strange delight.May be the empire of the sense,Regained authority awhile,But he desired not to beguileSuch open-hearted innocence.But to the garden once againWherein we lately left the twain.VITwo minutes they in silence spent,Onéguine then approached and said:“You have a letter to me sent.Do not excuse yourself. I readConfessions which a trusting heartMay well in innocence impart.Charming is your sincerity,Feelings which long had ceased to beIt wakens in my breast again.But I came not to adulate:Your frankness I shall compensateBy an avowal just as plain.An ear to my confession lend;To thy decree my will I bend.VII“If the domestic hearth could bless—My sum of happiness contained;If wife and children to possessA happy destiny ordained:If in the scenes of home I mightE’en for an instant find delight,Then, I say truly, none but theeI would desire my bride to be—I say without poetic phrase,Found the ideal of my youth,Thee only would I choose, in truth,As partner of my mournful days,Thee only, pledge of all things bright,And be as happy—as I might.VIII“But strange am I to happiness;’Tis foreign to my cast of thought;Me your perfections would not bless;I am not worthy them in aught;And honestly ’tis my beliefOur union would produce but grief.Though now my love might be intense,Habit would bring indifference.I see you weep. Those tears of yoursTend not my heart to mitigate,But merely to exasperate;Judge then what roses would be ours,What pleasures Hymen would prepareFor us, may be for many a year.IX“What can be drearier than the house,Wherein the miserable wifeDeplores a most unworthy spouseAnd leads a solitary life?The tiresome man, her value knowing,Yet curses on his fate bestowing,Is full of frigid jealousy,Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.Such am I. This did ye expect,When in simplicity ye wroteYour innocent and charming noteWith so much warmth and intellect?Hath fate apportioned unto theeThis lot in life with stern decree?X“Ideas and time ne’er backward move;My soul I cannot renovate—I love you with a brother’s love,Perchance one more affectionate.Listen to me without disdain.A maid hath oft, may yet againReplace the visions fancy drew;Thus trees in spring their leaves renewAs in their turn the seasons roll.’Tis evidently Heaven’s willYou fall in love again. But still—Learn to possess more self-control.Not all will like myself proceed—And thoughtlessness to woe might lead.”XIThus did our friend Onéguine preach:Tattiana, dim with tears her eyes,Attentive listened to his speech,All breathless and without replies.His arm he offers. Mute and sad(Mechanically, let us add),Tattiana doth accept his aid;And, hanging down her head, the maidAround the garden homeward hies.Together they returned, nor wordOf censure for the same incurred;The country hath its libertiesAnd privileges nice allowed,Even as Moscow, city proud.XIIConfess, O ye who this peruse,Onéguine acted very wellBy poor Tattiana in the blues;’Twas not the first time, I can tellYou, he a noble mind disclosed,Though some men, evilly disposed,Spared him not their asperities.His friends and also enemies(One and the same thing it may be)Esteemed him much as the world goes.Yes! every one must have his foes,But Lord! from friends deliver me!The deuce take friends, my friends, amendsI’ve had to make for having friends!XIIIBut how? Quite so. Though I dismissDark, unavailing reverie,I just hint, in parenthesis,There is no stupid calumnyBorn of a babbler in a loftAnd by the world repeated oft,There is no fishmarket retortAnd no ridiculous report,Which your true friend with a sweet smileWhere fashionable circles meetA hundred times will not repeat,Quite inadvertently meanwhile;And yet he in your cause would striveAnd loves you as—a relative!XIVAhem! Ahem! My reader noble,Are all your relatives quite well?Permit me; is it worth the troubleFor your instruction here to tellWhat I by relatives conceive?These are your relatives, believe:Those whom we ought to love, caress,With spiritual tenderness;Whom, as the custom is of men,We visit about Christmas Day,Or by a card our homage pay,That until Christmas comes againThey may forget that we exist.And so—God bless them, if He list.XVIn this the love of the fair sexBeats that of friends and relatives:In love, although its tempests vex,Our liberty at least survives:Agreed! but then the whirl of fashion,The natural fickleness of passion,The torrent of opinion,And the fair sex as light as down!Besides the hobbies of a spouseShould be respected throughout lifeBy every proper-minded wife,And this the faithful one allows,When in as instant she is lost,—Satan will jest, and at love’s cost.XVIOh! where bestow our love? Whom trust?Where is he who doth not deceive?Who words and actions will adjustTo standards in which we believe?Oh! who is not calumnious?Who labours hard to humour us?To whom are our misfortunes griefAnd who is not a tiresome thief?My venerated reader, oh!Cease the pursuit of shadows vain,Spare yourself unavailing painAnd all your love on self bestow;A worthy object ’tis, and wellI know there’s none more amiable.XVIIBut from the interview what flowed?Alas! It is not hard to guess.The insensate fire of love still glowedNor discontinued to distressA spirit which for sorrow yearned.Tattiana more than ever burnedWith hopeless passion: from her bedSweet slumber winged its way and fled.Her health, life’s sweetness and its bloom,Her smile and maidenly repose,All vanished as an echo goes.Across her youth a shade had come,As when the tempest’s veil is drawnAcross the smiling face of dawn.XVIIIAlas! Tattiana fades away,Grows pale and sinks, but nothing says;Listless is she the livelong dayNor interest in aught betrays.Shaking with serious air the head,In whispers low the neighbours said:’Tis time she to the altar went!But enough! Now, ’tis my intentThe imagination to enlivenWith love which happiness extends;Against my inclination, friends,By sympathy I have been driven.Forgive me! Such the love I bearMy heroine, Tattiana dear.XIXVladimir, hourly more a slaveTo youthful Olga’s beauty bright,Into delicious bondage gaveHis ardent soul with full delight.Always together, eventideFound them in darkness side by side,At morn, hand clasped in hand, they roveAround the meadow and the grove.And what resulted? Drunk with love,But with confused and bashful air,Lenski at intervals would dare,If Olga smilingly approve,Dally with a dishevelled tressOr kiss the border of her dress.XXTo Olga frequently he wouldSome nice instructive novel read,Whose author nature understoodBetter than Chateaubriand didYet sometimes pages two or three(Nonsense and pure absurdity,For maiden’s hearing deemed unfit),He somewhat blushing would omit:Far from the rest the pair would creepAnd (elbows on the table) theyA game of chess would often play,Buried in meditation deep,Till absently Vladimir tookWith his own pawn alas! his rook!XXIHomeward returning, he at homeIs occupied with Olga fair,An album, fly-leaf of the tome,He leisurely adorns for her.Landscapes thereon he would design,A tombstone, Aphrodite’s shrine,Or, with a pen and colours fit,A dove which on a lyre doth sit;The “in memoriam” pages sought,Where many another hand had signedA tender couplet he combined,A register of fleeting thought,A flimsy trace of musings pastWhich might for many ages last.XXIISurely ye all have overhauledA country damsel’s album trim,Which all her darling friends have scrawledFrom first to last page to the rim.Behold! orthography despising,Metreless verses recognizingBy friendship how they were abused,Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.Upon the opening page ye find:Qu’ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?Subscribed,toujours à vous, Annette;And on the last one, underlined:Who in thy love finds more delightBeyond this may attempt to write.XXIIIInfallibly you there will findTwo hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath,And vows will probably be signed:Affectionately yours till death.Some army poet therein mayHave smuggled his flagitious lay.In such an album with delightI would, my friends, inscriptions write,Because I should be sure, meanwhile,My verses, kindly meant, would earnDelighted glances in return;That afterwards with evil smileThey would not solemnly debateIf cleverly or not I prate.XXIVBut, O ye tomes without compare,Which from the devil’s bookcase start,Albums magnificent which scareThe fashionable rhymester’s heart!Yea! although rendered beauteousBy Tolstoy’s pencil marvellous,Though Baratynski verses penned,(45)The thunderbolt on you descend!Whene’er a brilliant courtly damePresents her quarto amiably,Despair and anger seize on me,And a malicious epigramTrembles upon my lips from spite,—And madrigals I’m asked to write![Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequentlybecame Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg.Baratynski, see Note 43.]XXVBut Lenski madrigals ne’er wroteIn Olga’s album, youthful maid,To purest love he tuned his noteNor frigid adulation paid.What never was remarked or heardOf Olga he in song averred;His elegies, which plenteous streamed,Both natural and truthful seemed.Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46)In amorous flights when so inspired,Singing God knows what maid admired,And all thy precious elegies,Sometime collected, shall relateThe story of thy life and fate.[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He wasan author of promise—unfulfilled.]XXVISince Fame and Freedom he adored,Incited by his stormy MuseOdes Lenski also had outpoured,But Olga would not such peruse.When poets lachrymose reciteBeneath the eyes of ladies brightTheir own productions, some insistNo greater pleasure can existJust so! that modest swain is blestWho reads his visionary themeTo the fair object of his dream,A beauty languidly at rest,Yes, happy—though she at his sideBy other thoughts be occupied.XXVIIBut I the products of my Muse,Consisting of harmonious lays,To my old nurse alone peruse,Companion of my childhood’s days.Or, after dinner’s dull repast,I by the button-hole seize fastMy neighbour, who by chance drew near,And breathe a drama in his ear.Or else (I deal not here in jokes),Exhausted by my woes and rhymes,I sail upon my lake at timesAnd terrify a swarm of ducks,Who, heard the music of my lay,Take to their wings and fly away.XXVIIIBut to Onéguine!A propos!Friends, I must your indulgence pray.His daily occupations, lo!Minutely I will now portray.A hermit’s life Onéguine led,At seven in summer rose from bed,And clad in airy costume tookHis course unto the running brook.There, aping Gulnare’s bard, he spannedHis Hellespont from bank to bank,And then a cup of coffee drank,Some wretched journal in his hand;Then dressed himself...(*)[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]XXIXSound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,The uncontaminated kissOf a young dark-eyed country maid,A fiery, yet well-broken horse,A dinner, whimsical each course,A bottle of a vintage whiteAnd solitude and calm delight.Such was Onéguine’s sainted life,And such unconsciously he led,Nor marked how summer’s prime had fledIn aimless ease and far from strife,The curse of commonplace delight.And town and friends forgotten quite.XXXThis northern summer of our own,On winters of the south a skit,Glimmers and dies. This is well known,Though we will not acknowledge it.Already Autumn chilled the sky,The tiny sun shone less on highAnd shorter had the days become.The forests in mysterious gloomWere stripped with melancholy sound,Upon the earth a mist did lieAnd many a caravan on highOf clamorous geese flew southward bound.A weary season was at hand—November at the gate did stand.XXXIThe morn arises foggy, cold,The silent fields no peasant nears,The wolf upon the highways boldWith his ferocious mate appears.Detecting him the passing horseSnorts, and his rider bends his courseAnd wisely gallops to the hill.No more at dawn the shepherd willDrive out the cattle from their shed,Nor at the hour of noon with soundOf horn in circle call them round.Singing inside her hut the maidSpins, whilst the friend of wintry night,The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.XXXIIAlready crisp hoar frosts imposeO’er all a sheet of silvery dust(Readers expect the rhyme ofrose,There! take it quickly, if ye must).Behold! than polished floor more niceThe shining river clothed in ice;A joyous troop of little boysEngrave the ice with strident noise.A heavy goose on scarlet feet,Thinking to float upon the stream,Descends the bank with care extreme,But staggers, slips, and falls. We greetThe first bright wreathing storm of snowWhich falls in starry flakes below.XXXIIIHow in the country pass this time?Walking? The landscape tires the eyeIn winter by its blank and dimAnd naked uniformity.On horseback gallop o’er the steppe!Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keepHis footing on the treacherous rimeAnd may fall headlong any time.Alone beneath your rooftree stayAnd read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47)Keep your accounts! You’d rather not?Then get mad drunk or wroth; the dayWill pass; the same to-morrow try—You’ll spend your winter famously![Note 47: The Abbé de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A politicalpamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre,but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishopof Malines.]XXXIVA true Childe Harold my EugeneTo idle musing was a prey;At morn an icy bath withinHe sat, and then the livelong day,Alone within his habitationAnd buried deep in meditation,He round the billiard-table stalked,The balls impelled, the blunt cue chalked;When evening o’er the landscape looms,Billiards abandoned, cue forgot,A table to the fire is brought,And he waits dinner. Lenski comes,Driving abreast three horses gray.“Bring dinner now without delay!”XXXVUpon the table in a triceOf widow Clicquot or MoetA blessed bottle, placed in ice,For the young poet they display.Like Hippocrene it scatters light,Its ebullition foaming white(Like other things I could relate)My heart of old would captivate.The last poor obol I was worth—Was it not so?—for thee I gave,And thy inebriating waveFull many a foolish prank brought forth;And oh! what verses, what delights,Delicious visions, jests and fights!XXXVIAlas! my stomach it betraysWith its exhilarating flow,And I confess that now-a-daysI prefer sensible Bordeaux.To cope with Ay no more I dare,For Ay is like a mistress fair,Seductive, animated, bright,But wilful, frivolous, and light.But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friendWho in the agony of griefIs ever ready with relief,Assistance ever will extend,Or quietly partake our woe.All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!XXXVIIThe fire sinks low. An ashy cloakThe golden ember now enshrines,And barely visible the smokeUpward in a thin stream inclines.But little warmth the fireplace lends,Tobacco smoke the flue ascends,The goblet still is bubbling bright—Outside descend the mists of night.How pleasantly the evening jogsWhen o’er a glass with friends we prateJust at the hour we designateThe time between the wolf and dogs—I cannot tell on what pretence—But lo! the friends to chat commence.XXXVIII“How are our neighbours fair, pray tell,Tattiana, saucy Olga thine?”—“The family are all quite well—Give me just half a glass of wine—They sent their compliments—but oh!How charming Olga’s shoulders grow!Her figure perfect grows with time!She is an angel! We sometimeMust visit them. Come! you must own,My friend, ’tis but to pay a debt,For twice you came to them and yetYou never since your nose have shown.But stay! A dolt am I who speak!They have invited you this week.”XXXIX“Me?”—“Yes! It is Tattiana’s fêteNext Saturday. The LàrinaTold me to ask you. Ere that dateMake up your mind to go there.”—“Ah!It will be by a mob besetOf every sort and every set!”—“Not in the least, assured am I!”—“Who will be there?”—“The family.Do me a favour and appear.Will you?”—“Agreed.”—“I thank you, friend,”And saying this Vladimir drainedHis cup unto his maiden dear.Then touching Olga they departIn fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!XLHe was most gay. The happy dateIn three weeks would arrive for them;The secrets of the marriage stateAnd love’s delicious diademWith rapturous longing he awaits,Nor in his dreams anticipatesHymen’s embarrassments, distress,And freezing fits of weariness.Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile,In life domestic see a stringOf pictures painful harrowing,A novel in Lafontaine’s style,My wretched Lenski’s fate I mourn,He seemed for matrimony born.XLIHe was beloved: or say at least,He thought so, and existence charmed.The credulous indeed are blest,And he who, jealousy disarmed,In sensual sweets his soul doth steepAs drunken tramps at nightfall sleep,Or, parable more flattering,As butterflies to blossoms cling.But wretched who anticipates,Whose brain no fond illusions daze,Who every gesture, every phraseIn true interpretation hates:Whose heart experience icy madeAnd yet oblivion forbade.End of Canto The Fourth
Rural Life‘La Morale est dans la nature des choses.’—Necker
Canto The Fourth[Mikhailovskoe, 1825]IThe less we love a lady fairThe easier ’tis to gain her grace,And the more surely we ensnareHer in the pitfalls which we place.Time was when cold seduction stroveTo swagger as the art of love,Everywhere trumpeting its feats,Not seeking love but sensual sweets.But this amusement delicateWas worthy of that old baboon,Our fathers used to dote upon;The Lovelaces are out of date,Their glory with their heels of redAnd long perukes hath vanishèd.IIFor who imposture can endure,A constant harping on one tune,Serious endeavours to assureWhat everybody long has known;Ever to hear the same repliesAnd overcome antipathiesWhich never have existed, e’enIn little maidens of thirteen?And what like menaces fatigues,Entreaties, oaths, fictitious fear,Epistles of six sheets or near,Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues,Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny,And husbands’ tedious amity?IIISuch were the musings of Eugene.He in the early years of lifeHad a deluded victim beenOf error and the passions’ strife.By daily life deteriorated,Awhile this beauty captivated,And that no longer could inspire.Slowly exhausted by desire,Yet satiated with success,In solitude or worldly din,He heard his soul’s complaint within,With laughter smothered weariness:And thus he spent eight years of time,Destroyed the blossom of his prime.IVThough beauty he no more adored,He still made love in a queer way;Rebuffed—as quickly reassured,Jilted—glad of a holiday.Without enthusiasm he metThe fair, nor parted with regret,Scarce mindful of their love and guile.Thus a guest with composure willTo take a hand at whist oft come:He takes his seat, concludes his game,And straight returning whence he came,Tranquilly goes to sleep at home,And in the morning doth not knowWhither that evening he will go.VHowever, Tania’s letter reading,Eugene was touched with sympathy;The language of her girlish pleadingAroused in him sweet reverie.He called to mind Tattiana’s grace,Pallid and melancholy face,And in a vision, sinless, bright,His spirit sank with strange delight.May be the empire of the sense,Regained authority awhile,But he desired not to beguileSuch open-hearted innocence.But to the garden once againWherein we lately left the twain.VITwo minutes they in silence spent,Onéguine then approached and said:“You have a letter to me sent.Do not excuse yourself. I readConfessions which a trusting heartMay well in innocence impart.Charming is your sincerity,Feelings which long had ceased to beIt wakens in my breast again.But I came not to adulate:Your frankness I shall compensateBy an avowal just as plain.An ear to my confession lend;To thy decree my will I bend.VII“If the domestic hearth could bless—My sum of happiness contained;If wife and children to possessA happy destiny ordained:If in the scenes of home I mightE’en for an instant find delight,Then, I say truly, none but theeI would desire my bride to be—I say without poetic phrase,Found the ideal of my youth,Thee only would I choose, in truth,As partner of my mournful days,Thee only, pledge of all things bright,And be as happy—as I might.VIII“But strange am I to happiness;’Tis foreign to my cast of thought;Me your perfections would not bless;I am not worthy them in aught;And honestly ’tis my beliefOur union would produce but grief.Though now my love might be intense,Habit would bring indifference.I see you weep. Those tears of yoursTend not my heart to mitigate,But merely to exasperate;Judge then what roses would be ours,What pleasures Hymen would prepareFor us, may be for many a year.IX“What can be drearier than the house,Wherein the miserable wifeDeplores a most unworthy spouseAnd leads a solitary life?The tiresome man, her value knowing,Yet curses on his fate bestowing,Is full of frigid jealousy,Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.Such am I. This did ye expect,When in simplicity ye wroteYour innocent and charming noteWith so much warmth and intellect?Hath fate apportioned unto theeThis lot in life with stern decree?X“Ideas and time ne’er backward move;My soul I cannot renovate—I love you with a brother’s love,Perchance one more affectionate.Listen to me without disdain.A maid hath oft, may yet againReplace the visions fancy drew;Thus trees in spring their leaves renewAs in their turn the seasons roll.’Tis evidently Heaven’s willYou fall in love again. But still—Learn to possess more self-control.Not all will like myself proceed—And thoughtlessness to woe might lead.”XIThus did our friend Onéguine preach:Tattiana, dim with tears her eyes,Attentive listened to his speech,All breathless and without replies.His arm he offers. Mute and sad(Mechanically, let us add),Tattiana doth accept his aid;And, hanging down her head, the maidAround the garden homeward hies.Together they returned, nor wordOf censure for the same incurred;The country hath its libertiesAnd privileges nice allowed,Even as Moscow, city proud.XIIConfess, O ye who this peruse,Onéguine acted very wellBy poor Tattiana in the blues;’Twas not the first time, I can tellYou, he a noble mind disclosed,Though some men, evilly disposed,Spared him not their asperities.His friends and also enemies(One and the same thing it may be)Esteemed him much as the world goes.Yes! every one must have his foes,But Lord! from friends deliver me!The deuce take friends, my friends, amendsI’ve had to make for having friends!XIIIBut how? Quite so. Though I dismissDark, unavailing reverie,I just hint, in parenthesis,There is no stupid calumnyBorn of a babbler in a loftAnd by the world repeated oft,There is no fishmarket retortAnd no ridiculous report,Which your true friend with a sweet smileWhere fashionable circles meetA hundred times will not repeat,Quite inadvertently meanwhile;And yet he in your cause would striveAnd loves you as—a relative!XIVAhem! Ahem! My reader noble,Are all your relatives quite well?Permit me; is it worth the troubleFor your instruction here to tellWhat I by relatives conceive?These are your relatives, believe:Those whom we ought to love, caress,With spiritual tenderness;Whom, as the custom is of men,We visit about Christmas Day,Or by a card our homage pay,That until Christmas comes againThey may forget that we exist.And so—God bless them, if He list.XVIn this the love of the fair sexBeats that of friends and relatives:In love, although its tempests vex,Our liberty at least survives:Agreed! but then the whirl of fashion,The natural fickleness of passion,The torrent of opinion,And the fair sex as light as down!Besides the hobbies of a spouseShould be respected throughout lifeBy every proper-minded wife,And this the faithful one allows,When in as instant she is lost,—Satan will jest, and at love’s cost.XVIOh! where bestow our love? Whom trust?Where is he who doth not deceive?Who words and actions will adjustTo standards in which we believe?Oh! who is not calumnious?Who labours hard to humour us?To whom are our misfortunes griefAnd who is not a tiresome thief?My venerated reader, oh!Cease the pursuit of shadows vain,Spare yourself unavailing painAnd all your love on self bestow;A worthy object ’tis, and wellI know there’s none more amiable.XVIIBut from the interview what flowed?Alas! It is not hard to guess.The insensate fire of love still glowedNor discontinued to distressA spirit which for sorrow yearned.Tattiana more than ever burnedWith hopeless passion: from her bedSweet slumber winged its way and fled.Her health, life’s sweetness and its bloom,Her smile and maidenly repose,All vanished as an echo goes.Across her youth a shade had come,As when the tempest’s veil is drawnAcross the smiling face of dawn.XVIIIAlas! Tattiana fades away,Grows pale and sinks, but nothing says;Listless is she the livelong dayNor interest in aught betrays.Shaking with serious air the head,In whispers low the neighbours said:’Tis time she to the altar went!But enough! Now, ’tis my intentThe imagination to enlivenWith love which happiness extends;Against my inclination, friends,By sympathy I have been driven.Forgive me! Such the love I bearMy heroine, Tattiana dear.XIXVladimir, hourly more a slaveTo youthful Olga’s beauty bright,Into delicious bondage gaveHis ardent soul with full delight.Always together, eventideFound them in darkness side by side,At morn, hand clasped in hand, they roveAround the meadow and the grove.And what resulted? Drunk with love,But with confused and bashful air,Lenski at intervals would dare,If Olga smilingly approve,Dally with a dishevelled tressOr kiss the border of her dress.XXTo Olga frequently he wouldSome nice instructive novel read,Whose author nature understoodBetter than Chateaubriand didYet sometimes pages two or three(Nonsense and pure absurdity,For maiden’s hearing deemed unfit),He somewhat blushing would omit:Far from the rest the pair would creepAnd (elbows on the table) theyA game of chess would often play,Buried in meditation deep,Till absently Vladimir tookWith his own pawn alas! his rook!XXIHomeward returning, he at homeIs occupied with Olga fair,An album, fly-leaf of the tome,He leisurely adorns for her.Landscapes thereon he would design,A tombstone, Aphrodite’s shrine,Or, with a pen and colours fit,A dove which on a lyre doth sit;The “in memoriam” pages sought,Where many another hand had signedA tender couplet he combined,A register of fleeting thought,A flimsy trace of musings pastWhich might for many ages last.XXIISurely ye all have overhauledA country damsel’s album trim,Which all her darling friends have scrawledFrom first to last page to the rim.Behold! orthography despising,Metreless verses recognizingBy friendship how they were abused,Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.Upon the opening page ye find:Qu’ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?Subscribed,toujours à vous, Annette;And on the last one, underlined:Who in thy love finds more delightBeyond this may attempt to write.XXIIIInfallibly you there will findTwo hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath,And vows will probably be signed:Affectionately yours till death.Some army poet therein mayHave smuggled his flagitious lay.In such an album with delightI would, my friends, inscriptions write,Because I should be sure, meanwhile,My verses, kindly meant, would earnDelighted glances in return;That afterwards with evil smileThey would not solemnly debateIf cleverly or not I prate.XXIVBut, O ye tomes without compare,Which from the devil’s bookcase start,Albums magnificent which scareThe fashionable rhymester’s heart!Yea! although rendered beauteousBy Tolstoy’s pencil marvellous,Though Baratynski verses penned,(45)The thunderbolt on you descend!Whene’er a brilliant courtly damePresents her quarto amiably,Despair and anger seize on me,And a malicious epigramTrembles upon my lips from spite,—And madrigals I’m asked to write![Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequentlybecame Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg.Baratynski, see Note 43.]XXVBut Lenski madrigals ne’er wroteIn Olga’s album, youthful maid,To purest love he tuned his noteNor frigid adulation paid.What never was remarked or heardOf Olga he in song averred;His elegies, which plenteous streamed,Both natural and truthful seemed.Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46)In amorous flights when so inspired,Singing God knows what maid admired,And all thy precious elegies,Sometime collected, shall relateThe story of thy life and fate.[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He wasan author of promise—unfulfilled.]XXVISince Fame and Freedom he adored,Incited by his stormy MuseOdes Lenski also had outpoured,But Olga would not such peruse.When poets lachrymose reciteBeneath the eyes of ladies brightTheir own productions, some insistNo greater pleasure can existJust so! that modest swain is blestWho reads his visionary themeTo the fair object of his dream,A beauty languidly at rest,Yes, happy—though she at his sideBy other thoughts be occupied.XXVIIBut I the products of my Muse,Consisting of harmonious lays,To my old nurse alone peruse,Companion of my childhood’s days.Or, after dinner’s dull repast,I by the button-hole seize fastMy neighbour, who by chance drew near,And breathe a drama in his ear.Or else (I deal not here in jokes),Exhausted by my woes and rhymes,I sail upon my lake at timesAnd terrify a swarm of ducks,Who, heard the music of my lay,Take to their wings and fly away.XXVIIIBut to Onéguine!A propos!Friends, I must your indulgence pray.His daily occupations, lo!Minutely I will now portray.A hermit’s life Onéguine led,At seven in summer rose from bed,And clad in airy costume tookHis course unto the running brook.There, aping Gulnare’s bard, he spannedHis Hellespont from bank to bank,And then a cup of coffee drank,Some wretched journal in his hand;Then dressed himself...(*)[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]XXIXSound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,The uncontaminated kissOf a young dark-eyed country maid,A fiery, yet well-broken horse,A dinner, whimsical each course,A bottle of a vintage whiteAnd solitude and calm delight.Such was Onéguine’s sainted life,And such unconsciously he led,Nor marked how summer’s prime had fledIn aimless ease and far from strife,The curse of commonplace delight.And town and friends forgotten quite.XXXThis northern summer of our own,On winters of the south a skit,Glimmers and dies. This is well known,Though we will not acknowledge it.Already Autumn chilled the sky,The tiny sun shone less on highAnd shorter had the days become.The forests in mysterious gloomWere stripped with melancholy sound,Upon the earth a mist did lieAnd many a caravan on highOf clamorous geese flew southward bound.A weary season was at hand—November at the gate did stand.XXXIThe morn arises foggy, cold,The silent fields no peasant nears,The wolf upon the highways boldWith his ferocious mate appears.Detecting him the passing horseSnorts, and his rider bends his courseAnd wisely gallops to the hill.No more at dawn the shepherd willDrive out the cattle from their shed,Nor at the hour of noon with soundOf horn in circle call them round.Singing inside her hut the maidSpins, whilst the friend of wintry night,The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.XXXIIAlready crisp hoar frosts imposeO’er all a sheet of silvery dust(Readers expect the rhyme ofrose,There! take it quickly, if ye must).Behold! than polished floor more niceThe shining river clothed in ice;A joyous troop of little boysEngrave the ice with strident noise.A heavy goose on scarlet feet,Thinking to float upon the stream,Descends the bank with care extreme,But staggers, slips, and falls. We greetThe first bright wreathing storm of snowWhich falls in starry flakes below.XXXIIIHow in the country pass this time?Walking? The landscape tires the eyeIn winter by its blank and dimAnd naked uniformity.On horseback gallop o’er the steppe!Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keepHis footing on the treacherous rimeAnd may fall headlong any time.Alone beneath your rooftree stayAnd read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47)Keep your accounts! You’d rather not?Then get mad drunk or wroth; the dayWill pass; the same to-morrow try—You’ll spend your winter famously![Note 47: The Abbé de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A politicalpamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre,but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishopof Malines.]XXXIVA true Childe Harold my EugeneTo idle musing was a prey;At morn an icy bath withinHe sat, and then the livelong day,Alone within his habitationAnd buried deep in meditation,He round the billiard-table stalked,The balls impelled, the blunt cue chalked;When evening o’er the landscape looms,Billiards abandoned, cue forgot,A table to the fire is brought,And he waits dinner. Lenski comes,Driving abreast three horses gray.“Bring dinner now without delay!”XXXVUpon the table in a triceOf widow Clicquot or MoetA blessed bottle, placed in ice,For the young poet they display.Like Hippocrene it scatters light,Its ebullition foaming white(Like other things I could relate)My heart of old would captivate.The last poor obol I was worth—Was it not so?—for thee I gave,And thy inebriating waveFull many a foolish prank brought forth;And oh! what verses, what delights,Delicious visions, jests and fights!XXXVIAlas! my stomach it betraysWith its exhilarating flow,And I confess that now-a-daysI prefer sensible Bordeaux.To cope with Ay no more I dare,For Ay is like a mistress fair,Seductive, animated, bright,But wilful, frivolous, and light.But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friendWho in the agony of griefIs ever ready with relief,Assistance ever will extend,Or quietly partake our woe.All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!XXXVIIThe fire sinks low. An ashy cloakThe golden ember now enshrines,And barely visible the smokeUpward in a thin stream inclines.But little warmth the fireplace lends,Tobacco smoke the flue ascends,The goblet still is bubbling bright—Outside descend the mists of night.How pleasantly the evening jogsWhen o’er a glass with friends we prateJust at the hour we designateThe time between the wolf and dogs—I cannot tell on what pretence—But lo! the friends to chat commence.XXXVIII“How are our neighbours fair, pray tell,Tattiana, saucy Olga thine?”—“The family are all quite well—Give me just half a glass of wine—They sent their compliments—but oh!How charming Olga’s shoulders grow!Her figure perfect grows with time!She is an angel! We sometimeMust visit them. Come! you must own,My friend, ’tis but to pay a debt,For twice you came to them and yetYou never since your nose have shown.But stay! A dolt am I who speak!They have invited you this week.”XXXIX“Me?”—“Yes! It is Tattiana’s fêteNext Saturday. The LàrinaTold me to ask you. Ere that dateMake up your mind to go there.”—“Ah!It will be by a mob besetOf every sort and every set!”—“Not in the least, assured am I!”—“Who will be there?”—“The family.Do me a favour and appear.Will you?”—“Agreed.”—“I thank you, friend,”And saying this Vladimir drainedHis cup unto his maiden dear.Then touching Olga they departIn fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!XLHe was most gay. The happy dateIn three weeks would arrive for them;The secrets of the marriage stateAnd love’s delicious diademWith rapturous longing he awaits,Nor in his dreams anticipatesHymen’s embarrassments, distress,And freezing fits of weariness.Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile,In life domestic see a stringOf pictures painful harrowing,A novel in Lafontaine’s style,My wretched Lenski’s fate I mourn,He seemed for matrimony born.XLIHe was beloved: or say at least,He thought so, and existence charmed.The credulous indeed are blest,And he who, jealousy disarmed,In sensual sweets his soul doth steepAs drunken tramps at nightfall sleep,Or, parable more flattering,As butterflies to blossoms cling.But wretched who anticipates,Whose brain no fond illusions daze,Who every gesture, every phraseIn true interpretation hates:Whose heart experience icy madeAnd yet oblivion forbade.
End of Canto The Fourth