Canto VII

Moscow, Russia’s darling daughter,Where thine equal shall we find?Dmitrieff

Who can help loving mother Moscow?Baratynski (Feasts)

A journey to Moscow! To see the world!Where better?Where man is not.Griboyédoff (Woe from Wit)

Impelled by Spring’s dissolving beams,The snows from off the hills aroundDescended swift in turbid streamsAnd flooded all the level ground.A smile from slumbering nature clearDid seem to greet the youthful year;The heavens shone in deeper blue,The woods, still naked to the view,Seemed in a haze of green embowered.The bee forth from his cell of waxFlew to collect his rural tax;The valleys dried and gaily flowered;Herds low, and under night’s dark veilAlready sings the nightingale.

Mournful is thine approach to me,O Spring, thou chosen time of love!What agitation languidlyMy spirit and my blood doth move,What sad emotions o’er me stealWhen first upon my cheek I feelThe breath of Spring again renewed,Secure in rural quietude—Or, strange to me is happiness?Do all things which to mirth incline.And make a dark existence shineInflict annoyance and distressUpon a soul inert and cloyed?—And is all light within destroyed?

Or, heedless of the leaves’ returnWhich Autumn late to earth consigned,Do we alone our losses mournOf which the rustling woods remind?Or, when anew all Nature teems,Do we foresee in troubled dreamsThe coming of life’s Autumn drear.For which no springtime shall appear?Or, it may be, we inly seek,Wafted upon poetic wing,Some other long-departed Spring,Whose memories make the heart beat quickWith thoughts of a far distant land,Of a strange night when the moon and—

’Tis now the season! Idlers all,Epicurean philosophers,Ye men of fashion cynical,Of Levshin’s school ye followers,Priams of country populationsAnd dames of fine organisations,Spring summons you to her green bowers,’Tis the warm time of labour, flowers;The time for mystic strolls which lateInto the starry night extend.Quick to the country let us wendIn vehicles surcharged with freight;In coach or post-cart duly placedBeyond the city-barriers haste.

Thou also, reader generous,The chaise long ordered please employ,Abandon cities riotous,Which in the winter were a joy:The Muse capricious let us coax,Go hear the rustling of the oaksBeside a nameless rivulet,Where in the country Eugene yet,An idle anchorite and sad,A while ago the winter spent,Near young Tattiana resident,My pretty self-deceiving maid—No more the village knows his face,For there he left a mournful trace.

Let us proceed unto a rill,Which in a hilly neighbourhoodSeeks, winding amid meadows still,The river through the linden wood.The nightingale there all night long,Spring’s paramour, pours forth her songThe fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom,And lo! where lies a marble tombAnd two old pines their branches spread—“Vladimir Lenski lies beneath,Who early died a gallant death,”Thereon the passing traveller read:“The date, his fleeting years how long—Repose in peace, thou child of song.”

Time was, the breath of early dawnWould agitate a mystic wreathHung on a pine branch earthward drawnAbove the humble urn of death.Time was, two maidens from their homeAt eventide would hither come,And, by the light the moonbeams gave,Lament, embrace upon that grave.But now—none heeds the monumentOf woe: effaced the pathway now:There is no wreath upon the bough:Alone beside it, gray and bent,As formerly the shepherd sitsAnd his poor basten sandal knits.

My poor Vladimir, bitter tearsThee but a little space bewept,Faithless, alas! thy maid appears,Nor true unto her sorrow kept.Another could her heart engage,Another could her woe assuageBy flattery and lover’s art—A lancer captivates her heart!A lancer her soul dotes upon:Before the altar, lo! the pair,Mark ye with what a modest airShe bows her head beneath the crown;Behold her downcast eyes which glow,Her lips where light smiles come and go!

My poor Vladimir! In the tomb,Passed into dull eternity,Was the sad poet filled with gloom,Hearing the fatal perfidy?Or, beyond Lethe lulled to rest,Hath the bard, by indifference blest,Callous to all on earth become—Is the world to him sealed and dumb?The same unmoved oblivionOn us beyond the grave attends,The voice of lovers, foes and friends,Dies suddenly: of heirs aloneRemains on earth the unseemly rage,Whilst struggling for the heritage.

Soon Olga’s accents shrill resoundNo longer through her former home;The lancer, to his calling bound,Back to his regiment must roam.The aged mother, bathed in tears,Distracted by her grief appearsWhen the hour came to bid good-bye—But my Tattiana’s eyes were dry.Only her countenance assumedA deadly pallor, air distressed;When all around the entrance pressed,To say farewell, and fussed and fumedAround the carriage of the pair—Tattiana gently led them there.

And long her eyes as through a hazeAfter the wedded couple strain;Alas! the friend of childish daysAway, Tattiana, hath been ta’en.Thy dove, thy darling little petOn whom a sister’s heart was setAfar is borne by cruel fate,For evermore is separate.She wanders aimless as a sprite,Into the tangled garden goesBut nowhere can she find repose,Nor even tears afford respite,Of consolation all bereft—Well nigh her heart in twain was cleft.

In cruel solitude each dayWith flame more ardent passion burns,And to Onéguine far awayHer heart importunately turns.She never more his face may view,For was it not her duty toDetest him for a brother slain?The poet fell; already menNo more remembered him; untoAnother his betrothed was given;The memory of the bard was drivenLike smoke athwart the heaven blue;Two hearts perchance were desolateAnd mourned him still. Why mourn his fate?

’Twas eve. ’Twas dusk. The river speedsIn tranquil flow. The beetle hums.Already dance to song proceeds;The fisher’s fire afar illumesThe river’s bank. Tattiana loneBeneath the silver of the moonLong time in meditation deepHer path across the plain doth keep—Proceeds, until she from a hillSees where a noble mansion stood,A village and beneath, a wood,A garden by a shining rill.She gazed thereon, and instant beatHer heart more loudly and more fleet.

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 descendsWith bated breath, around she bendsA countenance perplexed and scared.She enters a deserted yard—Yelping, a pack of dogs rush out,But at her shriek ran forth with noiseThe household troop of little boys,Who with a scuffle and a shoutThe curs away to kennel chase,The damsel under escort place.

“Can I inspect the mansion, please?”Tattiana asks, and hurriedlyUnto Anicia for the keysThe family of children hie.Anicia soon appears, the doorOpens 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 itThe master always used to sit.

“Departed Lenski here to dineIn 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 dayWas wont with me at cards to play.God save his soul eternallyAnd grant his weary bones their restDeep in our mother Earth’s chill breast!”

Tattiana’s eyes with tender gleamOn everything around her gaze,Of priceless value all things seemAnd in her languid bosom raiseA pleasure though with sorrow knit:The table with its lamp unlit,The pile of books, with carpet spreadBeneath the window-sill his bed,The landscape which the moonbeams fret,The twilight pale which softens all,Lord Byron’s portrait on the wallAnd the cast-iron statuetteWith folded arms and eyes bent low,Cocked hat and melancholy brow.

Long in this fashionable cellTattiana as enchanted stood;But it grew late; cold blew the gale;Dark was the valley and the woodSlept o’er the river misty grown.Behind the mountain sank the moon.Long, long the hour had past when homeOur youthful wanderer should roam.She hid the trouble of her breast,Heaved an involuntary sighAnd turned to leave immediately,But first permission did requestThither in future to proceedThat certain volumes she might read.

Adieu she to the matron saidAt the front gates, but in brief spaceAt early morn returns the maidTo 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 mindRemarkable. She then indeedDevoured them with an eager zest.A new world was made manifest!

Although we know that Eugene hadLong 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 scanPortrayed contemporary manAs the reflection of his age,His immorality of mindTo arid selfishness resigned,A visionary personageWith his exasperated sense,His energy and impotence.

And numerous pages had preservedThe sharp incisions of his nail,And these the attentive maid observedWith eye precise and without fail.Tattiana saw with trepidationBy what idea or observationOnéguine was the most impressed,In what he merely acquiesced.Upon those margins she perceivedOnéguine’s pencillings. His mindMade revelations undesigned,Of what he thought and what believed,A dagger, asterisk, or noteInterrogation to denote.

And my Tattiana now beganTo understand by slow degreesMore clearly, God be praised, the man,Whom autocratic fate’s decreesHad 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 phraseOr parody of modern ways?

Hath she found out the riddle yet?Hath she a fitting phrase selected?But time flies and she doth forgetThey long at home have her expected—Whither two neighbouring dames have walkedAnd 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 weepsAnd lonely through the forest creeps.”

“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 youShould 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.”

The venerable dame opinedThe counsel good and full of reason,Her money counted, and designedTo visit Moscow in the season.Tattiana learns the intelligence—Of her provincial innocenceThe unaffected traits she nowUnto a carping world must show—Her toilette’s antiquated style,Her antiquated mode of speech,For Moscow fops and Circes eachTo mark with a contemptuous smile.Horror! had she not better stayDeep in the greenwood far away?

Arising with the morning’s light,Unto the fields she makes her way,And with emotional delightSurveying 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 prizeI yield for splendid vanities,Thou too farewell, my liberty!Whither and wherefore do I speedAnd what will Destiny concede?”

Farther Tattiana’s walks extend—’Tis now the hillock now the rillTheir natural attractions lendTo 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 awayAnd 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’enCame forth in all her magic sheen.

The snow descends and buries all,Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs,A white and undulating pallO’er hillock and o’er meadow throws.The channel of the river stilledAs if with eider-down is filled.The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoiceIn mother Winter’s strange caprice.But Tania’s heart is not at ease,Winter’s approach she doth not hailNor the frost particles inhaleNor the first snow of winter seizeHer shoulders, breast and face to lave—Alarm the winter journey gave.

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

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 astrideA lean and shaggy nag doth ride,Unto the gates the servants flyTo bid the gentlefolk good-bye.These take their seats; the coach of stateLeisurely through the gateway glides.“Adieu! thou home where peace abides,Where turmoil cannot penetrate,Shall I behold thee once again?”—Tattiana tears cannot restrain.

The limits of enlightenmentWhen to enlarge we shall succeed,In course of time (the whole extentWill not five centuries exceedBy computation) it is likeOur roads transformed the eye will strike;Highways all Russia will uniteAnd form a network left and right;On iron bridges we shall gazeWhich o’er the waters boldly leap,Mountains we’ll level and through deepStreams excavate subaqueous ways,And Christian folk will, I expect,An inn at every stage erect.

But now, what wretched roads one sees,Our bridges long neglected rot,And at the stages bugs and fleasOne moment’s slumber suffer not.Inns there are none. Pretentious butMeagre, within a draughty hut,A bill of fare hangs full in sightAnd irritates the appetite.Meantime a Cyclops of those partsBefore a fire which feebly glowsMends with the Russian hammer’s blowsThe flimsy wares of Western marts,With blessings on the ditches andThe ruts of his own fatherland.

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

But they draw near. Before them, lo!White Moscow raises her old spires,Whose countless golden crosses glowAs with innumerable fires.Ah! brethren, what was my delightWhen I yon semicircle brightOf churches, gardens, belfries highDescried 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 phraseFor every loyal Russian breast!How much is in that word expressed!

Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks,Petrovski Palace! GloomilyHis recent glory he invokes.Here, drunk with his late victory,Napoleon tarried till it pleaseMoscow approach on bended knees,Time-honoured Kremlin’s keys present.Not so! My Moscow never wentTo seek him out with bended head.No gift she bears, no feast proclaims,But lights incendiary flamesFor the impatient chief instead.From hence engrossed in thought profoundHe on the conflagration frowned.

Adieu, thou witness of our glory,Petrovski Palace; come, astir!Drive on! the city barriers hoaryAppear; along the road of TverThe 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, shopkeepersAnd fashionable magazines,Balconies, lion’s heads on doors,Jackdaws on every spire—in scores.

The weary way still incomplete,An hour passed by—another—till,Near Khariton’s in a side streetThe coach before a house stood still.At an old aunt’s they had arrivedWho had for four long years survivedAn invalid from lung complaint.A Kalmuck gray, in caftan rentAnd spectacles, his knitting staidAnd the saloon threw open wide;The princess from the sofa criedAnd the newcomers welcome bade.The two old ladies then embracedAnd exclamations interlaced.

“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!”

“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 distressedAnd fits of coughing racked her chest.

By the sick lady’s gaietyAnd 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 bellsWhich of approaching labour tellsAroused Tattiana from her bed.The maiden at her casement sitsAs daylight glimmers, darkness flits,But ah! discerns nor wood nor mead—Beneath her lay a strange courtyard,A stable, kitchen, fence appeared.

To consanguineous dinners theyConduct Tattiana constantly,That grandmothers and grandsires mayContemplate her sad reverie.We Russians, friends from distant partsEver receive with kindly heartsAnd exclamations and good cheer.“How Tania grows! Doth it appearLong 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!”

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 hasHer 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.

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 impartA maiden’s secrets—of the heart.

Triumphs—their own or those of friends—Hopes, frolics, dreams and sentimentTheir harmless conversation blendsWith scandal’s trivial ornament.Then to reward such confidenceHer amorous experienceWith mute appeal to ask they seem—But Tania just as in a dreamWithout participation hears,Their voices nought to her impartAnd the lone secret of her heart,Her sacred hoard of joy and tears,She buries deep within her breastNor aught confides unto the rest.

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

In groups, official striplings glanceConceitedly on Tania fair,And views amongst themselves advanceUnfavourable unto her.But one buffoon unhappy deemedHer the ideal which he dreamed,And leaning ’gainst the portal closedTo her an elegy composed.Also one Viázemski, remarkingTattiana by a poor aunt’s side,Successfully to please her tried,And an old gent the poet markingBy Tania, smoothing his peruke,To ask her name the trouble took.

But where Melpomene doth raveWith lengthened howl and accent loud,And her bespangled robe doth waveBefore a cold indifferent crowd,And where Thalia softly dreamsAnd heedless of approval seems,Terpsichore alone amongHer sisterhood delights the young(So ’twas with us in former years,In your young days and also mine),Never upon my heroineThe jealous dame her lorgnette veers,The connoisseur his glances throwsFrom boxes or from stalls in rows.

To the assembly her they bear.There the confusion, pressure, heat,The crash of music, candles’ glareAnd 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 displayTheir insolence and waistcoats whiteAnd glasses unemployed all night;Thither hussars on leave will strayTo clank the spur, delight the fair—And vanish like a bird in air.

Full many a lovely star hath nightAnd Moscow many a beauty fair:Yet clearer shines than every lightThe moon in the blue atmosphere.And she to whom my lyre would fain,Yet dares not, dedicate its strain,Shines in the female firmamentLike a full moon magnificent.Lo! with what pride celestialHer 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.

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

Thus widely meditation erred,Forgot the world, the noisy ball,Whilst from her countenance ne’er stirredThe eyes of a grave general.Both aunts looked knowing as a judge,Each gave Tattiana’s arm a nudgeAnd 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?”—

Let us congratulations payTo our Tattiana conquering,And for a time our course delay,That I forget not whom I sing.Let me explain that in my song“I celebrate a comrade youngAnd the extent of his caprice;O epic Muse, my powers increaseAnd grant success to labour long;Having a trusty staff bestowed,Grant that I err not on the road.”Enough! my pack is now unslung—To classicism I’ve homage paid,Though late, have a beginning made.