Epistle second, note the third,
Remained unnoticed. Once he went
To an assembly—she appeared
Just as he entered. How severe!
She will not see, she will not hear.
Alas! she is as hard, behold,
And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold.
Oh, how her lips compressed restrain
The indignation of her heart!
A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:
Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?
Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!
Upon her brow sits wrath alone—
XXXIII
And it may be a secret dread
Lest the world or her lord divine
A certain little escapade
Well known unto Onéguine mine.
’Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee
Cursing his own stupidity,
And brooding o’er the ills he bore,
Society renounced once more.
Then in the silent cabinet
He in imagination saw
The time when Melancholy’s claw
’Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet,
Caught him and by the collar took
And shut him in a lonely nook.
XXXIV
He read as vainly as before,
Perusing Gibbon and Rousseau,
Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,(85)
Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:
He read the unbelieving Bayle,
Also the works of Fontenelle,
Some Russian authors he perused—
Nought in the universe refused:
Nor almanacs nor newspapers,
Which lessons unto us repeat,
Wherein I castigation get;
And where a madrigal occurs
Writ in my honour now and then—
_E sempre bene_, gentlemen!
[Note 85: Owing to the unstable nature of fame the names of some
of the above literary worthies necessitate reference at this
period in the nineteenth century.
Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a German
philosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friend
of Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chief
work is entitled, “Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of
Mankind,” in 4 vols.
Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a French
novelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to his
real wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised a
considerable influence over certain of its leaders, notably
Mirabeau and Sieyès. He is said to have originated the title of
the celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. “What is the
Tiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything.” He
ultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was thrown
into prison and though shortly afterwards released, his
incarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committed
suicide.
Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomist
and physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a “Traité
des Membranes,” “Anatomie générale appliquée à la Physiologie et à
la Médecine,” and “Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et la
Mort.” He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxious
exhalations during his researches.
Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of the
Revolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editor
of the _Gazette de France_. He wrote histories of the Revolution,
of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of a
work entitled “Les trois Irlandais Conjurés, ou l’ombre d’Emmet,”
and is believed to have edited Foy’s “History of the Peninsular
War.”
The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fair
idea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the Empress
Catherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverish
thirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding power
of assimilation.]
XXXV
But what results? His eyes peruse
But thoughts meander far away—
Ideas, desires and woes confuse
His intellect in close array.
His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,
On lines invisible are fixt;
’Twas these he read and these alone
His spirit was intent upon.
They were the wonderful traditions
Of kindly, dim antiquity,
Dreams with no continuity,
Prophecies, threats and apparitions,
The lively trash of stories long
Or letters of a maiden young.
XXXVI
And by degrees upon him grew
A lethargy of sense, a trance,
And soon imagination threw
Before him her wild game of chance.
And now upon the snow in thaw
A young man motionless he saw,
As one who bivouacs afield,
And heard a voice cry—_Why! He’s killed!_—
And now he views forgotten foes,
Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,
Bevies of treacherous maidens young;
Of thankless friends the circle rose,
A mansion—by the window, see!
She sits alone—’tis ever _she!_
XXXVII
So frequently his mind would stray
He well-nigh lost the use of sense,
Almost became a poet say—
Oh! what had been his eminence!
Indeed, by force of magnetism
A Russian poem’s mechanism
My scholar without aptitude
At this time almost understood.
How like a poet was my chum
When, sitting by his fire alone
Whilst cheerily the embers shone,
He “Benedetta” used to hum,
Or “Idol mio,” and in the grate
Would lose his slippers or gazette.
XXXVIII
Time flies! a genial air abroad,
Winter resigned her empire white,
Onéguine ne’er as poet showed
Nor died nor lost his senses quite.
Spring cheered him up, and he resigned
His chambers close wherein confined
He marmot-like did hibernate,
His double sashes and his grate,
And sallied forth one brilliant morn—
Along the Neva’s bank he sleighs,
On the blue blocks of ice the rays
Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn,
The snow upon the streets doth melt—
Whither along them doth he pelt?
XXXIX
Onéguine whither gallops? Ye
Have guessed already. Yes, quite so!
Unto his own Tattiana he,
Incorrigible rogue, doth go.
Her house he enters, ghastly white,
The vestibule finds empty quite—
He enters the saloon. ’Tis blank!
A door he opens. But why shrank
He back as from a sudden blow?—
Alone the princess sitteth there,
Pallid and with dishevelled hair,
Gazing upon a note below.
Her tears flow plentifully and
Her cheek reclines upon her hand.
XL
Oh! who her speechless agonies
Could not in that brief moment guess!
Who now could fail to recognize
Tattiana in the young princess!
Tortured by pangs of wild regret,
Eugene fell prostrate at her feet—
She starts, nor doth a word express,
But gazes on Onéguine’s face
Without amaze or wrath displayed:
His sunken eye and aspect faint,
Imploring looks and mute complaint
She comprehends. The simple maid
By fond illusions once possest
Is once again made manifest.
XLI
His kneeling posture he retains—
Calmly her eyes encounter his—
Insensible her hand remains
Beneath his lips’ devouring kiss.
What visions then her fancy thronged—
A breathless silence then, prolonged—
But finally she softly said:
“Enough, arise! for much we need
Without disguise ourselves explain.
Onéguine, hast forgotten yet
The hour when—Fate so willed—we met
In the lone garden and the lane?
How meekly then I heard you preach—
To-day it is my turn to teach.
XLII
“Onéguine, I was younger then,
And better, if I judge aright;
I loved you—what did I obtain?
Affection how did you requite?
But with austerity!—for you
No novelty—is it not true?—
Was the meek love a maiden feels.
But now—my very blood congeals,
Calling to mind your icy look
And sermon—but in that dread hour
I blame not your behaviour—
An honourable course ye took,
Displayed a noble rectitude—
My soul is filled with gratitude!
XLIII
“Then, in the country, is’t not true?
And far removed from rumour vain;
I did not please you. Why pursue
Me now, inflict upon me pain?—
Wherefore am I your quarry held?—
Is it that I am now compelled
To move in fashionable life,
That I am rich, a prince’s wife?—
Because my lord, in battles maimed,
Is petted by the Emperor?—
That my dishonour would ensure
A notoriety proclaimed,
And in society might shed
A bastard fame prohibited?
XLIV
“I weep. And if within your breast
My image hath not disappeared,
Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed,
Your conversation cold and hard,
If the choice in my power were,
To lawless love I should prefer—
And to these letters and these tears.
For visions of my childish years
Then ye were barely generous,
Age immature averse to cheat—
But now—what brings you to my feet?—
How mean, how pusillanimous!
A prudent man like you and brave
To shallow sentiment a slave!
XLV
“Onéguine, all this sumptuousness,
The gilding of life’s vanities,
In the world’s vortex my success,
My splendid house and gaieties—
What are they? Gladly would I yield
This life in masquerade concealed,
This glitter, riot, emptiness,
For my wild garden and bookcase,—
Yes! for our unpretending home,
Onéguine—the beloved place
Where the first time I saw your face,—
Or for the solitary tomb
Wherein my poor old nurse doth lie
Beneath a cross and shrubbery.
XLVI
“’Twas possible then, happiness—
Nay, near—but destiny decreed—
My lot is fixed—with thoughtlessness
It may be that I did proceed—
With bitter tears my mother prayed,
And for Tattiana, mournful maid,
Indifferent was her future fate.
I married—now, I supplicate—
For ever your Tattiana leave.
Your heart possesses, I know well,
Honour and pride inflexible.
I love you—to what end deceive?—
But I am now another’s bride—
For ever faithful will abide.”
XLVII
She rose—departed. But Eugene
Stood as if struck by lightning fire.
What a storm of emotions keen
Raged round him and of balked desire!
And hark! the clank of spurs is heard
And Tania’s husband soon appeared.—
But now our hero we must leave
Just at a moment which I grieve
Must be pronounced unfortunate—
For long—for ever. To be sure
Together we have wandered o’er
The world enough. Congratulate
Each other as the shore we climb!
Hurrah! it long ago was time!
XLVIII
Reader, whoever thou mayst be,
Foeman or friend, I do aspire
To part in amity with thee!
Adieu! whate’er thou didst desire
From careless stanzas such as these,
Of passion reminiscences,
Pictures of the amusing scene,
Repose from labour, satire keen,
Or faults of grammar on its page—
God grant that all who herein glance,
In serious mood or dalliance
Or in a squabble to engage,
May find a crumb to satisfy.
Now we must separate. Good-bye!
XLIX
And farewell thou, my gloomy friend,
Thou also, my ideal true,
And thou, persistent to the end,
My little book. With thee I knew
All that a poet could desire,
Oblivion of life’s tempest dire,
Of friends the grateful intercourse—
Oh, many a year hath run its course
Since I beheld Eugene and young
Tattiana in a misty dream,
And my romance’s open theme
Glittered in a perspective long,
And I discerned through Fancy’s prism
Distinctly not its mechanism.
L
But ye to whom, when friendship heard,
The first-fruits of my tale I read,
As Saadi anciently averred—(86)
Some are afar and some are dead.
Without them Eugene is complete;
And thou, from whom Tattiana sweet;
Was drawn, ideal of my lay—
Ah! what hath fate not torn away!
Happy who quit life’s banquet seat
Before the dregs they shall divine
Of the cup brimming o’er with wine—
Who the romance do not complete,
But who abandon it—as I
Have my Onéguine—suddenly.
[Note 86: The celebrated Persian poet. Pushkin uses the passage
referred to as an epigraph to the “Fountain of Baktchiserai.” It
runs thus: “Many, even as I, visited that fountain, but some of
these are dead and some have journeyed afar.” Saadi was born in
1189 at Shiraz and was a reputed descendant from Ali, Mahomet’s
son-in-law. In his youth he was a soldier, was taken prisoner by
the Crusaders and forced to work in the ditches of Tripoli,
whence he was ransomed by a merchant whose daughter he subsequently
married. He did not commence writing till an advanced age. His
principal work is the “Gulistan,” or “Rose Garden,” a work which
has been translated into almost every European tongue.]
End of Canto The Eighth
The End