For I myself was thirteen quite;(35)
The matchmaker a fortnight sped,
Her suit before my parents pressing:
At last my father gave his blessing,
And bitter tears of fright I shed.
Weeping they loosed my tresses long(36)
And led me off to church with song.”
[Note 34: A young married couple amongst Russian peasants reside in the house of the bridegroom’s father till the “tiaglo,” or family circle is broken up by his death.]
[Note 35: Marriages amongst Russian serfs used formerly to take place at ridiculously early ages. Haxthausen asserts that strong hearty peasant women were to be seen at work in the fields with their infant husbands in their arms. The inducement lay in the fact that the “tiaglo” (see previous note) received an additional lot of the communal land for every male added to its number, though this could have formed an inducement in the southern and fertile provinces of Russia only, as it is believed that agriculture in the north is so unremunerative that land has often to be forced upon the peasants, in order that the taxes, for which the whole Commune is responsible to Government, may be paid. The abuse of early marriages was regulated by Tsar Nicholas.]
[Note 36: Courtships were not unfrequently carried on in the larger villages, which alone could support such an individual, by means of a “svakha,” or matchmaker. In Russia unmarried girls wear their hair in a single long plait or tail, “kossa;” the married women, on the other hand, in two, which are twisted into the head-gear.]
XIX
“Then amongst strangers I was left —
But I perceive thou dost not heed — ”
“Alas! dear nurse, my heart is cleft,
Mortally sick I am indeed.
Behold, my sobs I scarce restrain — ”
“My darling child, thou art in pain. —
The Lord deliver her and save!
Tell me at once what wilt thou have?
I’ll sprinkle thee with holy water. —
How thy hands burn!” — ”Dear nurse, I’m well.
I am — in love — you know — don’t tell!”
“The Lord be with thee, O my daughter!” —
And the old nurse a brief prayer said
And crossed with trembling hand the maid.
XX
“I am in love,” her whispers tell
The aged woman in her woe:
“My heart’s delight, thou art not well.” —
“I am in love, nurse! leave me now.”
Behold! the moon was shining bright
And showed with an uncertain light
Tattiana’s beauty, pale with care,
Her tears and her dishevelled hair;
And on the footstool sitting down
Beside our youthful heroine fair,
A kerchief round her silver hair
The aged nurse in ample gown,(37)
Whilst all creation seemed to dream
Enchanted by the moon’s pale beam.
[Note 37: It is thus that I am compelled to render a female garment not known, so far as I am aware, to Western Europe. It is called by the natives “doushegreika,” that is to say, “warmer of the soul” — in French, chaufferette de l’ame. It is a species of thick pelisse worn over the “sarafan,” or gown.]
XXI
But borne in spirit far away
Tattiana gazes on the moon,
And starting suddenly doth say:
“Nurse, leave me. I would be alone.
Pen, paper bring: the table too
Draw near. I soon to sleep shall go —
Good-night.” Behold! she is alone!
‘Tis silent — on her shines the moon —
Upon her elbow she reclines,
And Eugene ever in her soul
Indites an inconsiderate scroll
Wherein love innocently pines.
Now it is ready to be sent —
For whom, Tattiana, is it meant?
XXII
I have known beauties cold and raw
As Winter in their purity,
Striking the intellect with awe
By dull insensibility,
And I admired their common sense
And natural benevolence,
But, I acknowledge, from them fled;
For on their brows I trembling read
The inscription o’er the gates of Hell
“Abandon hope for ever here!”(38)
Love to inspire doth woe appear
To such — delightful to repel.
Perchance upon the Neva e’en
Similar dames ye may have seen.
[Note 38: A Russian annotator complains that the poet has mutilated Dante’s famous line.]
XXIII
Amid submissive herds of men
Virgins miraculous I see,
Who selfishly unmoved remain
Alike by sighs and flattery.
But what astonished do I find
When harsh demeanour hath consigned
A timid love to banishment? —
On fresh allurements they are bent,
At least by show of sympathy;
At least their accents and their words
Appear attuned to softer chords;
And then with blind credulity
The youthful lover once again
Pursues phantasmagoria vain.
XXIV
Why is Tattiana guiltier deemed? —
Because in singleness of thought
She never of deception dreamed
But trusted the ideal she wrought? —
Because her passion wanted art,
Obeyed the impulses of heart? —
Because she was so innocent,
That Heaven her character had blent
With an imagination wild,
With intellect and strong volition
And a determined disposition,
An ardent heart and yet so mild? —
Doth love’s incautiousness in her
So irremissible appear?
XXV
O ye whom tender love hath pained
Without the ken of parents both,
Whose hearts responsive have remained
To the impressions of our youth,
The all-entrancing joys of love —
Young ladies, if ye ever strove
The mystic lines to tear away
A lover’s letter might convey,
Or into bold hands anxiously
Have e’er a precious tress consigned,
Or even, silent and resigned,
When separation’s hour drew nigh,
Have felt love’s agitated kiss
With tears, confused emotions, bliss, —
XXVI
With unanimity complete,
Condemn not weak Tattiana mine;
Do not cold-bloodedly repeat
The sneers of critics superfine;
And you, O maids immaculate,
Whom vice, if named, doth agitate
E’en as the presence of a snake,
I the same admonition make.
Who knows? with love’s consuming flame
Perchance you also soon may burn,
Then to some gallant in your turn
Will be ascribed by treacherous Fame
The triumph of a conquest new.
The God of Love is after you!
XXVII
A coquette loves by calculation,
Tattiana’s love was quite sincere,
A love which knew no limitation,
Even as the love of children dear.
She did not think “procrastination
Enhances love in estimation
And thus secures the prey we seek.
His vanity first let us pique
With hope and then perplexity,
Excruciate the heart and late
With jealous fire resuscitate,
Lest jaded with satiety,
The artful prisoner should seek
/>
Incessantly his chains to break.”
XXVIII
I still a complication view,
My country’s honour and repute
Demands that I translate for you
The letter which Tattiana wrote.
At Russ she was by no means clever
And read our newspapers scarce ever,
And in her native language she
Possessed nor ease nor fluency,
So she in French herself expressed.
I cannot help it I declare,
Though hitherto a lady ne’er
In Russ her love made manifest,
And never hath our language proud
In correspondence been allowed.(39)
[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late Tsar French was the language of the Russian court and of Russian fashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the time this poem was written literary warfare more or less open was being waged between two hostile schools of Russian men of letters. These consisted of the Arzamass, or French school, to which Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkin the “Nestor of the Arzamass” belonged, and their opponents who devoted themselves to the cultivation of the vernacular.]
XXIX
They wish that ladies should, I hear,
Learn Russian, but the Lord defend!
I can’t conceive a little dear
With the “Well-Wisher” in her hand!(40)
I ask, all ye who poets are,
Is it not true? the objects fair,
To whom ye for unnumbered crimes
Had to compose in secret rhymes,
To whom your hearts were consecrate, —
Did they not all the Russian tongue
With little knowledge and that wrong
In charming fashion mutilate?
Did not their lips with foreign speech
The native Russian tongue impeach?
[Note 40: The “Blago-Namierenni,” or “Well-Wisher,” was an inferior Russian newspaper of the day, much scoffed at by contemporaries. The editor once excused himself for some gross error by pleading that he had been “on the loose.”]
XXX
God grant I meet not at a ball
Or at a promenade mayhap,
A schoolmaster in yellow shawl
Or a professor in tulle cap.
As rosy lips without a smile,
The Russian language I deem vile
Without grammatical mistakes.
May be, and this my terror wakes,
The fair of the next generation,
As every journal now entreats,
Will teach grammatical conceits,
Introduce verse in conversation.
But I — what is all this to me?
Will to the old times faithful be.
XXXI
Speech careless, incorrect, but soft,
With inexact pronunciation
Raises within my breast as oft
As formerly much agitation.
Repentance wields not now her spell
And gallicisms I love as well
As the sins of my youthful days
Or Bogdanovitch’s sweet lays.(41)
But I must now employ my Muse
With the epistle of my fair;
I promised! — Did I so? — Well, there!
Now I am ready to refuse.
I know that Parny’s tender pen(42)
Is no more cherished amongst men.
[Note 41: Hippolyte Bogdanovitch — b. 1743, d. 1803 — though possessing considerable poetical talent was like many other Russian authors more remarkable for successful imitation than for original genius. His most remarkable production is “Doushenka,” “The Darling,” a composition somewhat in the style of La Fontaine’s “Psyche.” Its merit consists in graceful phraseology, and a strong pervading sense of humour.]
[Note 42: Parny — a French poet of the era of the first Napoleon, b. 1753, d. 1814. Introduced to the aged Voltaire during his last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands upon the youth’s head and exclaimed: “Mon cher Tibulle.” He is chiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted the affectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a student at the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted a pension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damage his literary reputation by inditing an “epic” poem entitled “Goddam! Goddam! par un French — Dog.” It is descriptive of the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, and treats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to a successful conclusion and become matter of history. A good account of the bard and his creations will be found in the Saturday Review of the 2d August 1879.]
XXXII
Bard of the “Feasts,” and mournful breast,(43)
If thou wert sitting by my side,
With this immoderate request
I should alarm our friendship tried:
In one of thine enchanting lays
To russify the foreign phrase
Of my impassioned heroine.
Where art thou? Come! pretensions mine
I yield with a low reverence;
But lonely beneath Finnish skies
Where melancholy rocks arise
He wanders in his indolence;
Careless of fame his spirit high
Hears not my importunity!
[Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and a lyric poet of some originality and talent. The “Feasts” is a short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkin is therein praised as the best of companions “beside the bottle.”]
XXXIII
Tattiana’s letter I possess,
I guard it as a holy thing,
And though I read it with distress,
I’m o’er it ever pondering.
Inspired by whom this tenderness,
This gentle daring who could guess?
Who this soft nonsense could impart,
Imprudent prattle of the heart,
Attractive in its banefulness?
I cannot understand. But lo!
A feeble version read below,
A print without the picture’s grace,
Or, as it were, the Freischutz’ score
Strummed by a timid schoolgirl o’er.
Tattiana’s Letter to Oneguine
I write to you! Is more required?
Can lower depths beyond remain?
‘Tis in your power now, if desired,
To crush me with a just disdain.
But if my lot unfortunate
You in the least commiserate
You will not all abandon me.
At first, I clung to secrecy:
Believe me, of my present shame
You never would have heard the name,
If the fond hope I could have fanned
At times, if only once a week,
To see you by our fireside stand,
To listen to the words you speak,
Address to you one single phrase
And then to meditate for days
Of one thing till again we met.
‘Tis said you are a misanthrope,
In country solitude you mope,
And we — an unattractive set —
Can hearty welcome give alone.
Why did you visit our poor place?
Forgotten in the village lone,
I never should have seen your face
And bitter torment never known.
The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed down
By time (who can anticipate?)
I had found my predestinate,
Become a faithful wife and e’en
A fond and careful mother been.
Another! to none other I
My heart’s allegiance can resign,
My doom has been pronounced on high,
‘Tis Heaven’s will and I am thine.
The sum of my existence gone
But promise of our meeting gave,
I feel thou wast by
God sent down
My guardian angel to the grave.
Thou didst to me in dreams appear,
Unseen thou wast already dear.
Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,
I heard thy voice’s resonance
Long ago. Dream it cannot be!
Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,
I flushed up, stupefied I grew,
And cried within myself: ‘tis he!
Is it not truth? in tones suppressed
With thee I conversed when I bore
Comfort and succour to the poor,
And when I prayer to Heaven addressed
To ease the anguish of my breast.
Nay! even as this instant fled,
Was it not thou, O vision bright,
That glimmered through the radiant night
And gently hovered o’er my head?
Was it not thou who thus didst stoop
To whisper comfort, love and hope?
Who art thou? Guardian angel sent
Or torturer malevolent?
Doubt and uncertainty decide:
All this may be an empty dream,
Delusions of a mind untried,
Providence otherwise may deem —
Then be it so! My destiny
From henceforth I confide to thee!
Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour
And thy protection I implore.
Imagine! Here alone am I!
No one my anguish comprehends,
At times my reason almost bends,
And silently I here must die —
But I await thee: scarce alive
My heart with but one look revive;
Or to disturb my dreams approach
Alas! with merited reproach.
‘Tis finished. Horrible to read!
With shame I shudder and with dread —
But boldly I myself resign:
Thine honour is my countersign!
XXXIV
Tattiana moans and now she sighs
And in her grasp the letter shakes,
Even the rosy wafer dries
Upon her tongue which fever bakes.
Her head upon her breast declines
And an enchanting shoulder shines
From her half-open vest of night.
But lo! already the moon’s light
Is waning. Yonder valley deep
Looms gray behind the mist and morn
Silvers the brook; the shepherd’s horn
Arouses rustics from their sleep.
‘Tis day, the family downstairs,
But nought for this Tattiana cares.
XXXV
The break of day she doth not see,
But sits in bed with air depressed,
Nor on the letter yet hath she
The image of her seal impressed.
But gray Phillippevna the door
Opened with care, and entering bore
A cup of tea upon a tray.