Chapter 10

Let us congratulations pay To our Tattiana conquering, And for a time our course delay, That I forget not whom I sing. Let me explain that in my song “I celebrate a comrade young And the extent of his caprice; O epic Muse, my powers increase And grant success to labour long; Having a trusty staff bestowed, Grant that I err not on the road.” Enough! my pack is now unslung— To classicism I’ve homage paid, Though late, have a beginning made.(77)

[Note 77: Many will consider this mode of bringing the canto to a conclusion of more than doubtful taste. The poet evidently aims a stroke at the pedantic and narrow-minded criticism to which original genius, emancipated from the strait-waistcoat of conventionality, is not unfrequently subjected.]

End of Canto The Seventh

CANTO THE EIGHTH

The Great World

‘Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever fare thee well.’—Byron

Canto the Eighth

[St. Petersburg, Boldino, Tsarskoe Selo, 1880-1881]

I

In the Lyceum’s noiseless shade As in a garden when I grew, I Apuleius gladly read But would not look at Cicero. ’Twas then in valleys lone, remote, In spring-time, heard the cygnet’s note By waters shining tranquilly, That first the Muse appeared to me. Into the study of the boy There came a sudden flash of light, The Muse revealed her first delight, Sang childhood’s pastimes and its joy, Glory with which our history teems And the heart’s agitated dreams.

II

And the world met her smilingly, A first success light pinions gave, The old Derjavine noticed me, And blest me, sinking to the grave.(78) Then my companions young with pleasure In the unfettered hours of leisure Her utterances ever heard, And by a partial temper stirred And boiling o’er with friendly heat, They first of all my brow did wreathe And an encouragement did breathe That my coy Muse might sing more sweet. O triumphs of my guileless days, How sweet a dream your memories raise!

[Note 78: This touching scene produced a lasting impression on Pushkin’s mind. It took place at a public examination at the Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. The incident recalls the “Mon cher Tibulle” of Voltaire and the youthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during the reigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. His poems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought of by contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimal endowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperial reward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire. Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder having been expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I have filled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the author having reference to this canto.]

III

Passion’s wild sway I then allowed, Her promptings unto law did make, Pursuits I followed of the crowd, My sportive Muse I used to take To many a noisy feast and fight, Terror of guardians of the night; And wild festivities among She brought with her the gift of song. Like a Bacchante in her sport Beside the cup she sang her rhymes And the young revellers of past times Vociferously paid her court, And I, amid the friendly crowd, Of my light paramour was proud.

IV

But I abandoned their array, And fled afar—she followed me. How oft the kindly Muse away Hath whiled the road’s monotony, Entranced me by some mystic tale. How oft beneath the moonbeams pale Like Leonora did she ride(79) With me Caucasian rocks beside! How oft to the Crimean shore She led me through nocturnal mist Unto the sounding sea to list, Where Nereids murmur evermore, And where the billows hoarsely raise To God eternal hymns of praise.

[Note 79: See Note 30, “Leonora,” a poem by Gottfried Augustus Burger, b. 1748, d. 1794.]

V

Then, the far capital forgot, Its splendour and its blandishments, In poor Moldavia cast her lot, She visited the humble tents Of migratory gipsy hordes— And wild among them grew her words— Our godlike tongue she could exchange For savage speech, uncouth and strange, And ditties of the steppe she loved. But suddenly all changed around! Lo! in my garden was she found And as a country damsel roved, A pensive sorrow in her glance And in her hand a French romance.

VI

Now for the first time I my Muse Lead into good society, Her steppe-like beauties I peruse With jealous fear, anxiety. Through dense aristocratic rows Of diplomats and warlike beaux And supercilious dames she glides, Sits down and gazes on all sides— Amazed at the confusing crowd, Variety of speech and vests, Deliberate approach of guests Who to the youthful hostess bowed, And the dark fringe of men, like frames Enclosing pictures of fair dames.

VII

Assemblies oligarchical Please her by their decorum fixed, The rigour of cold pride and all Titles and ages intermixed. But who in that choice company With clouded brow stands silently? Unknown to all he doth appear, A vision desolate and drear Doth seem to him the festal scene. Doth his brow wretchedness declare Or suffering pride? Why is he there? Who may he be? Is it Eugene? Pray is it he? It is the same. “And is it long since back he came?

VIII

“Is he the same or grown more wise? Still doth the misanthrope appear? He has returned, say in what guise? What is his latest character? What doth he act? Is it Melmoth,(80) Philanthropist or patriot, Childe Harold, quaker, devotee, Or other mask donned playfully? Or a good fellow for the nonce, Like you and me and all the rest?— But this is my advice, ’twere best Not to behave as he did once— Society he duped enow.” “Is he known to you?”—“Yes and No.”

[Note 80: A romance by Maturin.]

IX

Wherefore regarding him express Perverse, unfavourable views? Is it that human restlessness For ever carps, condemns, pursues? Is it that ardent souls of flame By recklessness amuse or shame Selfish nonentities around? That mind which yearns for space is bound? And that too often we receive Professions eagerly for deeds, That crass stupidity misleads, That we by cant ourselves deceive, That mediocrity alone Without disgust we look upon?

X

Happy he who in youth was young, Happy who timely grew mature, He who life’s frosts which early wrung Hath gradually learnt to endure; By visions who was ne’er deranged Nor from the mob polite estranged, At twenty who was prig or swell, At thirty who was married well, At fifty who relief obtained From public and from private ties, Who glory, wealth and dignities Hath tranquilly in turn attained, And unto whom we all allude As to a worthy man and good!

XI

But sad is the reflection made, In vain was youth by us received, That we her constantly betrayed And she at last hath us deceived; That our desires which noblest seemed, The purest of the dreams we dreamed, Have one by one all withered grown Like rotten leaves by Autumn strown— ’Tis fearful to anticipate Nought but of dinners a long row, To look on life as on a show, Eternally to imitate The seemly crowd, partaking nought Its passions and its modes of thought.

XII

The butt of scandal having been, ’Tis dreadful—ye agree, I hope— To pass with reasonable men For a fictitious misanthrope, A visionary mortified, Or monster of Satanic pride, Or e’en the “Demon” of my strain.(81) Onéguine—take him up again— In duel having killed his friend And reached, with nought his mind to engage, The twenty-sixth year of his age, Wearied of leisure in the end, Without profession, business, wife, He knew not how to spend his life.

[Note 81: The “Demon,” a short poem by Pushkin which at its first appearance created some excitement in Russian society. A more appropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have been the _Tempter_. It is descriptive of the first manifestation of doubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as the visits of a “demon.” Russian society was moved to embody this imaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin’s. This must not be confounded with Lermontoff’s poem bearing the same title upon which Rubinstein’s new opera, “Il Demonio,” is founded.]

XIII

Him a disquietude did seize, A wish from place to place to roam, A very troublesome disease, In some a willing martyrdom. Abandoned he his country seat, Of woods and fields the calm retreat, Where every day before his eyes A blood-bespattered shade would rise, And aimless journeys did commence— But still remembrance to him clings, His travels like all other things Inspired but weariness intense; Returning, from his ship amid A ball he fell as Tchatzki did.(82)

[Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the principal characters in Griboyédoff’s celebrated comedy “Woe from Wit” (_Gore ot Ouma_).]

XIV

Behold, the crowd begins to stir, A whisper runs along the hall, A lady draws the hostess near, Behind her a grave general. Her manners were deliberate, Reserved, but not inanimate, Her eyes no saucy glance address, There was no angling for success. Her features no grimaces bleared; Of affectation innocent, Calm and without embarrassment, A faithful model she appeared Of “comme il faut.” Shishkòff, forgive! I can’t translate the adjective.(83)

[Note 83: Shishkòff was a member of the literary school which cultivated the vernacular as opposed to the _Arzamass_ or Gallic school, to which the poet himself and his uncle Vassili Pushkin belonged. He was admiral, author, and minister of education.]

XV

Ladies in crowds around her close, Her with a smile old women greet, The men salute with lower bows And watch her eye’s full glance to meet. Maidens before her meekly move Along the hall, and high above The crowd doth head and shoulders rise The general who accompanies. None could her beautiful declare, Yet viewing her from head to foot, None could a trace of that impute, Which in the elevated sphere Of London life is “vulgar” called And ruthless fashion hath blackballed.

XVI

I like this word exceedingly Although it will not bear translation, With us ’tis quite a novelty Not high in general estimation; ’Twould serve ye in an epigram— But turn we once more to our dame. Enchanting, but unwittingly, At table she was sitting by The brilliant Nina Voronskoi, The Neva’s Cleopatra, and None the conviction could withstand That Nina’s marble symmetry, Though dazzling its effulgence white, Could not eclipse her neighbour’s light.

XVII

“And is it,” meditates Eugene. “And is it she? It must be—no— How! from the waste of steppes unseen,”— And the eternal lorgnette through Frequent and rapid doth his glance Seek the forgotten countenance Familiar to him long ago. “Inform me, prince, pray dost thou know The lady in the crimson cap Who with the Spanish envoy speaks?”— The prince’s eye Onéguine seeks: “Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape! But stop! I will present thee, if You choose.”—“But who is she?”—“My wife.”

XVIII

“So thou art wed! I did not know. Long ago?”—“’Tis the second year.” “To—?”—“Làrina.”—“Tattiana?”—“So. And dost thou know her?”—“We live near.” “Then come with me.” The prince proceeds, His wife approaches, with him leads His relative and friend as well. The lady’s glance upon him fell— And though her soul might be confused, And vehemently though amazed She on the apparition gazed, No signs of trouble her accused, A mien unaltered she preserved, Her bow was easy, unreserved.

XIX

Ah no! no faintness her attacked Nor sudden turned she red or white, Her brow she did not e’en contract Nor yet her lip compressed did bite. Though he surveyed her at his ease, Not the least trace Onéguine sees Of the Tattiana of times fled. He conversation would have led— But could not. Then she questioned him:— “Had he been long here, and where from? Straight from their province had he come?”— Cast upwards then her eyeballs dim Unto her husband, went away— Transfixed Onéguine mine doth stay.

XX

Is this the same Tattiana, say, Before whom once in solitude, In the beginning of this lay, Deep in the distant province rude, Impelled by zeal for moral worth, He salutary rules poured forth? The maid whose note he still possessed Wherein the heart its vows expressed, Where all upon the surface lies,— That girl—but he must dreaming be— That girl whom once on a time he Could in a humble sphere despise, Can she have been a moment gone Thus haughty, careless in her tone?

XXI

He quits the fashionable throng And meditative homeward goes, Visions, now sad, now grateful, long Do agitate his late repose. He wakes—they with a letter come— The Princess N. will be at home On such a day. O Heavens, ’tis she! Oh! I accept. And instantly He a polite reply doth scrawl. What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred? In the recesses what hath stirred Of a heart cold and cynical? Vexation? Vanity? or strove Again the plague of boyhood—love?

XXII

The hours once more Onéguine counts, Impatient waits the close of day, But ten strikes and his sledge he mounts And gallops to her house away. Trembling he seeks the young princess— Tattiana finds in loneliness. Together moments one or two They sat, but conversation’s flow Deserted Eugene. He, distraught, Sits by her gloomily, desponds, Scarce to her questions he responds, Full of exasperating thought. He fixedly upon her stares— She calm and unconcerned appears.

XXIII

The husband comes and interferes With this unpleasant _tête-à-tête_, With Eugene pranks of former years And jests doth recapitulate. They talked and laughed. The guests arrived. The conversation was revived By the coarse wit of worldly hate; But round the hostess scintillate Light sallies without coxcombry, Awhile sound conversation seems To banish far unworthy themes And platitudes and pedantry, And never was the ear affright By liberties or loose or light.

XXIV

And yet the city’s flower was there, Noblesse and models of the mode, Faces which we meet everywhere And necessary fools allowed. Behold the dames who once were fine With roses, caps and looks malign; Some marriageable maids behold, Blank, unapproachable and cold. Lo, the ambassador who speaks Economy political, And with gray hair ambrosial The old man who has had his freaks, Renowned for his acumen, wit, But now ridiculous a bit.

XXV

Behold Sabouroff, whom the age For baseness of the spirit scorns, Saint Priest, who every album’s page With blunted pencil-point adorns. Another tribune of the ball Hung like a print against the wall, Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim,(84) Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim. The traveller, bird of passage he, Stiff, overstarched and insolent, Awakens secret merriment By his embarrassed dignity— Mute glances interchanged aside Meet punishment for him provide.

[Note 84: On Palm Sunday the Russians carry branches, or used to do so. These branches were adorned with little painted pictures of cherubs with the ruddy complexions of tradition. Hence the comparison.]

XXVI

But my Onéguine the whole eve Within his mind Tattiana bore, Not the young timid maid, believe, Enamoured, simple-minded, poor, But the indifferent princess, Divinity without access Of the imperial Neva’s shore. O Men, how very like ye are To Eve the universal mother, Possession hath no power to please, The serpent to unlawful trees Aye bids ye in some way or other— Unless forbidden fruit we eat, Our paradise is no more sweet.

XXVII

Ah! how Tattiana was transformed, How thoroughly her part she took! How soon to habits she conformed Which crushing dignity must brook! Who would the maiden innocent In the unmoved, magnificent Autocrat of the drawing-room seek? And he had made her heart beat quick! ’Twas he whom, amid nightly shades, Whilst Morpheus his approach delays, She mourned and to the moon would raise The languid eye of love-sick maids, Dreaming perchance in weal or woe To end with him her path below.

XXVIII

To Love all ages lowly bend, But the young unpolluted heart His gusts should fertilize, amend, As vernal storms the fields athwart. Youth freshens beneath Passion’s showers, Develops and matures its powers, And thus in season the rich field Gay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield. But at a later, sterile age, The solstice of our earthly years, Mournful Love’s deadly trace appears As storms which in chill autumn rage And leave a marsh the fertile ground And devastate the woods around.

XXIX

There was no doubt! Eugene, alas! Tattiana loved as when a lad, Both day and night he now must pass In love-lorn meditation sad. Careless of every social rule, The crystals of her vestibule He daily in his drives drew near And like a shadow haunted her. Enraptured was he if allowed To swathe her shoulders in the furs, If his hot hand encountered hers, Or he dispersed the motley crowd Of lackeys in her pathway grouped, Or to pick up her kerchief stooped.

XXX

She seemed of him oblivious, Despite the anguish of his breast, Received him freely at her house, At times three words to him addressed In company, or simply bowed, Or recognized not in the crowd. No coquetry was there, I vouch— Society endures not such! Onéguine’s cheek grew ashy pale, Either she saw not or ignored; Onéguine wasted; on my word, Already he grew phthisical. All to the doctors Eugene send, And they the waters recommend.

XXXI

He went not—sooner was prepared To write his forefathers to warn Of his approach; but nothing cared Tattiana—thus the sex is born.— He obstinately will remain, Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain. Sickness more courage doth command Than health, so with a trembling hand A love epistle he doth scrawl. Though correspondence as a rule He used to hate—and was no fool— Yet suffering emotional Had rendered him an invalid; But word for word his letter read.

Onéguine’s Letter to Tattiana

All is foreseen. My secret drear Will sound an insult in your ear. What acrimonious scorn I trace Depicted on your haughty face! What do I ask? What cause assigned That I to you reveal my mind? To what malicious merriment, It may be, I yield nutriment!

Meeting you in times past by chance, Warmth I imagined in your glance, But, knowing not the actual truth, Restrained the impulses of youth; Also my wretched liberty I would not part with finally; This separated us as well— Lenski, unhappy victim, fell, From everything the heart held dear I then resolved my heart to tear; Unknown to all, without a tie, I thought—retirement, liberty, Will happiness replace. My God! How I have erred and felt the rod!

No, ever to behold your face, To follow you in every place, Your smiling lips, your beaming eyes, To watch with lovers’ ecstasies, Long listen, comprehend the whole Of your perfections in my soul, Before you agonized to die— This, this were true felicity!

But such is not for me. I brood Daily of love in solitude. My days of life approach their end, Yet I in idleness expend The remnant destiny concedes, And thus each stubbornly proceeds. I feel, allotted is my span; But, that life longer may remain, At morn I must assuredly Know that thy face that day I see.

I tremble lest my humble prayer You with stern countenance declare The artifice of villany— I hear your harsh, reproachful cry. If ye but knew how dreadful ’tis To bear love’s parching agonies— To burn, yet reason keep awake The fever of the blood to slake— A passionate desire to bend And, sobbing at your feet, to blend Entreaties, woes and prayers, confess All that the heart would fain express— Yet with a feigned frigidity To arm the tongue and e’en the eye, To be in conversation clear And happy unto you appear.

So be it! But internal strife I cannot longer wage concealed. The die is cast! Thine is my life! Into thy hands my fate I yield!

XXXII

No answer! He another sent. 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.