No More Learning

And a guitar produced we see,
And Heavens! warbled forth we hear:
_Come to my golden palace, dear_! (25)

[Note 25: From the lay of the _Russalka_, i. e. mermaid of the Dnieper. ]

XIII

But Lenski, having no desire
Vows matrimonial to break,
With our Oneguine doth aspire
Acquaintance instantly to make.
They met. Earth, water, prose and verse,
Or ice and flame, are not diverse
If they were similar in aught.
At first such contradictions wrought
Mutual repulsion and ennui,
But grown familiar side by side
On horseback every day they ride--
Inseparable soon they be.
Thus oft--this I myself confess--
Men become friends from idleness.

XIV

But even thus not now-a-days!
In spite of common sense we're wont
As cyphers others to appraise,
Ourselves as unities to count;
And like Napoleons each of us
A million bipeds reckons thus
One instrument for his own use--
Feeling is silly, dangerous.
Eugene, more tolerant than this
(Though certainly mankind he knew
And usually despised it too),
Exceptionless as no rule is,
A few of different temper deemed,
Feeling in others much esteemed.

XV

With smiling face he Lenski hears;
The poet's fervid conversation
And judgment which unsteady veers
And eye which gleams with inspiration--
All this was novel to Eugene.
The cold reply with gloomy mien
He oft upon his lips would curb,
Thinking: 'tis foolish to disturb
This evanescent boyish bliss.
Time without me will lessons give,
So meantime let him joyous live
And deem the world perfection is!
Forgive the fever youth inspires,
And youthful madness, youthful fires.

XVI

The gulf between them was so vast,
Debate commanded ample food--
The laws of generations past,
The fruits of science, evil, good,
The prejudices all men have,
The fatal secrets of the grave,
And life and fate in turn selected
Were to analysis subjected.
The fervid poet would recite,
Carried away by ecstasy,
Fragments of northern poetry,
Whilst Eugene condescending quite,
Though scarcely following what was said,
Attentive listened to the lad.

XVII

But more the passions occupy
The converse of our hermits twain,
And, heaving a regretful sigh,
An exile from their troublous reign,
Eugene would speak regarding these.
Thrice happy who their agonies
Hath suffered but indifferent grown,
Still happier he who ne'er hath known!
By absence who hath chilled his love,
His hate by slander, and who spends
Existence without wife or friends,
Whom jealous transport cannot move,
And who the rent-roll of his race
Ne'er trusted to the treacherous ace.

XVIII

When, wise at length, we seek repose
Beneath the flag of Quietude,
When Passion's fire no longer glows
And when her violence reviewed--
Each gust of temper, silly word,
Seems so unnatural and absurd:
Reduced with effort unto sense,
We hear with interest intense
The accents wild of other's woes,
They stir the heart as heretofore.
So ancient warriors, battles o'er,
A curious interest disclose
In yarns of youthful troopers gay,
Lost in the hamlet far away.

XIX

And in addition youth is flame
And cannot anything conceal,
Is ever ready to proclaim
The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.
Deeming himself a veteran scarred
In love's campaigns Oneguine heard
With quite a lachrymose expression
The youthful poet's fond confession.
He with an innocence extreme
His inner consciousness laid bare,
And Eugene soon discovered there
The story of his young love's dream,
Where plentifully feelings flow
Which we experienced long ago.

XX

Alas! he loved as in our times
Men love no more, as only the
Mad spirit of the man who rhymes
Is still condemned in love to be;
One image occupied his mind,
Constant affection intertwined
And an habitual sense of pain;
And distance interposed in vain,
Nor years of separation all
Nor homage which the Muse demands
Nor beauties of far distant lands
Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball
His constant soul could ever tire,
Which glowed with virginal desire.

XXI

When but a boy he Olga loved
Unknown as yet the aching heart,
He witnessed tenderly and moved
Her girlish gaiety and sport.
Beneath the sheltering oak tree's shade
He with his little maiden played,
Whilst the fond parents, friends thro' life,
Dreamed in the future man and wife.
And full of innocent delight,
As in a thicket's humble shade,
Beneath her parents' eyes the maid
Grew like a lily pure and white,
Unseen in thick and tangled grass
By bee and butterfly which pass.

XXII

'Twas she who first within his breast
Poetic transport did infuse,
And thoughts of Olga first impressed
A mournful temper on his Muse.
Farewell! thou golden days of love!
'Twas then he loved the tangled grove
And solitude and calm delight,
The moon, the stars, and shining night--
The moon, the lamp of heaven above,
To whom we used to consecrate
A promenade in twilight late
With tears which secret sufferers love--
But now in her effulgence pale
A substitute for lamps we hail!

XXIII

Obedient she had ever been
And modest, cheerful as the morn,
As a poetic life serene,
Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn.
Her eyes were of cerulean blue,
Her locks were of a golden hue,
Her movements, voice and figure slight,
All about Olga--to a light
Romance of love I pray refer,
You'll find her portrait there, I vouch;
I formerly admired her much
But finally grew bored by her.
But with her elder sister I
Must now my stanzas occupy.

XXIV

Tattiana was her appellation.
We are the first who such a name
In pages of a love narration
With such a perversity proclaim.
But wherefore not? --'Tis pleasant, nice,
Euphonious, though I know a spice
It carries of antiquity
And of the attic. Honestly,
We must admit but little taste
Doth in us or our names appear(26)
(I speak not of our poems here),
And education runs to waste,
Endowing us from out her store
With affectation,--nothing more.

[Note 26: The Russian annotator remarks: "The most euphonious
Greek names, e. g. Agathon, Philotas, Theodora, Thekla, etc. ,
are used amongst us by the lower classes only. "]

XXV

And so Tattiana was her name,
Nor by her sister's brilliancy
Nor by her beauty she became
The cynosure of every eye.
Shy, silent did the maid appear
As in the timid forest deer,
Even beneath her parents' roof
Stood as estranged from all aloof,
Nearest and dearest knew not how
To fawn upon and love express;
A child devoid of childishness
To romp and play she ne'er would go:
Oft staring through the window pane
Would she in silence long remain.

XXVI

Contemplativeness, her delight,
E'en from her cradle's earliest dream,
Adorned with many a vision bright
Of rural life the sluggish stream;
Ne'er touched her fingers indolent
The needle nor, o'er framework bent,
Would she the canvas tight enrich
With gay design and silken stitch.
Desire to rule ye may observe
When the obedient doll in sport
An infant maiden doth exhort
Polite demeanour to preserve,
Gravely repeating to another
Recent instructions of its mother.

XXVII

But Tania ne'er displayed a passion
For dolls, e'en from her earliest years,
And gossip of the town and fashion
She ne'er repeated unto hers.
Strange unto her each childish game,
But when the winter season came
And dark and drear the evenings were,
Terrible tales she loved to hear.
And when for Olga nurse arrayed
In the broad meadow a gay rout,
All the young people round about,
At prisoner's base she never played.
Their noisy laugh her soul annoyed,
Their giddy sports she ne'er enjoyed.

XXVIII

She loved upon the balcony
To anticipate the break of day,
When on the pallid eastern sky
The starry beacons fade away,
The horizon luminous doth grow,
Morning's forerunners, breezes blow
And gradually day unfolds.
In winter, when Night longer holds
A hemisphere beneath her sway,
Longer the East inert reclines
Beneath the moon which dimly shines,
And calmly sleeps the hours away,
At the same hour she oped her eyes
And would by candlelight arise.

XXIX

Romances pleased her from the first,
Her all in all did constitute;
In love adventures she was versed,
Rousseau and Richardson to boot.
Not a bad fellow was her father
Though superannuated rather;
In books he saw nought to condemn
But, as he never opened them,
Viewed them with not a little scorn,
And gave himself but little pain
His daughter's book to ascertain
Which 'neath her pillow lay till morn.
His wife was also mad upon
The works of Mr. Richardson.

XXX

She was thus fond of Richardson
Not that she had his works perused,
Or that adoring Grandison
That rascal Lovelace she abused;
But that Princess Pauline of old,
Her Moscow cousin, often told
The tale of these romantic men;
Her husband was a bridegroom then,
And she despite herself would waste
Sighs on another than her lord
Whose qualities appeared to afford
More satisfaction to her taste.
Her Grandison was in the Guard,
A noted fop who gambled hard.

XXXI

Like his, her dress was always nice,
The height of fashion, fitting tight,
But contrary to her advice
The girl in marriage they unite.
Then, her distraction to allay,
The bridegroom sage without delay
Removed her to his country seat,
Where God alone knows whom she met.
She struggled hard at first thus pent,
Night separated from her spouse,
Then became busy with the house,
First reconciled and then content;
Habit was given us in distress
By Heaven in lieu of happiness.

XXXII

Habit alleviates the grief
Inseparable from our lot;
This great discovery relief
And consolation soon begot.
And then she soon 'twixt work and leisure
Found out the secret how at pleasure
To dominate her worthy lord,
And harmony was soon restored.
The workpeople she superintended,
Mushrooms for winter salted down,
Kept the accounts, shaved many a crown,(*)
The bath on Saturdays attended,
When angry beat her maids, I grieve,
And all without her husband's leave.

[Note: The serfs destined for military service used to have
a portion of their heads shaved as a distinctive mark. ]

XXXIII

In her friends' albums, time had been,
With blood instead of ink she scrawled,
Baptized Prascovia Pauline,
And in her conversation drawled.
She wore her corset tightly bound,
The Russian N with nasal sound
She would pronounce _a la Francaise_;
But soon she altered all her ways,
Corset and album and Pauline,
Her sentimental verses all,
She soon forgot, began to call
Akulka who was once Celine,
And had with waddling in the end
Her caps and night-dresses to mend.

XXXIV

As for her spouse he loved her dearly,
In her affairs ne'er interfered,
Entrusted all to her sincerely,
In dressing-gown at meals appeared.
Existence calmly sped along,
And oft at eventide a throng
Of friends unceremonious would
Assemble from the neighbourhood:
They growl a bit--they scandalise--
They crack a feeble joke and smile--
Thus the time passes and meanwhile
Olga the tea must supervise--
'Tis time for supper, now for bed,
And soon the friendly troop hath fled.

XXXV

They in a peaceful life preserved
Customs by ages sanctified,
Strictly the Carnival observed,
Ate Russian pancakes at Shrovetide,
Twice in the year to fast were bound,
Of whirligigs were very fond,
Of Christmas carols, song and dance;
When people with long countenance
On Trinity Sunday yawned at prayer,
Three tears they dropt with humble mein
Upon a bunch of lovage green;
_Kvass_ needful was to them as air;
On guests their servants used to wait
By rank as settled by the State. (27)

[Note 27: The foregoing stanza requires explanation. Russian
pancakes or "blinni" are consumed vigorously by the lower
orders during the Carnival. At other times it is difficult
to procure them, at any rate in the large towns.

The Russian peasants are childishly fond of whirligigs, which
are also much in vogue during the Carnival.

"Christmas Carols" is not an exact equivalent for the Russian
phrase. "Podbliudni pessni," are literally "dish songs," or
songs used with dishes (of water) during the "sviatki" or Holy
Nights, which extend from Christmas to Twelfth Night, for
purposes of divination. Reference will again be made to this
superstitious practice, which is not confined to Russia. See Note 52.

"Song and dance," the well-known "khorovod," in which the dance
proceeds to vocal music.

"Lovage," the _Levisticum officinalis_, is a hardy plant growing
very far north, though an inhabitant of our own kitchen gardens.
The passage containing the reference to the three tears and
Trinity Sunday was at first deemed irreligious by the Russian
censors, and consequently expunged.

_Kvass_ is of various sorts: there is the common _kvass_ of
fermented rye used by the peasantry, and the more expensive
_kvass_ of the restaurants, iced and flavoured with various fruits.

The final two lines refer to the "Tchin," or Russian social
hierarchy. There are fourteen grades in the Tchin assigning
relative rank and precedence to the members of the various
departments of the State, civil, military, naval, court,
scientific and educational. The military and naval grades from
the 14th up to the 7th confer personal nobility only, whilst
above the 7th hereditary rank is acquired. In the remaining
departments, civil or otherwise, personal nobility is only
attained with the 9th grade, hereditary with the 4th. ]

XXXVI

Thus age approached, the common doom,
And death before the husband wide
Opened the portals of the tomb
And a new diadem supplied. (28)
Just before dinner-time he slept,
By neighbouring families bewept,
By children and by faithful wife
With deeper woe than others' grief.
He was an honest gentleman,
And where at last his bones repose
The epitaph on marble shows:
_Demetrius Larine, sinful man,
Servant of God and brigadier,
Enjoyeth peaceful slumber here_.

[Note 28: A play upon the word "venetz," crown, which also
signifies a nimbus or glory, and is the symbol of marriage
from the fact of two gilt crowns being held over the heads
of the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony. The literal
meaning of the passage is therefore: his earthly marriage
was dissolved and a heavenly one was contracted. ]

XXXVII

To his Penates now returned,
Vladimir Lenski visited
His neighbour's lowly tomb and mourned
Above the ashes of the dead.
There long time sad at heart he stayed:
"Poor Yorick," mournfully he said,
"How often in thine arms I lay;
How with thy medal I would play,
The Medal Otchakoff conferred! (29)
To me he would his Olga give,
Would whisper: shall I so long live? "--
And by a genuine sorrow stirred,
Lenski his pencil-case took out
And an elegiac poem wrote.

[Note 29: The fortress of Otchakoff was taken by storm on the
18th December 1788 by a Russian army under Prince Potemkin.
Thirty thousand Turks are said to have perished during the
assault and ensuing massacre. ]

XXXVIII

Likewise an epitaph with tears
He writes upon his parents' tomb,
And thus ancestral dust reveres.
Oh! on the fields of life how bloom
Harvests of souls unceasingly
By Providence's dark decree!
They blossom, ripen and they fall
And others rise ephemeral!
Thus our light race grows up and lives,
A moment effervescing stirs,
Then seeks ancestral sepulchres,
The appointed hour arrives, arrives!
And our successors soon shall drive
Us from the world wherein we live.

XXXIX

Meantime, drink deeply of the flow
Of frivolous existence, friends;
Its insignificance I know
And care but little for its ends.
To dreams I long have closed mine eyes,
Yet sometimes banished hopes will rise
And agitate my heart again;
And thus it is 'twould cause me pain
Without the faintest trace to leave
This world. I do not praise desire,
Yet still apparently aspire
My mournful fate in verse to weave,
That like a friendly voice its tone
Rescue me from oblivion.

XL

Perchance some heart 'twill agitate,
And then the stanzas of my theme
Will not, preserved by kindly Fate,
Perish absorbed by Lethe's stream.
Then it may be, O flattering tale,
Some future ignoramus shall
My famous portrait indicate
And cry: he was a poet great!
My gratitude do not disdain,
Admirer of the peaceful Muse,
Whose memory doth not refuse
My light productions to retain,
Whose hands indulgently caress
The bays of age and helplessness.


End of Canto the Second.


CANTO THE THIRD

The Country Damsel

'Elle etait fille, elle etait amoureuse'--Malfilatre

Canto The Third

[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824. ]

I

"Whither away? Deuce take the bard! "--
"Good-bye, Oneguine, I must go. "--
"I won't detain you; but 'tis hard
To guess how you the eve pull through. "--
"At Larina's. "--"Hem, that is queer!
Pray is it not a tough affair
Thus 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 prattle
About 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 glad
Would 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. "

III

Whilst homeward by the nearest route
Our heroes at full gallop sped,
Can we not stealthily make out
What they in conversation said? --
"How now, Oneguine, yawning still? "--
"'Tis habit, Lenski. "--"Is your ill
More troublesome than usual? "--"No!
How dark the night is getting though!
Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!
The drive becomes monotonous--
Well! Larina appears to us
An 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 face
And 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 brink
Of the horizon she is like! "--
Vladimir something curtly said
Nor further comment that night made.

[Note 30: "Svetlana," a short poem by Joukovski, upon which his
fame mainly rests. Joukovski was an unblushing plagiarist. Many
eminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him,
often without going through the form of acknowledging the
source of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot be
pronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty is
unquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger's poem
"Leonora," which has found so many English translators. Not
content with a single development of Burger's ghastly production
the Russian poet has directly paraphrased "Leonora" under its
own title, and also written a poem "Liudmila" in imitation of it.
The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: A
maiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providence
and 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 unfortunate
maiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamber
the unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs to
his own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute his
errand. It is a repulsive subject. "Svetlana," however, is more
agreeable than its prototype "Leonora," inasmuch as the whole
catastrophe turns out a dream brought on by "sorcery," during the
"sviatki" or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamer
awakes to hear the tinkling of her lover's sledge approaching.
"Svetlana" has been translated by Sir John Bowring. ]

V

Meantime Oneguine's apparition
At Larina's abode produced
Quite a sensation; the position
To all good neighbours' sport conduced.
Endless conjectures all propound
And secretly their views expound.
What jokes and guesses now abound,
A beau is for Tattiana found!
In fact, some people were assured
The wedding-day had been arranged,
But the date subsequently changed
Till proper rings could be procured.
On Lenski's matrimonial fate
They long ago had held debate.

VI

Of course Tattiana was annoyed
By such allusions scandalous,
Yet was her inmost soul o'erjoyed
With satisfaction marvellous,
As in her heart the thought sank home,
I am in love, my hour hath come!
Thus in the earth the seed expands
Obedient to warm Spring's commands.
Long time her young imagination
By indolence and languor fired
The fated nutriment desired;
And long internal agitation
Had filled her youthful breast with gloom,
She waited for--I don't know whom!

VII

The fatal hour had come at last--
She oped her eyes and cried: 'tis he!
Alas! for now before her passed
The same warm vision constantly;
Now all things round about repeat
Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet
His name: the tenderness of home
Tiresome unto her hath become
And the kind-hearted servitors:
Immersed in melancholy thought,
She hears of conversation nought
And hated casual visitors,
Their coming which no man expects,
And stay whose length none recollects.

VIII

Now with what eager interest
She the delicious novel reads,
With what avidity and zest
She drinks in those seductive deeds!
All the creations which below
From 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 enrolled
A single being: 'twas in fine
No other than Oneguine mine.

[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin's
time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous
Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this
poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now
consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the
transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One
has now to search for the very names of most of the popular
authors of Pushkin's day and rummage biographical dictionaries
for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet's prime
was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he
would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger
than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson's
popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all. ]

IX

Dreaming herself the heroine
Of the romances she preferred,
Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,--(32)
Tattiana through the forest erred,
And the bad book accompanies.
Upon those pages she descries
Her passion's faithful counterpart,
Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.
She heaves a sigh and deep intent
On raptures, sorrows not her own,
She murmurs in an undertone
A letter for her hero meant:
That hero, though his merit shone,
Was certainly no Grandison.

[Note 32: Referring to Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," "La
Nouvelle Heloise," and Madame de Stael's "Delphine. "]

X

Alas! my friends, the years flit by
And after them at headlong pace
The evanescent fashions fly
In motley and amusing chase.
The world is ever altering!
Farthingales, patches, were the thing,
And courtier, fop, and usurer
Would once in powdered wig appear;
Time was, the poet's tender quill
In hopes of everlasting fame
A finished madrigal would frame
Or couplets more ingenious still;
Time was, a valiant general might
Serve who could neither read nor write.

XI

Time was, in style magniloquent
Authors replete with sacred fire
Their heroes used to represent
All that perfection could desire;
Ever by adverse fate oppressed,
Their idols they were wont to invest
With intellect, a taste refined,
And handsome countenance combined,
A heart wherein pure passion burnt;
The excited hero in a trice
Was ready for self-sacrifice,
And in the final tome we learnt,
Vice had due punishment awarded,
Virtue was with a bride rewarded.

XII

But now our minds are mystified
And Virtue acts as a narcotic,
Vice in romance is glorified
And triumphs in career erotic.
The monsters of the British Muse
Deprive our schoolgirls of repose,
The idols of their adoration
A Vampire fond of meditation,
Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,
The Eternal Jew or the Corsair
Or the mysterious Sbogar. (33)
Byron's capricious phantasy
Could in romantic mantle drape
E'en hopeless egoism's dark shape.

[Note 33: "Melmoth," a romance by Maturin, and "Jean Sbogar," by
Ch. Nodier. "The Vampire," a tale published in 1819, was
erroneously attributed to Lord Byron. "Salathiel; the Eternal
Jew," a romance by Geo. Croly. ]

XIII

My friends, what means this odd digression?
May be that I by heaven's decrees
Shall abdicate the bard's profession,
And shall adopt some new caprice.
Thus having braved Apollo's rage
With humble prose I'll fill my page
And a romance in ancient style
Shall my declining years beguile;
Nor shall my pen paint terribly
The torment born of crime unseen,
But shall depict the touching scene
Of Russian domesticity;
I will descant on love's sweet dream,
The olden time shall be my theme.

XIV

Old people's simple conversations
My unpretending page shall fill,
Their offspring's innocent flirtations
By the old lime-tree or the rill,
Their Jealousy and separation
And 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 despair
I uttered to my lady fair
Long ago, prostrate at her feet.
Then they came easily enow,
My tongue is somewhat rusty now.

XV

Tattiana! sweet Tattiana, see!
What bitter tears with thee I shed!
Thou hast resigned thy destiny
Unto a ruthless tyrant dread.
Thou'lt suffer, dearest, but before,
Hope with her fascinating power
To dire contentment shall give birth
And thou shalt taste the joys of earth.
Thou'lt quaff love's sweet envenomed stream,
Fantastic images shall swarm
In thy imagination warm,
Of happy meetings thou shalt dream,
And wheresoe'er thy footsteps err,
Confront thy fated torturer!

XVI

Love's pangs Tattiana agonize.
She seeks the garden in her need--
Sudden she stops, casts down her eyes
And cares not farther to proceed;
Her bosom heaves whilst crimson hues
With sudden flush her cheeks suffuse,
Barely to draw her breath she seems,
Her eye with fire unwonted gleams.
And now 'tis night, the guardian moon
Sails her allotted course on high,
And from the misty woodland nigh
The nightingale trills forth her tune;
Restless Tattiana sleepless lay
And 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 yore
Within my memory I bore
Many an ancient legend which
In 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 relate
The 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 Ivan
Was 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 peasants
reside 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 to
take place at ridiculously early ages. Haxthausen asserts
that strong hearty peasant women were to be seen at work
in the fields with their infant husbands in their arms. The
inducement lay in the fact that the "tiaglo" (see previous
note) received an additional lot of the communal land for
every male added to its number, though this could have formed
an inducement in the southern and fertile provinces of Russia
only, as it is believed that agriculture in the north is so
unremunerative that land has often to be forced upon the
peasants, in order that the taxes, for which the whole Commune
is responsible to Government, may be paid. The abuse of early
marriages was regulated by Tsar Nicholas. ]

[Note 36: Courtships were not unfrequently carried on in the
larger villages, which alone could support such an individual,
by means of a "svakha," or matchmaker. In Russia unmarried
girls wear their hair in a single long plait or tail, "kossa;"
the married women, on the other hand, in two, which are twisted
into 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 said
And crossed with trembling hand the maid.

XX

"I am in love," her whispers tell
The 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 bright
And showed with an uncertain light
Tattiana's beauty, pale with care,
Her tears and her dishevelled hair;
And on the footstool sitting down
Beside our youthful heroine fair,
A kerchief round her silver hair
The aged nurse in ample gown,(37)
Whilst all creation seemed to dream
Enchanted by the moon's pale beam.

[Note 37: It is thus that I am compelled to render a female
garment 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'ame. It
is a species of thick pelisse worn over the "sarafan," or
gown. ]

XXI

But borne in spirit far away
Tattiana gazes on the moon,
And starting suddenly doth say:
"Nurse, leave me. I would be alone.
Pen, paper bring: the table too
Draw 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 soul
Indites an inconsiderate scroll
Wherein love innocently pines.
Now it is ready to be sent--
For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?

XXII

I have known beauties cold and raw
As Winter in their purity,
Striking the intellect with awe
By dull insensibility,
And I admired their common sense
And natural benevolence,
But, I acknowledge, from them fled;
For on their brows I trembling read
The inscription o'er the gates of Hell
"Abandon hope for ever here! "(38)
Love to inspire doth woe appear
To such--delightful to repel.
Perchance upon the Neva e'en
Similar dames ye may have seen.

[Note 38: A Russian annotator complains that the poet has
mutilated Dante's famous line. ]

XXIII

Amid submissive herds of men
Virgins miraculous I see,
Who selfishly unmoved remain
Alike by sighs and flattery.
But what astonished do I find
When harsh demeanour hath consigned
A timid love to banishment? --
On fresh allurements they are bent,
At least by show of sympathy;
At least their accents and their words
Appear attuned to softer chords;
And then with blind credulity
The youthful lover once again
Pursues phantasmagoria vain.

XXIV

Why is Tattiana guiltier deemed? --
Because in singleness of thought
She never of deception dreamed
But 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 blent
With an imagination wild,
With intellect and strong volition
And a determined disposition,
An ardent heart and yet so mild? --
Doth love's incautiousness in her
So irremissible appear?

XXV

O ye whom tender love hath pained
Without the ken of parents both,
Whose hearts responsive have remained
To the impressions of our youth,
The all-entrancing joys of love--
Young ladies, if ye ever strove
The mystic lines to tear away
A lover's letter might convey,
Or into bold hands anxiously
Have e'er a precious tress consigned,
Or even, silent and resigned,
When separation's hour drew nigh,
Have felt love's agitated kiss
With tears, confused emotions, bliss,--

XXVI

With unanimity complete,
Condemn not weak Tattiana mine;
Do not cold-bloodedly repeat
The sneers of critics superfine;
And you, O maids immaculate,
Whom vice, if named, doth agitate
E'en as the presence of a snake,
I the same admonition make.
Who knows? with love's consuming flame
Perchance you also soon may burn,
Then to some gallant in your turn
Will be ascribed by treacherous Fame
The triumph of a conquest new.
The God of Love is after you!

XXVII

A 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 "procrastination
Enhances love in estimation
And thus secures the prey we seek.
His vanity first let us pique
With hope and then perplexity,
Excruciate the heart and late
With jealous fire resuscitate,
Lest jaded with satiety,
The artful prisoner should seek
Incessantly his chains to break. "

XXVIII

I still a complication view,
My country's honour and repute
Demands that I translate for you
The letter which Tattiana wrote.
At Russ she was by no means clever
And read our newspapers scarce ever,
And in her native language she
Possessed nor ease nor fluency,
So she in French herself expressed.
I cannot help it I declare,
Though hitherto a lady ne'er
In Russ her love made manifest,
And never hath our language proud
In correspondence been allowed. (39)

[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late Tsar
French was the language of the Russian court and of Russian
fashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the time
this poem was written literary warfare more or less open was
being waged between two hostile schools of Russian men of
letters. These consisted of the _Arzamass_, or French school, to
which Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkin
the "Nestor of the Arzamass" belonged, and their opponents who
devoted themselves to the cultivation of the vernacular. ]

XXIX

They wish that ladies should, I hear,
Learn Russian, but the Lord defend!
I can't conceive a little dear
With 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 crimes
Had to compose in secret rhymes,
To whom your hearts were consecrate,--
Did they not all the Russian tongue
With little knowledge and that wrong
In charming fashion mutilate?
Did not their lips with foreign speech
The native Russian tongue impeach?

[Note 40: The "Blago-Namierenni," or "Well-Wisher," was an
inferior Russian newspaper of the day, much scoffed at by
contemporaries. The editor once excused himself for some
gross error by pleading that he had been "on the loose. "]

XXX

God grant I meet not at a ball
Or at a promenade mayhap,
A schoolmaster in yellow shawl
Or a professor in tulle cap.
As rosy lips without a smile,
The Russian language I deem vile
Without 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.

XXXI

Speech careless, incorrect, but soft,
With inexact pronunciation
Raises within my breast as oft
As formerly much agitation.
Repentance wields not now her spell
And gallicisms I love as well
As the sins of my youthful days
Or Bogdanovitch's sweet lays. (41)
But I must now employ my Muse
With 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--though
possessing considerable poetical talent was like many other
Russian authors more remarkable for successful imitation
than for original genius. His most remarkable production
is "Doushenka," "The Darling," a composition somewhat in
the style of La Fontaine's "Psyche. " Its merit consists in
graceful 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 during
his last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands upon
the youth's head and exclaimed: "Mon cher Tibulle. " He is
chiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted the
affectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a student
at the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted a
pension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damage
his literary reputation by inditing an "epic" poem entitled
"Goddam! Goddam! par un French--Dog. " It is descriptive
of the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, and
treats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to a
successful conclusion and become matter of history. A good
account of the bard and his creations will be found in the
_Saturday Review_ of the 2d August 1879. ]

XXXII

Bard of the "Feasts," and mournful breast,(43)
If thou wert sitting by my side,
With this immoderate request
I should alarm our friendship tried:
In one of thine enchanting lays
To russify the foreign phrase
Of my impassioned heroine.
Where art thou? Come! pretensions mine
I yield with a low reverence;
But lonely beneath Finnish skies
Where melancholy rocks arise
He wanders in his indolence;
Careless of fame his spirit high
Hears not my importunity!

[Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and a
lyric poet of some originality and talent. The "Feasts" is
a short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkin
is therein praised as the best of companions "beside the
bottle. "]

XXXIII

Tattiana'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' score
Strummed by a timid schoolgirl o'er.


Tattiana's Letter to Oneguine

I 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 unfortunate
You in the least commiserate
You will not all abandon me.
At first, I clung to secrecy:
Believe me, of my present shame
You never would have heard the name,
If the fond hope I could have fanned
At 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 phrase
And then to meditate for days
Of 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 face
And bitter torment never known.
The untutored spirit's pangs calmed down
By time (who can anticipate? )
I had found my predestinate,
Become a faithful wife and e'en
A fond and careful mother been.

Another! to none other I
My 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 gone
But promise of our meeting gave,
I feel thou wast by God sent down
My 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 resonance
Long 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 suppressed
With thee I conversed when I bore
Comfort and succour to the poor,
And when I prayer to Heaven addressed
To ease the anguish of my breast.
Nay! even as this instant fled,
Was it not thou, O vision bright,
That glimmered through the radiant night
And gently hovered o'er my head?
Was it not thou who thus didst stoop
To whisper comfort, love and hope?
Who art thou? Guardian angel sent
Or 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 destiny
From henceforth I confide to thee!
Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour
And 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 alive
My heart with but one look revive;
Or to disturb my dreams approach
Alas! 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!

XXXIV

Tattiana moans and now she sighs
And in her grasp the letter shakes,
Even the rosy wafer dries
Upon her tongue which fever bakes.
Her head upon her breast declines
And an enchanting shoulder shines
From her half-open vest of night.
But lo! already the moon's light
Is waning. Yonder valley deep
Looms gray behind the mist and morn
Silvers the brook; the shepherd's horn
Arouses rustics from their sleep.
'Tis day, the family downstairs,
But nought for this Tattiana cares.

XXXV

The break of day she doth not see,
But sits in bed with air depressed,
Nor on the letter yet hath she
The image of her seal impressed.
But gray Phillippevna the door
Opened with care, and entering bore
A cup of tea upon a tray.
"'Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!
My beauty, thou art ready too.
My morning birdie, yesternight
I 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.