The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

  Original imagination,

  And cool sagacious mind he had:

  I was incensed and he was sad.

  Both were of passion satiate

  And both of dull existence tired,

  Extinct the flame which once had fired;

  Both were expectant of the hate

  With which blind Fortune oft betrays

  The very morning of our days.

  XL

  He who hath lived and living, thinks,

  Must e’en despise his kind at last;

  He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks

  From shades of the relentless past.

  No fond illusions live to soothe,

  But memory like a serpent’s tooth

  With late repentance gnaws and stings.

  All this in many cases brings

  A charm with it in conversation.

  Oneguine’s speeches I abhorred

  At first, but soon became inured

  To the sarcastic observation,

  To witticisms and taunts half-vicious

  And gloomy epigrams malicious.

  XLI

  How oft, when on a summer night

  Transparent o’er the Neva beamed

  The firmament in mellow light,

  And when the watery mirror gleamed

  No more with pale Diana’s rays,(17)

  We called to mind our youthful days —

  The days of love and of romance!

  Then would we muse as in a trance,

  Impressionable for an hour,

  And breathe the balmy breath of night;

  And like the prisoner’s our delight

  Who for the greenwood quits his tower,

  As on the rapid wings of thought

  The early days of life we sought.

  [Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of Saint Petersburg are a prolonged twilight.]

  XLII

  Absorbed in melancholy mood

  And o’er the granite coping bent,

  Oneguine meditative stood,

  E’en as the poet says he leant.(18)

  ‘Tis silent all! Alone the cries

  Of the night sentinels arise

  And from the Millionaya afar(19)

  The sudden rattling of a car.

  Lo! on the sleeping river borne,

  A boat with splashing oar floats by,

  And now we hear delightedly

  A jolly song and distant horn;

  But sweeter in a midnight dream

  Torquato Tasso’s strains I deem.

  [Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff’s “Goddess of the Neva.” At Saint Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with splendid granite quays.]

  [Note 19: A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.]

  XLIII

  Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea,

  O Brenta, once more we shall meet

  And, inspiration firing me,

  Your magic voices I shall greet,

  Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire,

  And after Albion’s proud lyre (20)

  Possess my love and sympathy.

  The nights of golden Italy

  I’ll pass beneath the firmament,

  Hid in the gondola’s dark shade,

  Alone with my Venetian maid,

  Now talkative, now reticent;

  From her my lips shall learn the tongue

  Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.

  [Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron’s genius on the imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian tastes, see his poem of “Angelo,” founded upon “Measure for Measure.”]

  XLIV

  When will my hour of freedom come!

  Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales

  Awaiting on the shore I roam

  And beckon to the passing sails.

  Upon the highway of the sea

  When shall I wing my passage free

  On waves by tempests curdled o’er!

  ‘Tis time to quit this weary shore

  So uncongenial to my mind,

  To dream upon the sunny strand

  Of Africa, ancestral land,(21)

  Of dreary Russia left behind,

  Wherein I felt love’s fatal dart,

  Wherein I buried left my heart.

  [Note 21: The poet was, on his mother’s side, of African extraction, a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal’s brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to Saint Petersburg for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank of general in the Russian service.]

  XLV

  Eugene designed with me to start

  And visit many a foreign clime,

  But Fortune cast our lots apart

  For a protracted space of time.

  Just at that time his father died,

  And soon Oneguine’s door beside

  Of creditors a hungry rout

  Their claims and explanations shout.

  But Eugene, hating litigation

  And with his lot in life content,

  To a surrender gave consent,

  Seeing in this no deprivation,

  Or counting on his uncle’s death

  And what the old man might bequeath.

  XLVI

  And in reality one day

  The steward sent a note to tell

  How sick to death his uncle lay

  And wished to say to him farewell.

  Having this mournful document

  Perused, Eugene in postchaise went

  And hastened to his uncle’s side,

  But in his heart dissatisfied,

  Having for money’s sake alone

  Sorrow to counterfeit and wail —

  Thus we began our little tale —

  But, to his uncle’s mansion flown,

  He found him on the table laid,

  A due which must to earth be paid.

  XLVII

  The courtyard full of serfs he sees,

  And from the country all around

  Had come both friends and enemies —

  Funeral amateurs abound!

  The body they consigned to rest,

  And then made merry pope and guest,

  With serious air then went away

  As men who much had done that day.

  Lo! my Oneguine rural lord!

  Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes,

  He now a full possession takes,

  He who economy abhorred,

  Delighted much his former ways

  To vary for a few brief days.

  XLVIII

  For two whole days it seemed a change

  To wander through the meadows still,

  The cool dark oaken grove to range,

  To listen to the rippling rill.

  But on the third of grove and mead

  He took no more the slightest heed;

  They made him feel inclined to doze;

  And the conviction soon arose,

  Ennui can in the country dwell

  Though without palaces and streets,

  Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fetes;

  On him spleen mounted sentinel

  And like his shadow dogged his life,

  Or better, — like a faithful wife.

  XLIX

  I was for calm existence made,

  For rural solitude and dreams,

  My lyre sings swe
eter in the shade

  And more imagination teems.

  On innocent delights I dote,

  Upon my lake I love to float,

  For law I far niente take

  And every morning I awake

  The child of sloth and liberty.

  I slumber much, a little read,

  Of fleeting glory take no heed.

  In former years thus did not I

  In idleness and tranquil joy

  The happiest days of life employ?

  L

  Love, flowers, the country, idleness

  And fields my joys have ever been;

  I like the difference to express

  Between myself and my Eugene,

  Lest the malicious reader or

  Some one or other editor

  Of keen sarcastic intellect

  Herein my portrait should detect,

  And impiously should declare,

  To sketch myself that I have tried

  Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride,

  As if impossible it were

  To write of any other elf

  Than one’s own fascinating self.

  LI

  Here I remark all poets are

  Love to idealize inclined;

  I have dreamed many a vision fair

  And the recesses of my mind

  Retained the image, though short-lived,

  Which afterwards the muse revived.

  Thus carelessly I once portrayed

  Mine own ideal, the mountain maid,

  The captives of the Salguir’s shore.(22)

  But now a question in this wise

  Oft upon friendly lips doth rise:

  Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?

  To whom amongst the jealous throng

  Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?

  [Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of the poet. The former line indicates the Prisoner of the Caucasus, the latter, The Fountain of Baktchiserai. The Salguir is a river of the Crimea.]

  LII

  Whose glance reflecting inspiration

  With tenderness hath recognized

  Thy meditative incantation —

  Whom hath thy strain immortalized?

  None, be my witness Heaven above!

  The malady of hopeless love

  I have endured without respite.

  Happy who thereto can unite

  Poetic transport. They impart

  A double force unto their song

  Who following Petrarch move along

  And ease the tortures of the heart —

  Perchance they laurels also cull —

  But I, in love, was mute and dull.

  LIII

  The Muse appeared, when love passed by

  And my dark soul to light was brought;

  Free, I renewed the idolatry

  Of harmony enshrining thought.

  I write, and anguish flies away,

  Nor doth my absent pen portray

  Around my stanzas incomplete

  Young ladies’ faces and their feet.

  Extinguished ashes do not blaze —

  I mourn, but tears I cannot shed —

  Soon, of the tempest which hath fled

  Time will the ravages efface —

  When that time comes, a poem I’ll strive

  To write in cantos twenty-five.

  LIV

  I’ve thought well o’er the general plan,

  The hero’s name too in advance,

  Meantime I’ll finish whilst I can

  Canto the First of this romance.

  I’ve scanned it with a jealous eye,

  Discovered much absurdity,

  But will not modify a tittle —

  I owe the censorship a little.

  For journalistic deglutition

  I yield the fruit of work severe.

  Go, on the Neva’s bank appear,

  My very latest composition!

  Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows —

  Misunderstanding, words and blows.

  CANTO THE SECOND

  The Poet

  “O Rus!” — Horace

  Canto The Second

  [Note: Odessa, December 1823.]

  I

  The village wherein yawned Eugene

  Was a delightful little spot,

  There friends of pure delight had been

  Grateful to Heaven for their lot.

  The lonely mansion-house to screen

  From gales a hill behind was seen;

  Before it ran a stream. Behold!

  Afar, where clothed in green and gold

  Meadows and cornfields are displayed,

  Villages in the distance show

  And herds of oxen wandering low;

  Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade,

  A thick immense neglected grove

  Extended — haunt which Dryads love.

  II

  ‘Twas built, the venerable pile,

  As lordly mansions ought to be,

  In solid, unpretentious style,

  The style of wise antiquity.

  Lofty the chambers one and all,

  Silk tapestry upon the wall,

  Imperial portraits hang around

  And stoves of various shapes abound.

  All this I know is out of date,

  I cannot tell the reason why,

  But Eugene, incontestably,

  The matter did not agitate,

  Because he yawned at the bare view

  Of drawing-rooms or old or new.

  III

  He took the room wherein the old

  Man — forty years long in this wise —

  His housekeeper was wont to scold,

  Look through the window and kill flies.

  ‘Twas plain — an oaken floor ye scan,

  Two cupboards, table, soft divan,

  And not a speck of dirt descried.

  Oneguine oped the cupboards wide.

  In one he doth accounts behold,

  Here bottles stand in close array,

  There jars of cider block the way,

  An almanac but eight years old.

  His uncle, busy man indeed,

  No other book had time to read.

  IV

  Alone amid possessions great,

  Eugene at first began to dream,

  If but to lighten Time’s dull rate,

  Of many an economic scheme;

  This anchorite amid his waste

  The ancient barshtchina replaced

  By an obrok’s indulgent rate:(23)

  The peasant blessed his happy fate.

  But this a heinous crime appeared

  Unto his neighbour, man of thrift,

  Who secretly denounced the gift,

  And many another slily sneered;

  And all with one accord agreed,

  He was a dangerous fool indeed.

  [Note 23: The barshtchina was the corvee, or forced labour of three days per week rendered previous to the emancipation of 1861 by the serfs to their lord. The obrok was a species of poll-tax paid by a serf, either in lieu of the forced labour or in consideration of being permitted to exercise a trade or profession elsewhere. Very heavy obroks have at times been levied on serfs possessed of skill or accomplishments, or who had amassed wealth; and circumstances may be easily imagined which, under such a system, might lead to great abuses.]

  V

  All visited him at first, of course;

  But since to the backdoor they led

  Most usually a Cossack horse

  Upon the Don’s broad pastures bred

  If they but heard domestic loads

  Come rumbling up the neighbouring roads,

  Most by this circumstance offended

  All overtures of friendship ended.

  “Oh! what a fool our neighbour is!

  He’s a freemason, so we think.

  Alone he doth his claret drink,

  A lady’s hand d
oth never kiss.

  ‘Tis yes! no! never madam! sir!”(24)

  This was his social character.

  [Note 24: The neighbours complained of Oneguine’s want of courtesy. He always replied “da” or “nyet,” yes or no, instead of “das” or “nyets” — the final s being a contraction of “sudar” or “sudarinia,” i.e. sir or madam.]

  VI

  Into the district then to boot

  A new proprietor arrived,

  From whose analysis minute

  The neighbourhood fresh sport derived.

  Vladimir Lenski was his name,

  From Gottingen inspired he came,

  A worshipper of Kant, a bard,

  A young and handsome galliard.

  He brought from mystic Germany

  The fruits of learning and combined

  A fiery and eccentric mind,

  Idolatry of liberty,

  A wild enthusiastic tongue,

  Black curls which to his shoulders hung.

  VII

  The pervert world with icy chill

  Had not yet withered his young breast.

  His heart reciprocated still

  When Friendship smiled or Love caressed.

  He was a dear delightful fool —

  A nursling yet for Hope to school.

  The riot of the world and glare

  Still sovereigns of his spirit were,

  And by a sweet delusion he

  Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,

  He deemed of human life the goal

  To be a charming mystery:

  He racked his brains to find its clue

  And marvels deemed he thus should view.

  VIII

  This he believed: a kindred spirit

  Impelled to union with his own

  Lay languishing both day and night —

  Waiting his coming — his alone!

  He deemed his friends but longed to make

  Great sacrifices for his sake!

  That a friend’s arm in every case

  Felled a calumniator base!

  That chosen heroes consecrate,

  Friends of the sons of every land,

  Exist — that their immortal band

  Shall surely, be it soon or late,

  Pour on this orb a dazzling light

  And bless mankind with full delight.

  IX

  Compassion now or wrath inspires

  And now philanthropy his soul,

  And now his youthful heart desires

  The path which leads to glory’s goal.

  His harp beneath that sky had rung

  Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,

  And at the altar of their fame

  He kindled his poetic flame.

  But from the Muses’ loftiest height

  The gifted songster never swerved,

  But proudly in his song preserved

  An ever transcendental flight;

  His transports were quite maidenly,

  Charming with grave simplicity.

  X

  He sang of love — to love a slave.