Works of Alexander Pushkin

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by Alexander Pushkin

Her toilette’s antiquated style,

  Her antiquated mode of speech,

  For Moscow fops and Circes each

  To mark with a contemptuous smile.

  Horror! had she not better stay

  Deep in the greenwood far away?

  XXVI

  Arising with the morning’s light,

  Unto the fields she makes her way,

  And with emotional delight

  Surveying them, she thus doth say:

  “Ye peaceful valleys all, good-bye!

  Ye well-known mountain summits high,

  Ye groves whose depths I know so well,

  Thou beauteous sky above, farewell!

  Delicious nature, thee I fly,

  The calm existence which I prize

  I yield for splendid vanities,

  Thou too farewell, my liberty!

  Whither and wherefore do I speed

  And what will Destiny concede?”

  XXVII

  Farther Tattiana’s walks extend —

  ‘Tis now the hillock now the rill

  Their natural attractions lend

  To stay the maid against her will.

  She the acquaintances she loves,

  Her spacious fields and shady groves,

  Another visit hastes to pay.

  But Summer swiftly fades away

  And golden Autumn draweth nigh,

  And pallid nature trembling grieves,

  A victim decked with golden leaves;

  Dark clouds before the north wind fly;

  It blew: it howled: till winter e’en

  Came forth in all her magic sheen.

  XXVIII

  The snow descends and buries all,

  Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs,

  A white and undulating pall

  O’er hillock and o’er meadow throws.

  The channel of the river stilled

  As if with eider-down is filled.

  The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoice

  In mother Winter’s strange caprice.

  But Tania’s heart is not at ease,

  Winter’s approach she doth not hail

  Nor the frost particles inhale

  Nor the first snow of winter seize

  Her shoulders, breast and face to lave —

  Alarm the winter journey gave.

  XXIX

  The date was fixed though oft postponed,

  But ultimately doth approach.

  Examined, mended, newly found

  Was the old and forgotten coach;

  Kibitkas three, the accustomed train,(71)

  The household property contain:

  Saucepans and mattresses and chairs,

  Portmanteaus and preserves in jars,

  Feather-beds, also poultry-coops,

  Basins and jugs — well! everything

  To happiness contributing.

  Behold! beside their dwelling groups

  Of serfs the farewell wail have given.

  Nags eighteen to the door are driven.

  [Note 71: In former times, and to some extent the practice still continues to the present day, Russian families were wont to travel with every necessary of life, and, in the case of the wealthy, all its luxuries following in their train. As the poet complains in a subsequent stanza there were no inns; and if the simple Larinas required such ample store of creature comforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on his journeys may be easily conceived.]

  XXX

  These to the coach of state are bound,

  Breakfast the busy cooks prepare,

  Baggage is heaped up in a mound,

  Old women at the coachmen swear.

  A bearded postillion astride

  A lean and shaggy nag doth ride,

  Unto the gates the servants fly

  To bid the gentlefolk good-bye.

  These take their seats; the coach of state

  Leisurely through the gateway glides.

  “Adieu! thou home where peace abides,

  Where turmoil cannot penetrate,

  Shall I behold thee once again?” —

  Tattiana tears cannot restrain.

  XXXI

  The limits of enlightenment

  When to enlarge we shall succeed,

  In course of time (the whole extent

  Will not five centuries exceed

  By computation) it is like

  Our roads transformed the eye will strike;

  Highways all Russia will unite

  And form a network left and right;

  On iron bridges we shall gaze

  Which o’er the waters boldly leap,

  Mountains we’ll level and through deep

  Streams excavate subaqueous ways,

  And Christian folk will, I expect,

  An inn at every stage erect.

  XXXII

  But now, what wretched roads one sees,

  Our bridges long neglected rot,

  And at the stages bugs and fleas

  One moment’s slumber suffer not.

  Inns there are none. Pretentious but

  Meagre, within a draughty hut,

  A bill of fare hangs full in sight

  And irritates the appetite.

  Meantime a Cyclops of those parts

  Before a fire which feebly glows

  Mends with the Russian hammer’s blows

  The flimsy wares of Western marts,

  With blessings on the ditches and

  The ruts of his own fatherland.

  XXXIII

  Yet on a frosty winter day

  The journey in a sledge doth please,

  No senseless fashionable lay

  Glides with a more luxurious ease;

  For our Automedons are fire

  And our swift troikas never tire;

  The verst posts catch the vacant eye

  And like a palisade flit by.(72)

  The Larinas unwisely went,

  From apprehension of the cost,

  By their own horses, not the post —

  So Tania to her heart’s content

  Could taste the pleasures of the road.

  Seven days and nights the travellers plod.

  [Note 72: This somewhat musty joke has appeared in more than one national costume. Most Englishmen, if we were to replace verst-posts with milestones and substitute a graveyard for a palisade, would instantly recognize its Yankee extraction. In Russia however its origin is as ancient at least as the reign of Catherine the Second. The witticism ran thus: A courier sent by Prince Potemkin to the Empress drove so fast that his sword, projecting from the vehicle, rattled against the verst-posts as if against a palisade!]

  XXXIV

  But they draw near. Before them, lo!

  White Moscow raises her old spires,

  Whose countless golden crosses glow

  As with innumerable fires.(73)

  Ah! brethren, what was my delight

  When I yon semicircle bright

  Of churches, gardens, belfries high

  Descried before me suddenly!

  Moscow, how oft in evil days,

  Condemned to exile dire by fate,

  On thee I used to meditate!

  Moscow! How much is in the phrase

  For every loyal Russian breast!

  How much is in that word expressed!

  [Note 73: The aspect of Moscow, especially as seen from the Sparrow Hills, a low range bordering the river Moskva at a short distance from the city, is unique and splendid. It possesses several domes completely plated with gold and some twelve hundred spires most of which are surmounted by a golden cross. At the time of sunset they seem literally tipped with flame. It was from this memorable spot that Napoleon and the Grand Army first obtained a glimpse at the city of the Tsars. There are three hundred and seventy churches in Moscow. The Kremlin itself is however by far the most interesting object to the stranger.]

  XXXV

  Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks,

  Petrovski Pa
lace! Gloomily

  His recent glory he invokes.

  Here, drunk with his late victory,

  Napoleon tarried till it please

  Moscow approach on bended knees,

  Time-honoured Kremlin’s keys present.

  Not so! My Moscow never went

  To seek him out with bended head.

  No gift she bears, no feast proclaims,

  But lights incendiary flames

  For the impatient chief instead.

  From hence engrossed in thought profound

  He on the conflagration frowned.(74)

  [Note 74: Napoleon on his arrival in Moscow on the 14th September took up his quarters in the Kremlin, but on the 16th had to remove to the Petrovski Palace or Castle on account of the conflagration which broke out in all quarters of the city. He however returned to the Kremlin on the 19th September. The Palace itself is placed in the midst of extensive grounds just outside the city, on the road to Tver, i.e. to the northwest. It is perhaps worthy of remark, as one amongst numerous circumstances proving how extensively the poet interwove his own life-experiences with the plot of this poem, that it was by this road that he himself must have been in the habit of approaching Moscow from his favourite country residence of Mikhailovskoe, in the province of Pskoff.]

  XXXVI

  Adieu, thou witness of our glory,

  Petrovski Palace; come, astir!

  Drive on! the city barriers hoary

  Appear; along the road of Tver

  The coach is borne o’er ruts and holes,

  Past women, sentry-boxes, rolls,

  Past palaces and nunneries,

  Lamp-posts, shops, sledges, families,

  Bokharians, peasants, beds of greens,

  Boulevards, belfries, milliners,

  Huts, chemists, Cossacks, shopkeepers

  And fashionable magazines,

  Balconies, lion’s heads on doors,

  Jackdaws on every spire — in scores.(75)

  [Note 75: The first line refers to the prevailing shape of the cast-iron handles which adorn the porte cocheres. The Russians are fond of tame birds — jackdaws, pigeons, starlings, etc., abound in Moscow and elsewhere.]

  XXXVII

  The weary way still incomplete,

  An hour passed by — another — till,

  Near Khariton’s in a side street

  The coach before a house stood still.

  At an old aunt’s they had arrived

  Who had for four long years survived

  An invalid from lung complaint.

  A Kalmuck gray, in caftan rent

  And spectacles, his knitting staid

  And the saloon threw open wide;

  The princess from the sofa cried

  And the newcomers welcome bade.

  The two old ladies then embraced

  And exclamations interlaced.

  XXXVIII

  “Princesse, mon ange!” — ”Pachette!” —

  “Aline!”

  “Who would have thought it? As of yore!

  Is it for long?” — ”Ma chere cousine!”

  “Sit down. How funny, to be sure!

  ‘Tis a scene of romance, I vow!”

  “Tania, my eldest child, you know” —

  “Ah! come, Tattiana, come to me!

  Is it a dream, and can it be?

  Cousin, rememb’rest Grandison?”

  “What! Grandison?” — ”Yes, certainly!”

  “Oh! I remember, where is he?” —

  “Here, he resides with Simeon.

  He called upon me Christmas Eve —

  His son is married, just conceive!”

  XXXIX

  “And he — but of him presently —

  To-morrow Tania we will show,

  What say you? to the family —

  Alas! abroad I cannot go.

  See, I can hardly crawl about —

  But you must both be quite tired out!

  Let us go seek a little rest —

  Ah! I’m so weak — my throbbing breast!

  Oppressive now is happiness,

  Not only sorrow — Ah! my dear,

  Now I am fit for nothing here.

  In old age life is weariness!”

  Then weeping she sank back distressed

  And fits of coughing racked her chest.

  XL

  By the sick lady’s gaiety

  And kindness Tania was impressed,

  But, her own room in memory,

  The strange apartment her oppressed:

  Repose her silken curtains fled,

  She could not sleep in her new bed.

  The early tinkling of the bells

  Which of approaching labour tells

  Aroused Tattiana from her bed.

  The maiden at her casement sits

  As daylight glimmers, darkness flits,

  But ah! discerns nor wood nor mead —

  Beneath her lay a strange courtyard,

  A stable, kitchen, fence appeared.

  XLI

  To consanguineous dinners they

  Conduct Tattiana constantly,

  That grandmothers and grandsires may

  Contemplate her sad reverie.

  We Russians, friends from distant parts

  Ever receive with kindly hearts

  And exclamations and good cheer.

  “How Tania grows! Doth it appear”

  “Long since I held thee at the font —

  Since in these arms I thee did bear —

  And since I pulled thee by the ear —

  And I to give thee cakes was wont?” —

  Then the old dames in chorus sing,

  “Oh! how our years are vanishing!”

  XLII

  But nothing changed in them is seen,

  All in the good old style appears,

  Our dear old aunt, Princess Helene,

  Her cap of tulle still ever wears:

  Luceria Lvovna paint applies,

  Amy Petrovna utters lies,

  Ivan Petrovitch still a gaby,

  Simeon Petrovitch just as shabby;

  Pelagie Nikolavna has

  Her friend Monsieur Finemouche the same,

  Her wolf-dog and her husband tame;

  Still of his club he member was —

  As deaf and silly doth remain,

  Still eats and drinks enough for twain.

  XLIII

  Their daughters kiss Tattiana fair.

  In the beginning, cold and mute,

  Moscow’s young Graces at her stare,

  Examine her from head to foot.

  They deem her somewhat finical,

  Outlandish and provincial,

  A trifle pale, a trifle lean,

  But plainer girls they oft had seen.

  Obedient then to Nature’s law,

  With her they did associate,

  Squeeze tiny hands and osculate;

  Her tresses curled in fashion saw,

  And oft in whispers would impart

  A maiden’s secrets — of the heart.

  XLIV

  Triumphs — their own or those of friends —

  Hopes, frolics, dreams and sentiment

  Their harmless conversation blends

  With scandal’s trivial ornament.

  Then to reward such confidence

  Her amorous experience

  With mute appeal to ask they seem —

  But Tania just as in a dream

  Without participation hears,

  Their voices nought to her impart

  And the lone secret of her heart,

  Her sacred hoard of joy and tears,

  She buries deep within her breast

  Nor aught confides unto the rest.

  XLV

  Tattiana would have gladly heard

  The converse of the world polite,

  But in the drawing-room all appeared

  To find in gossip such delight,

  Speech was so tame and colourless


  Their slander e’en was weariness;

  In their sterility of prattle,

  Questions and news and tittle-tattle,

  No sense was ever manifest

  Though by an error and unsought —

  The languid mind could smile at nought,

  Heart would not throb albeit in jest —

  Even amusing fools we miss

  In thee, thou world of empty bliss.

  XLVI

  In groups, official striplings glance

  Conceitedly on Tania fair,

  And views amongst themselves advance

  Unfavourable unto her.

  But one buffoon unhappy deemed

  Her the ideal which he dreamed,

  And leaning ‘gainst the portal closed

  To her an elegy composed.

  Also one Viazemski, remarking

  Tattiana by a poor aunt’s side,

  Successfully to please her tried,

  And an old gent the poet marking

  By Tania, smoothing his peruke,

  To ask her name the trouble took.(76)

  [Note 76: One of the obscure satirical allusions contained in this poem. Doubtless the joke was perfectly intelligible to the habitues of contemporary Saint Petersburg society. Viazemski of course is the poet and prince, Pushkin’s friend.]

  XLVII

  But where Melpomene doth rave

  With lengthened howl and accent loud,

  And her bespangled robe doth wave

  Before a cold indifferent crowd,

  And where Thalia softly dreams

  And heedless of approval seems,

  Terpsichore alone among

  Her sisterhood delights the young

  (So ‘twas with us in former years,

  In your young days and also mine),

  Never upon my heroine

  The jealous dame her lorgnette veers,

  The connoisseur his glances throws

  From boxes or from stalls in rows.

  XLVIII

  To the assembly her they bear.

  There the confusion, pressure, heat,

  The crash of music, candles’ glare

  And rapid whirl of many feet,

  The ladies’ dresses airy, light,

  The motley moving mass and bright,

  Young ladies in a vasty curve,

  To strike imagination serve.

  ‘Tis there that arrant fops display

  Their insolence and waistcoats white

  And glasses unemployed all night;

  Thither hussars on leave will stray

  To clank the spur, delight the fair —

  And vanish like a bird in air.

  XLIX

  Full many a lovely star hath night

  And Moscow many a beauty fair:

  Yet clearer shines than every light

  The moon in the blue atmosphere.

  And she to whom my lyre would fain,

  Yet dares not, dedicate its strain,

  Shines in the female firmament

  Like a full moon magnificent.

 

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