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.
Oneguine, 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
“Oneguine, 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
“Oneguine, 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,
Oneguine — 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 Oneguine — 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.]
THE END
The Short Stories and Unfinished Novels
Pushkin’s room while a student at the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum
PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO
Translated by T. Keane
This is an unfinished historical novel, which is now considered to be Pushkin’s first prose work. The author began writing the novel towards the end of July, 1827 in Mikhailovskoe and in spring 1828 he is recorded to have read several drafts to his friends. During Pushkin’s lifetime, only two fragments of the work were published in the literary magazine Severnye Tsvety in 1829 and in the newspaper Literaturnaya Gazeta the following year. After Pushkin’s untimely death, the entire extant text was published by the editors of the journal Sovremennik in 1837, who also gave the fragment its curr
ent title. There is no recorded evidence of why Pushkin left Peter the Great’s Negro unfinished and sadly no outline has survived to show how he intended to develop the plot.
The narrative introduces the character Ibrahim, who is loosely based on Pushkin’s maternal great-grandfather, Abram Petrovich Gannibal, a black African who was brought to Russia during the reign of Peter the Great. Pushkin’s interest in history and genealogy help to portray the transformation of Russia at the beginning of 18th century. Several Russian critics have bemoaned the unfinished state of the text, believing that had Peter the Great’s Negro been completed, it would have been one of the greatest novels in the Russian language.
Major Gannibal, the novel’s protagonist and Pushkin’s great grandfather, speaking with Alexander Suvorov
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
I
AMONG the young men sent abroad by Peter the Great for the acquisition of knowledge indispensable to a country in a state of transition, was his godson, the Negro, Ibrahim. After being educated in the Military School at Paris, which he left with the rank of Captain of Artillery, he distinguished himself in the Spanish war and, severely wounded, returned to Paris. The Emperor, in the midst of his vast labors, never ceased to inquire after his favorite, and he always received flattering accounts of his progress and conduct. Peter was exceedingly pleased with him, and repeatedly requested him to return to Russia, but Ibrahim was in no hurry. He excused himself under various pretexts: now it was his wound, now it was a wish to complete his education, now a want of money; and Peter indulgently complied with his wishes, begged him to take care of his health, thanked him for his zeal for study, and although extremely thrifty where his own expenses were concerned, he did not stint his favorite in money, adding to the ducats fatherly advice and cautionary admonition.
According to the testimony of all the historical memoirs nothing could be compared with the frivolity, folly and luxury of the French of that period. The last years of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, remarkable for the strict piety, gravity, and decorum of the Court, had left no traces behind. The Duke of Orleans, uniting many brilliant qualities with vices of every kind, unfortunately did not possess the slightest shadow of hypocrisy. The orgies of the Palais Royal were no secret in Paris; the example was infectious. At that time Law appeared upon the scene; greed for money was united to the thirst for pleasure and dissipation; estates were squandered, morals perished, Frenchmen laughed and calculated, and the kingdom was falling apart to the playful refrains of satirical vaudevilles.
In the meantime society presented a most entertaining picture. Culture and the need of amusement brought all ranks together. Wealth, amiability, renown, talent, even eccentricity — everything that fed curiosity or promised pleasure, was received with the same indulgence. Literature, learning and philosophy forsook their quiet studies and appeared in the circles of the great world to render homage to fashion and to govern it. Women reigned, but no longer demanded adoration. Superficial politeness replaced the profound respect formerly shown to them. The pranks of the Duke de Richelieu, the Alcibiades of modern Athens, belong to history, and give an idea of the morals of that period.
“Terns fortuné, marqué par la licence,
Où la folie, agitant son grelot,
D’un pied léger parcourt toute la France,
Où nul mortel ne daigne être dévot,
Où l’on fait tout excepté pénitence.”
The appearance of Ibrahim, his looks, culture and native intelligence excited general attention in Paris.
All the ladies were anxious to see “le nègre du czar” at their houses, and vied with each other in trying to capture him. The Regent invited him more than once to his merry evening parties; he assisted at the suppers animated by the youth of Arouet, the old age of Chaulieu, and the conversations of Montesquieu and Fontenelle. He did not miss a single ball, fête or first night, and he gave himself up to the general whirl with all the ardor of his years and nature. But the thought of exchanging these distractions, these brilliant amusements for the harsh simplicity of the Petersburg Court was not the only thing that dismayed Ibrahim; other and stronger ties bound him to Paris. The young African was in love.
The Countess D — , although no longer in the first bloom of youth, was still renowned for her beauty. On leaving the convent at seventeen, she had been married to a man with whom she had not had time to fall in love, and who later on did not take the trouble to gain her affection. Rumor ascribed several lovers to her, but such was the indulgence of the world, that she enjoyed a good reputation, for nobody was able to reproach her with any ridiculous or scandalous adventure. Her house was one of the most fashionable, and the best Parisian society made it their rendezvous. Ibrahim was introducd to her by young Merville, who was generally looked upon as her latest lover — and who did all in his power to obtain credit for the report.
The Countess received Ibrahim courteously, but without any particular attention: this flattered him. Generally the young Negro was regarded in the light of a curiosity; people used to surround him and overwhelm him with compliments and questions — and this curiosity, although concealed by a show of graciousness, offended his vanity. Women’s delightful attention, almost the sole aim of our exertions, not only af-
forded him no pleasure, but even filled him with bitterness and indignation. He felt that he was for them a kind of rare beast, a peculiar alien creature, accidentally brought into a world, with which he had nothing in common. He even envied people who remained unnoticed, and considered them fortunate in their insignificance.
The thought, that nature had not created him to enjoy requited love, saved him from self-assurance and vain pretensions, and added a rare charm to his behavior toward women. His conversation was simple and dignified; he pleased Countess D — , who had grown tired of the eternal jokes and subtle insinuations of French wits. Ibrahim frequently visited her. Little by little she became accustomed to the young Negro’s appearance, and even began to find something agreeable in that curly head, that stood out so black in the midst of the powdered perukes in her reception- room (Ibrahim had been wounded in the head, and wore a bandage instead of a peruke). He was twenty- seven years of age, and was tall and slender, and more than one beauty glanced at him with a feeling more flattering than simple curiosity. But the prejudiced Ibrahim either did not observe anything of this or merely looked upon it as coquetry. But when his glances met those of the Countess, his distrust vanished. Her eyes expressed such winning kindness, her manner toward him was so simple, so unconstrained, that it was impossible to suspect her of the least shadow of coquetry or raillery.
The thought of love had not entered his head, but to see the Countess each day had become a necessity to him. He sought her out everywhere, and every meeting with her seemed an unexpected favor from heaven. The Countess guessed his feelings before he himself did. There is no denying that a love, which is without hope and which demands nothing, touches the female heart more surely than all the devices of seduction. In the presence of Ibrahim, the Countess followed all his movements, listened to every word that he said; without him she became thoughtful, and fell into her usual abstraction. Merville was the first to observe this mutual inclination, and he congratulated Ibrahim. Nothing inflames love so much as the encouraging observations of a bystander: love is blind, and, having no trust in itself, readily grasps hold of every support.
Merville’s words roused Ibrahim. He had never till then imagined the possibility of possessing the woman that he loved; hope suddenly illumined his soul; he fell madly in love. In vain did the Countess, alarmed by the ardor of his passion, seek to oppose to it the admonitions of friendship and the counsels of prudence; she herself was beginning to weaken.... Incautious rewards swiftly followed one another. And at last, carried away by the force of the passion she had herself inspired, surrendering to its
influence, she gave herself to the ravished Ibrahim....
Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the observing world. The Countess’s new liaison was soon known to everybody. Some ladies were amazed at her choice; to many it seemed quite natural. Some laughed; others regarded her conduct as unpardonably indiscreet. In the first intoxication of passion, Ibrahim and the Countess noticed nothing, but soon the equivocal jokes of the men and the pointed remarks of the women began to reach their ears. Ibrahim’s cold and dignified manner had hitherto protected him from such attacks; he bore them with impatience, and knew not how to ward them off. The Countess, accustomed to the respect of the world, could not calmly bear to see herself an object of gossip and ridicule. With tears in her eyes she complained to Ibrahim, now bitterly reproaching him, now imploring him not to defend her, lest by some useless scandal she should be completely ruined.
A new circumstance further complicated her position: the consequence of imprudent love began to be apparent. Consolation, advice, proposals — all were exhausted and all rejected. The Countess saw that her ruin was inevitable, and in despair awaited it.
As soon as the condition of the Countess became known, tongues wagged again with fresh vigor; sentimental women gave vent to exclamations of horror; men wagered as to whether the Countess would give birth to a white or a black baby. Numerous epigrams were aimed at her husband, who alone in all Paris knew nothing and suspected nothing.
The fatal moment approached. The condition of the Countess was terrible. Ibrahim visited her every day. He saw her mental and physical strength gradually giving way. Her tears and her terror were renewed every moment. Finally she felt the first pains. Measures were hastily taken. Means were found for getting the Count out of the way. The doctor arrived. Two days before this a poor woman had been persuaded to surrender to strangers her new-born infant; a trusted person had been sent for it. Ibrahim was in the room adjoining the bedchamber where the unhappy Countess lay not daring to breathe, he heard her muffled groans, the maid’s whisper, and the doctor’s orders. Her sufferings lasted a long time. Her every groan lacerated his heart. Every interval of silence overwhelmed him with terror.... Suddenly he heard the weak cry of a baby — and, unable to repress his elation, he rushed into the Countess’s room.... A black baby lay upon the bed at her feet. Ibrahim approached it. His heart beat violently. He blessed his son with a trembling hand. The Countess smiled faintly and stretched out to him her feeble hand, but the doctor, fearing that the excitement might be too great for the patient, dragged Ibrahim away from her bed. The new-born child was placed in a covered basket, and carried out of the house by a secret staircase. Then the other child was brought in, and its cradle placed in the bedroom. Ibrahim took his departure, feeling somewhat more at ease. The Count was expected. He returned late, heard of the happy delivery of his wife, and was much gratified. In this way the public, which had been expecting a great scandal, was deceived in its hope, and was compelled to console itself with malicious gossip alone. Everything resumed its usual course.