The Great World ‘Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever fare thee well.’—Byron Canto the Eighth [St. Petersburg, Boldino, Tsarskoe Selo, 1880-1881] I In the Lyceum’s noiseless shade As in a garden when I grew, I Apuleius gladly read But would not look at Cicero. ’Twas then in valleys lone, remote, In spring-time, heard the cygnet’s note By waters shining tranquilly, That first the Muse appeared to me. Into the study of the boy There came a sudden flash of light, The Muse revealed her first delight, Sang childhood’s pastimes and its joy, Glory with which our history teems And the heart’s agitated dreams. II And the world met her smilingly, A first success light pinions gave, The old Derjavine noticed me, And blest me, sinking to the grave.(78) Then my companions young with pleasure In the unfettered hours of leisure Her utterances ever heard, And by a partial temper stirred And boiling o’er with friendly heat, They first of all my brow did wreathe And an encouragement did breathe That my coy Muse might sing more sweet. O triumphs of my guileless days, How sweet a dream your memories raise! [Note 78: This touching scene produced a lasting impression on Pushkin’s mind. It took place at a public examination at the Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. The incident recalls the “Mon cher Tibulle” of Voltaire and the youthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during the reigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. His poems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought of by contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimal endowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperial reward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire. Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder having been expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I have filled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the author having reference to this canto.] III Passion’s wild sway I then allowed, Her promptings unto law did make, Pursuits I followed of the crowd, My sportive Muse I used to take To many a noisy feast and fight, Terror of guardians of the night; And wild festivities among She brought with her the gift of song. Like a Bacchante in her sport Beside the cup she sang her rhymes And the young revellers of past times Vociferously paid her court, And I, amid the friendly crowd, Of my light paramour was proud. IV But I abandoned their array, And fled afar—she followed me. How oft the kindly Muse away Hath whiled the road’s monotony, Entranced me by some mystic tale. How oft beneath the moonbeams pale Like Leonora did she ride(79) With me Caucasian rocks beside! How oft to the Crimean shore She led me through nocturnal mist Unto the sounding sea to list, Where Nereids murmur evermore, And where the billows hoarsely raise To God eternal hymns of praise. [Note 79: See Note 30, “Leonora,” a poem by Gottfried Augustus Burger, b. 1748, d. 1794.] V Then, the far capital forgot, Its splendour and its blandishments, In poor Moldavia cast her lot, She visited the humble tents Of migratory gipsy hordes— And wild among them grew her words— Our godlike tongue she could exchange For savage speech, uncouth and strange, And ditties of the steppe she loved. But suddenly all changed around! Lo! in my garden was she found And as a country damsel roved, A pensive sorrow in her glance And in her hand a French romance. VI Now for the first time I my Muse Lead into good society, Her steppe-like beauties I peruse With jealous fear, anxiety. Through dense aristocratic rows Of diplomats and warlike beaux And supercilious dames she glides, Sits down and gazes on all sides— Amazed at the confusing crowd, Variety of speech and vests, Deliberate approach of guests Who to the youthful hostess bowed, And the dark fringe of men, like frames Enclosing pictures of fair dames. VII Assemblies oligarchical Please her by their decorum fixed, The rigour of cold pride and all Titles and ages intermixed. But who in that choice company With clouded brow stands silently? Unknown to all he doth appear, A vision desolate and drear Doth seem to him the festal scene. Doth his brow wretchedness declare Or suffering pride? Why is he there? Who may he be? Is it Eugene? Pray is it he? It is the same. “And is it long since back he came? VIII “Is he the same or grown more wise? Still doth the misanthrope appear? He has returned, say in what guise? What is his latest character? What doth he act? Is it Melmoth,(80) Philanthropist or patriot, Childe Harold, quaker, devotee, Or other mask donned playfully? Or a good fellow for the nonce, Like you and me and all the rest?— But this is my advice, ’twere best Not to behave as he did once— Society he duped enow.” “Is he known to you?”—“Yes and No.” [Note 80: A romance by Maturin.] IX Wherefore regarding him express Perverse, unfavourable views? Is it that human restlessness For ever carps, condemns, pursues? Is it that ardent souls of flame By recklessness amuse or shame Selfish nonentities around? That mind which yearns for space is bound? And that too often we receive Professions eagerly for deeds, That crass stupidity misleads, That we by cant ourselves deceive, That mediocrity alone Without disgust we look upon? X Happy he who in youth was young, Happy who timely grew mature, He who life’s frosts which early wrung Hath gradually learnt to endure; By visions who was ne’er deranged Nor from the mob polite estranged, At twenty who was prig or swell, At thirty who was married well, At fifty who relief obtained From public and from private ties, Who glory, wealth and dignities Hath tranquilly in turn attained, And unto whom we all allude As to a worthy man and good! XI But sad is the reflection made, In vain was youth by us received, That we her constantly betrayed And she at last hath us deceived; That our desires which noblest seemed, The purest of the dreams we dreamed, Have one by one all withered grown Like rotten leaves by Autumn strown— ’Tis fearful to anticipate Nought but of dinners a long row, To look on life as on a show, Eternally to imitate The seemly crowd, partaking nought Its passions and its modes of thought. XII The butt of scandal having been, ’Tis dreadful—ye agree, I hope— To pass with reasonable men For a fictitious misanthrope, A visionary mortified, Or monster of Satanic pride, Or e’en the “Demon” of my strain.(81) OnÉguine—take him up again— In duel having killed his friend And reached, with nought his mind to engage, The twenty-sixth year of his age, Wearied of leisure in the end, Without profession, business, wife, He knew not how to spend his life. [Note 81: The “Demon,” a short poem by Pushkin which at its first appearance created some excitement in Russian society. A more appropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have been the Tempter. It is descriptive of the first manifestation of doubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as the visits of a “demon.” Russian society was moved to embody this imaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin’s. This must not be confounded with Lermontoff’s poem bearing the same title upon which Rubinstein’s new opera, “Il Demonio,” is founded.] XIII Him a disquietude did seize, A wish ane? How meekly then I heard you preach— To-day it is my turn to teach. XLII “OnÉguine, 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 “OnÉguine, 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, OnÉguine—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 OnÉguine—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.] End of Canto The Eighth The End |