CANTO THE THIRDThe Country Damsel‘Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse’—MalfilatreCanto The Third[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.]I“Whither away? Deuce take the bard!”—“Good-bye, Onéguine, I must go.”—“I won’t detain you; but ’tis hardTo guess how you the eve pull through.”—“At Làrina’s.”—“Hem, that is queer!Pray is it not a tough affairThus to assassinate the eve?”—“Not at all.”—“That I can’t conceive!’Tis something of this sort I deem.In the first place, say, am I right?A Russian household simple quite,Who welcome guests with zeal extreme,Preserves and an eternal prattleAbout the rain and flax and cattle.”—II“No misery I see in that”—“Boredom, my friend, behold the ill—”“Your fashionable world I hate,Domestic life attracts me still,Where—”—“What! another eclogue spin?For God’s sake, Lenski, don’t begin!What! really going? ’Tis too bad!But Lenski, I should be so gladWould you to me this Phyllis show,Fair source of every fine idea,Verses and tears et cetera.Present me.”—“You are joking.”—“No.”—“Delighted.”—“When?”—“This very night.They will receive us with delight.”IIIWhilst homeward by the nearest routeOur heroes at full gallop sped,Can we not stealthily make outWhat they in conversation said?—“How now, Onéguine, yawning still?”—“’Tis habit, Lenski.”—“Is your illMore troublesome than usual?”—“No!How dark the night is getting though!Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!The drive becomes monotonous—Well! Làrina appears to usAn ancient lady full of grace.—That bilberry wine, I’m sore afraid,The deuce with my inside has played.”IV“Say, of the two which was Tattiana?”“She who with melancholy faceAnd silent as the maid Svetlana(30)Hard by the window took her place.”—“The younger, you’re in love with her!”“Well!”—“I the elder should prefer,Were I like you a bard by trade—In Olga’s face no life’s displayed.’Tis a Madonna of Vandyk,An oval countenance and pink,Yon silly moon upon the brinkOf the horizon she is like!”—Vladimir something curtly saidNor further comment that night made.[Note 30: “Svetlana,” a short poem by Joukóvski, upon which hisfame mainly rests. Joukóvski was an unblushing plagiarist. Manyeminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him,often without going through the form of acknowledging thesource of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot bepronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty isunquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger’s poem“Leonora,” which has found so many English translators. Notcontent with a single development of Burger’s ghastly productionthe Russian poet has directly paraphrased “Leonora” under itsown title, and also written a poem “Liudmila” in imitation of it.The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: Amaiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providenceand is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother.Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover’s spirit,to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunatemaiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamberthe unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs tohis own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute hiserrand. It is a repulsive subject. “Svetlana,” however, is moreagreeable than its prototype “Leonora,” inasmuch as the wholecatastrophe turns out a dream brought on by “sorcery,” during the“sviatki” or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamerawakes to hear the tinkling of her lover’s sledge approaching.“Svetlana” has been translated by Sir John Bowring.]VMeantime Onéguine’s apparitionAt Làrina’s abode producedQuite a sensation; the positionTo all good neighbours’ sport conduced.Endless conjectures all propoundAnd secretly their views expound.What jokes and guesses now abound,A beau is for Tattiana found!In fact, some people were assuredThe wedding-day had been arranged,But the date subsequently changedTill proper rings could be procured.On Lenski’s matrimonial fateThey long ago had held debate.VIOf course Tattiana was annoyedBy such allusions scandalous,Yet was her inmost soul o’erjoyedWith satisfaction marvellous,As in her heart the thought sank home,I am in love, my hour hath come!Thus in the earth the seed expandsObedient to warm Spring’s commands.Long time her young imaginationBy indolence and languor firedThe fated nutriment desired;And long internal agitationHad filled her youthful breast with gloom,She waited for—I don’t know whom!VIIThe fatal hour had come at last—She oped her eyes and cried: ’tis he!Alas! for now before her passedThe same warm vision constantly;Now all things round about repeatCeaselessly to the maiden sweetHis name: the tenderness of homeTiresome unto her hath becomeAnd the kind-hearted servitors:Immersed in melancholy thought,She hears of conversation noughtAnd hated casual visitors,Their coming which no man expects,And stay whose length none recollects.VIIINow with what eager interestShe the delicious novel reads,With what avidity and zestShe drinks in those seductive deeds!All the creations which belowFrom happy inspiration flow,The swain of Julia Wolmar,Malek Adel and De Linar,(31)Werther, rebellious martyr bold,And that unrivalled paragon,The sleep-compelling Grandison,Our tender dreamer had enrolledA single being: ’twas in fineNo other than Onéguine mine.[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin’stime: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famousMadame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of thispoem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but nowconsigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with thetransitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. Onehas now to search for the very names of most of the popularauthors of Pushkin’s day and rummage biographical dictionariesfor the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet’s primewas but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age hewould have been amongst us still. He was four years youngerthan the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson’spopularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]IXDreaming herself the heroineOf the romances she preferred,Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,—(32)Tattiana through the forest erred,And the bad book accompanies.Upon those pages she descriesHer passion’s faithful counterpart,Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.She heaves a sigh and deep intentOn raptures, sorrows not her own,She murmurs in an undertoneA letter for her hero meant:That hero, though his merit shone,Was certainly no Grandison.[Note 32: Referring to Richardson’s “Clarissa Harlowe,” “LaNouvelle Heloise,” and Madame de Stael’s “Delphine.”]XAlas! my friends, the years flit byAnd after them at headlong paceThe evanescent fashions flyIn motley and amusing chase.The world is ever altering!Farthingales, patches, were the thing,And courtier, fop, and usurerWould once in powdered wig appear;Time was, the poet’s tender quillIn hopes of everlasting fameA finished madrigal would frameOr couplets more ingenious still;Time was, a valiant general mightServe who could neither read nor write.XITime was, in style magniloquentAuthors replete with sacred fireTheir heroes used to representAll that perfection could desire;Ever by adverse fate oppressed,Their idols they were wont to investWith intellect, a taste refined,And handsome countenance combined,A heart wherein pure passion burnt;The excited hero in a triceWas ready for self-sacrifice,And in the final tome we learnt,Vice had due punishment awarded,Virtue was with a bride rewarded.XIIBut now our minds are mystifiedAnd Virtue acts as a narcotic,Vice in romance is glorifiedAnd triumphs in career erotic.The monsters of the British MuseDeprive our schoolgirls of repose,The idols of their adorationA Vampire fond of meditation,Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,The Eternal Jew or the CorsairOr the mysterious Sbogar.(33)Byron’s capricious phantasyCould in romantic mantle drapeE’en hopeless egoism’s dark shape.[Note 33: “Melmoth,” a romance by Maturin, and “Jean Sbogar,” byCh. Nodier. “The Vampire,” a tale published in 1819, waserroneously attributed to Lord Byron. “Salathiel; the EternalJew,” a romance by Geo. Croly.]XIIIMy friends, what means this odd digression?May be that I by heaven’s decreesShall abdicate the bard’s profession,And shall adopt some new caprice.Thus having braved Apollo’s rageWith humble prose I’ll fill my pageAnd a romance in ancient styleShall my declining years beguile;Nor shall my pen paint terriblyThe torment born of crime unseen,But shall depict the touching sceneOf Russian domesticity;I will descant on love’s sweet dream,The olden time shall be my theme.XIVOld people’s simple conversationsMy unpretending page shall fill,Their offspring’s innocent flirtationsBy the old lime-tree or the rill,Their Jealousy and separationAnd tears of reconciliation:Fresh cause of quarrel then I’ll find,But finally in wedlock bind.The passionate speeches I’ll repeat,Accents of rapture or despairI uttered to my lady fairLong ago, prostrate at her feet.Then they came easily enow,My tongue is somewhat rusty now.XVTattiana! sweet Tattiana, see!What bitter tears with thee I shed!Thou hast resigned thy destinyUnto a ruthless tyrant dread.Thou’lt suffer, dearest, but before,Hope with her fascinating powerTo dire contentment shall give birthAnd thou shalt taste the joys of earth.Thou’lt quaff love’s sweet envenomed stream,Fantastic images shall swarmIn thy imagination warm,Of happy meetings thou shalt dream,And wheresoe’er thy footsteps err,Confront thy fated torturer!XVILove’s pangs Tattiana agonize.She seeks the garden in her need—Sudden she stops, casts down her eyesAnd cares not farther to proceed;Her bosom heaves whilst crimson huesWith sudden flush her cheeks suffuse,Barely to draw her breath she seems,Her eye with fire unwonted gleams.And now ’tis night, the guardian moonSails her allotted course on high,And from the misty woodland nighThe nightingale trills forth her tune;Restless Tattiana sleepless layAnd thus unto her nurse did say:XVII“Nurse, ’tis so close I cannot rest.Open the window—sit by me.”“What ails thee, dear?”—“I feel depressed.Relate some ancient history.”“But which, my dear?—In days of yoreWithin my memory I boreMany an ancient legend whichIn monsters and fair dames was rich;But now my mind is desolate,What once I knew is clean forgot—Alas! how wretched now my lot!”“But tell me, nurse, can you relateThe days which to your youth belong?Were you in love when you were young?”—XVIII“Alack! Tattiana,” she replied,“We never loved in days of old,My mother-in-law who lately died(34)Had killed me had the like been told.”“How came you then to wed a man?”—“Why, as God ordered! My IvanWas younger than myself, my light,For I myself was thirteen quite;(35)The matchmaker a fortnight sped,Her suit before my parents pressing:At last my father gave his blessing,And bitter tears of fright I shed.Weeping they loosed my tresses long(36)And led me off to church with song.”[Note 34: A young married couple amongst Russian peasantsreside in the house of the bridegroom’s father till the“tiaglo,” or family circle is broken up by his death.][Note 35: Marriages amongst Russian serfs used formerly totake place at ridiculously early ages. Haxthausen assertsthat strong hearty peasant women were to be seen at workin the fields with their infant husbands in their arms. Theinducement lay in the fact that the “tiaglo” (see previousnote) received an additional lot of the communal land forevery male added to its number, though this could have formedan inducement in the southern and fertile provinces of Russiaonly, as it is believed that agriculture in the north is sounremunerative that land has often to be forced upon thepeasants, in order that the taxes, for which the whole Communeis responsible to Government, may be paid. The abuse of earlymarriages was regulated by Tsar Nicholas.][Note 36: Courtships were not unfrequently carried on in thelarger villages, which alone could support such an individual,by means of a “svakha,” or matchmaker. In Russia unmarriedgirls wear their hair in a single long plait or tail, “kossa;”the married women, on the other hand, in two, which are twistedinto the head-gear.]XIX“Then amongst strangers I was left—But I perceive thou dost not heed—”“Alas! dear nurse, my heart is cleft,Mortally sick I am indeed.Behold, my sobs I scarce restrain—”“My darling child, thou art in pain.—The Lord deliver her and save!Tell me at once what wilt thou have?I’ll sprinkle thee with holy water.—How thy hands burn!”—“Dear nurse, I’m well.I am—in love—you know—don’t tell!”“The Lord be with thee, O my daughter!”—And the old nurse a brief prayer saidAnd crossed with trembling hand the maid.XX“I am in love,” her whispers tellThe aged woman in her woe:“My heart’s delight, thou art not well.”—“I am in love, nurse! leave me now.”Behold! the moon was shining brightAnd showed with an uncertain lightTattiana’s beauty, pale with care,Her tears and her dishevelled hair;And on the footstool sitting downBeside our youthful heroine fair,A kerchief round her silver hairThe aged nurse in ample gown,(37)Whilst all creation seemed to dreamEnchanted by the moon’s pale beam.[Note 37: It is thus that I am compelled to render a femalegarment not known, so far as I am aware, to Western Europe.It is called by the natives “doushegreika,” that is to say,“warmer of the soul”—in French, chaufferette de l’âme. Itis a species of thick pelisse worn over the “sarafan,” orgown.]XXIBut borne in spirit far awayTattiana gazes on the moon,And starting suddenly doth say:“Nurse, leave me. I would be alone.Pen, paper bring: the table tooDraw near. I soon to sleep shall go—Good-night.” Behold! she is alone!’Tis silent—on her shines the moon—Upon her elbow she reclines,And Eugene ever in her soulIndites an inconsiderate scrollWherein love innocently pines.Now it is ready to be sent—For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?XXIII have known beauties cold and rawAs Winter in their purity,Striking the intellect with aweBy dull insensibility,And I admired their common senseAnd natural benevolence,But, I acknowledge, from them fled;For on their brows I trembling readThe inscription o’er the gates of Hell“Abandon hope for ever here!”(38)Love to inspire doth woe appearTo such—delightful to repel.Perchance upon the Neva e’enSimilar dames ye may have seen.[Note 38: A Russian annotator complains that the poet hasmutilated Dante’s famous line.]XXIIIAmid submissive herds of menVirgins miraculous I see,Who selfishly unmoved remainAlike by sighs and flattery.But what astonished do I findWhen harsh demeanour hath consignedA timid love to banishment?—On fresh allurements they are bent,At least by show of sympathy;At least their accents and their wordsAppear attuned to softer chords;And then with blind credulityThe youthful lover once againPursues phantasmagoria vain.XXIVWhy is Tattiana guiltier deemed?—Because in singleness of thoughtShe never of deception dreamedBut trusted the ideal she wrought?—Because her passion wanted art,Obeyed the impulses of heart?—Because she was so innocent,That Heaven her character had blentWith an imagination wild,With intellect and strong volitionAnd a determined disposition,An ardent heart and yet so mild?—Doth love’s incautiousness in herSo irremissible appear?XXVO ye whom tender love hath painedWithout the ken of parents both,Whose hearts responsive have remainedTo the impressions of our youth,The all-entrancing joys of love—Young ladies, if ye ever stroveThe mystic lines to tear awayA lover’s letter might convey,Or into bold hands anxiouslyHave e’er a precious tress consigned,Or even, silent and resigned,When separation’s hour drew nigh,Have felt love’s agitated kissWith tears, confused emotions, bliss,—XXVIWith unanimity complete,Condemn not weak Tattiana mine;Do not cold-bloodedly repeatThe sneers of critics superfine;And you, O maids immaculate,Whom vice, if named, doth agitateE’en as the presence of a snake,I the same admonition make.Who knows? with love’s consuming flamePerchance you also soon may burn,Then to some gallant in your turnWill be ascribed by treacherous FameThe triumph of a conquest new.The God of Love is after you!XXVIIA coquette loves by calculation,Tattiana’s love was quite sincere,A love which knew no limitation,Even as the love of children dear.She did not think “procrastinationEnhances love in estimationAnd thus secures the prey we seek.His vanity first let us piqueWith hope and then perplexity,Excruciate the heart and lateWith jealous fire resuscitate,Lest jaded with satiety,The artful prisoner should seekIncessantly his chains to break.”XXVIIII still a complication view,My country’s honour and reputeDemands that I translate for youThe letter which Tattiana wrote.At Russ she was by no means cleverAnd read our newspapers scarce ever,And in her native language shePossessed nor ease nor fluency,So she in French herself expressed.I cannot help it I declare,Though hitherto a lady ne’erIn Russ her love made manifest,And never hath our language proudIn correspondence been allowed.(39)[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late TsarFrench was the language of the Russian court and of Russianfashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the timethis poem was written literary warfare more or less open wasbeing waged between two hostile schools of Russian men ofletters. These consisted of theArzamass, or French school, towhich Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkinthe “Nestor of the Arzamass” belonged, and their opponents whodevoted themselves to the cultivation of the vernacular.]XXIXThey wish that ladies should, I hear,Learn Russian, but the Lord defend!I can’t conceive a little dearWith the “Well-Wisher” in her hand!(40)I ask, all ye who poets are,Is it not true? the objects fair,To whom ye for unnumbered crimesHad to compose in secret rhymes,To whom your hearts were consecrate,—Did they not all the Russian tongueWith little knowledge and that wrongIn charming fashion mutilate?Did not their lips with foreign speechThe native Russian tongue impeach?[Note 40: The “Blago-Namièrenni,” or “Well-Wisher,” was aninferior Russian newspaper of the day, much scoffed at bycontemporaries. The editor once excused himself for somegross error by pleading that he had been “on the loose.”]XXXGod grant I meet not at a ballOr at a promenade mayhap,A schoolmaster in yellow shawlOr a professor in tulle cap.As rosy lips without a smile,The Russian language I deem vileWithout grammatical mistakes.May be, and this my terror wakes,The fair of the next generation,As every journal now entreats,Will teach grammatical conceits,Introduce verse in conversation.But I—what is all this to me?Will to the old times faithful be.XXXISpeech careless, incorrect, but soft,With inexact pronunciationRaises within my breast as oftAs formerly much agitation.Repentance wields not now her spellAnd gallicisms I love as wellAs the sins of my youthful daysOr Bogdanovitch’s sweet lays.(41)But I must now employ my MuseWith the epistle of my fair;I promised!—Did I so?—Well, there!Now I am ready to refuse.I know that Parny’s tender pen(42)Is no more cherished amongst men.[Note 41: Hippolyte Bogdanovitch—b. 1743, d. 1803—thoughpossessing considerable poetical talent was like many otherRussian authors more remarkable for successful imitationthan for original genius. His most remarkable productionis “Doushenka,” “The Darling,” a composition somewhat inthe style of La Fontaine’s “Psyche.” Its merit consists ingraceful phraseology, and a strong pervading sense of humour.][Note 42: Parny—a French poet of the era of the first Napoleon,b. 1753, d. 1814. Introduced to the aged Voltaire duringhis last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands uponthe youth’s head and exclaimed: “Mon cher Tibulle.” He ischiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted theaffectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a studentat the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted apension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damagehis literary reputation by inditing an “epic” poem entitled“Goddam! Goddam! par un French—Dog.” It is descriptiveof the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, andtreats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to asuccessful conclusion and become matter of history. A goodaccount of the bard and his creations will be found in theSaturday Reviewof the 2d August 1879.]XXXIIBard of the “Feasts,” and mournful breast,(43)If thou wert sitting by my side,With this immoderate requestI should alarm our friendship tried:In one of thine enchanting laysTo russify the foreign phraseOf my impassioned heroine.Where art thou? Come! pretensions mineI yield with a low reverence;But lonely beneath Finnish skiesWhere melancholy rocks ariseHe wanders in his indolence;Careless of fame his spirit highHears not my importunity![Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and alyric poet of some originality and talent. The “Feasts” isa short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkinis therein praised as the best of companions “beside thebottle.”]XXXIIITattiana’s letter I possess,I guard it as a holy thing,And though I read it with distress,I’m o’er it ever pondering.Inspired by whom this tenderness,This gentle daring who could guess?Who this soft nonsense could impart,Imprudent prattle of the heart,Attractive in its banefulness?I cannot understand. But lo!A feeble version read below,A print without the picture’s grace,Or, as it were, the Freischutz’ scoreStrummed by a timid schoolgirl o’er.Tattiana’s Letter to OnéguineI write to you! Is more required?Can lower depths beyond remain?’Tis in your power now, if desired,To crush me with a just disdain.But if my lot unfortunateYou in the least commiserateYou will not all abandon me.At first, I clung to secrecy:Believe me, of my present shameYou never would have heard the name,If the fond hope I could have fannedAt times, if only once a week,To see you by our fireside stand,To listen to the words you speak,Address to you one single phraseAnd then to meditate for daysOf one thing till again we met.’Tis said you are a misanthrope,In country solitude you mope,And we—an unattractive set—Can hearty welcome give alone.Why did you visit our poor place?Forgotten in the village lone,I never should have seen your faceAnd bitter torment never known.The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed downBy time (who can anticipate?)I had found my predestinate,Become a faithful wife and e’enA fond and careful mother been.Another! to none other IMy heart’s allegiance can resign,My doom has been pronounced on high,’Tis Heaven’s will and I am thine.The sum of my existence goneBut promise of our meeting gave,I feel thou wast by God sent downMy guardian angel to the grave.Thou didst to me in dreams appear,Unseen thou wast already dear.Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,I heard thy voice’s resonanceLong ago. Dream it cannot be!Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,I flushed up, stupefied I grew,And cried within myself: ’tis he!Is it not truth? in tones suppressedWith thee I conversed when I boreComfort and succour to the poor,And when I prayer to Heaven addressedTo ease the anguish of my breast.Nay! even as this instant fled,Was it not thou, O vision bright,That glimmered through the radiant nightAnd gently hovered o’er my head?Was it not thou who thus didst stoopTo whisper comfort, love and hope?Who art thou? Guardian angel sentOr torturer malevolent?Doubt and uncertainty decide:All this may be an empty dream,Delusions of a mind untried,Providence otherwise may deem—Then be it so! My destinyFrom henceforth I confide to thee!Lo! at thy feet my tears I pourAnd thy protection I implore.Imagine! Here alone am I!No one my anguish comprehends,At times my reason almost bends,And silently I here must die—But I await thee: scarce aliveMy heart with but one look revive;Or to disturb my dreams approachAlas! with merited reproach.’Tis finished. Horrible to read!With shame I shudder and with dread—But boldly I myself resign:Thine honour is my countersign!XXXIVTattiana moans and now she sighsAnd in her grasp the letter shakes,Even the rosy wafer driesUpon her tongue which fever bakes.Her head upon her breast declinesAnd an enchanting shoulder shinesFrom her half-open vest of night.But lo! already the moon’s lightIs waning. Yonder valley deepLooms gray behind the mist and mornSilvers the brook; the shepherd’s hornArouses rustics from their sleep.’Tis day, the family downstairs,But nought for this Tattiana cares.XXXVThe break of day she doth not see,But sits in bed with air depressed,Nor on the letter yet hath sheThe image of her seal impressed.But gray Phillippevna the doorOpened with care, and entering boreA cup of tea upon a tray.“’Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!My beauty, thou art ready too.My morning birdie, yesternightI was half silly with affright.But praised be God! in health art thou!The pains of night have wholly fled,Thy cheek is as a poppy red!”XXXVI“Ah! nurse, a favour do for me!”—“Command me, darling, what you choose”—“Do not—you might—suspicious be;But look you—ah! do not refuse.”“I call to witness God on high—”“Then send your grandson quietlyTo take this letter to O— Well!Unto our neighbour. Mind you tell—Command him not to say a word—I mean my name not to repeat.”“To whom is it to go, my sweet?Of late I have been quite absurd,—So many neighbours here exist—Am I to go through the whole list?”XXXVII“How dull you are this morning, nurse!”“My darling, growing old am I!In age the memory gets worse,But I was sharp in times gone by.In times gone by thy bare command—”“Oh! nurse, nurse, you don’t understand!What is thy cleverness to me?The letter is the thing, you see,—Onéguine’s letter!”—“Ah! the thing!Now don’t be cross with me, my soul,You know that I am now a fool—But why are your cheeks whitening?”“Nothing, good nurse, there’s nothing wrong,But send your grandson before long.”XXXVIIINo answer all that day was borne.Another passed; ’twas just the same.Pale as a ghost and dressed since mornTattiana waits. No answer came!Olga’s admirer came that day:“Tell me, why doth your comrade stay?”The hostess doth interrogate:“He hath neglected us of late.”—Tattiana blushed, her heart beat quick—“He promised here this day to ride,”Lenski unto the dame replied,“The post hath kept him, it is like.”Shamefaced, Tattiana downward lookedAs if he cruelly had joked!XXXIX’Twas dusk! Upon the table brightShrill sang thesamovarat eve,(44)The china teapot too ye mightIn clouds of steam above perceive.Into the cups already spedBy Olga’s hand distributedThe fragrant tea in darkling stream,And a boy handed round the cream.Tania doth by the casement lingerAnd breathes upon the chilly glass,Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,And traces with a slender fingerUpon its damp opacity,The mystic monogram, O. E.[Note 44: Thesamovar, i.e. “self-boiler,” is merely anurn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observea similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns whichare provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder incenter. The tea-pot is usually placed on the top of thesamovar.]XLIn the meantime her spirit sinks,Her weary eyes are filled with tears—A horse’s hoofs she hears—She shrinks!Nearer they come—Eugene appears!Ah! than a spectre from the deadMore swift the room Tattiana fled,From hall to yard and garden flies,Not daring to cast back her eyes.She fears and like an arrow rushesThrough park and meadow, wood and brake,The bridge and alley to the lake,Brambles she snaps and lilacs crushes,The flowerbeds skirts, the brook doth meet,Till out of breath upon a seatXLIShe sank.—“He’s here! Eugene is here!Merciful God, what will he deem?”Yet still her heart, which torments tear,Guards fondly hope’s uncertain dream.She waits, on fire her trembling frame—Will he pursue?—But no one came.She heard of servant-maids the note,Who in the orchards gathered fruit,Singing in chorus all the while.(This by command; for it was found,However cherries might abound,They disappeared by stealth and guile,So mouths they stopt with song, not fruit—Device of rural minds acute!)The Maidens’ SongYoung maidens, fair maidens,Friends and companions,Disport yourselves, maidens,Arouse yourselves, fair ones.Come sing we in chorusThe secrets of maidens.Allure the young gallantWith dance and with song.As we lure the young gallant,Espy him approaching,Disperse yourselves, darlings,And pelt him with cherries,With cherries, red currants,With raspberries, cherries.Approach not to hearkenTo secrets of virgins,Approach not to gaze atThe frolics of maidens.XLIIThey sang, whilst negligently seated,Attentive to the echoing sound,Tattiana with impatience waitedUntil her heart less high should bound—Till the fire in her cheek decreased;But tremor still her frame possessed,Nor did her blushes fade away,More crimson every moment they.Thus shines the wretched butterfly,With iridescent wing doth flapWhen captured in a schoolboy’s cap;Thus shakes the hare when suddenlyShe from the winter corn espiesA sportsman who in covert lies.XLIIIBut finally she heaves a sigh,And rising from her bench proceeds;But scarce had turned the corner nigh,Which to the neighbouring alley leads,When Eugene like a ghost did riseBefore her straight with roguish eyes.Tattiana faltered, and becameScarlet as burnt by inward flame.But this adventure’s consequenceTo-day, my friends, at any rate,I am not strong enough to state;I, after so much eloquence,Must take a walk and rest a bit—Some day I’ll somehow finish it.End of Canto the Third
The Country Damsel‘Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse’—MalfilatreCanto The Third[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.]I“Whither away? Deuce take the bard!”—“Good-bye, Onéguine, I must go.”—“I won’t detain you; but ’tis hardTo guess how you the eve pull through.”—“At Làrina’s.”—“Hem, that is queer!Pray is it not a tough affairThus to assassinate the eve?”—“Not at all.”—“That I can’t conceive!’Tis something of this sort I deem.In the first place, say, am I right?A Russian household simple quite,Who welcome guests with zeal extreme,Preserves and an eternal prattleAbout the rain and flax and cattle.”—II“No misery I see in that”—“Boredom, my friend, behold the ill—”“Your fashionable world I hate,Domestic life attracts me still,Where—”—“What! another eclogue spin?For God’s sake, Lenski, don’t begin!What! really going? ’Tis too bad!But Lenski, I should be so gladWould you to me this Phyllis show,Fair source of every fine idea,Verses and tears et cetera.Present me.”—“You are joking.”—“No.”—“Delighted.”—“When?”—“This very night.They will receive us with delight.”IIIWhilst homeward by the nearest routeOur heroes at full gallop sped,Can we not stealthily make outWhat they in conversation said?—“How now, Onéguine, yawning still?”—“’Tis habit, Lenski.”—“Is your illMore troublesome than usual?”—“No!How dark the night is getting though!Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!The drive becomes monotonous—Well! Làrina appears to usAn ancient lady full of grace.—That bilberry wine, I’m sore afraid,The deuce with my inside has played.”IV“Say, of the two which was Tattiana?”“She who with melancholy faceAnd silent as the maid Svetlana(30)Hard by the window took her place.”—“The younger, you’re in love with her!”“Well!”—“I the elder should prefer,Were I like you a bard by trade—In Olga’s face no life’s displayed.’Tis a Madonna of Vandyk,An oval countenance and pink,Yon silly moon upon the brinkOf the horizon she is like!”—Vladimir something curtly saidNor further comment that night made.[Note 30: “Svetlana,” a short poem by Joukóvski, upon which hisfame mainly rests. Joukóvski was an unblushing plagiarist. Manyeminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him,often without going through the form of acknowledging thesource of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot bepronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty isunquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger’s poem“Leonora,” which has found so many English translators. Notcontent with a single development of Burger’s ghastly productionthe Russian poet has directly paraphrased “Leonora” under itsown title, and also written a poem “Liudmila” in imitation of it.The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: Amaiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providenceand is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother.Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover’s spirit,to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunatemaiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamberthe unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs tohis own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute hiserrand. It is a repulsive subject. “Svetlana,” however, is moreagreeable than its prototype “Leonora,” inasmuch as the wholecatastrophe turns out a dream brought on by “sorcery,” during the“sviatki” or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamerawakes to hear the tinkling of her lover’s sledge approaching.“Svetlana” has been translated by Sir John Bowring.]VMeantime Onéguine’s apparitionAt Làrina’s abode producedQuite a sensation; the positionTo all good neighbours’ sport conduced.Endless conjectures all propoundAnd secretly their views expound.What jokes and guesses now abound,A beau is for Tattiana found!In fact, some people were assuredThe wedding-day had been arranged,But the date subsequently changedTill proper rings could be procured.On Lenski’s matrimonial fateThey long ago had held debate.VIOf course Tattiana was annoyedBy such allusions scandalous,Yet was her inmost soul o’erjoyedWith satisfaction marvellous,As in her heart the thought sank home,I am in love, my hour hath come!Thus in the earth the seed expandsObedient to warm Spring’s commands.Long time her young imaginationBy indolence and languor firedThe fated nutriment desired;And long internal agitationHad filled her youthful breast with gloom,She waited for—I don’t know whom!VIIThe fatal hour had come at last—She oped her eyes and cried: ’tis he!Alas! for now before her passedThe same warm vision constantly;Now all things round about repeatCeaselessly to the maiden sweetHis name: the tenderness of homeTiresome unto her hath becomeAnd the kind-hearted servitors:Immersed in melancholy thought,She hears of conversation noughtAnd hated casual visitors,Their coming which no man expects,And stay whose length none recollects.VIIINow with what eager interestShe the delicious novel reads,With what avidity and zestShe drinks in those seductive deeds!All the creations which belowFrom happy inspiration flow,The swain of Julia Wolmar,Malek Adel and De Linar,(31)Werther, rebellious martyr bold,And that unrivalled paragon,The sleep-compelling Grandison,Our tender dreamer had enrolledA single being: ’twas in fineNo other than Onéguine mine.[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin’stime: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famousMadame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of thispoem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but nowconsigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with thetransitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. Onehas now to search for the very names of most of the popularauthors of Pushkin’s day and rummage biographical dictionariesfor the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet’s primewas but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age hewould have been amongst us still. He was four years youngerthan the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson’spopularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]IXDreaming herself the heroineOf the romances she preferred,Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,—(32)Tattiana through the forest erred,And the bad book accompanies.Upon those pages she descriesHer passion’s faithful counterpart,Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.She heaves a sigh and deep intentOn raptures, sorrows not her own,She murmurs in an undertoneA letter for her hero meant:That hero, though his merit shone,Was certainly no Grandison.[Note 32: Referring to Richardson’s “Clarissa Harlowe,” “LaNouvelle Heloise,” and Madame de Stael’s “Delphine.”]XAlas! my friends, the years flit byAnd after them at headlong paceThe evanescent fashions flyIn motley and amusing chase.The world is ever altering!Farthingales, patches, were the thing,And courtier, fop, and usurerWould once in powdered wig appear;Time was, the poet’s tender quillIn hopes of everlasting fameA finished madrigal would frameOr couplets more ingenious still;Time was, a valiant general mightServe who could neither read nor write.XITime was, in style magniloquentAuthors replete with sacred fireTheir heroes used to representAll that perfection could desire;Ever by adverse fate oppressed,Their idols they were wont to investWith intellect, a taste refined,And handsome countenance combined,A heart wherein pure passion burnt;The excited hero in a triceWas ready for self-sacrifice,And in the final tome we learnt,Vice had due punishment awarded,Virtue was with a bride rewarded.XIIBut now our minds are mystifiedAnd Virtue acts as a narcotic,Vice in romance is glorifiedAnd triumphs in career erotic.The monsters of the British MuseDeprive our schoolgirls of repose,The idols of their adorationA Vampire fond of meditation,Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,The Eternal Jew or the CorsairOr the mysterious Sbogar.(33)Byron’s capricious phantasyCould in romantic mantle drapeE’en hopeless egoism’s dark shape.[Note 33: “Melmoth,” a romance by Maturin, and “Jean Sbogar,” byCh. Nodier. “The Vampire,” a tale published in 1819, waserroneously attributed to Lord Byron. “Salathiel; the EternalJew,” a romance by Geo. Croly.]XIIIMy friends, what means this odd digression?May be that I by heaven’s decreesShall abdicate the bard’s profession,And shall adopt some new caprice.Thus having braved Apollo’s rageWith humble prose I’ll fill my pageAnd a romance in ancient styleShall my declining years beguile;Nor shall my pen paint terriblyThe torment born of crime unseen,But shall depict the touching sceneOf Russian domesticity;I will descant on love’s sweet dream,The olden time shall be my theme.XIVOld people’s simple conversationsMy unpretending page shall fill,Their offspring’s innocent flirtationsBy the old lime-tree or the rill,Their Jealousy and separationAnd tears of reconciliation:Fresh cause of quarrel then I’ll find,But finally in wedlock bind.The passionate speeches I’ll repeat,Accents of rapture or despairI uttered to my lady fairLong ago, prostrate at her feet.Then they came easily enow,My tongue is somewhat rusty now.XVTattiana! sweet Tattiana, see!What bitter tears with thee I shed!Thou hast resigned thy destinyUnto a ruthless tyrant dread.Thou’lt suffer, dearest, but before,Hope with her fascinating powerTo dire contentment shall give birthAnd thou shalt taste the joys of earth.Thou’lt quaff love’s sweet envenomed stream,Fantastic images shall swarmIn thy imagination warm,Of happy meetings thou shalt dream,And wheresoe’er thy footsteps err,Confront thy fated torturer!XVILove’s pangs Tattiana agonize.She seeks the garden in her need—Sudden she stops, casts down her eyesAnd cares not farther to proceed;Her bosom heaves whilst crimson huesWith sudden flush her cheeks suffuse,Barely to draw her breath she seems,Her eye with fire unwonted gleams.And now ’tis night, the guardian moonSails her allotted course on high,And from the misty woodland nighThe nightingale trills forth her tune;Restless Tattiana sleepless layAnd thus unto her nurse did say:XVII“Nurse, ’tis so close I cannot rest.Open the window—sit by me.”“What ails thee, dear?”—“I feel depressed.Relate some ancient history.”“But which, my dear?—In days of yoreWithin my memory I boreMany an ancient legend whichIn monsters and fair dames was rich;But now my mind is desolate,What once I knew is clean forgot—Alas! how wretched now my lot!”“But tell me, nurse, can you relateThe days which to your youth belong?Were you in love when you were young?”—XVIII“Alack! Tattiana,” she replied,“We never loved in days of old,My mother-in-law who lately died(34)Had killed me had the like been told.”“How came you then to wed a man?”—“Why, as God ordered! My IvanWas younger than myself, my light,For I myself was thirteen quite;(35)The matchmaker a fortnight sped,Her suit before my parents pressing:At last my father gave his blessing,And bitter tears of fright I shed.Weeping they loosed my tresses long(36)And led me off to church with song.”[Note 34: A young married couple amongst Russian peasantsreside in the house of the bridegroom’s father till the“tiaglo,” or family circle is broken up by his death.][Note 35: Marriages amongst Russian serfs used formerly totake place at ridiculously early ages. Haxthausen assertsthat strong hearty peasant women were to be seen at workin the fields with their infant husbands in their arms. Theinducement lay in the fact that the “tiaglo” (see previousnote) received an additional lot of the communal land forevery male added to its number, though this could have formedan inducement in the southern and fertile provinces of Russiaonly, as it is believed that agriculture in the north is sounremunerative that land has often to be forced upon thepeasants, in order that the taxes, for which the whole Communeis responsible to Government, may be paid. The abuse of earlymarriages was regulated by Tsar Nicholas.][Note 36: Courtships were not unfrequently carried on in thelarger villages, which alone could support such an individual,by means of a “svakha,” or matchmaker. In Russia unmarriedgirls wear their hair in a single long plait or tail, “kossa;”the married women, on the other hand, in two, which are twistedinto the head-gear.]XIX“Then amongst strangers I was left—But I perceive thou dost not heed—”“Alas! dear nurse, my heart is cleft,Mortally sick I am indeed.Behold, my sobs I scarce restrain—”“My darling child, thou art in pain.—The Lord deliver her and save!Tell me at once what wilt thou have?I’ll sprinkle thee with holy water.—How thy hands burn!”—“Dear nurse, I’m well.I am—in love—you know—don’t tell!”“The Lord be with thee, O my daughter!”—And the old nurse a brief prayer saidAnd crossed with trembling hand the maid.XX“I am in love,” her whispers tellThe aged woman in her woe:“My heart’s delight, thou art not well.”—“I am in love, nurse! leave me now.”Behold! the moon was shining brightAnd showed with an uncertain lightTattiana’s beauty, pale with care,Her tears and her dishevelled hair;And on the footstool sitting downBeside our youthful heroine fair,A kerchief round her silver hairThe aged nurse in ample gown,(37)Whilst all creation seemed to dreamEnchanted by the moon’s pale beam.[Note 37: It is thus that I am compelled to render a femalegarment not known, so far as I am aware, to Western Europe.It is called by the natives “doushegreika,” that is to say,“warmer of the soul”—in French, chaufferette de l’âme. Itis a species of thick pelisse worn over the “sarafan,” orgown.]XXIBut borne in spirit far awayTattiana gazes on the moon,And starting suddenly doth say:“Nurse, leave me. I would be alone.Pen, paper bring: the table tooDraw near. I soon to sleep shall go—Good-night.” Behold! she is alone!’Tis silent—on her shines the moon—Upon her elbow she reclines,And Eugene ever in her soulIndites an inconsiderate scrollWherein love innocently pines.Now it is ready to be sent—For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?XXIII have known beauties cold and rawAs Winter in their purity,Striking the intellect with aweBy dull insensibility,And I admired their common senseAnd natural benevolence,But, I acknowledge, from them fled;For on their brows I trembling readThe inscription o’er the gates of Hell“Abandon hope for ever here!”(38)Love to inspire doth woe appearTo such—delightful to repel.Perchance upon the Neva e’enSimilar dames ye may have seen.[Note 38: A Russian annotator complains that the poet hasmutilated Dante’s famous line.]XXIIIAmid submissive herds of menVirgins miraculous I see,Who selfishly unmoved remainAlike by sighs and flattery.But what astonished do I findWhen harsh demeanour hath consignedA timid love to banishment?—On fresh allurements they are bent,At least by show of sympathy;At least their accents and their wordsAppear attuned to softer chords;And then with blind credulityThe youthful lover once againPursues phantasmagoria vain.XXIVWhy is Tattiana guiltier deemed?—Because in singleness of thoughtShe never of deception dreamedBut trusted the ideal she wrought?—Because her passion wanted art,Obeyed the impulses of heart?—Because she was so innocent,That Heaven her character had blentWith an imagination wild,With intellect and strong volitionAnd a determined disposition,An ardent heart and yet so mild?—Doth love’s incautiousness in herSo irremissible appear?XXVO ye whom tender love hath painedWithout the ken of parents both,Whose hearts responsive have remainedTo the impressions of our youth,The all-entrancing joys of love—Young ladies, if ye ever stroveThe mystic lines to tear awayA lover’s letter might convey,Or into bold hands anxiouslyHave e’er a precious tress consigned,Or even, silent and resigned,When separation’s hour drew nigh,Have felt love’s agitated kissWith tears, confused emotions, bliss,—XXVIWith unanimity complete,Condemn not weak Tattiana mine;Do not cold-bloodedly repeatThe sneers of critics superfine;And you, O maids immaculate,Whom vice, if named, doth agitateE’en as the presence of a snake,I the same admonition make.Who knows? with love’s consuming flamePerchance you also soon may burn,Then to some gallant in your turnWill be ascribed by treacherous FameThe triumph of a conquest new.The God of Love is after you!XXVIIA coquette loves by calculation,Tattiana’s love was quite sincere,A love which knew no limitation,Even as the love of children dear.She did not think “procrastinationEnhances love in estimationAnd thus secures the prey we seek.His vanity first let us piqueWith hope and then perplexity,Excruciate the heart and lateWith jealous fire resuscitate,Lest jaded with satiety,The artful prisoner should seekIncessantly his chains to break.”XXVIIII still a complication view,My country’s honour and reputeDemands that I translate for youThe letter which Tattiana wrote.At Russ she was by no means cleverAnd read our newspapers scarce ever,And in her native language shePossessed nor ease nor fluency,So she in French herself expressed.I cannot help it I declare,Though hitherto a lady ne’erIn Russ her love made manifest,And never hath our language proudIn correspondence been allowed.(39)[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late TsarFrench was the language of the Russian court and of Russianfashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the timethis poem was written literary warfare more or less open wasbeing waged between two hostile schools of Russian men ofletters. These consisted of theArzamass, or French school, towhich Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkinthe “Nestor of the Arzamass” belonged, and their opponents whodevoted themselves to the cultivation of the vernacular.]XXIXThey wish that ladies should, I hear,Learn Russian, but the Lord defend!I can’t conceive a little dearWith the “Well-Wisher” in her hand!(40)I ask, all ye who poets are,Is it not true? the objects fair,To whom ye for unnumbered crimesHad to compose in secret rhymes,To whom your hearts were consecrate,—Did they not all the Russian tongueWith little knowledge and that wrongIn charming fashion mutilate?Did not their lips with foreign speechThe native Russian tongue impeach?[Note 40: The “Blago-Namièrenni,” or “Well-Wisher,” was aninferior Russian newspaper of the day, much scoffed at bycontemporaries. The editor once excused himself for somegross error by pleading that he had been “on the loose.”]XXXGod grant I meet not at a ballOr at a promenade mayhap,A schoolmaster in yellow shawlOr a professor in tulle cap.As rosy lips without a smile,The Russian language I deem vileWithout grammatical mistakes.May be, and this my terror wakes,The fair of the next generation,As every journal now entreats,Will teach grammatical conceits,Introduce verse in conversation.But I—what is all this to me?Will to the old times faithful be.XXXISpeech careless, incorrect, but soft,With inexact pronunciationRaises within my breast as oftAs formerly much agitation.Repentance wields not now her spellAnd gallicisms I love as wellAs the sins of my youthful daysOr Bogdanovitch’s sweet lays.(41)But I must now employ my MuseWith the epistle of my fair;I promised!—Did I so?—Well, there!Now I am ready to refuse.I know that Parny’s tender pen(42)Is no more cherished amongst men.[Note 41: Hippolyte Bogdanovitch—b. 1743, d. 1803—thoughpossessing considerable poetical talent was like many otherRussian authors more remarkable for successful imitationthan for original genius. His most remarkable productionis “Doushenka,” “The Darling,” a composition somewhat inthe style of La Fontaine’s “Psyche.” Its merit consists ingraceful phraseology, and a strong pervading sense of humour.][Note 42: Parny—a French poet of the era of the first Napoleon,b. 1753, d. 1814. Introduced to the aged Voltaire duringhis last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands uponthe youth’s head and exclaimed: “Mon cher Tibulle.” He ischiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted theaffectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a studentat the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted apension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damagehis literary reputation by inditing an “epic” poem entitled“Goddam! Goddam! par un French—Dog.” It is descriptiveof the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, andtreats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to asuccessful conclusion and become matter of history. A goodaccount of the bard and his creations will be found in theSaturday Reviewof the 2d August 1879.]XXXIIBard of the “Feasts,” and mournful breast,(43)If thou wert sitting by my side,With this immoderate requestI should alarm our friendship tried:In one of thine enchanting laysTo russify the foreign phraseOf my impassioned heroine.Where art thou? Come! pretensions mineI yield with a low reverence;But lonely beneath Finnish skiesWhere melancholy rocks ariseHe wanders in his indolence;Careless of fame his spirit highHears not my importunity![Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and alyric poet of some originality and talent. The “Feasts” isa short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkinis therein praised as the best of companions “beside thebottle.”]XXXIIITattiana’s letter I possess,I guard it as a holy thing,And though I read it with distress,I’m o’er it ever pondering.Inspired by whom this tenderness,This gentle daring who could guess?Who this soft nonsense could impart,Imprudent prattle of the heart,Attractive in its banefulness?I cannot understand. But lo!A feeble version read below,A print without the picture’s grace,Or, as it were, the Freischutz’ scoreStrummed by a timid schoolgirl o’er.
Tattiana’s Letter to OnéguineI write to you! Is more required?Can lower depths beyond remain?’Tis in your power now, if desired,To crush me with a just disdain.But if my lot unfortunateYou in the least commiserateYou will not all abandon me.At first, I clung to secrecy:Believe me, of my present shameYou never would have heard the name,If the fond hope I could have fannedAt times, if only once a week,To see you by our fireside stand,To listen to the words you speak,Address to you one single phraseAnd then to meditate for daysOf one thing till again we met.’Tis said you are a misanthrope,In country solitude you mope,And we—an unattractive set—Can hearty welcome give alone.Why did you visit our poor place?Forgotten in the village lone,I never should have seen your faceAnd bitter torment never known.The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed downBy time (who can anticipate?)I had found my predestinate,Become a faithful wife and e’enA fond and careful mother been.Another! to none other IMy heart’s allegiance can resign,My doom has been pronounced on high,’Tis Heaven’s will and I am thine.The sum of my existence goneBut promise of our meeting gave,I feel thou wast by God sent downMy guardian angel to the grave.Thou didst to me in dreams appear,Unseen thou wast already dear.Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,I heard thy voice’s resonanceLong ago. Dream it cannot be!Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,I flushed up, stupefied I grew,And cried within myself: ’tis he!Is it not truth? in tones suppressedWith thee I conversed when I boreComfort and succour to the poor,And when I prayer to Heaven addressedTo ease the anguish of my breast.Nay! even as this instant fled,Was it not thou, O vision bright,That glimmered through the radiant nightAnd gently hovered o’er my head?Was it not thou who thus didst stoopTo whisper comfort, love and hope?Who art thou? Guardian angel sentOr torturer malevolent?Doubt and uncertainty decide:All this may be an empty dream,Delusions of a mind untried,Providence otherwise may deem—Then be it so! My destinyFrom henceforth I confide to thee!Lo! at thy feet my tears I pourAnd thy protection I implore.Imagine! Here alone am I!No one my anguish comprehends,At times my reason almost bends,And silently I here must die—But I await thee: scarce aliveMy heart with but one look revive;Or to disturb my dreams approachAlas! with merited reproach.’Tis finished. Horrible to read!With shame I shudder and with dread—But boldly I myself resign:Thine honour is my countersign!XXXIVTattiana moans and now she sighsAnd in her grasp the letter shakes,Even the rosy wafer driesUpon her tongue which fever bakes.Her head upon her breast declinesAnd an enchanting shoulder shinesFrom her half-open vest of night.But lo! already the moon’s lightIs waning. Yonder valley deepLooms gray behind the mist and mornSilvers the brook; the shepherd’s hornArouses rustics from their sleep.’Tis day, the family downstairs,But nought for this Tattiana cares.XXXVThe break of day she doth not see,But sits in bed with air depressed,Nor on the letter yet hath sheThe image of her seal impressed.But gray Phillippevna the doorOpened with care, and entering boreA cup of tea upon a tray.“’Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!My beauty, thou art ready too.My morning birdie, yesternightI was half silly with affright.But praised be God! in health art thou!The pains of night have wholly fled,Thy cheek is as a poppy red!”XXXVI“Ah! nurse, a favour do for me!”—“Command me, darling, what you choose”—“Do not—you might—suspicious be;But look you—ah! do not refuse.”“I call to witness God on high—”“Then send your grandson quietlyTo take this letter to O— Well!Unto our neighbour. Mind you tell—Command him not to say a word—I mean my name not to repeat.”“To whom is it to go, my sweet?Of late I have been quite absurd,—So many neighbours here exist—Am I to go through the whole list?”XXXVII“How dull you are this morning, nurse!”“My darling, growing old am I!In age the memory gets worse,But I was sharp in times gone by.In times gone by thy bare command—”“Oh! nurse, nurse, you don’t understand!What is thy cleverness to me?The letter is the thing, you see,—Onéguine’s letter!”—“Ah! the thing!Now don’t be cross with me, my soul,You know that I am now a fool—But why are your cheeks whitening?”“Nothing, good nurse, there’s nothing wrong,But send your grandson before long.”XXXVIIINo answer all that day was borne.Another passed; ’twas just the same.Pale as a ghost and dressed since mornTattiana waits. No answer came!Olga’s admirer came that day:“Tell me, why doth your comrade stay?”The hostess doth interrogate:“He hath neglected us of late.”—Tattiana blushed, her heart beat quick—“He promised here this day to ride,”Lenski unto the dame replied,“The post hath kept him, it is like.”Shamefaced, Tattiana downward lookedAs if he cruelly had joked!XXXIX’Twas dusk! Upon the table brightShrill sang thesamovarat eve,(44)The china teapot too ye mightIn clouds of steam above perceive.Into the cups already spedBy Olga’s hand distributedThe fragrant tea in darkling stream,And a boy handed round the cream.Tania doth by the casement lingerAnd breathes upon the chilly glass,Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,And traces with a slender fingerUpon its damp opacity,The mystic monogram, O. E.[Note 44: Thesamovar, i.e. “self-boiler,” is merely anurn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observea similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns whichare provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder incenter. The tea-pot is usually placed on the top of thesamovar.]XLIn the meantime her spirit sinks,Her weary eyes are filled with tears—A horse’s hoofs she hears—She shrinks!Nearer they come—Eugene appears!Ah! than a spectre from the deadMore swift the room Tattiana fled,From hall to yard and garden flies,Not daring to cast back her eyes.She fears and like an arrow rushesThrough park and meadow, wood and brake,The bridge and alley to the lake,Brambles she snaps and lilacs crushes,The flowerbeds skirts, the brook doth meet,Till out of breath upon a seatXLIShe sank.—“He’s here! Eugene is here!Merciful God, what will he deem?”Yet still her heart, which torments tear,Guards fondly hope’s uncertain dream.She waits, on fire her trembling frame—Will he pursue?—But no one came.She heard of servant-maids the note,Who in the orchards gathered fruit,Singing in chorus all the while.(This by command; for it was found,However cherries might abound,They disappeared by stealth and guile,So mouths they stopt with song, not fruit—Device of rural minds acute!)
The Maidens’ SongYoung maidens, fair maidens,Friends and companions,Disport yourselves, maidens,Arouse yourselves, fair ones.Come sing we in chorusThe secrets of maidens.Allure the young gallantWith dance and with song.As we lure the young gallant,Espy him approaching,Disperse yourselves, darlings,And pelt him with cherries,With cherries, red currants,With raspberries, cherries.Approach not to hearkenTo secrets of virgins,Approach not to gaze atThe frolics of maidens.XLIIThey sang, whilst negligently seated,Attentive to the echoing sound,Tattiana with impatience waitedUntil her heart less high should bound—Till the fire in her cheek decreased;But tremor still her frame possessed,Nor did her blushes fade away,More crimson every moment they.Thus shines the wretched butterfly,With iridescent wing doth flapWhen captured in a schoolboy’s cap;Thus shakes the hare when suddenlyShe from the winter corn espiesA sportsman who in covert lies.XLIIIBut finally she heaves a sigh,And rising from her bench proceeds;But scarce had turned the corner nigh,Which to the neighbouring alley leads,When Eugene like a ghost did riseBefore her straight with roguish eyes.Tattiana faltered, and becameScarlet as burnt by inward flame.But this adventure’s consequenceTo-day, my friends, at any rate,I am not strong enough to state;I, after so much eloquence,Must take a walk and rest a bit—Some day I’ll somehow finish it.
End of Canto the Third