Although I cherish
My hero and of course I vow
To see how he may wane or flourish,
I’m not quite in the mood just now.
The years to solemn prose incline me;
The years chase playful rhyme behind me,
And I—alas, I must confess—
Pursue her now a good deal less.
My pen has lost its disposition
To mar the fleeting page with verse;
For other, colder dreams I nurse,
And sterner cares now seek admission;
And mid the hum and hush of life,
They haunt my soul with dreams of strife.
44
I’ve learned the voice of new desires
And come to know a new regret;
The first within me light no fires,
And I lament old sorrows yet.
O dreams! Where has your sweetness vanished?
And where has youth (glib rhyme) been banished?
Can it be true, its bloom has passed,
Has withered, withered now at last?
Can it be true, my heyday’s ended—
All elegiac play aside—
That now indeed my spring has died
(As I in jest so oft pretended)?
And is there no return of youth?
Shall I be thirty soon, in truth?
45
And so, life’s afternoon has started,
As I must now admit, I see.
But let us then as friends be parted,
My sparkling youth, before you flee!
I thank you for your host of treasures,
For pain and grief as well as pleasures,
For storms and feasts and worldly noise,
For all your gifts and all your joys;
My thanks to you. With you I’ve tasted,
Amid the tumult and the still,
Life’s essence … and enjoyed my fill.
Enough! Clear-souled and far from wasted,
I start upon an untrod way
To take my rest from yesterday.
46
But one glance back. Farewell, you bowers,
Sweet wilderness in which I spent
Impassioned days and idle hours,
And filled my soul with dreams, content.
And you, my youthful inspiration,
Come stir the bleak imagination,
Enrich the slumbering heart’s dull load,
More often visit my abode;
Let not the poet’s soul grow bitter
Or harden and congeal alone,
To turn at last to lifeless stone
Amid this world’s deceptive glitter,
This swirling swamp in which we lie
And wallow, friends, both you and I!
Chapter 7
Moscow! Russia’s favourite daughter!
Where is your equal to be found!
Dmitriev
Can one not love our native Moscow?
Baratynsky
‘Speak ill of Moscow! So this is what it means to see the world! Where is it better, then?’ ‘Where we are not.’
Griboedov
1
Spring rays at last begin to muster
And chase from nearby hills the snow,
Whose turbid streams flow down and cluster
To inundate the fields below.
And drowsy nature, smiling lightly,
Now greets the dawning season brightly.
The heavens sparkle now with blue;
The still transparent woods renew
Their downy green and start to thicken.
The bee flies out from waxen cell
To claim its meed from field and dell.
The vales grow dry and colours quicken;
The cattle low; and by the moon
The nightingale pours forth its tune.
2
How sad I find your apparition,
O spring! … O time of love’s unrest!
What sombre echoes of ambition
Then stir my blood and fill my breast!
What tender and oppressive yearning
Possesses me on spring’s returning,
When in some quiet rural place
I feel her breath upon my face!
Or am I now inured to gladness;
And all that quickens and excites,
That sparkles, triumphs, and delights
Casts only spleen and languid sadness
On one whose heart has long been dead,
For whom but darkness lies ahead?
3
Or saddened by the re-emergence
Of leaves that perished in the fall,
We heed the rustling wood’s resurgence,
As bitter losses we recall;
Or do we mark with lamentation
How nature’s lively renovation
Compares with our own fading youth,
For which no spring will come, in truth?
Perhaps in thought we reassemble,
Within a dream to which we cling,
Some other and more ancient spring,
That sets the aching heart atremble
With visions of some distant place,
A magic night, the moon’s embrace.…
4
Now is the time, you hibernators,
You epicures and sages, you;
You fortunate procrastinators,
You fledglings from our Lyóvshin’s crew,*
You rustic Priams from the cities,
And you, my sentimental pretties—
Spring calls you to your country seat;
It’s time for flowers, labours, heat,
Those heady walks for which you’re thirsting,
And soft seductive nights as well.
Into the fields, my friends, pell-mell!
Load up your carriages to bursting,
Bring out your own or rent a horse,
And far from town now set your course!
5
You too, indulgent reader, hurry
In your imported coach, I pray,
To leave the city with its flurry,
Where you spent wintertime in play;
And with my wilful Muse let’s hustle
To where the leafy woodlands rustle—
A nameless river’s placid scene,
The country place where my Eugene,
That idle and reclusive schemer,
But recently this winter stayed,
Not far from our unhappy maid,
Young Tanya, my enchanted dreamer;
But where he now no longer reigns …
Where only his sad trace remains.
6
Where hills half circle round a valley,
Let’s trace a winding brooklet’s flow
Through greening fields, and watch it dally
Beside a spot where lindens grow.
And there the nightingale, spring’s lover,
Sings out till dawn; a crimson cover
Of briar blooms, and freshets sound.
There too a tombstone can be found
Beneath two pine trees, old for ages.
Its legend lets the stranger know:
‘Vladimir Lensky lies below.
He died too soon … his death courageous,
At such an age, in such a year.
Repose in peace, young poet, here!’
There was a time when breezes playing
Among the pines would gently turn
A secret wreath that hung there swaying
Upon a bough above that urn;
And sometimes in the evening hours
Two maidens used to come with flowers,
And by the moonlit grave they kept
Their vigil and, embracing, wept.
But now the monument stands dreary
And quite forgot. Its pathway now—
All weeds. No wreath is on the bough;
Alone the shepherd, grey and weary,
Beneath it sings as in the past
and plaits his simple shoes of bast.
(8–9) 10
My poor, poor Lensky! Yes, she mourned him;
Although her tears were all too brief!
Alas! His fiancée has scorned him
And proved unfaithful to her grief.
Another captured her affection,
Another with his love’s perfection
Has lulled her wretchedness to sleep:
A lancer has enthralled her deep,
A lancer whom she loves with passion;
And at the altar by his side,
She stands beneath the crown a bride,
Her head bent down in modest fashion,
Her lowered eyes aflame the while,
And on her lips a slender smile.
11
Poor Lensky! In his place of resting,
In deaf eternity’s grim shade,
Did he, sad bard, awake protesting
The fateful news, he’d been betrayed?
Or lulled by Lethe, has he slumbered,
His blissful spirit unencumbered
By feelings and perturbed no more,
His world a closed and silent door?
Just so! The tomb that lies before us
Holds but oblivion in the end.
The voice of lover, foe, and friend
Falls silent fast. Alone the chorus
Of angry heirs in hot debate
Contests obscenely our estate.
12
Soon Olga’s happy voice and beauty
No longer cheered the family group.
A captive of his lot and duty,
Her lancer had to join his troop.
Dame Larin’s eyes began to water
As she embraced her younger daughter
And, scarce alive, cried out goodbye.
But Tanya found she couldn’t cry;
A deathly pallor merely covered
Her stricken face. When all came out
Onto the porch and fussed about
While taking leave, Tatyana hovered
Beside the couple’s coach below,
Then sadly saw the lovers go.
13
And long she watched the road they’d taken,
As through a mist of stifled tears….
Now Tanya is alone, forsaken!
Companion of so many years,
The darling sister whom she’d nourished,
The bosom friend she’d always cherished—
Now carried off by fate, a bride,
Forever parted from her side.
She roams in aimless desolation,
Now gazes at the vacant park….
But all seems joyless, bleak and dark;
There’s nothing offers consolation
Or brings her smothered tears relief;
Her heart is rent in two by grief.
14
And in the solitude her passion
Burns even stronger than before,
Her heart speaks out in urgent fashion
Of faraway Eugene the more.
She’ll never see him … and be grateful,
She finds a brother’s slayer hateful
And loathes the awful thing he’s done.
The poet’s gone … and hardly one
Remembers him; his bride’s devotion
Has flown to someone else instead;
His very memory now has fled
Like smoke across an azure ocean.
Two hearts, perhaps, remain forlorn
And mourn him yet…. But wherefore mourn?
15
‘Twas evening and the heavens darkled.
A beetle hummed. The peasant choirs
Were bound for home. Still waters sparkled.
Across the river, smoky fires
Of fishermen were dimly gleaming.
Tatyana walked, alone and dreaming,
Beneath the moonbeams’ silver light
And climbed a gentle hill by night.
She walked and walked … till with a shiver
She spied a distant hamlet’s glow,
A manor house and grove below,
A garden by the glinting river.
And as she gazed upon that place
Her pounding heart began to race.
16
Assailed by doubts, she grew dejected:
‘Should I go on, turn back, or what?
He isn’t here, I’m not expected….
I’ll glance at house and garden plot.’
And so, scarce breathing, down she hastened
And looked about, perplexed and chastened
To find herself at his estate….
She entered the deserted gate.
A pack of barking dogs chased round her;
And at her frightened cry a troop
Of household urchins with a whoop
Came rushing quickly to surround her.
They made the barking hounds obey,
Then led the lady, safe, away.
17
‘May I just see the house, I wonder?’
Asked Tanya … and the children leapt
To find Anísya and to plunder
The household keys she always kept.
Anísya came in just a second,
And soon the open doorway beckoned.
She stepped inside the empty shell
Where once our hero used to dwell.
She found a cue left unattended
Upon the table after play,
And on a rumpled sofa lay
His riding crop. And on she wended.
‘And here’s the hearth,’ spoke up the crone,
‘Where master used to sit alone.
18
‘Our neighbour Lensky, lately buried,
Would dine with him in winter here.
Come this way, please … but don’t feel hurried.
And here’s the master’s study, dear;
He slept, took coffee in these quarters,
Would hear the bailiff, give his orders,
And mornings read some book right through….
My former master lived here too;
On Sundays at his window station,
His glasses on, he’d deign to play
Some cards with me to pass the day.
God grant his mortal soul salvation,
And may his dear old bones be blest
In Mother Earth where he’s at rest.’
19
Tatyana looks in melting pleasure
At everything around the room;
She finds it all a priceless treasure,
A painful joy that lifts her gloom
And leaves her languid soul ignited:
The desk, the lamp that stands unlighted,
The heap of books, the carpet spread
Before the window on the bed,
That semi-light, so pale and solemn,
The view outdoors—the lunar pall,
Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall,
The iron bust* upon its column—
With clouded brow beneath a hat,
The arms compressed and folded flat.
20
And long she stood, bewitched and glowing,
Inside that modish bachelor cell.
But now it’s late. The winds are blowing,
It’s cold and dark within the dell.
The grove’s asleep above the river,
Behind the hill the moon’s a sliver;
And now it’s time, indeed long past,
That our young pilgrim leave at last.
Concealing her wrought-up condition,
Though not without a heartfelt sigh,
Tatyana turns to say goodbye,
But, taking leave, requests permission
To see the vacant house alone
And read the books he’d called his own.
21
Outside the gate Tatyana parted
From old Anísya. Next day then,
She rose at dawn and off she started
To see the empty house again;
And once inside that silent study,
Sealed off at last from everybody,
The world for just a time forgot,
Tatyana wept and mourned her lot…
Then turned to see the books he’d favoured.
At first she didn’t wish to read,
The choice of books seemed strange indeed;
But soon her thirsting spirit savoured
The mystery that those pages told—
And watched a different world unfold.
22
Although Onegin’s inclination
For books had vanished, as we know,
He did exempt from condemnation
Some works and authors even so:
The bard of Juan and the Giaour,*
And some few novels done with power,
In which our age is well displayed
And modern man himself portrayed
With something of his true complexion—
With his immoral soul disclosed,
His arid vanity exposed,
His endless bent for deep reflection,
His cold, embittered mind that seems
To waste itself in empty schemes.
23
Some pages still preserved the traces
Where fingernails had sharply pressed;
The girl’s attentive eye embraces
These lines more quickly than the rest.
And Tanya sees with trepidation
The kind of thought or observation
To which Eugene paid special heed,
Or where he’d tacitly agreed.
And in the margins she inspected
His pencil marks with special care;
And on those pages everywhere
She found Onegin’s soul reflected—
In crosses or a jotted note,
Or in the question mark he wrote.
24
And so, in slow but growing fashion
My Tanya starts to understand
More clearly now—thank God—her passion
And him for whom, by fate’s command,
She’d been condemned to feel desire:
That dangerous and sad pariah,
That work of heaven or of hell,
That angel… and proud fiend as well.
What was he then? An imitation?
An empty phantom or a joke,
A Muscovite in Harold’s cloak,
Compendium of affectation,
A lexicon of words in vogue …
Mere parody and just a rogue?
25
Can she have solved the riddle’s power?
Can she have found the final clue?
She hardly notes how late the hour,
And back at home she’s overdue—
Where two old friends in conversation
Speak out on Tanya’s situation:
‘What can I do? Tatyana’s grown,’
Dame Larin muttered with a moan.
‘Her younger sister married neatly;
It’s time that she were settled too,
I swear I don’t know what to do;
She turns all offers down completely,
Just says: “I can’t”, then broods away,
And wanders through those woods all day.’
26
‘Is she in love?’—‘With whom, I wonder?
Buyánov tried: she turned him down.
And Petushkóv as well went under.
Pykhtín the lancer came from town
To stay with us and seemed transported;
My word, that little devil courted!
I thought she might accept him then;
But no! the deal fell through again.’
‘Why, my dear lady, what’s the bother?
To Moscow and the marriage mart!
They’ve vacancies galore … take heart!’
‘But I’ve so little income, father.’
‘Sufficient for one winter’s stay;
Or borrow then—from me, let’s say.’
27
The good old lady was delighted
To hear such sensible advice;
She checked her funds and then decided,
A Moscow winter would be nice.
Tatyana heard the news morosely—
The haughty world would watch her closely
And judge her harshly from the start:
Her simple, open country heart
And country dress would find no mercy;
And antiquated turns of phrase
Were sure to bring a mocking gaze
From every Moscow fop and Circe!
O horrors! No, she’d better stay
Safe in her woods and never stray.
28
With dawn’s first rays Tatyana races
Out to the open fields to sigh;
And gazing softly, she embraces
The world she loves and says goodbye:
‘Farewell, my peaceful vales and fountains!
Farewell, you too, familiar mountains
And woods where once I used to roam!
Farewell, celestial beauty’s home,
Farewell, fond nature, where I flourished!
I leave your world of quiet joys
For empty glitter, fuss, and noise!
Farewell, my freedom, deeply cherished!
Oh, where and why do I now flee?
And what does Fate prepare for me?’
29
And all that final summer season
Her walks were long; a brook or knoll
Would stop her now for no good reason
Except to charm her thirsting soul.
As with old friends, she keeps returning
To all her groves and meadows, yearning
To talk once more and say goodbye.
But quickly summer seems to fly,
The golden autumn now arriving.
Now nature, tremulous, turns pale—
A victim draped in lavish veil….
The North now howls, the winds are driving
The clouds before them far and near:
That sorceress the winter’s here!
30
She’s spread herself through field and fountain,
And hung the limbs of oaks with white;
She lies atop the farthest mountain
In wavy carpets glistening bright;
She’s levelled with a fluffy blanket
Both river and the shores that flank it.
The frost has gleamed, and we give thanks
For Mother Winter’s happy pranks.
But Tanya’s heart is far from captured:
She doesn’t greet the winter’s glow,
Inhale the frostdust, gather snow
From bathhouse roof to wash, enraptured,
Her shoulders, face, and breast. With dread
She views the winter path ahead.
31
Departure day was long expected;
The final hours come at last.
The covered sleigh, for years neglected,
Is checked, relined, and soon made fast.
The usual three-cart train will carry
What household goods are necessary:
The mattresses, the trunks and chairs,
Some jars of jam and kitchen wares,
The featherbeds and coops of chickens,
Some pots and basins, and the rest—
Well, almost all that they possessed.
The servants fussed and raised the dickens
About the stable, many cried;
Then eighteen nags were led outside.
32
They’re harnessed to the coach and steadied;
The cooks make lunch for one and all;
The heaped-up wagons now are readied;
The wenches and the drivers brawl.
Atop a lean and shaggy trotter
The bearded postboy sits as spotter.
Retainers crowd the gate pell-mell
To bid their mistresses farewell.
They’re all aboard and, slowly gliding,
The ancient coach creeps out the gate.
‘Farewell, my peaceful home and fate!
Farewell, secluded place of hiding!
Shall I return?’ And Tanya sighs,
As tears well up to dim her eyes.
33
When we have broadened education,
The time will come without a doubt
(By scientific computation,
Within five hundred years about),
When our old roads’ decayed condition
Will change beyond all recognition.
Paved highways, linking every side,
Will cross our Russia far and wide;
Above our waters iron bridges
Will stride in broadly arching sweep;
We’ll dig bold tunnels ‘neath the deep
And even part whole mountain ridges;
And Christendom will institute
An inn at every stage en route.
34
But roads are bad now in our nation;
Neglected bridges rot and fall;
Bedbugs and fleas at every station
Won’t let the traveller sleep at all.
No inns exist. At posting stages
They hang pretentious menu pages,
But just for show, as if to spite
The traveller’s futile appetite;
While some rude Cyclops at his fire
Treats Europe’s dainty artefacts
With mighty Russian hammer whacks,
And thanks the Lord for ruts and mire
And all the ditches that abound
Throughout our native Russian ground.
35
And yet a trip in winter season
Is often easy, even nice.
Like modish verse devoid of reason,
The winter road is smooth as ice.
Our bold Autómedons* stay cheery,
Our Russian troikas never weary;
And mileposts soothe the idle eye
As fencelike they go flashing by.
Unluckily, Dame Larin wasted
No funds on renting fresher horse,
Which meant a longer trip of course;
And so our maiden fully tasted
Her share of travel’s dull delights:
They rode for seven days and nights.
36
But now they’re near. Before them, gleaming,
Lies Moscow with its stones of white,
Its ancient domes and spires streaming
With golden crosses, ember-bright.
Ah, friends, I too have been delighted
When all at once far-off I’ve sighted
That splendid view of distant domes,
Of churches, belfries, stately homes!
How oft … forlorn and separated—
When wayward fate has made me stray—
I’ve dreamt of Moscow far away!
Ah, Moscow! How that sound is freighted
With meaning for our Russian hearts!
How many echoes it imparts!
37
And here’s Petróvsky Castle,* hoary
Amid its park. In sombre dress
It wears with pride its recent glory:
Napoleon, drunk with fresh success,
Awaited here, in vain, surrender—
For kneeling Moscow’s hand to tender
The ancient Kremlin’s hallowed keys.
But Moscow never bent her knees,
Nor bowed her head in subjugation;
No welcome feast did she prepare
The restless hero waiting there—
But lit instead a conflagration.
From here he watched, immersed in thought,
The awesome blaze my Moscow wrought.
38
Farewell now, scene of fame unsteady,
Petróvsky Castle. Hey! Be fleet!
There gleam the city gates already!
And now along Tverskáya Street
The sleigh glides over ruts and passes
By sentry booths and peasant lasses;
By gardens, mansions, fashion shops;
Past urchins, streetlamps, strolling fops,
Bokhárins, sleighs, apothecaries,
Muzhíks and merchants, Cossack guards;
Past towers, hovels, boulevards,
Great balconies and monasteries;
Past gateway lions’ lifted paws,
And crosses dense with flocks of daws.
(39) 40
This tiring trek through town extended
For two full hours; then, quite late
Nearby St Chariton’s it ended
Before a mansion’s double gate.
For now they’ll seek accommodation
With Tanya’s aunt, a kind relation—
Four years consumptive, sad to note.
In glasses and a torn old coat,
A grizzled Kalmuk came to meet them;
With sock in hand he led the way
To where the prostrate princess lay;
She called from parlour couch to greet them.
The two old ladies hugged and cried,
With shouts of joy on either side.
41
‘Princesse, mon anger!' ‘Pachette!’ ‘Oh, Laura!’
‘Who would have thought?’ ‘How long it’s been!’
‘I hope you’ll stay?’ ‘Dear cousin Laura!’
‘Sit down…. How strange! … I can’t begin …
I’d swear it’s from some novel’s pages!’
‘And here’s my Tanya.’ ‘Lord, it’s ages!
Oh, Tanya sweet, come over here—
I think I must be dreaming, dear….
Oh, cousin, do you still remember
Your Grandison?’ ‘I never knew …
Oh, Grandison! … of course I do!’
‘He lives in Moscow. This December,
On Christmas eve, he paid a call:
He married off his son this fall.
42
‘The other. … But we’ll talk tomorrow;
And straightway too, to all her kin
We’ll show your Tanya. What a sorrow
That paying visits does me in;
I drag about like some poor laggard.
But here, your trip has left you haggard;
Let’s all go have a nice long rest….
I’ve got no strength… this weary breast
Finds even joy at times excessive,
Not only woe…. It’s true, my dear,
I’m good for nothing now, I fear;
When one gets old, life turns oppressive.’
And all worn out, she wept a bit,
Then broke into a coughing fit.
43
The sick old lady’s kindly smile
Left Tanya moved; but she felt sad
Within this strange new domicile
And missed the room she’d always had.
In bed, beneath her silken curtain,
She lies there sleepless and uncertain;
And early church bells—when they chime,
Announcing dawn and working time—
Rouse Tanya from her bed to listen.
She sits before the windowsill.
The darkness wanes, but Tanya still
Can’t see her fields and valleys glisten:
She sees an unknown yard instead:
A stable, fence, and kitchen shed.
44
And now they trundle Tanya daily
To family dinners just to share
With grandams and granduncles gaily
Her languid and abstracted air.
Those kin who’ve come from distant places
Are always met with warm embraces,
With shouts of joy and welcome cheer.
‘How Tanya’s grown! It seems, my dear,
So short a time since I baptized you!’
‘And since I dried your baby tears!’
‘And since I pulled you by the ears!’
‘And since my gingerbread surprised you!’
And with one voice the grannies cry:
‘Good gracious, how the years do fly!’
45
In them, though, nothing ever alters;
The same old patterns still are met:
Old Aunt Elena never falters
And wears that same tulle bonnet yet;
Still powdered is Lukérya Lvóvna;
A liar still, Lyubóv Petróvna;
Iván Petróvich … no more bright;
Semyón Petróvich … just as tight;
And Anna Pávlovna, as ever,
Still has her friend, Monsieur Finemouch,
Her same old spouse, and same old pooch—
Her husband, clubman come whatever,
Is just as meek and deaf, it’s true,
And still consumes enough for two.
46
Their daughters, after brief embraces,
Look Tanya over good and slow;
In silence Moscow’s youthful graces
Examine her from head to toe.
They find her stranger than expected,
A bit provincial and affected,
And somewhat pale, too thin and small,
But on the whole, not bad at all;
Then bowing to innate compassion,
They squeeze her hand and, in the end,
Take Tanya in and call her friend;
They fluff her curls in latest fashion,
And in their singsong tones impart
Their girlish secrets of the heart—
47
Both others’ and their own successes,
Their hopes, and pranks, and maiden dreams;
All innocence, their talk progresses—
Though now and then some gossip gleams.
And then they ask, in compensation
For their sweet flow of revelation,
For her confessions of romance.
But Tanya, in a kind of trance,
Attends their giddy conversation
Without response and takes no part;
And all the while she guards her heart
With silence and in meditation:
Her cherished trove of tears and bliss
She’ll share with none, aloud like this.
48
Tatyana tries to pay attention
When in the parlour guests converse;
But all they ever seem to mention
Is incoherent rot, or worse;
They seem so pallid and so weary,
And even in their slander dreary.
In all the sterile words they use—
In arid gossip, questions, news—
Not once all day does thought but flicker,
Not even in some chance remark;
The languid mind will find no spark,
The heart no cause to beat the quicker;
And even simple-minded fun
This hollow world has learned to shun!
49
‘Archival dandies’* in a cluster
Eye Tanya with a priggish frown,
And with their usual sort of bluster,
Among themselves they put her down.
One melancholy joker found her
His ‘true ideal’ and hovered round her—
Then, leaning by the door, prepared
An elegy, to show he cared.
Once Vyázemsky* sat down beside her
(On meeting her at some dull aunt’s)
And managed to dispel her trance;
And some old man—when he espied her—
Put straight his wig and asked around
About this unknown belle he’d found.
50
But where Melpomene still stages
Her stormy scenes and wails aloud
And in her gaudy mantle rages
Before the dull and frigid crowd;
Where sweet Thalia calmly dozes,
Indifferent to admirers’ roses;
Where just Terpsichore enchants
The youthful lover of the dance
(As was the case—for nothing passes—
In our day too, let’s not forget),
No jealous lady trained lorgnette,
No modish connoisseur his glasses,
To spy on Tanya down below
From boxes rising row on row.
51
They take her to the Grand Assembly:*
And there the crush, the glare, the heat,
The music’s roar, the ballroom trembling,
The whirling flash of pairs of feet,
The beauties in their filmy dresses,
The swarming gallery throng that presses,
The host of girls on marriage hunts—
Assault the senses all at once.
Here practised dandies bow and slither
To show their gall… and waistcoats too,
With negligent lorgnettes in view.
Hussars on leave come racing hither
To strut their stuff and thunder by,
To dazzle, conquer … and to fly.
52
The night has countless stars to light her,
And Moscow countless beauties too;
And yet the regal moon shines brighter
Than all her friends in heaven’s blue;
And she, whose beauty I admire—
But dare not bother with my lyre—
Just like the moon upon her throne,
Mid wives and maidens shines alone.
With what celestial pride she grazes
The earth she walks, in splendour dressed!
What languor fills her lovely breast!
How sensuous her wondrous gazes! …
But there, enough; have done at last:
You’ve paid your due to follies past.
53
Commotion, bows … the glad, the solemn…
Galop, mazurka, waltz…. And there,
Between two aunts, beside a column,
Observed by none, and near despair,
Tatyana looks with eyes unseeing
And loathes this world with all her being;
She’s stifled here … and in her mind
Calls up the life she left behind—
The countryside, poor village neighbours,
A distant and secluded nook
Beside a limpid flowing brook,
Her flowers, novels, daily labours …
That dusky, linden-shaded walk
Where he and she once had their talk.
54
And so, far off in thought she wandered:
The monde, the noisy ball forgot;
But all the while, as Tanya pondered,
Some general stared her way a lot.
The aunts exchanged a wink and nodded,
And with an elbow each one prodded
Tatyana, whisp’ring in her ear:
’Look quickly to your left, my dear.’
’My left? But why? It seems like gawking.’
’Just never mind … now look up there …
That group in front; you see that pair …
In uniform? The one not talking …
He just moved off…. He’s turning round.’
’That heavy general?’ Tanya frowned.
55
But here let’s honour with affection
My Tanya’s conquest taking wing,
And steer for now a new direction,
Lest I forget of whom I sing—
On which, herewith, these observations:
l sing strange whims and aberrations,
I sing a youthful friend of mine.
O Muse of Epics, may you shine
On my long work as I grow older!
And armed with your good staff, I pray,
May I not roam too far astray.
Enough! The burden’s off my shoulder!
To classicism I’ve been true:
The foreword’s here, if overdue.
Chapter 8
Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well.
Byron
1
In days when I still bloomed serenely
Inside our Lycée* garden wall
And read my Apuleius keenly,
But read no Cicero at all—
Those springtime days in secret valleys,
Where swans call out and beauty dallies,
Near waters sparkling in the still,
The Muse first came to make me thrill.
My student cell turned incandescent;
And there the Muse spread out for me
A feast of youthful fancies free,
And sang of childhood effervescent,
The glory of our days of old,
The trembling dreams the heart can hold.
2
And with a smile the world caressed us;
What wings our first successes gave!
The old Derzhávin* saw—and blessed us,
As he descended to the grave.
3
And I, who saw my single duty
As heeding passion’s siren song—
To share with all the world her beauty,
Would take my merry Muse along
To rowdy feasts and altercations—
The bane of midnight sentry stations;
And to each mad and fevered rout
She brought her gifts … and danced about,
Bacchante-like, at all our revels,
And over wine she sang for guests;
And in those days when I was blest,
The young pursued my Muse like devils;
While I, mid friends, was drunk with pride—
My flighty mistress at my side.
4
But from that band I soon departed—
And fled afar … and she as well.
How often, on the course I charted,
My gentle Muse’s magic spell
Would light the way with secret stories!
How oft, mid far Caucasia’s glories,
Like fair Lenore,* on moonlit nights
She rode with me those craggy heights!
How often on the shores of Tauris,*
On misty eves, she led me down
To hear the sea’s incessant sound,
The Nereids’* eternal chorus—
That endless chant the waves unfurled
In praise of him who made the world.
5
Forgetting, then, the city’s splendour,
Its noisy feasts and grand events,
In sad Moldavia she turned tender
And visited the humble tents
Of wandering tribes; and like a child,
She learned their ways and soon grew wild:
The language of the gods she shed
For strange and simple tongues instead—
To sing the savage steppe,* elated;
But then her course abruptly veered,
And in my garden* she appeared—
A country miss—infatuated,
With mournful air and brooding glance,
And in her hands a French romance.
6
And now I seize the first occasion
To show my Muse a grand soirée;
I watch with jealous trepidation
Her rustic charms on full display.
And lo! my beauty calmly passes
Through ranks of men from highborn classes,
Past diplomats and soldier-fops,
And haughty dames … then calmly stops
To sit and watch the grand procession—
The gowns, the talk, the milling mass,
The slow parade of guests who pass
Before the hostess in succession,
The sombre men who form a frame
Around each painted belle and dame.
7
She likes the stately disposition
Of oligarchic colloquies,
Their chilly pride in high position,
The mix of years and ranks she sees.
But who is that among the chosen,
That figure standing mute and frozen,
That stranger no one seems to know?
Before him faces come and go
Like spectres in a bleak procession.
What is it—martyred pride, or spleen
That marks his face? … Is that Eugene?!
That figure with the strange expression?
Can that be he? It is, I say.
’But when did fate cast him our way?
8
’Is he the same, or is he learning?
Or does he play the outcast still?
In what new guise is he returning?
What role does he intend to fill?
Childe Harold? Melmoth for a while?
Cosmopolite? A Slavophile?
A Quaker? Bigot?—might one ask?
Or will he sport some other mask?
Or maybe he’s just dedicated,
Like you and me, to being nice?
In any case, here’s my advice:
Give up a role when it’s outdated.
He’s gulled the world … now let it go.’
’You know him then?’ ‘Well, yes and no.’
9
But why on earth does he inspire
So harsh and negative a view?
Is it because we never tire
Of censuring what others do?
Because an ardent spirit’s daring
Appears absurd or overbearing
From where the smug and worthless sit?
Because the dull are cramped by wit?
Because we take mere talk for action,
And malice rules a petty mind?
Because in tripe the solemn find
A cause for solemn satisfaction,
And mediocrity alone
Is what we like and call our own?
10
Oh, blest who in his youth was tender;
And blest who ripened in his prime;
Who learned to bear, without surrender,
The chill of life with passing time;
Who never knew exotic visions,
Nor scorned the social mob’s decisions;
Who was at twenty fop or swell,
And then at thirty, married well,
At fifty shed all obligation
For private and for other debts;
Who gained in turn, without regrets,
Great wealth and rank and reputation;
Of whom lifelong the verdict ran:
’Old X is quite a splendid man.’
11
How sad that youth, with all its power,
Was given us in vain, to burn;
That we betrayed it every hour,
And were deceived by it in turn;
That all our finest aspirations,
Our brightest dreams and inspirations,
Have withered with each passing day
Like leaves dank autumn rots away.
It’s hard to face a long succession
Of dinners stretching out of sight,
To look at life as at a rite,
And trail the seemly crowd’s procession—
Indifferent to the views they hold,
And to their passions ever cold.
12
When one becomes the butt of rumour,
It’s hard to bear (as you well know)
When men of reason and good humour
Perceive you as a freak on show,
Or as a sad and raving creature,
A monster of Satanic feature,
Or even Demon of my pen!*
Eugene (to speak of him again),
Who’d killed his friend for satisfaction,
Who in an aimless, idle fix
Had reached the age of twenty-six,
Annoyed with leisure and inaction,
Without position, work, or wife—
Could find no purpose for his life.
13
He felt a restless, vague ambition,
A craving for a change of air
(A most unfortunate condition—
A cross not many choose to bear).
He left his home in disillusion
And fled the woods’ and fields’ seclusion,
Where every day before his eyes
A bloody spectre seemed to rise;
He took up travel for distraction,
A single feeling in his breast;
But journeys too, like all the rest,
Soon proved a wearisome attraction.
So he returned one day to fall,
Like Chatsky,* straight from boat to ball.
14
But look, the crowd’s astir and humming;
A murmur through the ballroom steals …
The hostess sees a lady coming,
A stately general at her heels.
She isn’t hurried or obtrusive,
Is neither cold nor too effusive;
She casts no brazen glance around
And makes no effort to astound
Or use those sorts of affectation
And artifice that ladies share—
But shows a simple, quiet air.
She seems the very illustration
Du comme il faut… (Shishkov,* be kind:
I can’t translate this phrase, I find.)
15
The ladies flocked to stand beside her;
Old women beamed as she went by;
The men bowed lower when they spied her
And sought in vain to catch her eye;
Young maidens hushed in passing by her;
While none held head and shoulders higher
Than he who brought the lady there—
The general with the prideful air.
One couldn’t label her a beauty;
But neither did her form contain,
From head to toe, the slightest strain
Of what, with fashion’s sense of duty,
The London social sets decry
As vulgar. (I won’t even try
16
To find an adequate translation
For this delicious epithet;
With us the word’s an innovation,
But though it’s won no favour yet,
’Twould make an epigram of style.* …
But where’s our lady all this while?)
With carefree charm and winsome air
She took a seat beside the chair
Of brilliant Nina Voronskáya,*
That Cleopatra of the North;
But even Nina, shining forth
With all her marble beauty’s fire—
However dazzling to the sight—
Could not eclipse her neighbour’s light.
17
’Can it be true?’ Eugene reflected.
’Can that be she? … It seems … and yet…
From those backwoods!’ And he directed
A curious and keen lorgnette
For several minutes in succession
Upon the lady whose expression
Called up a face from long ago.
’But tell me, Prince, you wouldn’t know
Who’s standing there in conversation
Beside the Spanish envoy, pray …
That lady in the red beret?’
’You have been out of circulation.
But I’ll present you now with joy.’
’Who is she, though?’ ‘My wife, old boy.’
18
’You’re married! Really?’—‘On my honour.’
’To whom? How long?’—‘Some two years since….
The Larin girl.’—‘You mean Tatyana!’
’She knows you?’—‘We were neighbours, Prince.’
’Well then, come on … we’ll go and meet her.’
And so the prince led up to greet her
His kinsman and his friend Eugene.
The princess looked at him—serene;
However much the situation
Disturbed her soul and caused her pain,
However great her shock or strain,
She gave no hint of agitation:
Her manner stayed the same outside,
Her bow was calm and dignified.
19
It’s true! The lady didn’t shiver,
Or blush, or suddenly turn white …
Or even let an eyebrow quiver,
Or press her lips together tight.
Although Eugene with care inspected
This placid lady, he detected
No trace of Tanya from the past.
And when he tried to speak at last,
He found he couldn’t. She enquired
When he’d arrived, and if of late
he’d been back home at his estate—
Then gave her spouse a look so tired,
He took her arm. She moved away …
And left Eugene in mute dismay.
20
Was this the Tanya he once scolded
In that forsaken, distant place
Where first our novel’s plot unfolded?
The one to whom, when face to face,
In such a burst of moral fire,
He’d lectured gravely on desire?
The girl whose letter he still kept—
In which a maiden heart had wept;
Where all was shown … all unprotected?
Was this that girl… or did he dream?
That little girl whose warm esteem
And humble lot he’d once rejected? …
And could she now have been so bold,
So unconcerned with him … so cold?
21
He left the rout in all its splendour
And drove back home, immersed in thought;
A swarm of dreams, both sad and tender,
Disturbed the slumber that he sought.
He woke to find, with some elation,
Prince N. had sent an invitation.
’Oh God! I’ll see her … and today!
Oh yes, I’ll go!’—and straightaway
He scrawled a note: he‘d be delighted.
What’s wrong with him? … He’s in a daze.
What’s stirring in that idle gaze,
What’s made that frigid soul excited?
Vexation? Pride? Or youth’s old yen
For all the cares of love again?
22
Once more he counts the hours, pacing;
Once more can’t wait till day is past.
The clock strikes ten: and off he’s racing,
And now he’s at the porch at last;
He enters in some apprehension;
The princess, to his added tension,
Is quite alone. Some minutes there
They sit.
1 comment