Chapter 9

In cruel solitude each day With flame more ardent passion burns, And to Onéguine far away Her heart importunately turns. She never more his face may view, For was it not her duty to Detest him for a brother slain? The poet fell; already men No more remembered him; unto Another his betrothed was given; The memory of the bard was driven Like smoke athwart the heaven blue; Two hearts perchance were desolate And mourned him still. Why mourn his fate?

XIII

’Twas eve. ’Twas dusk. The river speeds In tranquil flow. The beetle hums. Already dance to song proceeds; The fisher’s fire afar illumes The river’s bank. Tattiana lone Beneath the silver of the moon Long time in meditation deep Her path across the plain doth keep— Proceeds, until she from a hill Sees where a noble mansion stood, A village and beneath, a wood, A garden by a shining rill. She gazed thereon, and instant beat Her heart more loudly and more fleet.

XIV

She hesitates, in doubt is thrown— “Shall I proceed, or homeward flee? He is not there: I am not known: The house and garden I would see.” Tattiana from the hill descends With bated breath, around she bends A countenance perplexed and scared. She enters a deserted yard— Yelping, a pack of dogs rush out, But at her shriek ran forth with noise The household troop of little boys, Who with a scuffle and a shout The curs away to kennel chase, The damsel under escort place.

XV

“Can I inspect the mansion, please?” Tattiana asks, and hurriedly Unto Anicia for the keys The family of children hie. Anicia soon appears, the door Opens unto her visitor. Into the lonely house she went, Wherein a space Onéguine spent. She gazed—a cue, forgotten long, Doth on the billiard table rest, Upon the tumbled sofa placed, A riding whip. She strolls along. The beldam saith: “The hearth, by it The master always used to sit.

XVI

“Departed Lenski here to dine In winter time would often come. Please follow this way, lady mine, This is my master’s sitting-room. ’Tis here he slept, his coffee took, Into accounts would sometimes look, A book at early morn perused. The room my former master used. On Sundays by yon window he, Spectacles upon nose, all day Was wont with me at cards to play. God save his soul eternally And grant his weary bones their rest Deep in our mother Earth’s chill breast!”

XVII

Tattiana’s eyes with tender gleam On everything around her gaze, Of priceless value all things seem And in her languid bosom raise A pleasure though with sorrow knit: The table with its lamp unlit, The pile of books, with carpet spread Beneath the window-sill his bed, The landscape which the moonbeams fret, The twilight pale which softens all, Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall And the cast-iron statuette With folded arms and eyes bent low, Cocked hat and melancholy brow.(69)

[Note 69: The Russians not unfrequently adorn their apartments with effigies of the great Napoleon.]

XVIII

Long in this fashionable cell Tattiana as enchanted stood; But it grew late; cold blew the gale; Dark was the valley and the wood Slept o’er the river misty grown. Behind the mountain sank the moon. Long, long the hour had past when home Our youthful wanderer should roam. She hid the trouble of her breast, Heaved an involuntary sigh And turned to leave immediately, But first permission did request Thither in future to proceed That certain volumes she might read.

XIX

Adieu she to the matron said At the front gates, but in brief space At early morn returns the maid To the abandoned dwelling-place. When in the study’s calm retreat, Wrapt in oblivion complete, She found herself alone at last, Longtime her tears flowed thick and fast; But presently she tried to read; At first for books was disinclined, But soon their choice seemed to her mind Remarkable. She then indeed Devoured them with an eager zest. A new world was made manifest!

XX

Although we know that Eugene had Long ceased to be a reading man, Still certain authors, I may add, He had excepted from the ban: The bard of Juan and the Giaour, With it may be a couple more; Romances three, in which ye scan Portrayed contemporary man As the reflection of his age, His immorality of mind To arid selfishness resigned, A visionary personage With his exasperated sense, His energy and impotence.

XXI

And numerous pages had preserved The sharp incisions of his nail, And these the attentive maid observed With eye precise and without fail. Tattiana saw with trepidation By what idea or observation Onéguine was the most impressed, In what he merely acquiesced. Upon those margins she perceived Onéguine’s pencillings. His mind Made revelations undesigned, Of what he thought and what believed, A dagger, asterisk, or note Interrogation to denote.

XXII

And my Tattiana now began To understand by slow degrees More clearly, God be praised, the man, Whom autocratic fate’s decrees Had bid her sigh for without hope— A dangerous, gloomy misanthrope, Being from hell or heaven sent, Angel or fiend malevolent. Which is he? or an imitation, A bogy conjured up in joke, A Russian in Childe Harold’s cloak, Of foreign whims the impersonation— Handbook of fashionable phrase Or parody of modern ways?

XXIII

Hath she found out the riddle yet? Hath she a fitting phrase selected? But time flies and she doth forget They long at home have her expected— Whither two neighbouring dames have walked And a long time about her talked. “What can be done? She is no child!” Cried the old dame with anguish filled: “Olinka is her junior, see. ’Tis time to marry her, ’tis true, But tell me what am I to do? To all she answers cruelly— I will not wed, and ever weeps And lonely through the forest creeps.”

XXIV

“Is she in love?” quoth one. “With whom? Bouyànoff courted. She refused. Pétòushkoff met the selfsame doom. The hussar Pykhtin was accused. How the young imp on Tania doted! To captivate her how devoted! I mused: perhaps the matter’s squared— O yes! my hopes soon disappeared.” “But, _mátushka_, to Moscow you(70) Should go, the market for a maid, With many a vacancy, ’tis said.”— “Alas! my friend, no revenue!” “Enough to see one winter’s end; If not, the money I will lend.”

[Note 70: “Mátushka,” or “little mother,” a term of endearment in constant use amongst Russian females.]

XXV

The venerable dame opined The counsel good and full of reason, Her money counted, and designed To visit Moscow in the season. Tattiana learns the intelligence— Of her provincial innocence The unaffected traits she now Unto a carping world must show— Her toilette’s antiquated style, Her antiquated mode of speech, For Moscow fops and Circes each To mark with a contemptuous smile. Horror! had she not better stay Deep in the greenwood far away?

XXVI

Arising with the morning’s light, Unto the fields she makes her way, And with emotional delight Surveying them, she thus doth say: “Ye peaceful valleys all, good-bye! Ye well-known mountain summits high, Ye groves whose depths I know so well, Thou beauteous sky above, farewell! Delicious nature, thee I fly, The calm existence which I prize I yield for splendid vanities, Thou too farewell, my liberty! Whither and wherefore do I speed And what will Destiny concede?”

XXVII

Farther Tattiana’s walks extend— ’Tis now the hillock now the rill Their natural attractions lend To stay the maid against her will. She the acquaintances she loves, Her spacious fields and shady groves, Another visit hastes to pay. But Summer swiftly fades away And golden Autumn draweth nigh, And pallid nature trembling grieves, A victim decked with golden leaves; Dark clouds before the north wind fly; It blew: it howled: till winter e’en Came forth in all her magic sheen.

XXVIII

The snow descends and buries all, Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs, A white and undulating pall O’er hillock and o’er meadow throws. The channel of the river stilled As if with eider-down is filled. The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoice In mother Winter’s strange caprice. But Tania’s heart is not at ease, Winter’s approach she doth not hail Nor the frost particles inhale Nor the first snow of winter seize Her shoulders, breast and face to lave— Alarm the winter journey gave.

XXIX

The date was fixed though oft postponed, But ultimately doth approach. Examined, mended, newly found Was the old and forgotten coach; Kibitkas three, the accustomed train,(71) The household property contain: Saucepans and mattresses and chairs, Portmanteaus and preserves in jars, Feather-beds, also poultry-coops, Basins and jugs—well! everything To happiness contributing. Behold! beside their dwelling groups Of serfs the farewell wail have given. Nags eighteen to the door are driven.

[Note 71: In former times, and to some extent the practice still continues to the present day, Russian families were wont to travel with every necessary of life, and, in the case of the wealthy, all its luxuries following in their train. As the poet complains in a subsequent stanza there were no inns; and if the simple Làrinas required such ample store of creature comforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on his journeys may be easily conceived.]

XXX

These to the coach of state are bound, Breakfast the busy cooks prepare, Baggage is heaped up in a mound, Old women at the coachmen swear. A bearded postillion astride A lean and shaggy nag doth ride, Unto the gates the servants fly To bid the gentlefolk good-bye. These take their seats; the coach of state Leisurely through the gateway glides. “Adieu! thou home where peace abides, Where turmoil cannot penetrate, Shall I behold thee once again?”— Tattiana tears cannot restrain.

XXXI

The limits of enlightenment When to enlarge we shall succeed, In course of time (the whole extent Will not five centuries exceed By computation) it is like Our roads transformed the eye will strike; Highways all Russia will unite And form a network left and right; On iron bridges we shall gaze Which o’er the waters boldly leap, Mountains we’ll level and through deep Streams excavate subaqueous ways, And Christian folk will, I expect, An inn at every stage erect.

XXXII

But now, what wretched roads one sees, Our bridges long neglected rot, And at the stages bugs and fleas One moment’s slumber suffer not. Inns there are none. Pretentious but Meagre, within a draughty hut, A bill of fare hangs full in sight And irritates the appetite. Meantime a Cyclops of those parts Before a fire which feebly glows Mends with the Russian hammer’s blows The flimsy wares of Western marts, With blessings on the ditches and The ruts of his own fatherland.

XXXIII

Yet on a frosty winter day The journey in a sledge doth please, No senseless fashionable lay Glides with a more luxurious ease; For our Automedons are fire And our swift troikas never tire; The verst posts catch the vacant eye And like a palisade flit by.(72) The Làrinas unwisely went, From apprehension of the cost, By their own horses, not the post— So Tania to her heart’s content Could taste the pleasures of the road. Seven days and nights the travellers plod.

[Note 72: This somewhat musty joke has appeared in more than one national costume. Most Englishmen, if we were to replace verst-posts with milestones and substitute a graveyard for a palisade, would instantly recognize its Yankee extraction. In Russia however its origin is as ancient at least as the reign of Catherine the Second. The witticism ran thus: A courier sent by Prince Potemkin to the Empress drove so fast that his sword, projecting from the vehicle, rattled against the verst-posts as if against a palisade!]

XXXIV

But they draw near. Before them, lo! White Moscow raises her old spires, Whose countless golden crosses glow As with innumerable fires.(73) Ah! brethren, what was my delight When I yon semicircle bright Of churches, gardens, belfries high Descried before me suddenly! Moscow, how oft in evil days, Condemned to exile dire by fate, On thee I used to meditate! Moscow! How much is in the phrase For every loyal Russian breast! How much is in that word expressed!

[Note 73: The aspect of Moscow, especially as seen from the Sparrow Hills, a low range bordering the river Moskva at a short distance from the city, is unique and splendid. It possesses several domes completely plated with gold and some twelve hundred spires most of which are surmounted by a golden cross. At the time of sunset they seem literally tipped with flame. It was from this memorable spot that Napoleon and the Grand Army first obtained a glimpse at the city of the Tsars. There are three hundred and seventy churches in Moscow. The Kremlin itself is however by far the most interesting object to the stranger.]

XXXV

Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks, Petrovski Palace! Gloomily His recent glory he invokes. Here, drunk with his late victory, Napoleon tarried till it please Moscow approach on bended knees, Time-honoured Kremlin’s keys present. Not so! My Moscow never went To seek him out with bended head. No gift she bears, no feast proclaims, But lights incendiary flames For the impatient chief instead. From hence engrossed in thought profound He on the conflagration frowned.(74)

[Note 74: Napoleon on his arrival in Moscow on the 14th September took up his quarters in the Kremlin, but on the 16th had to remove to the Petrovski Palace or Castle on account of the conflagration which broke out in all quarters of the city. He however returned to the Kremlin on the 19th September. The Palace itself is placed in the midst of extensive grounds just outside the city, on the road to Tver, i.e. to the northwest. It is perhaps worthy of remark, as one amongst numerous circumstances proving how extensively the poet interwove his own life-experiences with the plot of this poem, that it was by this road that he himself must have been in the habit of approaching Moscow from his favourite country residence of Mikhailovskoe, in the province of Pskoff.]

XXXVI

Adieu, thou witness of our glory, Petrovski Palace; come, astir! Drive on! the city barriers hoary Appear; along the road of Tver The coach is borne o’er ruts and holes, Past women, sentry-boxes, rolls, Past palaces and nunneries, Lamp-posts, shops, sledges, families, Bokharians, peasants, beds of greens, Boulevards, belfries, milliners, Huts, chemists, Cossacks, shopkeepers And fashionable magazines, Balconies, lion’s heads on doors, Jackdaws on every spire—in scores.(75)

[Note 75: The first line refers to the prevailing shape of the cast-iron handles which adorn the _porte cochères_. The Russians are fond of tame birds—jackdaws, pigeons, starlings, etc., abound in Moscow and elsewhere.]

XXXVII

The weary way still incomplete, An hour passed by—another—till, Near Khariton’s in a side street The coach before a house stood still. At an old aunt’s they had arrived Who had for four long years survived An invalid from lung complaint. A Kalmuck gray, in caftan rent And spectacles, his knitting staid And the saloon threw open wide; The princess from the sofa cried And the newcomers welcome bade. The two old ladies then embraced And exclamations interlaced.

XXXVIII

“Princesse, mon ange!”—“Pachette!”— “Aline!” “Who would have thought it? As of yore! Is it for long?”—“Ma chère cousine!” “Sit down. How funny, to be sure! ’Tis a scene of romance, I vow!” “Tania, my eldest child, you know”— “Ah! come, Tattiana, come to me! Is it a dream, and can it be? Cousin, rememb’rest Grandison?” “What! Grandison?”—“Yes, certainly!” “Oh! I remember, where is he?”— “Here, he resides with Simeon. He called upon me Christmas Eve— His son is married, just conceive!”

XXXIX

“And he—but of him presently— To-morrow Tania we will show, What say you? to the family— Alas! abroad I cannot go. See, I can hardly crawl about— But you must both be quite tired out! Let us go seek a little rest— Ah! I’m so weak—my throbbing breast! Oppressive now is happiness, Not only sorrow—Ah! my dear, Now I am fit for nothing here. In old age life is weariness!” Then weeping she sank back distressed And fits of coughing racked her chest.

XL

By the sick lady’s gaiety And kindness Tania was impressed, But, her own room in memory, The strange apartment her oppressed: Repose her silken curtains fled, She could not sleep in her new bed. The early tinkling of the bells Which of approaching labour tells Aroused Tattiana from her bed. The maiden at her casement sits As daylight glimmers, darkness flits, But ah! discerns nor wood nor mead— Beneath her lay a strange courtyard, A stable, kitchen, fence appeared.

XLI

To consanguineous dinners they Conduct Tattiana constantly, That grandmothers and grandsires may Contemplate her sad reverie. We Russians, friends from distant parts Ever receive with kindly hearts And exclamations and good cheer. “How Tania grows! Doth it appear Long since I held thee at the font— Since in these arms I thee did bear— And since I pulled thee by the ear— And I to give thee cakes was wont?”— Then the old dames in chorus sing, “Oh! how our years are vanishing!”

XLII

But nothing changed in them is seen, All in the good old style appears, Our dear old aunt, Princess Helène, Her cap of tulle still ever wears: Luceria Lvovna paint applies, Amy Petrovna utters lies, Ivan Petròvitch still a gaby, Simeon Petròvitch just as shabby; Pélagie Nikolavna has Her friend Monsieur Finemouche the same, Her wolf-dog and her husband tame; Still of his club he member was— As deaf and silly doth remain, Still eats and drinks enough for twain.

XLIII

Their daughters kiss Tattiana fair. In the beginning, cold and mute, Moscow’s young Graces at her stare, Examine her from head to foot. They deem her somewhat finical, Outlandish and provincial, A trifle pale, a trifle lean, But plainer girls they oft had seen. Obedient then to Nature’s law, With her they did associate, Squeeze tiny hands and osculate; Her tresses curled in fashion saw, And oft in whispers would impart A maiden’s secrets—of the heart.

XLIV

Triumphs—their own or those of friends— Hopes, frolics, dreams and sentiment Their harmless conversation blends With scandal’s trivial ornament. Then to reward such confidence Her amorous experience With mute appeal to ask they seem— But Tania just as in a dream Without participation hears, Their voices nought to her impart And the lone secret of her heart, Her sacred hoard of joy and tears, She buries deep within her breast Nor aught confides unto the rest.

XLV

Tattiana would have gladly heard The converse of the world polite, But in the drawing-room all appeared To find in gossip such delight, Speech was so tame and colourless Their slander e’en was weariness; In their sterility of prattle, Questions and news and tittle-tattle, No sense was ever manifest Though by an error and unsought— The languid mind could smile at nought, Heart would not throb albeit in jest— Even amusing fools we miss In thee, thou world of empty bliss.

XLVI

In groups, official striplings glance Conceitedly on Tania fair, And views amongst themselves advance Unfavourable unto her. But one buffoon unhappy deemed Her the ideal which he dreamed, And leaning ’gainst the portal closed To her an elegy composed. Also one Viázemski, remarking Tattiana by a poor aunt’s side, Successfully to please her tried, And an old gent the poet marking By Tania, smoothing his peruke, To ask her name the trouble took.(76)

[Note 76: One of the obscure satirical allusions contained in this poem. Doubtless the joke was perfectly intelligible to the _habitués_ of contemporary St. Petersburg society. Viazemski of course is the poet and prince, Pushkin’s friend.]

XLVII

But where Melpomene doth rave With lengthened howl and accent loud, And her bespangled robe doth wave Before a cold indifferent crowd, And where Thalia softly dreams And heedless of approval seems, Terpsichore alone among Her sisterhood delights the young (So ’twas with us in former years, In your young days and also mine), Never upon my heroine The jealous dame her lorgnette veers, The connoisseur his glances throws From boxes or from stalls in rows.

XLVIII

To the assembly her they bear. There the confusion, pressure, heat, The crash of music, candles’ glare And rapid whirl of many feet, The ladies’ dresses airy, light, The motley moving mass and bright, Young ladies in a vasty curve, To strike imagination serve. ’Tis there that arrant fops display Their insolence and waistcoats white And glasses unemployed all night; Thither hussars on leave will stray To clank the spur, delight the fair— And vanish like a bird in air.

XLIX

Full many a lovely star hath night And Moscow many a beauty fair: Yet clearer shines than every light The moon in the blue atmosphere. And she to whom my lyre would fain, Yet dares not, dedicate its strain, Shines in the female firmament Like a full moon magnificent. Lo! with what pride celestial Her feet the earth beneath her press! Her heart how full of gentleness, Her glance how wild yet genial! Enough, enough, conclude thy lay— For folly’s dues thou hadst to pay.

L

Noise, laughter, bowing, hurrying mixt, Gallop, mazurka, waltzing—see! A pillar by, two aunts betwixt, Tania, observed by nobody, Looks upon all with absent gaze And hates the world’s discordant ways. ’Tis noisome to her there: in thought Again her rural life she sought, The hamlet, the poor villagers, The little solitary nook Where shining runs the tiny brook, Her garden, and those books of hers, And the lime alley’s twilight dim Where the first time she met with _him_.

LI

Thus widely meditation erred, Forgot the world, the noisy ball, Whilst from her countenance ne’er stirred The eyes of a grave general. Both aunts looked knowing as a judge, Each gave Tattiana’s arm a nudge And in a whisper did repeat: “Look quickly to your left, my sweet!” “The left? Why, what on earth is there?”— “No matter, look immediately. There, in that knot of company, Two dressed in uniform appear— Ah! he has gone the other way”— “Who? Is it that stout general, pray?”—

LII