XIV
Ahem! Ahem! My reader n.o.ble, Are all your relatives quite well?
Permit me; is it worth the trouble For your instruction here to tell What I by relatives conceive?
These are your relatives, believe: Those whom we ought to love, caress, With spiritual tenderness; Whom, as the custom is of men, We visit about Christmas Day, Or by a card our homage pay, That until Christmas comes again They may forget that we exist.
And so--G.o.d bless them, if He list.
XV
In this the love of the fair s.e.x Beats that of friends and relatives: In love, although its tempests vex, Our liberty at least survives: Agreed! but then the whirl of fashion, The natural fickleness of pa.s.sion, The torrent of opinion, And the fair s.e.x as light as down!
Besides the hobbies of a spouse Should be respected throughout life By every proper-minded wife, And this the faithful one allows, When in as instant she is lost,-- Satan will jest, and at love"s cost.
XVI
Oh! where bestow our love? Whom trust?
Where is he who doth not deceive?
Who words and actions will adjust To standards in which we believe?
Oh! who is not calumnious?
Who labours hard to humour us?
To whom are our misfortunes grief And who is not a tiresome thief?
My venerated reader, oh!
Cease the pursuit of shadows vain, Spare yourself unavailing pain And all your love on self bestow; A worthy object "tis, and well I know there"s none more amiable.
XVII
But from the interview what flowed?
Alas! It is not hard to guess.
The insensate fire of love still glowed Nor discontinued to distress A spirit which for sorrow yearned.
Tattiana more than ever burned With hopeless pa.s.sion: from her bed Sweet slumber winged its way and fled.
Her health, life"s sweetness and its bloom, Her smile and maidenly repose, All vanished as an echo goes.
Across her youth a shade had come, As when the tempest"s veil is drawn Across the smiling face of dawn.
XVIII
Alas! Tattiana fades away, Grows pale and sinks, but nothing says; Listless is she the livelong day Nor interest in aught betrays.
Shaking with serious air the head, In whispers low the neighbours said: "Tis time she to the altar went!
But enough! Now, "tis my intent The imagination to enliven With love which happiness extends; Against my inclination, friends, By sympathy I have been driven.
Forgive me! Such the love I bear My heroine, Tattiana dear.
XIX
Vladimir, hourly more a slave To youthful Olga"s beauty bright, Into delicious bondage gave His ardent soul with full delight.
Always together, eventide Found them in darkness side by side, At morn, hand clasped in hand, they rove Around the meadow and the grove.
And what resulted? Drunk with love, But with confused and bashful air, Lenski at intervals would dare, If Olga smilingly approve, Dally with a dishevelled tress Or kiss the border of her dress.
XX
To Olga frequently he would Some nice instructive novel read, Whose author nature understood Better than Chateaubriand did Yet sometimes pages two or three (Nonsense and pure absurdity, For maiden"s hearing deemed unfit), He somewhat blushing would omit: Far from the rest the pair would creep And (elbows on the table) they A game of chess would often play, Buried in meditation deep, Till absently Vladimir took With his own p.a.w.n alas! his rook!
XXI
Homeward returning, he at home Is occupied with Olga fair, An alb.u.m, fly-leaf of the tome, He leisurely adorns for her.
Landscapes thereon he would design, A tombstone, Aphrodite"s shrine, Or, with a pen and colours fit, A dove which on a lyre doth sit; The "in memoriam" pages sought, Where many another hand had signed A tender couplet he combined, A register of fleeting thought, A flimsy trace of musings past Which might for many ages last.
XXII
Surely ye all have overhauled A country damsel"s alb.u.m trim, Which all her darling friends have scrawled From first to last page to the rim.
Behold! orthography despising, Metreless verses recognizing By friendship how they were abused, Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.
Upon the opening page ye find: _Qu"ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?_ Subscribed, _toujours a vous, Annette;_ And on the last one, underlined: _Who in thy love finds more delight Beyond this may attempt to write_.
XXIII
Infallibly you there will find Two hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath, And vows will probably be signed: _Affectionately yours till death_.
Some army poet therein may Have smuggled his flagitious lay.
In such an alb.u.m with delight I would, my friends, inscriptions write, Because I should be sure, meanwhile, My verses, kindly meant, would earn Delighted glances in return; That afterwards with evil smile They would not solemnly debate If cleverly or not I prate.
XXIV
But, O ye tomes without compare, Which from the devil"s bookcase start, Alb.u.ms magnificent which scare The fashionable rhymester"s heart!
Yea! although rendered beauteous By Tolstoy"s pencil marvellous, Though Baratynski verses penned,(45) The thunderbolt on you descend!
Whene"er a brilliant courtly dame Presents her quarto amiably, Despair and anger seize on me, And a malicious epigram Trembles upon my lips from spite,-- And madrigals I"m asked to write!
[Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequently became Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg.
Baratynski, see Note 43.]
XXV
But Lenski madrigals ne"er wrote In Olga"s alb.u.m, youthful maid, To purest love he tuned his note Nor frigid adulation paid.
What never was remarked or heard Of Olga he in song averred; His elegies, which plenteous streamed, Both natural and truthful seemed.
Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46) In amorous flights when so inspired, Singing G.o.d knows what maid admired, And all thy precious elegies, Sometime collected, shall relate The story of thy life and fate.
[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise--unfulfilled.]
XXVI
Since Fame and Freedom he adored, Incited by his stormy Muse Odes Lenski also had outpoured, But Olga would not such peruse.
When poets lachrymose recite Beneath the eyes of ladies bright Their own productions, some insist No greater pleasure can exist Just so! that modest swain is blest Who reads his visionary theme To the fair object of his dream, A beauty languidly at rest, Yes, happy--though she at his side By other thoughts be occupied.
XXVII
But I the products of my Muse, Consisting of harmonious lays, To my old nurse alone peruse, Companion of my childhood"s days.
Or, after dinner"s dull repast, I by the b.u.t.ton-hole seize fast My neighbour, who by chance drew near, And breathe a drama in his ear.
Or else (I deal not here in jokes), Exhausted by my woes and rhymes, I sail upon my lake at times And terrify a swarm of ducks, Who, heard the music of my lay, Take to their wings and fly away.
XXVIII
But to Oneguine! _A propos_!
Friends, I must your indulgence pray.
His daily occupations, lo!
Minutely I will now portray.