The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  XXXVI

  Thus age approached, the common doom,

  And death before the husband wide

  Opened the portals of the tomb

  And a new diadem supplied.(28)

  Just before dinner-time he slept,

  By neighbouring families bewept,

  By children and by faithful wife

  With deeper woe than others’ grief.

  He was an honest gentleman,

  And where at last his bones repose

  The epitaph on marble shows:

  Demetrius Larine, sinful man,

  Servant of God and brigadier,

  Enjoyeth peaceful slumber here.

  [Note 28: A play upon the word “venetz,” crown, which also signifies a nimbus or glory, and is the symbol of marriage from the fact of two gilt crowns being held over the heads of the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony. The literal meaning of the passage is therefore: his earthly marriage was dissolved and a heavenly one was contracted.]

  XXXVII

  To his Penates now returned,

  Vladimir Lenski visited

  His neighbour’s lowly tomb and mourned

  Above the ashes of the dead.

  There long time sad at heart he stayed:

  “Poor Yorick,” mournfully he said,

  “How often in thine arms I lay;

  How with thy medal I would play,

  The Medal Otchakoff conferred!(29)

  To me he would his Olga give,

  Would whisper: shall I so long live?” —

  And by a genuine sorrow stirred,

  Lenski his pencil-case took out

  And an elegiac poem wrote.

  [Note 29: The fortress of Otchakoff was taken by storm on the 18th December 1788 by a Russian army under Prince Potemkin. Thirty thousand Turks are said to have perished during the assault and ensuing massacre.]

  XXXVIII

  Likewise an epitaph with tears

  He writes upon his parents’ tomb,

  And thus ancestral dust reveres.

  Oh! on the fields of life how bloom

  Harvests of souls unceasingly

  By Providence’s dark decree!

  They blossom, ripen and they fall

  And others rise ephemeral!

  Thus our light race grows up and lives,

  A moment effervescing stirs,

  Then seeks ancestral sepulchres,

  The appointed hour arrives, arrives!

  And our successors soon shall drive

  Us from the world wherein we live.

  XXXIX

  Meantime, drink deeply of the flow

  Of frivolous existence, friends;

  Its insignificance I know

  And care but little for its ends.

  To dreams I long have closed mine eyes,

  Yet sometimes banished hopes will rise

  And agitate my heart again;

  And thus it is ‘twould cause me pain

  Without the faintest trace to leave

  This world. I do not praise desire,

  Yet still apparently aspire

  My mournful fate in verse to weave,

  That like a friendly voice its tone

  Rescue me from oblivion.

  XL

  Perchance some heart ‘twill agitate,

  And then the stanzas of my theme

  Will not, preserved by kindly Fate,

  Perish absorbed by Lethe’s stream.

  Then it may be, O flattering tale,

  Some future ignoramus shall

  My famous portrait indicate

  And cry: he was a poet great!

  My gratitude do not disdain,

  Admirer of the peaceful Muse,

  Whose memory doth not refuse

  My light productions to retain,

  Whose hands indulgently caress

  The bays of age and helplessness.

  CANTO THE THIRD

  The Country Damsel

  ‘Elle etait fille, elle etait amoureuse’ — Malfilatre

  Canto The Third

  [Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.]

  I

  “Whither away? Deuce take the bard!” —

  “Good-bye, Oneguine, I must go.” —

  “I won’t detain you; but ‘tis hard

  To guess how you the eve pull through.” —

  “At Larina’s.” — ”Hem, that is queer!

  Pray is it not a tough affair

  Thus to assassinate the eve?” —

  “Not at all.” — ”That I can’t conceive!

  ‘Tis something of this sort I deem.

  In the first place, say, am I right?

  A Russian household simple quite,

  Who welcome guests with zeal extreme,

  Preserves and an eternal prattle

  About the rain and flax and cattle.” —

  II

  “No misery I see in that” —

  “Boredom, my friend, behold the ill — ”

  “Your fashionable world I hate,

  Domestic life attracts me still,

  Where — ” — ”What! another eclogue spin?

  For God’s sake, Lenski, don’t begin!

  What! really going? ‘Tis too bad!

  But Lenski, I should be so glad

  Would you to me this Phyllis show,

  Fair source of every fine idea,

  Verses and tears et cetera.

  Present me.” — ”You are joking.” — ”No.” —

  “Delighted.” — ”When?” — ”This very night.

  They will receive us with delight.”

  III

  Whilst homeward by the nearest route

  Our heroes at full gallop sped,

  Can we not stealthily make out

  What they in conversation said? —

  “How now, Oneguine, yawning still?” —

  “‘Tis habit, Lenski.” — ”Is your ill

  More troublesome than usual?” — ”No!

  How dark the night is getting though!

  Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!

  The drive becomes monotonous —

  Well! Larina appears to us

  An ancient lady full of grace. —

  That bilberry wine, I’m sore afraid,

  The deuce with my inside has played.”

  IV

  “Say, of the two which was Tattiana?”

  “She who with melancholy face

  And silent as the maid Svetlana(30)

  Hard by the window took her place.” —

  “The younger, you’re in love with her!”

  “Well!” — ”I the elder should prefer,

  Were I like you a bard by trade —

  In Olga’s face no life’s displayed.

  ‘Tis a Madonna of Vandyk,

  An oval countenance and pink,

  Yon silly moon upon the brink

  Of the horizon she is like!” —

  Vladimir something curtly said

  Nor further comment that night made.

  [Note 30: “Svetlana,” a short poem by Joukovski, upon which his fame mainly rests. Joukovski was an unblushing plagiarist. Many eminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him, often without going through the form of acknowledging the source of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot be pronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty is unquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger’s poem “Leonora,” which has found so many English translators. Not content with a single development of Burger’s ghastly production the Russian poet has directly paraphrased “Leonora” under its own title, and also written a poem “Liudmila” in imitation of it. The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: A maiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providence and is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother. Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover’s spirit, to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunate maiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or
bridal chamber the unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs to his own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute his errand. It is a repulsive subject. “Svetlana,” however, is more agreeable than its prototype “Leonora,” inasmuch as the whole catastrophe turns out a dream brought on by “sorcery,” during the “sviatki” or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamer awakes to hear the tinkling of her lover’s sledge approaching. “Svetlana” has been translated by Sir John Bowring.]

  V

  Meantime Oneguine’s apparition

  At Larina’s abode produced

  Quite a sensation; the position

  To all good neighbours’ sport conduced.

  Endless conjectures all propound

  And secretly their views expound.

  What jokes and guesses now abound,

  A beau is for Tattiana found!

  In fact, some people were assured

  The wedding-day had been arranged,

  But the date subsequently changed

  Till proper rings could be procured.

  On Lenski’s matrimonial fate

  They long ago had held debate.

  VI

  Of course Tattiana was annoyed

  By such allusions scandalous,

  Yet was her inmost soul o’erjoyed

  With satisfaction marvellous,

  As in her heart the thought sank home,

  I am in love, my hour hath come!

  Thus in the earth the seed expands

  Obedient to warm Spring’s commands.

  Long time her young imagination

  By indolence and languor fired

  The fated nutriment desired;

  And long internal agitation

  Had filled her youthful breast with gloom,

  She waited for — I don’t know whom!

  VII

  The fatal hour had come at last —

  She oped her eyes and cried: ‘tis he!

  Alas! for now before her passed

  The same warm vision constantly;

  Now all things round about repeat

  Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet

  His name: the tenderness of home

  Tiresome unto her hath become

  And the kind-hearted servitors:

  Immersed in melancholy thought,

  She hears of conversation nought

  And hated casual visitors,

  Their coming which no man expects,

  And stay whose length none recollects.

  VIII

  Now with what eager interest

  She the delicious novel reads,

  With what avidity and zest

  She drinks in those seductive deeds!

  All the creations which below

  From happy inspiration flow,

  The swain of Julia Wolmar,

  Malek Adel and De Linar,(31)

  Werther, rebellious martyr bold,

  And that unrivalled paragon,

  The sleep-compelling Grandison,

  Our tender dreamer had enrolled

  A single being: ‘twas in fine

  No other than Oneguine mine.

  [Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin’s time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One has now to search for the very names of most of the popular authors of Pushkin’s day and rummage biographical dictionaries for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet’s prime was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson’s popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]

  IX

  Dreaming herself the heroine

  Of the romances she preferred,

  Clarissa, Julia, Delphine, — (32)

  Tattiana through the forest erred,

  And the bad book accompanies.

  Upon those pages she descries

  Her passion’s faithful counterpart,

  Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.

  She heaves a sigh and deep intent

  On raptures, sorrows not her own,

  She murmurs in an undertone

  A letter for her hero meant:

  That hero, though his merit shone,

  Was certainly no Grandison.

  [Note 32: Referring to Richardson’s “Clarissa Harlowe,” “La Nouvelle Heloise,” and Madame de Stael’s “Delphine.”]

  X

  Alas! my friends, the years flit by

  And after them at headlong pace

  The evanescent fashions fly

  In motley and amusing chase.

  The world is ever altering!

  Farthingales, patches, were the thing,

  And courtier, fop, and usurer

  Would once in powdered wig appear;

  Time was, the poet’s tender quill

  In hopes of everlasting fame

  A finished madrigal would frame

  Or couplets more ingenious still;

  Time was, a valiant general might

  Serve who could neither read nor write.

  XI

  Time was, in style magniloquent

  Authors replete with sacred fire

  Their heroes used to represent

  All that perfection could desire;

  Ever by adverse fate oppressed,

  Their idols they were wont to invest

  With intellect, a taste refined,

  And handsome countenance combined,

  A heart wherein pure passion burnt;

  The excited hero in a trice

  Was ready for self-sacrifice,

  And in the final tome we learnt,

  Vice had due punishment awarded,

  Virtue was with a bride rewarded.

  XII

  But now our minds are mystified

  And Virtue acts as a narcotic,

  Vice in romance is glorified

  And triumphs in career erotic.

  The monsters of the British Muse

  Deprive our schoolgirls of repose,

  The idols of their adoration

  A Vampire fond of meditation,

  Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,

  The Eternal Jew or the Corsair

  Or the mysterious Sbogar.(33)

  Byron’s capricious phantasy

  Could in romantic mantle drape

  E’en hopeless egoism’s dark shape.

  [Note 33: “Melmoth,” a romance by Maturin, and “Jean Sbogar,” by Ch. Nodier. “The Vampire,” a tale published in 1819, was erroneously attributed to Lord Byron. “Salathiel; the Eternal Jew,” a romance by Geo. Croly.]

  XIII

  My friends, what means this odd digression?

  May be that I by heaven’s decrees

  Shall abdicate the bard’s profession,

  And shall adopt some new caprice.

  Thus having braved Apollo’s rage

  With humble prose I’ll fill my page

  And a romance in ancient style

  Shall my declining years beguile;

  Nor shall my pen paint terribly

  The torment born of crime unseen,

  But shall depict the touching scene

  Of Russian domesticity;

  I will descant on love’s sweet dream,

  The olden time shall be my theme.

  XIV

  Old people’s simple conversations

  My unpretending page shall fill,

  Their offspring’s innocent flirtations

  By the old lime-tree or the rill,

  Their Jealousy and separation

  And tears of reconciliation:

  Fresh cause of quarrel then I’ll find,

  But finally in wedlock bind.

  The passionate speeches
I’ll repeat,

  Accents of rapture or despair

  I uttered to my lady fair

  Long ago, prostrate at her feet.

  Then they came easily enow,

  My tongue is somewhat rusty now.

  XV

  Tattiana! sweet Tattiana, see!

  What bitter tears with thee I shed!

  Thou hast resigned thy destiny

  Unto a ruthless tyrant dread.

  Thou’lt suffer, dearest, but before,

  Hope with her fascinating power

  To dire contentment shall give birth

  And thou shalt taste the joys of earth.

  Thou’lt quaff love’s sweet envenomed stream,

  Fantastic images shall swarm

  In thy imagination warm,

  Of happy meetings thou shalt dream,

  And wheresoe’er thy footsteps err,

  Confront thy fated torturer!

  XVI

  Love’s pangs Tattiana agonize.

  She seeks the garden in her need —

  Sudden she stops, casts down her eyes

  And cares not farther to proceed;

  Her bosom heaves whilst crimson hues

  With sudden flush her cheeks suffuse,

  Barely to draw her breath she seems,

  Her eye with fire unwonted gleams.

  And now ‘tis night, the guardian moon

  Sails her allotted course on high,

  And from the misty woodland nigh

  The nightingale trills forth her tune;

  Restless Tattiana sleepless lay

  And thus unto her nurse did say:

  XVII

  “Nurse, ‘tis so close I cannot rest.

  Open the window — sit by me.”

  “What ails thee, dear?” — ”I feel depressed.

  Relate some ancient history.”

  “But which, my dear? — In days of yore

  Within my memory I bore

  Many an ancient legend which

  In monsters and fair dames was rich;

  But now my mind is desolate,

  What once I knew is clean forgot —

  Alas! how wretched now my lot!”

  “But tell me, nurse, can you relate

  The days which to your youth belong?

  Were you in love when you were young?” —

  XVIII

  “Alack! Tattiana,” she replied,

  “We never loved in days of old,

  My mother-in-law who lately died(34)

  Had killed me had the like been told.”

  “How came you then to wed a man?” —

  “Why, as God ordered! My Ivan

  Was younger than myself, my light,