The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

  Before whom once in solitude,

  In the beginning of this lay,

  Deep in the distant province rude,

  Impelled by zeal for moral worth,

  He salutary rules poured forth?

  The maid whose note he still possessed

  Wherein the heart its vows expressed,

  Where all upon the surface lies, —

  That girl — but he must dreaming be —

  That girl whom once on a time he

  Could in a humble sphere despise,

  Can she have been a moment gone

  Thus haughty, careless in her tone?

  XXI

  He quits the fashionable throng

  And meditative homeward goes,

  Visions, now sad, now grateful, long

  Do agitate his late repose.

  He wakes — they with a letter come —

  The Princess N. will be at home

  On such a day. O Heavens, ‘tis she!

  Oh! I accept. And instantly

  He a polite reply doth scrawl.

  What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?

  In the recesses what hath stirred

  Of a heart cold and cynical?

  Vexation? Vanity? or strove

  Again the plague of boyhood — love?

  XXII

  The hours once more Oneguine counts,

  Impatient waits the close of day,

  But ten strikes and his sledge he mounts

  And gallops to her house away.

  Trembling he seeks the young princess —

  Tattiana finds in loneliness.

  Together moments one or two

  They sat, but conversation’s flow

  Deserted Eugene. He, distraught,

  Sits by her gloomily, desponds,

  Scarce to her questions he responds,

  Full of exasperating thought.

  He fixedly upon her stares —

  She calm and unconcerned appears.

  XXIII

  The husband comes and interferes

  With this unpleasant tete-a-tete,

  With Eugene pranks of former years

  And jests doth recapitulate.

  They talked and laughed. The guests arrived.

  The conversation was revived

  By the coarse wit of worldly hate;

  But round the hostess scintillate

  Light sallies without coxcombry,

  Awhile sound conversation seems

  To banish far unworthy themes

  And platitudes and pedantry,

  And never was the ear affright

  By liberties or loose or light.

  XXIV

  And yet the city’s flower was there,

  Noblesse and models of the mode,

  Faces which we meet everywhere

  And necessary fools allowed.

  Behold the dames who once were fine

  With roses, caps and looks malign;

  Some marriageable maids behold,

  Blank, unapproachable and cold.

  Lo, the ambassador who speaks

  Economy political,

  And with gray hair ambrosial

  The old man who has had his freaks,

  Renowned for his acumen, wit,

  But now ridiculous a bit.

  XXV

  Behold Sabouroff, whom the age

  For baseness of the spirit scorns,

  Saint Priest, who every album’s page

  With blunted pencil-point adorns.

  Another tribune of the ball

  Hung like a print against the wall,

  Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim,(84)

  Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim.

  The traveller, bird of passage he,

  Stiff, overstarched and insolent,

  Awakens secret merriment

  By his embarrassed dignity —

  Mute glances interchanged aside

  Meet punishment for him provide.

  [Note 84: On Palm Sunday the Russians carry branches, or used to do so. These branches were adorned with little painted pictures of cherubs with the ruddy complexions of tradition. Hence the comparison.]

  XXVI

  But my Oneguine the whole eve

  Within his mind Tattiana bore,

  Not the young timid maid, believe,

  Enamoured, simple-minded, poor,

  But the indifferent princess,

  Divinity without access

  Of the imperial Neva’s shore.

  O Men, how very like ye are

  To Eve the universal mother,

  Possession hath no power to please,

  The serpent to unlawful trees

  Aye bids ye in some way or other —

  Unless forbidden fruit we eat,

  Our paradise is no more sweet.

  XXVII

  Ah! how Tattiana was transformed,

  How thoroughly her part she took!

  How soon to habits she conformed

  Which crushing dignity must brook!

  Who would the maiden innocent

  In the unmoved, magnificent

  Autocrat of the drawing-room seek?

  And he had made her heart beat quick!

  ‘Twas he whom, amid nightly shades,

  Whilst Morpheus his approach delays,

  She mourned and to the moon would raise

  The languid eye of love-sick maids,

  Dreaming perchance in weal or woe

  To end with him her path below.

  XXVIII

  To Love all ages lowly bend,

  But the young unpolluted heart

  His gusts should fertilize, amend,

  As vernal storms the fields athwart.

  Youth freshens beneath Passion’s showers,

  Develops and matures its powers,

  And thus in season the rich field

  Gay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield.

  But at a later, sterile age,

  The solstice of our earthly years,

  Mournful Love’s deadly trace appears

  As storms which in chill autumn rage

  And leave a marsh the fertile ground

  And devastate the woods around.

  XXIX

  There was no doubt! Eugene, alas!

  Tattiana loved as when a lad,

  Both day and night he now must pass

  In love-lorn meditation sad.

  Careless of every social rule,

  The crystals of her vestibule

  He daily in his drives drew near

  And like a shadow haunted her.

  Enraptured was he if allowed

  To swathe her shoulders in the furs,

  If his hot hand encountered hers,

  Or he dispersed the motley crowd

  Of lackeys in her pathway grouped,

  Or to pick up her kerchief stooped.

  XXX

  She seemed of him oblivious,

  Despite the anguish of his breast,

  Received him freely at her house,

  At times three words to him addressed

  In company, or simply bowed,

  Or recognized not in the crowd.

  No coquetry was there, I vouch —

  Society endures not such!

  Oneguine’s cheek grew ashy pale,

  Either she saw not or ignored;

  Oneguine wasted; on my word,

  Already he grew phthisical.

  All to the doctors Eugene send,

  And they the waters recommend.

  XXXI

  He went not — sooner was prepared

  To write his forefathers to warn

  Of his approach; but nothing cared

  Tattiana — thus the sex is born. —

  He obstinately will remain,

  Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain.

  Sickness more courage doth command

  Than health, so with a trembling hand

  A love epistle he doth scrawl.

  Though correspondenc
e as a rule

  He used to hate — and was no fool —

  Yet suffering emotional

  Had rendered him an invalid;

  But word for word his letter read.

  Oneguine’s Letter to Tattiana

  All is foreseen. My secret drear

  Will sound an insult in your ear.

  What acrimonious scorn I trace

  Depicted on your haughty face!

  What do I ask? What cause assigned

  That I to you reveal my mind?

  To what malicious merriment,

  It may be, I yield nutriment!

  Meeting you in times past by chance,

  Warmth I imagined in your glance,

  But, knowing not the actual truth,

  Restrained the impulses of youth;

  Also my wretched liberty

  I would not part with finally;

  This separated us as well —

  Lenski, unhappy victim, fell,

  From everything the heart held dear

  I then resolved my heart to tear;

  Unknown to all, without a tie,

  I thought — retirement, liberty,

  Will happiness replace. My God!

  How I have erred and felt the rod!

  No, ever to behold your face,

  To follow you in every place,

  Your smiling lips, your beaming eyes,

  To watch with lovers’ ecstasies,

  Long listen, comprehend the whole

  Of your perfections in my soul,

  Before you agonized to die —

  This, this were true felicity!

  But such is not for me. I brood

  Daily of love in solitude.

  My days of life approach their end,

  Yet I in idleness expend

  The remnant destiny concedes,

  And thus each stubbornly proceeds.

  I feel, allotted is my span;

  But, that life longer may remain,

  At morn I must assuredly

  Know that thy face that day I see.

  I tremble lest my humble prayer

  You with stern countenance declare

  The artifice of villany —

  I hear your harsh, reproachful cry.

  If ye but knew how dreadful ‘tis

  To bear love’s parching agonies —

  To burn, yet reason keep awake

  The fever of the blood to slake —

  A passionate desire to bend

  And, sobbing at your feet, to blend

  Entreaties, woes and prayers, confess

  All that the heart would fain express —

  Yet with a feigned frigidity

  To arm the tongue and e’en the eye,

  To be in conversation clear

  And happy unto you appear.

  So be it! But internal strife

  I cannot longer wage concealed.

  The die is cast! Thine is my life!

  Into thy hands my fate I yield!

  XXXII

  No answer! He another sent.

  Epistle second, note the third,

  Remained unnoticed. Once he went

  To an assembly — she appeared

  Just as he entered. How severe!

  She will not see, she will not hear.

  Alas! she is as hard, behold,

  And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold.

  Oh, how her lips compressed restrain

  The indignation of her heart!

  A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:

  Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?

  Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!

  Upon her brow sits wrath alone —

  XXXIII

  And it may be a secret dread

  Lest the world or her lord divine

  A certain little escapade

  Well known unto Oneguine mine.

  ‘Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee

  Cursing his own stupidity,

  And brooding o’er the ills he bore,

  Society renounced once more.

  Then in the silent cabinet

  He in imagination saw

  The time when Melancholy’s claw

  ‘Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet,

  Caught him and by the collar took

  And shut him in a lonely nook.

  XXXIV

  He read as vainly as before,

  perusing Gibbon and Rousseau,

  Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,(85)

  Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:

  He read the unbelieving Bayle,

  Also the works of Fontenelle,

  Some Russian authors he perused —

  Nought in the universe refused:

  Nor almanacs nor newspapers,

  Which lessons unto us repeat,

  Wherein I castigation get;

  And where a madrigal occurs

  Writ in my honour now and then —

  E sempre bene, gentlemen!

  [Note 85: Owing to the unstable nature of fame the names of some of the above literary worthies necessitate reference at this period in the nineteenth century. Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a German philosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friend of Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chief work is entitled, “Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind,” in 4 vols. Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a French novelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to his real wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised a considerable influence over certain of its leaders, notably Mirabeau and Sieyes. He is said to have originated the title of the celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. “What is the Tiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything.” He ultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was thrown into prison and though shortly afterwards released, his incarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committed suicide. Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomist and physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a “Traite des Membranes,” “Anatomie generale appliquee a la Physiologie et a la Medecine,” and “Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et la Mort.” He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxious exhalations during his researches. Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of the Revolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editor of the Gazette de France. He wrote histories of the Revolution, of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of a work entitled “Les trois Irlandais Conjures, ou l’ombre d’Emmet,” and is believed to have edited Foy’s “History of the Peninsular War.” The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fair idea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the Empress Catherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverish thirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding power of assimilation.]

  XXXV

  But what results? His eyes peruse

  But thoughts meander far away —

  Ideas, desires and woes confuse

  His intellect in close array.

  His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,

  On lines invisible are fixt;

  ‘Twas these he read and these alone

  His spirit was intent upon.

  They were the wonderful traditions

  Of kindly, dim antiquity,

  Dreams with no continuity,

  Prophecies, threats and apparitions,

  The lively trash of stories long

  Or letters of a maiden young.

  XXXVI

  And by degrees upon him grew

  A lethargy of sense, a trance,

  And soon imagination threw

  Before him her wild game of chance.

  And now upon the snow in thaw

  A young man motionless he saw,

  As one who bivouacs afield,

  And heard a voice cry — Why! He’s killed! —

  And now he views forgotten foes,

  Poltroons and men of sla
nderous tongue,

  Bevies of treacherous maidens young;

  Of thankless friends the circle rose,

  A mansion — by the window, see!

  She sits alone — ’tis ever she!

  XXXVII

  So frequently his mind would stray

  He well-nigh lost the use of sense,

  Almost became a poet say —

  Oh! what had been his eminence!

  Indeed, by force of magnetism

  A Russian poem’s mechanism

  My scholar without aptitude

  At this time almost understood.

  How like a poet was my chum

  When, sitting by his fire alone

  Whilst cheerily the embers shone,

  He “Benedetta” used to hum,

  Or “Idol mio,” and in the grate

  Would lose his slippers or gazette.

  XXXVIII

  Time flies! a genial air abroad,

  Winter resigned her empire white,

  Oneguine ne’er as poet showed

  Nor died nor lost his senses quite.

  Spring cheered him up, and he resigned

  His chambers close wherein confined

  He marmot-like did hibernate,

  His double sashes and his grate,

  And sallied forth one brilliant morn —

  Along the Neva’s bank he sleighs,

  On the blue blocks of ice the rays

  Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn,

  The snow upon the streets doth melt —

  Whither along them doth he pelt?

  XXXIX

  Oneguine whither gallops? Ye

  Have guessed already. Yes, quite so!

  Unto his own Tattiana he,

  Incorrigible rogue, doth go.

  Her house he enters, ghastly white,

  The vestibule finds empty quite —

  He enters the saloon. ‘Tis blank!

  A door he opens. But why shrank

  He back as from a sudden blow? —

  Alone the princess sitteth there,

  Pallid and with dishevelled hair,

  Gazing upon a note below.

  Her tears flow plentifully and

  Her cheek reclines upon her hand.

  XL

  Oh! who her speechless agonies

  Could not in that brief moment guess!

  Who now could fail to recognize

  Tattiana in the young princess!

  Tortured by pangs of wild regret,

  Eugene fell prostrate at her feet —

  She starts, nor doth a word express,

  But gazes on Oneguine’s face

  Without amaze or wrath displayed:

  His sunken eye and aspect faint,

  Imploring looks and mute complaint

  She comprehends. The simple maid

  By fond illusions once possest

  Is once again made manifest.

  XLI

  His kneeling posture he retains —

  Calmly her eyes encounter his —

  Insensible her hand remains

  Beneath his lips’ devouring kiss.