The Country Damsel

‘Elle Était fille, elle Était amoureuse’—Malfilatre

Canto The Third

[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.]

I

“Whither away? Deuce take the bard!”—
“Good-bye, OnÉguine, I must go.”—
“I won’t detain you; but ’tis hard
To guess how you the eve pull through.”—
“At LÀrina’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, OnÉguine, 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! LÀrina 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 JoukÓvski, upon which his
fame mainly rests. JoukÓvski 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 OnÉguine’s apparition
At LÀrina’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 OnÉguine 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 t ist 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.
“’Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!
My beauty, thou art ready too.
My morning birdie, yesternight
I was half silly with affright.
But praised be God! in health art thou!
The pains of night have wholly fled,
Thy cheek is as a poppy red!”

XXXVI

“Ah! nurse, a favour do for me!”—
“Command me, darling, what you choose”—
“Do not—you might—suspicious be;
But look you—ah! do not refuse.”
“I call to witness God on high—”
“Then send your grandson quietly
To take this letter to O— Well!
Unto our neighbour. Mind you tell—
Command him not to say a word—
I mean my name not to repeat.”
“To whom is it to go, my sweet?
Of late I have been quite absurd,—
So many neighbours here exist—
Am I to go through the whole list?”

XXXVII

“How dull you are this morning, nurse!”
“My darling, growing old am I!
In age the memory gets worse,
But I was sharp in times gone by.
In times gone by thy bare command—”
“Oh! nurse, nurse, you don’t understand!
What is thy cleverness to me?
The letter is the thing, you see,—
OnÉguine’s letter!”—“Ah! the thing!
Now don’t be cross with me, my soul,
You know that I am now a fool—
But why are your cheeks whitening?”
“Nothing, good nurse, there’s nothing wrong,
But send your grandson before long.”

XXXVIII

No answer all that day was borne.
Another passed; ’twas just the same.
Pale as a ghost and dressed since morn
Tattiana waits. No answer came!
Olga’s admirer came that day:
“Tell me, why doth your comrade stay?”
The hostess doth interrogate:
“He hath neglected us of late.”—
Tattiana blushed, her heart beat quick—
“He promised here this day to ride,”
Lenski unto the dame replied,
“The post hath kept him, it is like.”
Shamefaced, Tattiana downward looked
As if he cruelly had joked!

XXXIX

’Twas dusk! Upon the table bright
Shrill sang the samovar at eve,(44)
The china teapot too ye might
In clouds of steam above perceive.
Into the cups already sped
By Olga’s hand distributed
The fragrant tea in darkling stream,
And a boy handed round the cream.
Tania doth by the casement linger
And breathes upon the chilly glass,
Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,
And traces with a slender finger
Upon its damp opacity,
The mystic monogram, O. E.

[Note 44: The samovar, i.e. “self-boiler,” is merely an
urn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observe
a similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns which
are provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder in
center. The tea-pot is usually placed on the top of the
samovar.]

XL

In the meantime her spirit sinks,
Her weary eyes are filled with tears—
A horse’s hoofs she hears—She shrinks!
Nearer they come—Eugene appears!
Ah! than a spectre from the dead
More swift the room Tattiana fled,
From hall to yard and garden flies,
Not daring to cast back her eyes.
She fears and like an arrow rushes
Through park and meadow, wood and brake,
The bridge and alley to the lake,
Brambles she snaps and lilacs crushes,
The flowerbeds skirts, the brook doth meet,
Till out of breath upon a seat

XLI

She sank.—
“He’s here! Eugene is here!
Merciful God, what will he deem?”
Yet still her heart, which torments tear,
Guards fondly hope’s uncertain dream.
She waits, on fire her trembling frame—
Will he pursue?—But no one came.
She heard of servant-maids the note,
Who in the orchards gathered fruit,
Singing in chorus all the while.
(This by command; for it was found,
However cherries might abound,
They disappeared by stealth and guile,
So mouths they stopt with song, not fruit—
Device of rural minds acute!)

The Maidens’ Song

Young maidens, fair maidens,
Friends and companions,
Disport yourselves, maidens,
Arouse yourselves, fair ones.
Come sing we in chorus
The secrets of maidens.
Allure the young gallant
With dance and with song.
As we lure the young gallant,
Espy him approaching,
Disperse yourselves, darlings,
And pelt him with cherries,
With cherries, red currants,
With raspberries, cherries.
Approach not to hearken
To secrets of virgins,
Approach not to gaze at
The frolics of maidens.

XLII

They sang, whilst negligently seated,
Attentive to the echoing sound,
Tattiana with impatience waited
Until her heart less high should bound—
Till the fire in her cheek decreased;
But tremor still her frame possessed,
Nor did her blushes fade away,
More crimson every moment they.
Thus shines the wretched butterfly,
With iridescent wing doth flap
When captured in a schoolboy’s cap;
Thus shakes the hare when suddenly
She from the winter corn espies
A sportsman who in covert lies.

XLIII

But finally she heaves a sigh,
And rising from her bench proceeds;
But scarce had turned the corner nigh,
Which to the neighbouring alley leads,
When Eugene like a ghost did rise
Before her straight with roguish eyes.
Tattiana faltered, and became
Scarlet as burnt by inward flame.
But this adventure’s consequence
To-day, my friends, at any rate,
I am not strong enough to state;
I, after so much eloquence,
Must take a walk and rest a bit—
Some day I’ll somehow finish it.

End of Canto the Third