Amid sly, pusillanimous Spoiled children most degenerate And tiresome rogues ridiculous And stupid censors pa.s.sionate; Amid coquettes who pray to G.o.d And abject slaves who kiss the rod; In haunts of fashion where each day All with urbanity betray, Where harsh frivolity proclaims Its cold unfeeling sentences; Amid the awful emptiness Of conversation, thought and aims-- In that mora.s.s where you and I Wallow, my friends, in company!
END OF CANTO THE SIXTH
CANTO THE SEVENTH
Moscow
Moscow, Russia"s darling daughter, Where thine equal shall we find?"
Dmitrieff
Who can help loving mother Moscow?
Baratynski (Feasts)
A journey to Moscow! To see the world!
Where better?
Where man is not.
Griboyedoff (Woe from Wit)
Canto The Seventh
[Written 1827-1828 at Moscow, Mikhailovskoe, St. Petersburg and Malinniki.]
I
Impelled by Spring"s dissolving beams, The snows from off the hills around Descended swift in turbid streams And flooded all the level ground.
A smile from slumbering nature clear Did seem to greet the youthful year; The heavens shone in deeper blue, The woods, still naked to the view, Seemed in a haze of green embowered.
The bee forth from his cell of wax Flew to collect his rural tax; The valleys dried and gaily flowered; Herds low, and under night"s dark veil Already sings the nightingale.
II
Mournful is thine approach to me, O Spring, thou chosen time of love!
What agitation languidly My spirit and my blood doth move, What sad emotions o"er me steal When first upon my cheek I feel The breath of Spring again renewed, Secure in rural quietude-- Or, strange to me is happiness?
Do all things which to mirth incline.
And make a dark existence shine Inflict annoyance and distress Upon a soul inert and cloyed?-- And is all light within destroyed?
III
Or, heedless of the leaves" return Which Autumn late to earth consigned, Do we alone our losses mourn Of which the rustling woods remind?
Or, when anew all Nature teems, Do we foresee in troubled dreams The coming of life"s Autumn drear.
For which no springtime shall appear?
Or, it may be, we inly seek, Wafted upon poetic wing, Some other long-departed Spring, Whose memories make the heart beat quick With thoughts of a far distant land, Of a strange night when the moon and--
IV
"Tis now the season! Idlers all, Epicurean philosophers, Ye men of fashion cynical, Of Levshin"s school ye followers,(67) Priams of country populations And dames of fine organisations, Spring summons you to her green bowers, "Tis the warm time of labour, flowers; The time for mystic strolls which late Into the starry night extend.
Quick to the country let us wend In vehicles surcharged with freight; In coach or post-cart duly placed Beyond the city-barriers haste.
[Note 67: Levshin--a contemporary writer on political economy.]
V
Thou also, reader generous, The chaise long ordered please employ, Abandon cities riotous, Which in the winter were a joy: The Muse capricious let us coax, Go hear the rustling of the oaks Beside a nameless rivulet, Where in the country Eugene yet, An idle anchorite and sad, A while ago the winter spent, Near young Tattiana resident, My pretty self-deceiving maid-- No more the village knows his face, For there he left a mournful trace.
VI
Let us proceed unto a rill, Which in a hilly neighbourhood Seeks, winding amid meadows still, The river through the linden wood.
The nightingale there all night long, Spring"s paramour, pours forth her song The fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom, And lo! where lies a marble tomb And two old pines their branches spread-- "_Vladimir Lenski lies beneath, Who early died a gallant death_,"
Thereon the pa.s.sing traveller read: "_The date, his fleeting years how long-- Repose in peace, thou child of song_."
VII
Time was, the breath of early dawn Would agitate a mystic wreath Hung on a pine branch earthward drawn Above the humble urn of death.
Time was, two maidens from their home At eventide would hither come, And, by the light the moonbeams gave, Lament, embrace upon that grave.
But now--none heeds the monument Of woe: effaced the pathway now: There is no wreath upon the bough: Alone beside it, gray and bent, As formerly the shepherd sits And his poor basten sandal knits.
VIII
My poor Vladimir, bitter tears Thee but a little s.p.a.ce bewept, Faithless, alas! thy maid appears, Nor true unto her sorrow kept.
Another could her heart engage, Another could her woe a.s.suage By flattery and lover"s art-- A lancer captivates her heart!
A lancer her soul dotes upon: Before the altar, lo! the pair, Mark ye with what a modest air She bows her head beneath the crown;(68) Behold her downcast eyes which glow, Her lips where light smiles come and go!
[Note 68: The crown used in celebrating marriages in Russia according to the forms of the Eastern Church. See Note 28.]
IX
My poor Vladimir! In the tomb, Pa.s.sed into dull eternity, Was the sad poet filled with gloom, Hearing the fatal perfidy?
Or, beyond Lethe lulled to rest, Hath the bard, by indifference blest, Callous to all on earth become-- Is the world to him sealed and dumb?
The same unmoved oblivion On us beyond the grave attends, The voice of lovers, foes and friends, Dies suddenly: of heirs alone Remains on earth the unseemly rage, Whilst struggling for the heritage.
X
Soon Olga"s accents shrill resound No longer through her former home; The lancer, to his calling bound, Back to his regiment must roam.
The aged mother, bathed in tears, Distracted by her grief appears When the hour came to bid good-bye-- But my Tattiana"s eyes were dry.
Only her countenance a.s.sumed A deadly pallor, air distressed; When all around the entrance pressed, To say farewell, and fussed and fumed Around the carriage of the pair-- Tattiana gently led them there.
XI
And long her eyes as through a haze After the wedded couple strain; Alas! the friend of childish days Away, Tattiana, hath been ta"en.
Thy dove, thy darling little pet On whom a sister"s heart was set Afar is borne by cruel fate, For evermore is separate.
She wanders aimless as a sprite, Into the tangled garden goes But nowhere can she find repose, Nor even tears afford respite, Of consolation all bereft-- Well nigh her heart in twain was cleft.
XII
In cruel solitude each day With flame more ardent pa.s.sion burns, And to Oneguine far away Her heart importunately turns.
She never more his face may view, For was it not her duty to Detest him for a brother slain?