I pray thee now,
disperse
my doubts.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v20 - Phi to Qui
" The idea is suggested to him by his conversation with an
aged monk (who has written the Chronicles and seen the murdered
Dmitry), wherein he learns that his age corresponds to that which
Dmitry would have attained, and deplores his own lack of stirring
adventure before he immured himself in the monastery. This Grigory
Otrepieff, the first of the many Pretenders who racked Russia with
suffering in their claims to be the dead Tzarevitch, makes good his
escape to Poland; wins the support of the King and nobles, who do
not believe in him, but grasp eagerly at the pretext to harass their
ancient enemy; and eventually reigns for a short time in Moscow.
To his betrothed, Marina Mnishek, the ambitious daughter of one of
his noble Polish supporters, he confesses the falsity of his claims.
Godunoff and his children naturally suffer at the hands of the fickle
multitude which had besought him to rule over them; but this is
hinted at, not shown, in the piece. This drama is not only of the
greatest interest in itself, and as an absolute novelty,—the foundation
of a style in Russian dramatic writing, but also as showing the
genesis of Count Alexei K. Tolstoy's famous 'Dramatic Trilogy' from
the same historical epoch written forty years later.
Isabel 7. Hapgood
## p. 11912 (#546) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11912
FROM BORIS GODUNOFF›
Time, 1603. Night. Scene: A cell in the Tchudoff (Miracles) Monastery.
Father Pimen, and Grigory asleep.
FA
ATHER PIMEN-Only one more, one final narrative,
And then my chronicle is ended;
The duty laid on me, a sinful man,
By God, is done. Not vainly did the Lord
For many years set me as witness,
And give me understanding of the bookish art.
I live a new, fresh life in ancient days;
The vanished past flits clear before my eyes:
Some men, a few, my memory hath retained,
Some words, few also, have come down to me;
The rest is lost, lost irretrievably.
But dawn draws nigh; my shrine-lamp waxes dim:
Now one last record, and the very last.
Grigory [waking]
Pimen-
Grigory-
Pimen-
Pimen-
-
That dream again! Is't possible? For the third time.
That cursed dream! And still before his lamp
The old man sits and writes, and all the night
He has not closed an eye in doze or slumber.
How I do love his tranquil mien,
When, buried in the past, with all his soul
He writes his chronicles; and often, often
I have so longed to guess of what he writes.
Thou hast awakened, brother?
Bless me, reverend father.
May the Lord bless thee
Both now and ever and forever more.
Grigory Most reverend father, lo, this many a day
I have desired to ask thee of the death
Of Dmitry the Tzarévitch; at that time
'Tis said, thou wert in Uglitch.
Ah, I remember: God let me see a crime,
A bloody deed. That day I was in Uglitch,
In distant Uglitch, sent upon a mission.
At night I came: at morn, when mass was due,
I heard the sudden bells; they pealed alarm:
Shouts, noise,-out ran the royal maidens;
Out ran I also; all the town was there.
## p. 11913 (#547) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Grigory-
Pimen-
I look with gaping throat there lies
The dead Tzarévitch. Then the crowd pursued
The three assassins fleeing,
.
And brought them to the still, wan body of the child;
Whereon a marvel,-the dead body quivered.
"Repent, confess! " the people roared at them;
And in their terror, there beneath the axe,
The villains spoke and said Borís had sent them.
What age had then the slain Dmitry?
Seven years he would be now
(Ten years have passed since then- nay, more:
Twelve years)—he'd be about thy age,
――――――――
And now would reign; but God willed otherwise. —
But I must rest,- 'tis time,—
And quench my lamp. The bells are calling
To matin prayers. May the Lord bless
His servants. Give me my crutch, Grigory.
The Tzar [entering]-
Grigory Borís, Borís, all trembles now before thee,
And not one dares so much as hint to thee
The fate of that unhappy lad.
Yet here, in his dark cell, the anchorite
Records a fearful charge against thee,
And thou shalt not escape the blame of men,
As thou from God's just wrath shalt not escape.
[Exit.
Scene: The Imperial Palace.
11913
I've reached the highest power;
'Tis six years now that I have reigned in peace;
But there's no happiness within my soul.
Is't not thus in youth we thirst and crave
The joys of love; but once we've quenched
Our hungry heart with brief possession,
We're tired, and cold, and weary on the spot!
The sorcerers in vain predict long life,
And promise days of undisturbed power.
Nor power, nor life, nor aught doth cheer my heart;
My soul forebodeth heaven's wrath and woe.
I am not happy. I did think to still
With plenty and with fame my people here;
To win for aye their love with bounties free.
But wasted are my cares and empty toils:
## p. 11914 (#548) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11914
A living power is hated by the herd;
They love the dead alone, only the dead.
What fools we are when popular applause
Or the loud shout of masses thrills our heart!
God sent down famine on this land of ours;
The people howled, gave up the ghost in torture:
I threw the granaries open, and my gold
I showered upon them; sought out work for them:
Made mad by suffering, they turned and cursed me!
By conflagrations were their homes destroyed;
I built for them then dwellings fair and new;
And they accused me― said I set the fires!
That's the Lord's judgment;-seek its love who will!
Then thought I bliss in my own home to find;
I thought to make my daughter blest in wedlock:
Death, like a whirlwind, snatched her betrothed away,
And rumor craftily insinuates
That I am author of my child's widowhood,—
I, I, unhappy father that I am!
Let a man die-I am his secret slayer:
I hastened on the end of Feódor;
Pushkin-
I gave my sister, the Tzaritza, poison;
I poisoned her, the lowly nun—still I!
Ah, I know it: naught can give us calm
Amid the sorrows of this present world;
Conscience alone, mayhap:
Thus, when 'tis pure it triumphs
O'er bitter malice, o'er dark calumny;
But if there be in it a single stain,
One, only one, by accident contracted,
Why then, alas! all's done; as with foul plague
The soul consumes, the heart is filled with gall,
Reproaches beat like hammers in the ears,
The man turns sick, his head whirls dizzily,
And bloody children float before my eyes.
I'd gladly flee-yet whither ? - horrible!
Yea, sad his state whose conscience is not clean.
Scene: Moscow, Schuisky's house. Present: Schuisky and numerous guests.
'Tis wondrous news my nephew writes me here.
The son of our Tzar Terrible - but wait,
[Goes to the door and looks about. ]
The royal child slain by Tzar Boris' rage.
―
## p. 11915 (#549) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Schuisky-But that's no news.
Pushkin-
Dmitry lives.
Schuisky-
Pushkin
-
Pushkin
The heir alive!
Is that all?
Schuisky-It cannot be!
Pushkin
――――――
Defer your judgment:
Well, now, that's news!
That's marvelous, in sooth!
Wait till you hear the end:
Whoe'er he be,- the young Tzarévitch saved,
Or but a phantom in his semblance clad,
Or bold adventurer, aspirant without shame,—
The fact remains: Dmitry hath appeared-
Pushkin's own eyes have seen him,
When first he came there to the palace,
And entered in through ranks of Lithuanian nobles
Straight to the privy chamber of the King.
Schuisky Whence comes the man? Who is he?
Pushkin
-
11915
That none knows.
'Tis only known he was a serving-man
At Vishnevetzky's; on his bed of sickness
The menial told a priest, under confession's seal:
That haughty lord, learning this secret truth,
Went to him, raised him from his squalid bed,
And led him straight to Sigismund the King.
Schuisky All this, my friend, is such a tangled web,
That, struggle as one will, the brain doth reel.
We cannot doubt this man is a Pretender;
But I admit, the danger is not small.
Most weighty news, in sooth! And if the herd
Once come to hear it, great will be the crash!
- So great, indeed, that scarce can Tzar Borís
Retain the crown upon his clever head.
―――
And serve him right: doth he not rule us now
Like Tzar Ivan? (mention him not near night! )
What matters it that public executions cease?
That we, before the world, on bloody stake, no more
To the Lord Christ chant canons of the Church?
That we're not burned upon the public square
While the Tzar stirs the ashes with his staff?
What safety have we yet for our poor lives?
Exile awaits us every day that dawns,
Siberia, prison, fetters or the cowl of monk;
Then, in the wilds, starvation or a noose.
## p. 11916 (#550) ##########################################
11916
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Scene: Castle of Voevod Mnishek, in Sambor. Night. A garden.
fountain. Present: The Pretender, Marina Mnishek.
Marina
Pretender
Marina
Pretender
Marina-
-
Pretender-
Hour by hour your difficulties, dangers,
Become more dangerous, more difficult.
Already many doubtful rumors fly about:
One novelty usurps another's place,
And Godunoff is active, takes his measures
What's Godunoff to me? Has Borís power
Over thy love, my only source of bliss?
No, no! Indifferently now I look
Upon his throne, upon his royal state.
Thy love what's life to me without it now,
And glory's halo and the Russian crown?
On the wild steppe, in poor mud-hovel, thou
Of royal diadem for me dost take the place;
Thy love-
Shame on thee! Dare not to forget
Thy lofty, holy, heavenly vocation!
Thy rank should be unto thee dearer far
Than any joy or flattering dreams of life.
With it there's nothing that thou mayest compare.
Not to the youth with foolish passion burning,
Not to the captive of my beauty's power,
But to the heir of Moscow's royal throne,
To the Tzarévitch, saved from death by fate,
This hand I'll give. Then hear, and mark me well.
Torture me not thus, my Marina fair;
Say not it is my rank and not myself
Which thou hast chosen! Dear, thou knowest not
How deeply thou dost wound my heart thereby.
What-what if-oh, cruel doubt most keen! -
Tell me if something less than royal purple
Had Fate the blind bestowed on me at birth,
And were I not in truth the son of Ivan,
Not that young child, by all men long forgot,
Then then-wouldst thou then love me still?
―
Thou art Dmitry and canst be no other;
None other can I love.
Nay, 'tis enough!
I will not share my mistress with the dead,
The mistress who belongs in truth to him.
No, I have feigned enough. Now will I tell
The truth, the whole! Thy Dmitry, heed me well,
A
## p. 11917 (#551) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Marina -
Pretender-
Marina
Is dead, is buried, will not rise again;
But wouldst thou know who I am?
So be it! hark! A poor monk, nothing more.
Tired of imprisonment, of monastery life,
A daring thought beneath my sombre cowl
Engendered; I prepared the world a marvel—
And fled from out my cell, fled forth at last.
Within their camp the riotous men of Ukraine
Taught me to ride a horse and wield the sword;
I came to you and called myself Dmitry,
And so did fool them all, these witless Poles.
Haughty Marina, what is thy verdict now?
Doth my confession satisfy thy heart?
Why art thou dumb?
Oh, shame and woe to me!
What if to all I show thy insolent deceit ?
Think'st thou I fear thee?
That men will rather trust a Polish maid
Than Russian Tzarévitch? Nay, you must know
That neither king nor noble nor grandee
Careth one jot for truth of that I say.
I am Dmitry, or I'm not-what's that to them?
Still, I'm a pretext for their strife, for war:
That's all they need or reck; and as for you,
Trust me, rebellious maid, they'll silence you.
Farewell!
Nay, stay, Tzarévitch! Now
At last I hear the man speak, not the boy.
Heed me: awake! 'tis time; delay not!
Lead thy troops quickly into Moscow town,
Clear out the Kremlin, mount the Moscow throne-
Then send for me the wedding messenger;
But — God in heaven hears me- till thy foot
-
11917
Upon the steps of that great throne doth rest,
And Godunoff hath been dethroned by thee,
I'll listen to no further word of love. Enough. [Exit
## p. 11918 (#552) ##########################################
11918
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
EVGENY ONYEGIN
[As it is not possible to reproduce both sense and rhyme, I have attempted
only to give a correct translation, and to preserve the simple rhythm where I
could, in my lack of poetic powers. I have indicated the scheme of rhyme by
numbers attached to the first stanza. I. F. H. ]
I.
2.
I.
2.
3.
3.
4.
4.
5.
6.
6.
5.
7.
7.
-
Another trouble I foresee:
To save the honor of my land
I shall be forced, without a doubt,
To translate Tatyana's letter.
She hardly knew her native Russian,
Our newspapers she never read,
And could express herself but badly
In her own mother tongue.
Accordingly, she wrote in French. -
What's to be done, again I say?
Down to this day a lady's love
In Russian ne'er hath been expressed.
Down to this day our haughty tongue
To prose of letters is not used.
And God forbid that I should meet,
At ball, or parting on the porch,
A yellow-shawled seminarist,
Or Academic in a cap!
Like rosy lips without a smile,
Without grammatical mistakes
I do not love the Russian tongue.
And yet it may be, to my grief,
Of beauties a new generation,
Heeding entreaties of the journals,
To correct speech will make us used.
TATYANA'S LETTER TO ONYEGIN
I WRITE to you. - What can I more?
What is there left for me to say?
And now, I know, upon your will
Depends my chastisement with scorn.
But if to my unhappy lot
You but one drop of pity spare,
You will not now abandon me.
1
## p. 11919 (#553) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
At first I vowed I would not speak:
Trust me, you ne'er had heard my shame,
Might I at least have had the hope
To see you rarely, -once a week,-
To see you in our village here;
If I might listen to your speech,
Utter a word to you, and then
Think, ever think, of but one thing,
Both day and hight until we met.
But you love solitude, they say:
All's dull here in our rural wilds;
And we,-in no way do we shine,
Though truly glad to welcome you.
Why did you ever come to us?
In this remote, deserted spot
Forsaken, then I ne'er had known you,
Nor known this bitterness of pain,-
The tumult of soul untaught.
I might have tamed, in time, no doubt;
Have found another to my heart
Perchance, and been a faithful wife,
A virtuous, loving mother.
Another! nay, to none on earth
Could I have given e'er my heart.
Heaven's counsel then hath thus decreed;
This is its will, and I am thine.
All, all my life hath been a pledge
Of faithful meeting thus with thee;
I know that God hath sent thee to me;
My guardian unto death art thou.
In dreams I long ago beheld thee,
And, still unseen, I found thee dear.
I languished 'neath thy wondrous glance,
Thy voice rang sweetly through my soul,
Long, long ago,-nay, 'twas no dream! -
Thou cam'st, and in a glance I knew thee;
I was benumbed, yet filled with flame.
My soul within me cried, "'Tis he! "
'Tis true, is't not? I listened to thee;
Thou spak'st with me in silent watches
When I to aid the needy sought,
Or sweetened, by my fervent prayers,
The languors of my troubled soul.
And was't not thou, beloved vision,
11919
## p. 11920 (#554) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11920
Who, at that instant as I prayed,
Didst flit in transparent darkness past me,
And to my pillow gently steal?
And didst thou not, in love and gladness,
Drop in my ear sweet words of hope?
Who art thou then? my guardian angel,
Or crafty tempter of my heart?
I pray thee now, disperse my doubts.
Perchance all this is but the empty
Deception of an untried soul,
And God hath willed quite otherwise:
So be it! From this hour my fate
I trustfully to thee commit;
Before thee burning tears I weep,
And for thy safeguard thee entreat.
Bethink thee, here I stand alone,
And no one here doth comprehend.
My judgment weakens, reason reels,
And I must perish dumb, unheard.
I wait for thee; I pray thee, quicken
With but a look of hope my heart,
Or break at least the numbing dream
With well-deserved reproof - alas!
I'm done! 'Tis terrible to read-
I faint with terror and with shame -
Your honor is my only pledge;
To it I boldly thus confide.
For a brief space they stood in silence;
And then Onyegin, drawing near,
Spake thus:-
"A while agone you wrote me:
Deny it not, I pray. I read
That sweet outpour of innocent love,
Confession of confiding soul.
To me your frankness is most precious,
And it has roused within my heart
Feelings which long have sleeping lain:
But not for that will I extol you;
And yet for this I will requite
With a confession, artless too.
Accept, I pray, this my confession,
And sit in judgment over me.
## p. 11921 (#555) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
"Had I desired my life to limit
Within the bounds of hearth and home;
Had kindly Fate to me dictated
Husband and father e'er to be;
Had family bliss, as a fair vision,
One moment e'er my sense beguiled:
Assuredly I should have chosen
No other bride than you, I vow.
Without a shade of flattery
I say, you'd be my only choice.
In you I'd find my sweet ideal
As partner of my gloomy life,
A pledge of all that is most fair;
And then be happy-if I could!
"But I for bliss was not created;
To that my soul is foreign still:
In vain, in vain are your perfections;
Of them I count myself unworthy.
Believe (I pledge my word upon it),
Marriage for us would torture be.
However much at first I loved you,
At once, with custom, I should hate;
Straightway you'd weep-but could not touch,
With all your tears, my hardened heart,
Which would but more inflame my hate.
Judge for yourself what kind of roses
Hymen would thus for us prepare,-
And, it might chance, for many a day!
-
"What can be worse in all creation
Than household where the wretched wife
Her thankless spouse doth mourn and grieve,
Sitting alone by day and night;
While weary husband, her worth knowing
(Yet cursing his untoward fate),
Is always taciturn and gloomy,
Enraged, yet coldly jealous still!
And such am I. Is't this thou soughtest
In the love-flame of thy pure soul,
When with such simple innocence
Thou wrot'st so cleverly to me?
And can it be that such a lot
Hath been assigned to thee by fate?
11921
xx-746
## p. 11922 (#556) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11922
"Our dreams, our years we cannot call back;
My soul I never can renew; —
I love you with a love fraternal-
And tenderer yet, perchance: who knows?
Then listen to me without anger:
Often, I think, in young maids' minds,
Slight dreams succeed to dreams as slight,
As a young tree bears leaves in spring;
And this, it seems, is heaven's will.
Again you'll give your love - and yet
You'll learn of self-control the art.
Not every man will understand you;
And innocence oft leads to woe. "
Oh, who could not, in that swift flash,
Have read the tale of her dumb pain?
Who, in the princess, could not see
Our Tanya of those former days?
In frantic grief of his compassion,
Onyegin fell low at her feet.
She trembled, but was silent still,
And fixed her eyes upon Onyegin
Without surprise, yet without wrath.
To her his dim and tortured gaze,
Beseeching mien and dumb reproach,
Made all things clear. The simple girl,
With dreams and heart of former days,
Had waked once more within her breast.
She did not raise him to his feet,
But with her eyes still fixed on him,
She lets her senseless fingers lie
Beneath his thirsting, burning lips.
What is it that she dreams of now?
A long, long silence follows then;
And at the last, she softly says:-
"Enough - arise: it is my part
To speak to you quite frankly now.
Onyegin - you recall the hour
When, in our garden in the walk,
Fate made us meet, how meekly I
Gave ear to all your lessons stern?
To-day it is my turn to speak.
-
## p. 11923 (#557) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11923
«<
Onyegin, I was younger then;
I think that I was better, too;
I loved you truly. What of that?
What was't I found within your heart,
What answer? Sternness; naught but that.
'Tis true, is't not? 'Twas nothing new
To you, this love of maiden's heart?
How my blood curdles,- O my God!
When I recall the chilling glance,
And that stern sermon which you gave.
But I blame not: in that dread hour
You acted nobly, for my good,
And honorably towards me then:
For that, receive my heartfelt thanks.
"In that far solitude, 'tis true,
Far from the noise of idle tongues,
I did not please you. Why then now
Do you thus persecute me here?
Why do you deign to heed at all?
Is't not because, at present, I
In loftiest circles must appear?
That I am rich and famous now;
That for the wounds my husband bore
In battle, we are loved at court?
Is't not because this my disgrace
Would now by all be known and seen,
And might, in social circles here,
Lend flattering honor to your name?
"I weep.
If you have not forgot
Your Tanya till this present hour,
Then know, the sharpness of your chiding,
The coldness of your stern upbraiding,
Did but the choice lie in my power,
I would prefer to sullying passion,
And to your letters and your tears.
"But list, Onyegin: all this splendor,
Illusion of a stupid life,
My triumphs in the social whirlpool,
My fashionable house and guests,-
What is there in them? I would gladly
Renounce this foolish masquerade,
## p. 11924 (#558) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11924
This tumult all, incense and splendor,
For the wild park, a shelf of books,
And life in our poor, humble manse;
For the old spots, in short, Onyegin,
Where the first time I met with thee;
Yes, for the quiet, peaceful church-yard,
Where now a cross and shady bough
Bend o'er the grave of my poor nurse.
"And happiness was so near to us,
So possible! But my sad fate
Was shaped already. Indiscreet,
Mayhap, was my behavior then:
My mother, bathed in tears, adjured me;
Poor Tanya felt all fates were one.
And so I married. 'Tis your duty
To leave me now. I beg you will;
I know you - that your heart containeth
Firm pride and strenuous honor still.
I love you, (why should I conceal it? )
But I am now another's bride,
And I will ne'er betray his trust. "
## p. 11925 (#559) ##########################################
11925
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
(1838-)
HE writer known in French literature under the pen-name of
Jules Glouvet is a noble individuality, in addition to being
•
a well-marked one, in contemporary French fiction. He was
born at Saumur, July 2d, 1838; began his career as a magistrate in
1862; was a soldier in active service during the war of 1870; and in
1883 (after filling various important provincial positions, also a posi-
tion as magistrate) he became the Prosecutor-General at Paris. Since
then he has been a marked and honored man in his real profession.
He has won peculiar distinction in connection with the efforts to re-
press the Anarchistic movement, and to punish the Anarchist crimi-
nals, in his country. He was a most important factor in the trial of
General Boulanger; and was bravery itself in the check of that feeble,
rash, and yet dangerous intrigue, which concluded in a tragedy. He
has done his duty as a magistrate and lawyer at the risk of his life.
M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire has been called the Father of his Coun-
try, as was Cicero proud to be styled when he had shattered the
conspiracy of Catiline; and there is a likeness in the two careers.
From such labors at the bar, severe and even personally dan-
gerous, M. de Beaurepaire has turned to writing stories that express
peasant-life in certain districts of France, and certain types of French
rural character, as no French novelist has done before him. In these
stories it was evidently the intention of the writer to show that a
novel of humble life could be produced without the grossness of so
many of the French authors. The books were auxiliaries in the new
campaign against "naturalism. " His scenes of the true rural world
of France, his feeling for the relation of human nature and its nat-
ural environment, have been exhibited with great fidelity and interest
in his books 'Le Forestier' (published in English under the title of
'The Woodman'), and 'Le Berger' (The Shepherd). In each instance,
he shows us that he is not only a finished painter of real life, lived
in simple conditions, but the possessor of that sort of literary sense
which grasps, in part as an artist and in part as a realist, every
essential detail of the temperament, course of existence, and scenery
to be more or less minutely portrayed.
There is something of the quality of Thomas Hardy in the books
of M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire; there is something of George Sand;
## p. 11926 (#560) ##########################################
11926
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
there is something of many novelists whose dramas of every-day
out-of-door life are played in books full of a dramatic impressive-
ness, enhanced by a perfect scenic artist's skill. But there is likewise
an inner moral quality and moral suggestiveness in M. Quesnay de
Beaurepaire's books distinctly their own. He exhibits with singular
beauty and naturalness the countryman in touch with his milieu;
the finer elements in imperfect rustic character; the promptings of
the heart that beats passionately and warmly in the breast of a
humble shepherd, or an uneducated and not too honest woodlander.
The author of The Woodman' and 'The Shepherd' does not carry
his realism as far as Zola, even when verging on the same terri-
tory; and yet he is in much a truer realist. The pathos of the books
impresses us, the simple course of their dramas enlists all our atten-
tion; and at the same time a sermon is suggested while none is
directly preached- a sermon found, not in the stones and trees and
running brooks which so exquisitely serve as background for the
author's handful of peasant characters, but in their aspirations, their
weaknesses, and all that is to them life and feeling and purpose day
by day.
THE FOREST
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
TH
HERE is no country more severe and striking in its aspect
than the forest range uniting the Department of Maine
to that of La Beauce, and extending from Montmirail to
Authon. It is an immense extent of wood, intersected by nar-
row grassy paths, untouched by the hand of man, which have
given to the whole region the picturesque name of Chemins-
Verts (The Green-Road Country). Absolute solitude reigns; the
villages are far off, scattered on the ridges of the hills; the prin-
cipal hamlet is called Grez-sur-Roc (Stone-on-Rock). This name
alone suffices to indicate the wild, rugged scenery of this remote
district. In the foreground, on the slopes rising one above an-
other, are a few detached cottages crouching amid the golden
broom and furze; the paths between them wind upward toward
the forest in sinuous lines that look like serpents springing from
the hand of a sorcerer.
The dense forest begins half-way up, and widens as it reaches
the valley on the other side; then climbs the opposite height,
and stretches itself at its ease over the vast plateau of La Beauce
## p. 11927 (#561) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11927
toward Chapelle Guillaume, where, reduced to brushwood, it fol-
lows the vast undulations of the plain, and is finally reflected in
the stagnant waters of the surrounding marshes.
A stream, rising in the hills, falls into the ravine, and winds.
at its own sweet will among the trees; some of which, thrown
across from one bank to the other, under hanging festoons of
bryony and traveler's-joy, serve as bridges to the dwellers in the
forest.
These are a robust, shy, and taciturn race. At the close of
day some return to their homes on the distant plain, while others
seek their cabins built among the brushwood. Charcoal-burners
encamp near their work, the light of the smoldering fires playing
over their dark faces; the makers of wooden sabots lie among
the shavings in front of their workshops; the wood-cutters, bent
with fatigue, hang up their wallets on the branches, trample the
wild flowers with their sabots, and settle themselves comfortably
on the sloping ground;-all these people live and work together
without noise or outward expression. The wind sobbing in the
high branches, the sun piercing at rare intervals the leafy roof
and shedding a pale ray on the grass beneath, are the only
tokens of life and light in the gloom of this vast crypt.
Singing is not in fashion among the foresters; none but the
birds ever raise their voices in this solemn silence, and it is
remarkable that even their song is sad.
The forest is unique in its aspect; but it may be compared
with the sea in its grandeur, its infinitude, its rolling waves, its
deep murmurs, and its wild tempests. Look at those venerable
oaks: the tallest peasant is less than an ant at their feet. If
a water-spout discharges on the Chemins-Verts, its progress is
marked by a frightful disruption of these enormous trees, over-
thrown as easily as a bundle of twigs. Thus, in its calm and in
its wrath, the forest lords it over man, and man in this imposing
wilderness is driven to silence and contemplation. The inhabit-
ants live exactly as their ancestors lived before them. It is not
poverty, but contempt of comfort: their maxim is that the for-
est ought to provide all they want. Theft is considered lawful;
the feeling of mine-and-thine does not exist: they do not steal,
they take.
These strange notions of ownership, due to ancient tradition,
seem justified by the astonishing fertility of these leafy regions.
## p. 11928 (#562) ##########################################
11928
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The father carries on his back a sack filled with wild plums to
make his drink, or loads his barrow with acorns for the pig,-
the great resource in winter; the son brings home a block of ash-
wood, out of which in the long winter evenings he carves cups.
and basins for the family; the mother returns with a load of
fagots. Do they want an extra bed? she takes her sickle and
cuts withes from the willows near the brook. That tall, bare-
legged girl gathers mushrooms, with which her little sister fills.
the basket made over-night. The little boys are employed, after
their dinner of nuts, in cleaning moss; and the old grandfather,
with tottering step, hobbles towards the copse to cut a stick for
his crutch.
The Chemins-Verts is so vast that all these people have elbow-
room without disturbing its solitude. From time to time a faint
tinkling of bells in the distance announces the arrival of a band
of small horses belonging to the charcoal-burners, ambling along
with bent knees and backs worn by the loads they carry.
The
noise of their shoes is muffled by the leafy carpet.
sound is heard. As for the busy gatherers of the spoils of the
forest, they are nowhere to be seen.
The inhabitants are in love with their forest an unconscious
but incurable passion. They can breathe freely only under the
shade of their woods. It is true the men are willing to spend a
few weeks every year during the harvest in La Beauce, to enable
them to lay by a little sum sufficient for their frugal needs,-
enough to buy a new blouse, and tobacco to last till the next
summer. The forester's work in the plains is scarcely finished
before he hastens to hide his money in a corner of his handker-
chief, suspend his whetstone from his waistband, throw his scythe
merrily over his shoulder, and return in all haste to his forest.
As soon as he catches a glimpse of the tall trees he pauses; he
is happy, he knows not why.
"Ha! here's the boy as has finished his August," says his old
neighbor as soon as he sees him.
"Yes, I have done with La Beauce," he replies, looking slowly
round him. "Here I am no less. "
"No less" is the regular expletive used as a superlative on
all occasions.
This intense love for the forest is hereditary; it is instinctive
in the child, grows with his growth, and never leaves him when
## p. 11929 (#563) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11929
he becomes a man; when away from his woods it becomes a per-
fect nostalgia. It found its expression in mythology, which after
all is only nature-nature symbolized and personified under the
names of faun and hamadryad.
The woodman has perpetuated these myths; the Chemins-Verts
have their own legends, of which Renaud the Poacher was the
hero and type.
A MADWOMAN
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
[Jean Renaud, the central figure in the story, has been unjustly imprisoned
for poaching; and an old woman, Mère Chauvin, of whom he had taken care,
has also been incarcerated for supposed complicity in Renaud's work. His
sentence served, Renaud returns to her lonely cottage, only to find the old
woman crazy, and their forest life together broken up by tragedy. ]
HⓇ
E WAS soon obliged to set to work again; for his money
was exhausted. He presented himself at the saw-pit. His
skill was well known to the heads of the trade, and they
engaged him. It mattered little to them that he had been
in prison. Marcel himself advised them to take him back, as it
would be easier to keep an eye upon him when he was close at
hand.
At first he was the butt of his companions, who invariably
called him Renaud the Poacher. They did not always treat him
as a pariah, however, for he knew how to make himself feared;
and besides he was an object of admiration to some,—for the
woodmen have all more or less a drop of poacher's blood in their
veins. Others treated his crime as of little importance. "As
long," they said, "as one is neither a murderer nor a thief, there's
not much harm. "
Determined to bear everything, he pretended not to hear,
and by degrees he reconquered his position. The first to arrive,
the last to leave, sad, taciturn, he lived apart. No fault could be
found with him, and he was soon let alone.
The regularity of his life enabled him partly to recover. He
rambled over the forest, found once more his favorite paths, and
felt again the friendly branches meet over his head. He still
was sad, but his apathy was gone. On Sundays the men who
## p. 11930 (#564) ##########################################
11930
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
came to pick up wood saw him at a distance, and said to one
another:-
-
"There's Renaud the Poacher: he's finished his term. "
When he had shaken off his torpor he became sensitive; his
blood boiled with anger.
"Ah, they are all against me! They call me 'Poacher. '
Well, I'll make my name good, and nothing shall prevent me
poaching. "
This thought awakened another: he stood still, quivering.
His gun! had it been found? His grandfather's
His grandfather's curse and his
old friend's madness had absorbed him. But this fear, once pre-
sented to his mind, took entire possession of it. Intense curios-
ity was mingled with acute, overpowering terror. He longed
for night that he might begin his search, and counted the trees
meanwhile to distract his thoughts. After each number a loud
voice sounded in his ear, repeating, "Has some one carried off
your gun? "
At nightfall he stole out, took a circuitous route, and when
nearer to the spot laid one ear to the ground to listen,— the
frost had hardened the soil and made it sonorous: there was no
one about. Then he crept into the bushes on his hands and
knees.
When he reached the break in the ground caused by the ditch
he felt among the brushwood. No gun was there! He broke
into a sweat; he went back into the wood to where the stag had
stood. Here was the holly behind which Jean was posted. He
felt the trees, one after the other, to the path. What a pity
that the night was so dark! He had made a miscalculation of
several feet.
The next time he hit upon the place. The frosty leaves
cracked; the earth crumbled; something harder opposed itself to
his touch. It was the gun!
"My blessed old gun! I've got you at last! How they must
have hunted for you! But you were so little hidden that I don't
wonder they didn't find you. "
This speech exactly describes the simple cunning of the peas-
ant mind.
The gun, full of mold and more rusty than when it served as
a pipe, could not have attracted the attention of the most suspi-
cious keeper. Proud and joyful, he carried it away in his arms.
## p. 11931 (#565) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11931
He spent three nights in taking it to pieces, oiling and fur-
bishing it. A fresh hole in the left barrel necessitated a new
patch. When he had set it to rights, the climber became
thoughtful. He was afraid of everything now. If they came
to search his hut? Marcel was too cunning,—the gun must be
hidden. He took up a plank in the cellar, slipped the gun into
its place as if into a case, with all the powder and ball he had
left, hid the opening with a bit of wood covered with dust, cast
a threatening glance in the direction of Le Plantis, and returned
to put away his oil in the kitchen.
aged monk (who has written the Chronicles and seen the murdered
Dmitry), wherein he learns that his age corresponds to that which
Dmitry would have attained, and deplores his own lack of stirring
adventure before he immured himself in the monastery. This Grigory
Otrepieff, the first of the many Pretenders who racked Russia with
suffering in their claims to be the dead Tzarevitch, makes good his
escape to Poland; wins the support of the King and nobles, who do
not believe in him, but grasp eagerly at the pretext to harass their
ancient enemy; and eventually reigns for a short time in Moscow.
To his betrothed, Marina Mnishek, the ambitious daughter of one of
his noble Polish supporters, he confesses the falsity of his claims.
Godunoff and his children naturally suffer at the hands of the fickle
multitude which had besought him to rule over them; but this is
hinted at, not shown, in the piece. This drama is not only of the
greatest interest in itself, and as an absolute novelty,—the foundation
of a style in Russian dramatic writing, but also as showing the
genesis of Count Alexei K. Tolstoy's famous 'Dramatic Trilogy' from
the same historical epoch written forty years later.
Isabel 7. Hapgood
## p. 11912 (#546) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11912
FROM BORIS GODUNOFF›
Time, 1603. Night. Scene: A cell in the Tchudoff (Miracles) Monastery.
Father Pimen, and Grigory asleep.
FA
ATHER PIMEN-Only one more, one final narrative,
And then my chronicle is ended;
The duty laid on me, a sinful man,
By God, is done. Not vainly did the Lord
For many years set me as witness,
And give me understanding of the bookish art.
I live a new, fresh life in ancient days;
The vanished past flits clear before my eyes:
Some men, a few, my memory hath retained,
Some words, few also, have come down to me;
The rest is lost, lost irretrievably.
But dawn draws nigh; my shrine-lamp waxes dim:
Now one last record, and the very last.
Grigory [waking]
Pimen-
Grigory-
Pimen-
Pimen-
-
That dream again! Is't possible? For the third time.
That cursed dream! And still before his lamp
The old man sits and writes, and all the night
He has not closed an eye in doze or slumber.
How I do love his tranquil mien,
When, buried in the past, with all his soul
He writes his chronicles; and often, often
I have so longed to guess of what he writes.
Thou hast awakened, brother?
Bless me, reverend father.
May the Lord bless thee
Both now and ever and forever more.
Grigory Most reverend father, lo, this many a day
I have desired to ask thee of the death
Of Dmitry the Tzarévitch; at that time
'Tis said, thou wert in Uglitch.
Ah, I remember: God let me see a crime,
A bloody deed. That day I was in Uglitch,
In distant Uglitch, sent upon a mission.
At night I came: at morn, when mass was due,
I heard the sudden bells; they pealed alarm:
Shouts, noise,-out ran the royal maidens;
Out ran I also; all the town was there.
## p. 11913 (#547) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Grigory-
Pimen-
I look with gaping throat there lies
The dead Tzarévitch. Then the crowd pursued
The three assassins fleeing,
.
And brought them to the still, wan body of the child;
Whereon a marvel,-the dead body quivered.
"Repent, confess! " the people roared at them;
And in their terror, there beneath the axe,
The villains spoke and said Borís had sent them.
What age had then the slain Dmitry?
Seven years he would be now
(Ten years have passed since then- nay, more:
Twelve years)—he'd be about thy age,
――――――――
And now would reign; but God willed otherwise. —
But I must rest,- 'tis time,—
And quench my lamp. The bells are calling
To matin prayers. May the Lord bless
His servants. Give me my crutch, Grigory.
The Tzar [entering]-
Grigory Borís, Borís, all trembles now before thee,
And not one dares so much as hint to thee
The fate of that unhappy lad.
Yet here, in his dark cell, the anchorite
Records a fearful charge against thee,
And thou shalt not escape the blame of men,
As thou from God's just wrath shalt not escape.
[Exit.
Scene: The Imperial Palace.
11913
I've reached the highest power;
'Tis six years now that I have reigned in peace;
But there's no happiness within my soul.
Is't not thus in youth we thirst and crave
The joys of love; but once we've quenched
Our hungry heart with brief possession,
We're tired, and cold, and weary on the spot!
The sorcerers in vain predict long life,
And promise days of undisturbed power.
Nor power, nor life, nor aught doth cheer my heart;
My soul forebodeth heaven's wrath and woe.
I am not happy. I did think to still
With plenty and with fame my people here;
To win for aye their love with bounties free.
But wasted are my cares and empty toils:
## p. 11914 (#548) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11914
A living power is hated by the herd;
They love the dead alone, only the dead.
What fools we are when popular applause
Or the loud shout of masses thrills our heart!
God sent down famine on this land of ours;
The people howled, gave up the ghost in torture:
I threw the granaries open, and my gold
I showered upon them; sought out work for them:
Made mad by suffering, they turned and cursed me!
By conflagrations were their homes destroyed;
I built for them then dwellings fair and new;
And they accused me― said I set the fires!
That's the Lord's judgment;-seek its love who will!
Then thought I bliss in my own home to find;
I thought to make my daughter blest in wedlock:
Death, like a whirlwind, snatched her betrothed away,
And rumor craftily insinuates
That I am author of my child's widowhood,—
I, I, unhappy father that I am!
Let a man die-I am his secret slayer:
I hastened on the end of Feódor;
Pushkin-
I gave my sister, the Tzaritza, poison;
I poisoned her, the lowly nun—still I!
Ah, I know it: naught can give us calm
Amid the sorrows of this present world;
Conscience alone, mayhap:
Thus, when 'tis pure it triumphs
O'er bitter malice, o'er dark calumny;
But if there be in it a single stain,
One, only one, by accident contracted,
Why then, alas! all's done; as with foul plague
The soul consumes, the heart is filled with gall,
Reproaches beat like hammers in the ears,
The man turns sick, his head whirls dizzily,
And bloody children float before my eyes.
I'd gladly flee-yet whither ? - horrible!
Yea, sad his state whose conscience is not clean.
Scene: Moscow, Schuisky's house. Present: Schuisky and numerous guests.
'Tis wondrous news my nephew writes me here.
The son of our Tzar Terrible - but wait,
[Goes to the door and looks about. ]
The royal child slain by Tzar Boris' rage.
―
## p. 11915 (#549) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Schuisky-But that's no news.
Pushkin-
Dmitry lives.
Schuisky-
Pushkin
-
Pushkin
The heir alive!
Is that all?
Schuisky-It cannot be!
Pushkin
――――――
Defer your judgment:
Well, now, that's news!
That's marvelous, in sooth!
Wait till you hear the end:
Whoe'er he be,- the young Tzarévitch saved,
Or but a phantom in his semblance clad,
Or bold adventurer, aspirant without shame,—
The fact remains: Dmitry hath appeared-
Pushkin's own eyes have seen him,
When first he came there to the palace,
And entered in through ranks of Lithuanian nobles
Straight to the privy chamber of the King.
Schuisky Whence comes the man? Who is he?
Pushkin
-
11915
That none knows.
'Tis only known he was a serving-man
At Vishnevetzky's; on his bed of sickness
The menial told a priest, under confession's seal:
That haughty lord, learning this secret truth,
Went to him, raised him from his squalid bed,
And led him straight to Sigismund the King.
Schuisky All this, my friend, is such a tangled web,
That, struggle as one will, the brain doth reel.
We cannot doubt this man is a Pretender;
But I admit, the danger is not small.
Most weighty news, in sooth! And if the herd
Once come to hear it, great will be the crash!
- So great, indeed, that scarce can Tzar Borís
Retain the crown upon his clever head.
―――
And serve him right: doth he not rule us now
Like Tzar Ivan? (mention him not near night! )
What matters it that public executions cease?
That we, before the world, on bloody stake, no more
To the Lord Christ chant canons of the Church?
That we're not burned upon the public square
While the Tzar stirs the ashes with his staff?
What safety have we yet for our poor lives?
Exile awaits us every day that dawns,
Siberia, prison, fetters or the cowl of monk;
Then, in the wilds, starvation or a noose.
## p. 11916 (#550) ##########################################
11916
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Scene: Castle of Voevod Mnishek, in Sambor. Night. A garden.
fountain. Present: The Pretender, Marina Mnishek.
Marina
Pretender
Marina
Pretender
Marina-
-
Pretender-
Hour by hour your difficulties, dangers,
Become more dangerous, more difficult.
Already many doubtful rumors fly about:
One novelty usurps another's place,
And Godunoff is active, takes his measures
What's Godunoff to me? Has Borís power
Over thy love, my only source of bliss?
No, no! Indifferently now I look
Upon his throne, upon his royal state.
Thy love what's life to me without it now,
And glory's halo and the Russian crown?
On the wild steppe, in poor mud-hovel, thou
Of royal diadem for me dost take the place;
Thy love-
Shame on thee! Dare not to forget
Thy lofty, holy, heavenly vocation!
Thy rank should be unto thee dearer far
Than any joy or flattering dreams of life.
With it there's nothing that thou mayest compare.
Not to the youth with foolish passion burning,
Not to the captive of my beauty's power,
But to the heir of Moscow's royal throne,
To the Tzarévitch, saved from death by fate,
This hand I'll give. Then hear, and mark me well.
Torture me not thus, my Marina fair;
Say not it is my rank and not myself
Which thou hast chosen! Dear, thou knowest not
How deeply thou dost wound my heart thereby.
What-what if-oh, cruel doubt most keen! -
Tell me if something less than royal purple
Had Fate the blind bestowed on me at birth,
And were I not in truth the son of Ivan,
Not that young child, by all men long forgot,
Then then-wouldst thou then love me still?
―
Thou art Dmitry and canst be no other;
None other can I love.
Nay, 'tis enough!
I will not share my mistress with the dead,
The mistress who belongs in truth to him.
No, I have feigned enough. Now will I tell
The truth, the whole! Thy Dmitry, heed me well,
A
## p. 11917 (#551) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
Marina -
Pretender-
Marina
Is dead, is buried, will not rise again;
But wouldst thou know who I am?
So be it! hark! A poor monk, nothing more.
Tired of imprisonment, of monastery life,
A daring thought beneath my sombre cowl
Engendered; I prepared the world a marvel—
And fled from out my cell, fled forth at last.
Within their camp the riotous men of Ukraine
Taught me to ride a horse and wield the sword;
I came to you and called myself Dmitry,
And so did fool them all, these witless Poles.
Haughty Marina, what is thy verdict now?
Doth my confession satisfy thy heart?
Why art thou dumb?
Oh, shame and woe to me!
What if to all I show thy insolent deceit ?
Think'st thou I fear thee?
That men will rather trust a Polish maid
Than Russian Tzarévitch? Nay, you must know
That neither king nor noble nor grandee
Careth one jot for truth of that I say.
I am Dmitry, or I'm not-what's that to them?
Still, I'm a pretext for their strife, for war:
That's all they need or reck; and as for you,
Trust me, rebellious maid, they'll silence you.
Farewell!
Nay, stay, Tzarévitch! Now
At last I hear the man speak, not the boy.
Heed me: awake! 'tis time; delay not!
Lead thy troops quickly into Moscow town,
Clear out the Kremlin, mount the Moscow throne-
Then send for me the wedding messenger;
But — God in heaven hears me- till thy foot
-
11917
Upon the steps of that great throne doth rest,
And Godunoff hath been dethroned by thee,
I'll listen to no further word of love. Enough. [Exit
## p. 11918 (#552) ##########################################
11918
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
EVGENY ONYEGIN
[As it is not possible to reproduce both sense and rhyme, I have attempted
only to give a correct translation, and to preserve the simple rhythm where I
could, in my lack of poetic powers. I have indicated the scheme of rhyme by
numbers attached to the first stanza. I. F. H. ]
I.
2.
I.
2.
3.
3.
4.
4.
5.
6.
6.
5.
7.
7.
-
Another trouble I foresee:
To save the honor of my land
I shall be forced, without a doubt,
To translate Tatyana's letter.
She hardly knew her native Russian,
Our newspapers she never read,
And could express herself but badly
In her own mother tongue.
Accordingly, she wrote in French. -
What's to be done, again I say?
Down to this day a lady's love
In Russian ne'er hath been expressed.
Down to this day our haughty tongue
To prose of letters is not used.
And God forbid that I should meet,
At ball, or parting on the porch,
A yellow-shawled seminarist,
Or Academic in a cap!
Like rosy lips without a smile,
Without grammatical mistakes
I do not love the Russian tongue.
And yet it may be, to my grief,
Of beauties a new generation,
Heeding entreaties of the journals,
To correct speech will make us used.
TATYANA'S LETTER TO ONYEGIN
I WRITE to you. - What can I more?
What is there left for me to say?
And now, I know, upon your will
Depends my chastisement with scorn.
But if to my unhappy lot
You but one drop of pity spare,
You will not now abandon me.
1
## p. 11919 (#553) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
At first I vowed I would not speak:
Trust me, you ne'er had heard my shame,
Might I at least have had the hope
To see you rarely, -once a week,-
To see you in our village here;
If I might listen to your speech,
Utter a word to you, and then
Think, ever think, of but one thing,
Both day and hight until we met.
But you love solitude, they say:
All's dull here in our rural wilds;
And we,-in no way do we shine,
Though truly glad to welcome you.
Why did you ever come to us?
In this remote, deserted spot
Forsaken, then I ne'er had known you,
Nor known this bitterness of pain,-
The tumult of soul untaught.
I might have tamed, in time, no doubt;
Have found another to my heart
Perchance, and been a faithful wife,
A virtuous, loving mother.
Another! nay, to none on earth
Could I have given e'er my heart.
Heaven's counsel then hath thus decreed;
This is its will, and I am thine.
All, all my life hath been a pledge
Of faithful meeting thus with thee;
I know that God hath sent thee to me;
My guardian unto death art thou.
In dreams I long ago beheld thee,
And, still unseen, I found thee dear.
I languished 'neath thy wondrous glance,
Thy voice rang sweetly through my soul,
Long, long ago,-nay, 'twas no dream! -
Thou cam'st, and in a glance I knew thee;
I was benumbed, yet filled with flame.
My soul within me cried, "'Tis he! "
'Tis true, is't not? I listened to thee;
Thou spak'st with me in silent watches
When I to aid the needy sought,
Or sweetened, by my fervent prayers,
The languors of my troubled soul.
And was't not thou, beloved vision,
11919
## p. 11920 (#554) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11920
Who, at that instant as I prayed,
Didst flit in transparent darkness past me,
And to my pillow gently steal?
And didst thou not, in love and gladness,
Drop in my ear sweet words of hope?
Who art thou then? my guardian angel,
Or crafty tempter of my heart?
I pray thee now, disperse my doubts.
Perchance all this is but the empty
Deception of an untried soul,
And God hath willed quite otherwise:
So be it! From this hour my fate
I trustfully to thee commit;
Before thee burning tears I weep,
And for thy safeguard thee entreat.
Bethink thee, here I stand alone,
And no one here doth comprehend.
My judgment weakens, reason reels,
And I must perish dumb, unheard.
I wait for thee; I pray thee, quicken
With but a look of hope my heart,
Or break at least the numbing dream
With well-deserved reproof - alas!
I'm done! 'Tis terrible to read-
I faint with terror and with shame -
Your honor is my only pledge;
To it I boldly thus confide.
For a brief space they stood in silence;
And then Onyegin, drawing near,
Spake thus:-
"A while agone you wrote me:
Deny it not, I pray. I read
That sweet outpour of innocent love,
Confession of confiding soul.
To me your frankness is most precious,
And it has roused within my heart
Feelings which long have sleeping lain:
But not for that will I extol you;
And yet for this I will requite
With a confession, artless too.
Accept, I pray, this my confession,
And sit in judgment over me.
## p. 11921 (#555) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
"Had I desired my life to limit
Within the bounds of hearth and home;
Had kindly Fate to me dictated
Husband and father e'er to be;
Had family bliss, as a fair vision,
One moment e'er my sense beguiled:
Assuredly I should have chosen
No other bride than you, I vow.
Without a shade of flattery
I say, you'd be my only choice.
In you I'd find my sweet ideal
As partner of my gloomy life,
A pledge of all that is most fair;
And then be happy-if I could!
"But I for bliss was not created;
To that my soul is foreign still:
In vain, in vain are your perfections;
Of them I count myself unworthy.
Believe (I pledge my word upon it),
Marriage for us would torture be.
However much at first I loved you,
At once, with custom, I should hate;
Straightway you'd weep-but could not touch,
With all your tears, my hardened heart,
Which would but more inflame my hate.
Judge for yourself what kind of roses
Hymen would thus for us prepare,-
And, it might chance, for many a day!
-
"What can be worse in all creation
Than household where the wretched wife
Her thankless spouse doth mourn and grieve,
Sitting alone by day and night;
While weary husband, her worth knowing
(Yet cursing his untoward fate),
Is always taciturn and gloomy,
Enraged, yet coldly jealous still!
And such am I. Is't this thou soughtest
In the love-flame of thy pure soul,
When with such simple innocence
Thou wrot'st so cleverly to me?
And can it be that such a lot
Hath been assigned to thee by fate?
11921
xx-746
## p. 11922 (#556) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11922
"Our dreams, our years we cannot call back;
My soul I never can renew; —
I love you with a love fraternal-
And tenderer yet, perchance: who knows?
Then listen to me without anger:
Often, I think, in young maids' minds,
Slight dreams succeed to dreams as slight,
As a young tree bears leaves in spring;
And this, it seems, is heaven's will.
Again you'll give your love - and yet
You'll learn of self-control the art.
Not every man will understand you;
And innocence oft leads to woe. "
Oh, who could not, in that swift flash,
Have read the tale of her dumb pain?
Who, in the princess, could not see
Our Tanya of those former days?
In frantic grief of his compassion,
Onyegin fell low at her feet.
She trembled, but was silent still,
And fixed her eyes upon Onyegin
Without surprise, yet without wrath.
To her his dim and tortured gaze,
Beseeching mien and dumb reproach,
Made all things clear. The simple girl,
With dreams and heart of former days,
Had waked once more within her breast.
She did not raise him to his feet,
But with her eyes still fixed on him,
She lets her senseless fingers lie
Beneath his thirsting, burning lips.
What is it that she dreams of now?
A long, long silence follows then;
And at the last, she softly says:-
"Enough - arise: it is my part
To speak to you quite frankly now.
Onyegin - you recall the hour
When, in our garden in the walk,
Fate made us meet, how meekly I
Gave ear to all your lessons stern?
To-day it is my turn to speak.
-
## p. 11923 (#557) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11923
«<
Onyegin, I was younger then;
I think that I was better, too;
I loved you truly. What of that?
What was't I found within your heart,
What answer? Sternness; naught but that.
'Tis true, is't not? 'Twas nothing new
To you, this love of maiden's heart?
How my blood curdles,- O my God!
When I recall the chilling glance,
And that stern sermon which you gave.
But I blame not: in that dread hour
You acted nobly, for my good,
And honorably towards me then:
For that, receive my heartfelt thanks.
"In that far solitude, 'tis true,
Far from the noise of idle tongues,
I did not please you. Why then now
Do you thus persecute me here?
Why do you deign to heed at all?
Is't not because, at present, I
In loftiest circles must appear?
That I am rich and famous now;
That for the wounds my husband bore
In battle, we are loved at court?
Is't not because this my disgrace
Would now by all be known and seen,
And might, in social circles here,
Lend flattering honor to your name?
"I weep.
If you have not forgot
Your Tanya till this present hour,
Then know, the sharpness of your chiding,
The coldness of your stern upbraiding,
Did but the choice lie in my power,
I would prefer to sullying passion,
And to your letters and your tears.
"But list, Onyegin: all this splendor,
Illusion of a stupid life,
My triumphs in the social whirlpool,
My fashionable house and guests,-
What is there in them? I would gladly
Renounce this foolish masquerade,
## p. 11924 (#558) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11924
This tumult all, incense and splendor,
For the wild park, a shelf of books,
And life in our poor, humble manse;
For the old spots, in short, Onyegin,
Where the first time I met with thee;
Yes, for the quiet, peaceful church-yard,
Where now a cross and shady bough
Bend o'er the grave of my poor nurse.
"And happiness was so near to us,
So possible! But my sad fate
Was shaped already. Indiscreet,
Mayhap, was my behavior then:
My mother, bathed in tears, adjured me;
Poor Tanya felt all fates were one.
And so I married. 'Tis your duty
To leave me now. I beg you will;
I know you - that your heart containeth
Firm pride and strenuous honor still.
I love you, (why should I conceal it? )
But I am now another's bride,
And I will ne'er betray his trust. "
## p. 11925 (#559) ##########################################
11925
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
(1838-)
HE writer known in French literature under the pen-name of
Jules Glouvet is a noble individuality, in addition to being
•
a well-marked one, in contemporary French fiction. He was
born at Saumur, July 2d, 1838; began his career as a magistrate in
1862; was a soldier in active service during the war of 1870; and in
1883 (after filling various important provincial positions, also a posi-
tion as magistrate) he became the Prosecutor-General at Paris. Since
then he has been a marked and honored man in his real profession.
He has won peculiar distinction in connection with the efforts to re-
press the Anarchistic movement, and to punish the Anarchist crimi-
nals, in his country. He was a most important factor in the trial of
General Boulanger; and was bravery itself in the check of that feeble,
rash, and yet dangerous intrigue, which concluded in a tragedy. He
has done his duty as a magistrate and lawyer at the risk of his life.
M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire has been called the Father of his Coun-
try, as was Cicero proud to be styled when he had shattered the
conspiracy of Catiline; and there is a likeness in the two careers.
From such labors at the bar, severe and even personally dan-
gerous, M. de Beaurepaire has turned to writing stories that express
peasant-life in certain districts of France, and certain types of French
rural character, as no French novelist has done before him. In these
stories it was evidently the intention of the writer to show that a
novel of humble life could be produced without the grossness of so
many of the French authors. The books were auxiliaries in the new
campaign against "naturalism. " His scenes of the true rural world
of France, his feeling for the relation of human nature and its nat-
ural environment, have been exhibited with great fidelity and interest
in his books 'Le Forestier' (published in English under the title of
'The Woodman'), and 'Le Berger' (The Shepherd). In each instance,
he shows us that he is not only a finished painter of real life, lived
in simple conditions, but the possessor of that sort of literary sense
which grasps, in part as an artist and in part as a realist, every
essential detail of the temperament, course of existence, and scenery
to be more or less minutely portrayed.
There is something of the quality of Thomas Hardy in the books
of M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire; there is something of George Sand;
## p. 11926 (#560) ##########################################
11926
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
there is something of many novelists whose dramas of every-day
out-of-door life are played in books full of a dramatic impressive-
ness, enhanced by a perfect scenic artist's skill. But there is likewise
an inner moral quality and moral suggestiveness in M. Quesnay de
Beaurepaire's books distinctly their own. He exhibits with singular
beauty and naturalness the countryman in touch with his milieu;
the finer elements in imperfect rustic character; the promptings of
the heart that beats passionately and warmly in the breast of a
humble shepherd, or an uneducated and not too honest woodlander.
The author of The Woodman' and 'The Shepherd' does not carry
his realism as far as Zola, even when verging on the same terri-
tory; and yet he is in much a truer realist. The pathos of the books
impresses us, the simple course of their dramas enlists all our atten-
tion; and at the same time a sermon is suggested while none is
directly preached- a sermon found, not in the stones and trees and
running brooks which so exquisitely serve as background for the
author's handful of peasant characters, but in their aspirations, their
weaknesses, and all that is to them life and feeling and purpose day
by day.
THE FOREST
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
TH
HERE is no country more severe and striking in its aspect
than the forest range uniting the Department of Maine
to that of La Beauce, and extending from Montmirail to
Authon. It is an immense extent of wood, intersected by nar-
row grassy paths, untouched by the hand of man, which have
given to the whole region the picturesque name of Chemins-
Verts (The Green-Road Country). Absolute solitude reigns; the
villages are far off, scattered on the ridges of the hills; the prin-
cipal hamlet is called Grez-sur-Roc (Stone-on-Rock). This name
alone suffices to indicate the wild, rugged scenery of this remote
district. In the foreground, on the slopes rising one above an-
other, are a few detached cottages crouching amid the golden
broom and furze; the paths between them wind upward toward
the forest in sinuous lines that look like serpents springing from
the hand of a sorcerer.
The dense forest begins half-way up, and widens as it reaches
the valley on the other side; then climbs the opposite height,
and stretches itself at its ease over the vast plateau of La Beauce
## p. 11927 (#561) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11927
toward Chapelle Guillaume, where, reduced to brushwood, it fol-
lows the vast undulations of the plain, and is finally reflected in
the stagnant waters of the surrounding marshes.
A stream, rising in the hills, falls into the ravine, and winds.
at its own sweet will among the trees; some of which, thrown
across from one bank to the other, under hanging festoons of
bryony and traveler's-joy, serve as bridges to the dwellers in the
forest.
These are a robust, shy, and taciturn race. At the close of
day some return to their homes on the distant plain, while others
seek their cabins built among the brushwood. Charcoal-burners
encamp near their work, the light of the smoldering fires playing
over their dark faces; the makers of wooden sabots lie among
the shavings in front of their workshops; the wood-cutters, bent
with fatigue, hang up their wallets on the branches, trample the
wild flowers with their sabots, and settle themselves comfortably
on the sloping ground;-all these people live and work together
without noise or outward expression. The wind sobbing in the
high branches, the sun piercing at rare intervals the leafy roof
and shedding a pale ray on the grass beneath, are the only
tokens of life and light in the gloom of this vast crypt.
Singing is not in fashion among the foresters; none but the
birds ever raise their voices in this solemn silence, and it is
remarkable that even their song is sad.
The forest is unique in its aspect; but it may be compared
with the sea in its grandeur, its infinitude, its rolling waves, its
deep murmurs, and its wild tempests. Look at those venerable
oaks: the tallest peasant is less than an ant at their feet. If
a water-spout discharges on the Chemins-Verts, its progress is
marked by a frightful disruption of these enormous trees, over-
thrown as easily as a bundle of twigs. Thus, in its calm and in
its wrath, the forest lords it over man, and man in this imposing
wilderness is driven to silence and contemplation. The inhabit-
ants live exactly as their ancestors lived before them. It is not
poverty, but contempt of comfort: their maxim is that the for-
est ought to provide all they want. Theft is considered lawful;
the feeling of mine-and-thine does not exist: they do not steal,
they take.
These strange notions of ownership, due to ancient tradition,
seem justified by the astonishing fertility of these leafy regions.
## p. 11928 (#562) ##########################################
11928
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The father carries on his back a sack filled with wild plums to
make his drink, or loads his barrow with acorns for the pig,-
the great resource in winter; the son brings home a block of ash-
wood, out of which in the long winter evenings he carves cups.
and basins for the family; the mother returns with a load of
fagots. Do they want an extra bed? she takes her sickle and
cuts withes from the willows near the brook. That tall, bare-
legged girl gathers mushrooms, with which her little sister fills.
the basket made over-night. The little boys are employed, after
their dinner of nuts, in cleaning moss; and the old grandfather,
with tottering step, hobbles towards the copse to cut a stick for
his crutch.
The Chemins-Verts is so vast that all these people have elbow-
room without disturbing its solitude. From time to time a faint
tinkling of bells in the distance announces the arrival of a band
of small horses belonging to the charcoal-burners, ambling along
with bent knees and backs worn by the loads they carry.
The
noise of their shoes is muffled by the leafy carpet.
sound is heard. As for the busy gatherers of the spoils of the
forest, they are nowhere to be seen.
The inhabitants are in love with their forest an unconscious
but incurable passion. They can breathe freely only under the
shade of their woods. It is true the men are willing to spend a
few weeks every year during the harvest in La Beauce, to enable
them to lay by a little sum sufficient for their frugal needs,-
enough to buy a new blouse, and tobacco to last till the next
summer. The forester's work in the plains is scarcely finished
before he hastens to hide his money in a corner of his handker-
chief, suspend his whetstone from his waistband, throw his scythe
merrily over his shoulder, and return in all haste to his forest.
As soon as he catches a glimpse of the tall trees he pauses; he
is happy, he knows not why.
"Ha! here's the boy as has finished his August," says his old
neighbor as soon as he sees him.
"Yes, I have done with La Beauce," he replies, looking slowly
round him. "Here I am no less. "
"No less" is the regular expletive used as a superlative on
all occasions.
This intense love for the forest is hereditary; it is instinctive
in the child, grows with his growth, and never leaves him when
## p. 11929 (#563) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11929
he becomes a man; when away from his woods it becomes a per-
fect nostalgia. It found its expression in mythology, which after
all is only nature-nature symbolized and personified under the
names of faun and hamadryad.
The woodman has perpetuated these myths; the Chemins-Verts
have their own legends, of which Renaud the Poacher was the
hero and type.
A MADWOMAN
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
[Jean Renaud, the central figure in the story, has been unjustly imprisoned
for poaching; and an old woman, Mère Chauvin, of whom he had taken care,
has also been incarcerated for supposed complicity in Renaud's work. His
sentence served, Renaud returns to her lonely cottage, only to find the old
woman crazy, and their forest life together broken up by tragedy. ]
HⓇ
E WAS soon obliged to set to work again; for his money
was exhausted. He presented himself at the saw-pit. His
skill was well known to the heads of the trade, and they
engaged him. It mattered little to them that he had been
in prison. Marcel himself advised them to take him back, as it
would be easier to keep an eye upon him when he was close at
hand.
At first he was the butt of his companions, who invariably
called him Renaud the Poacher. They did not always treat him
as a pariah, however, for he knew how to make himself feared;
and besides he was an object of admiration to some,—for the
woodmen have all more or less a drop of poacher's blood in their
veins. Others treated his crime as of little importance. "As
long," they said, "as one is neither a murderer nor a thief, there's
not much harm. "
Determined to bear everything, he pretended not to hear,
and by degrees he reconquered his position. The first to arrive,
the last to leave, sad, taciturn, he lived apart. No fault could be
found with him, and he was soon let alone.
The regularity of his life enabled him partly to recover. He
rambled over the forest, found once more his favorite paths, and
felt again the friendly branches meet over his head. He still
was sad, but his apathy was gone. On Sundays the men who
## p. 11930 (#564) ##########################################
11930
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
came to pick up wood saw him at a distance, and said to one
another:-
-
"There's Renaud the Poacher: he's finished his term. "
When he had shaken off his torpor he became sensitive; his
blood boiled with anger.
"Ah, they are all against me! They call me 'Poacher. '
Well, I'll make my name good, and nothing shall prevent me
poaching. "
This thought awakened another: he stood still, quivering.
His gun! had it been found? His grandfather's
His grandfather's curse and his
old friend's madness had absorbed him. But this fear, once pre-
sented to his mind, took entire possession of it. Intense curios-
ity was mingled with acute, overpowering terror. He longed
for night that he might begin his search, and counted the trees
meanwhile to distract his thoughts. After each number a loud
voice sounded in his ear, repeating, "Has some one carried off
your gun? "
At nightfall he stole out, took a circuitous route, and when
nearer to the spot laid one ear to the ground to listen,— the
frost had hardened the soil and made it sonorous: there was no
one about. Then he crept into the bushes on his hands and
knees.
When he reached the break in the ground caused by the ditch
he felt among the brushwood. No gun was there! He broke
into a sweat; he went back into the wood to where the stag had
stood. Here was the holly behind which Jean was posted. He
felt the trees, one after the other, to the path. What a pity
that the night was so dark! He had made a miscalculation of
several feet.
The next time he hit upon the place. The frosty leaves
cracked; the earth crumbled; something harder opposed itself to
his touch. It was the gun!
"My blessed old gun! I've got you at last! How they must
have hunted for you! But you were so little hidden that I don't
wonder they didn't find you. "
This speech exactly describes the simple cunning of the peas-
ant mind.
The gun, full of mold and more rusty than when it served as
a pipe, could not have attracted the attention of the most suspi-
cious keeper. Proud and joyful, he carried it away in his arms.
## p. 11931 (#565) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11931
He spent three nights in taking it to pieces, oiling and fur-
bishing it. A fresh hole in the left barrel necessitated a new
patch. When he had set it to rights, the climber became
thoughtful. He was afraid of everything now. If they came
to search his hut? Marcel was too cunning,—the gun must be
hidden. He took up a plank in the cellar, slipped the gun into
its place as if into a case, with all the powder and ball he had
left, hid the opening with a bit of wood covered with dust, cast
a threatening glance in the direction of Le Plantis, and returned
to put away his oil in the kitchen.
