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 était fille, elle était amoureuse’—Malfilatre
Canto The Third
[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.]
I
“Whither away? Deuce take the bard!”—
“Good-bye, Onéguine, I must go.”—
“I won’t detain you; but ’tis hard
To guess how you the eve pull through.”—
“At Làrina’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, Onéguine, 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! Làrina 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 Joukóvski, upon which his
fame mainly rests. Joukóvski 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 Onéguine’s apparition
At Làrina’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 Onéguine 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’âme. 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-Namièrenni,” 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 Onéguine