29.
Her walks continue, lasting longer.
Now at a hillock, now a stream Tatiana cannot help but linger, Arrested by their special charm.
As with old friends Tatiana hastens To carry on her conversations With every meadow, grove in sight, But short-lived summer"s taking flight.
And golden autumn is arriving.
Nature, now pale and tremulous, Is richly dressed for sacrifice.
Here is the North now, storm clouds driving, It blows, it howls a and winter then, The sorceress arrives again.
30.
She"s come, herself she scatters, weighting The oaken boughs with flocks of snow; Lies down in carpets undulating Over the hills and fields below; Spreads out a puffy shroud to cover The trace of banks and frozen river; Frost gleams. And we take pleasure in Old Mother Winter"s frolicking.
But Tanya finds her antics galling.
She shuns the winter, cannot bear To take a breath of frosty air, Or at the bath with new snow falling To wash her face, her shoulders, breast.
Tatiana dreads this winter"s quest.
31.
Departure has been long extended, The final date is almost gone.
The coach has been inspected, mended, Recovered from oblivion.
The usual three kibitkas manage The plethora of goods and baggage: Pans, jars of jam, and chairs and chests And feather beds and mattresses, Roosters in cages, pots and basins, Etcetera a for so much more Is wrested from the family store.
And in the log hut, losing patience The servants weep, farewell is hard: And eighteen nags invade the yard.
32.
They"re harnessed to the master carriage, The cooks prepare a lunch for all, The three kibitkas teem with baggage, While household women, coachmen brawl.
A bearded outrider is seated Upon a jade, unkempt, depleted.
Up at the gate retainers vie To bid their mistresses goodbye.
The venerable carriage, gliding, Has crept beyond the gate. "Farewell, You peaceful places, hill and dell!
Farewell the refuge that I"d hide in!
When shall I see you all?" she cries, And tears stream out of Tanya"s eyes.
33.
When we are free of the constrictions Of our benign enlightenment, In time (we"re told, from the predictions Of philosophic measurement,9 In some five hundred years) our highways Will no more look like tawdry byways, But surfaced roads on every hand Will unify the Russian land, And cast-iron bridges will support us On wide arcs over waterways, We"ll part the mountains in the skies, Dig daring tunnels under waters, And Christendom will inst.i.tute A chain of inns on every route.
34.
But now our roadways are decaying, Our bridges, now forgotten, rot, At stations fleas and bedbugs preying Won"t let a traveller sleep a jot.
There are no inns. In some cold cabin There hangs for show a highfalutin"
And meagre menu to excite An unrewarded appet.i.te; While rural Cyclopes take courage Before a fire of little heat, And with a Russian hammer treat A slender European carriage, And bless the ditches and the moats That const.i.tute our country"s roads.
35.
Yet in the chilly winter season A drive is light and pleasant. Like A voguish song devoid of reason, Unruffled is the winter track.
We have automedons,10 quick-witted, And troikas tireless and intrepid, And mileposts, like a fence, race by, Diverting the lethargic eye.
But Larina drove none too fleetly, Her transport all her own for fear Post-chaises would have proved too dear, And our young maid enjoyed completely The road"s monotonous delights: They travelled seven days and nights.
36.
But they are close now, and their horses To white-stone Moscow gallop, as They glimpse ahead the golden crosses Glowing on ancient cupolas.
Brothers, there"s nothing that can equal My pleasure when a semi-circle Of churches, belfries, gardens, halls Opened to me inside the walls.
How often, sadly separated, Fated to roam without resort, Moscow, it was of you I thought!
Moscow, whose name reverberated In every Russian heart! I heard So many echoes in that word!
37.
Here next, by leafy grove surrounded, Petrovsky Castle11 stands. Dark pride In recent glory here resounded.
Here Bonaparte chose to reside By Fortune"s smile intoxicated, He waited a but in vain he waited a For Moscow on her bended knees To yield to him old Kremlin"s keys.
My Moscow spurned such self-abas.e.m.e.nt, No gift, no feast day she declared, A fiery welcome she prepared To greet a hero so impatient.
From here he watched, in thought immersed, The dreadful conflagration burst.
38.
Farewell to you, Petrovsky Palace, Witness of glory"s first defeat, Away now to the turnpike pillars12 Whitening on Tverskaya Street.
Across the pits the carriage flashes, Past sentries, peasant women dashes, Past street lamps,13 shops and errand boys, Past monasteries, gardens, sleighs, Mansions, Bokharans,14 small plantations, Shacks, merchants, peasants selling wares, Boulevards and Cossack messengers,15 Towers, pharmacies and stores with fashions, Balconies, gates where lions curl,16 Crosses where flocks of jackdaws swirl.17
39,4018.
An hour or two they go on driving In this exhausting marathon, When at a gated house arriving, They stop a just by St Khariton19 To see an aunt, who, with consumption Some four years now, can hardly function.
To them the door is opened wide, A grey-haired Kalmyk20 stands inside, Arrayed in torn kaftan and gla.s.ses, And with a stocking in his hand.
In the salon, from her divan, The cry they hear is the Princess"s.
The two old ladies weep, embrace And exclamations pour apace.
41.