Chapter 11

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