The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

“‘Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!

  My beauty, thou art ready too.

  My morning birdie, yesternight

  I was half silly with affright.

  But praised be God! in health art thou!

  The pains of night have wholly fled,

  Thy cheek is as a poppy red!”

  XXXVI

  “Ah! nurse, a favour do for me!”

  “Command me, darling, what you choose”

  “Do not — you might — suspicious be;

  But look you — ah! do not refuse.”

  “I call to witness God on high — ”

  “Then send your grandson quietly

  To take this letter to O — Well!

  Unto our neighbour. Mind you tell —

  Command him not to say a word —

  I mean my name not to repeat.”

  “To whom is it to go, my sweet?

  Of late I have been quite absurd, —

  So many neighbours here exist —

  Am I to go through the whole list?”

  XXXVII

  “How dull you are this morning, nurse!”

  “My darling, growing old am I!

  In age the memory gets worse,

  But I was sharp in times gone by.

  In times gone by thy bare command — ”

  “Oh! nurse, nurse, you don’t understand!

  What is thy cleverness to me?

  The letter is the thing, you see, —

  Oneguine’s letter!” — ”Ah! the thing!

  Now don’t be cross with me, my soul,

  You know that I am now a fool —

  But why are your cheeks whitening?”

  “Nothing, good nurse, there’s nothing wrong,

  But send your grandson before long.”

  XXXVIII

  No answer all that day was borne.

  Another passed; ‘twas just the same.

  Pale as a ghost and dressed since morn

  Tattiana waits. No answer came!

  Olga’s admirer came that day:

  “Tell me, why doth your comrade stay?”

  The hostess doth interrogate:

  “He hath neglected us of late.” —

  Tattiana blushed, her heart beat quick —

  “He promised here this day to ride,”

  Lenski unto the dame replied,

  “The post hath kept him, it is like.”

  Shamefaced, Tattiana downward looked

  As if he cruelly had joked!

  XXXIX

  ‘Twas dusk! Upon the table bright

  Shrill sang the samovar at eve,(44)

  The china teapot too ye might

  In clouds of steam above perceive.

  Into the cups already sped

  By Olga’s hand distributed

  The fragrant tea in darkling stream,

  And a boy handed round the cream.

  Tania doth by the casement linger

  And breathes upon the chilly glass,

  Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,

  And traces with a slender finger

  Upon its damp opacity,

  The mystic monogram, O. E.

  [Note 44: The samovar, i.e. “self-boiler,” is merely an urn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observe a similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns which are provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder in center. The tea-pot is usually placed on the top of the samovar.]

  XL

  In the meantime her spirit sinks,

  Her weary eyes are filled with tears —

  A horse’s hoofs she hears — She shrinks!

  Nearer they come — Eugene appears!

  Ah! than a spectre from the dead

  More swift the room Tattiana fled,

  From hall to yard and garden flies,

  Not daring to cast back her eyes.

  She fears and like an arrow rushes

  Through park and meadow, wood and brake,

  The bridge and alley to the lake,

  Brambles she snaps and lilacs crushes,

  The flowerbeds skirts, the brook doth meet,

  Till out of breath upon a seat

  XLI

  She sank. —

  ”He’s here! Eugene is here!

  Merciful God, what will he deem?”

  Yet still her heart, which torments tear,

  Guards fondly hope’s uncertain dream.

  She waits, on fire her trembling frame —

  Will he pursue? — But no one came.

  She heard of servant-maids the note,

  Who in the orchards gathered fruit,

  Singing in chorus all the while.

  (This by command; for it was found,

  However cherries might abound,

  They disappeared by stealth and guile,

  So mouths they stopt with song, not fruit —

  Device of rural minds acute!)

  The Maidens’ Song

  Young maidens, fair maidens,

  Friends and companions,

  Disport yourselves, maidens,

  Arouse yourselves, fair ones.

  Come sing we in chorus

  The secrets of maidens.

  Allure the young gallant

  With dance and with song.

  As we lure the young gallant,

  Espy him approaching,

  Disperse yourselves, darlings,

  And pelt him with cherries,

  With cherries, red currants,

  With raspberries, cherries.

  Approach not to hearken

  To secrets of virgins,

  Approach not to gaze at

  The frolics of maidens.

  XLII

  They sang, whilst negligently seated,

  Attentive to the echoing sound,

  Tattiana with impatience waited

  Until her heart less high should bound —

  Till the fire in her cheek decreased;

  But tremor still her frame possessed,

  Nor did her blushes fade away,

  More crimson every moment they.

  Thus shines the wretched butterfly,

  With iridescent wing doth flap

  When captured in a schoolboy’s cap;

  Thus shakes the hare when suddenly

  She from the winter corn espies

  A sportsman who in covert lies.

  XLIII

  But finally she heaves a sigh,

  And rising from her bench proceeds;

  But scarce had turned the corner nigh,

  Which to the neighbouring alley leads,

  When Eugene like a ghost did rise

  Before her straight with roguish eyes.

  Tattiana faltered, and became

  Scarlet as burnt by inward flame.

  But this adventure’s consequence

  To-day, my friends, at any rate,

  I am not strong enough to state;

  I, after so much eloquence,

  Must take a walk and rest a bit —

  Some day I’ll somehow finish it.

  CANTO THE FOURTH

  Rural Life

  ‘La Morale est dans la nature des choses.’ — Necker

  Canto The Fourth

  [Mikhailovskoe, 1825]

  I

  THE less we love a lady fair

  The easier ‘tis to gain her grace,

  And the more surely we ensnare

  Her in the pitfalls which we place.

  Time was when cold seduction strove

  To swagger as the art of love,

  Everywhere trumpeting its feats,

  Not seeking love but sensual sweets.

  But this amusement delicate

  Was worthy of that old baboon,

  Our fathers used to dote upon;

  The Lovelaces are out of date,

  Their glory with their heels of red

  And long perukes hath vanished.

  II

  For who imposture can endure,

  A constant
harping on one tune,

  Serious endeavours to assure

  What everybody long has known;

  Ever to hear the same replies

  And overcome antipathies

  Which never have existed, e’en

  In little maidens of thirteen?

  And what like menaces fatigues,

  Entreaties, oaths, fictitious fear,

  Epistles of six sheets or near,

  Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues,

  Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny,

  And husbands’ tedious amity?

  III

  Such were the musings of Eugene.

  He in the early years of life

  Had a deluded victim been

  Of error and the passions’ strife.

  By daily life deteriorated,

  Awhile this beauty captivated,

  And that no longer could inspire.

  Slowly exhausted by desire,

  Yet satiated with success,

  In solitude or worldly din,

  He heard his soul’s complaint within,

  With laughter smothered weariness:

  And thus he spent eight years of time,

  Destroyed the blossom of his prime.

  IV

  Though beauty he no more adored,

  He still made love in a queer way;

  Rebuffed — as quickly reassured,

  Jilted — glad of a holiday.

  Without enthusiasm he met

  The fair, nor parted with regret,

  Scarce mindful of their love and guile.

  Thus a guest with composure will

  To take a hand at whist oft come:

  He takes his seat, concludes his game,

  And straight returning whence he came,

  Tranquilly goes to sleep at home,

  And in the morning doth not know

  Whither that evening he will go.

  V

  However, Tania’s letter reading,

  Eugene was touched with sympathy;

  The language of her girlish pleading

  Aroused in him sweet reverie.

  He called to mind Tattiana’s grace,

  Pallid and melancholy face,

  And in a vision, sinless, bright,

  His spirit sank with strange delight.

  May be the empire of the sense,

  Regained authority awhile,

  But he desired not to beguile

  Such open-hearted innocence.

  But to the garden once again

  Wherein we lately left the twain.

  VI

  Two minutes they in silence spent,

  Oneguine then approached and said:

  “You have a letter to me sent.

  Do not excuse yourself. I read

  Confessions which a trusting heart

  May well in innocence impart.

  Charming is your sincerity,

  Feelings which long had ceased to be

  It wakens in my breast again.

  But I came not to adulate:

  Your frankness I shall compensate

  By an avowal just as plain.

  An ear to my confession lend;

  To thy decree my will I bend.

  VII

  “If the domestic hearth could bless —

  My sum of happiness contained;

  If wife and children to possess

  A happy destiny ordained:

  If in the scenes of home I might

  E’en for an instant find delight,

  Then, I say truly, none but thee

  I would desire my bride to be —

  I say without poetic phrase,

  Found the ideal of my youth,

  Thee only would I choose, in truth,

  As partner of my mournful days,

  Thee only, pledge of all things bright,

  And be as happy — as I might.

  VIII

  “But strange am I to happiness;

  ‘Tis foreign to my cast of thought;

  Me your perfections would not bless;

  I am not worthy them in aught;

  And honestly ‘tis my belief

  Our union would produce but grief.

  Though now my love might be intense,

  Habit would bring indifference.

  I see you weep. Those tears of yours

  Tend not my heart to mitigate,

  But merely to exasperate;

  Judge then what roses would be ours,

  What pleasures Hymen would prepare

  For us, may be for many a year.

  IX

  “What can be drearier than the house,

  Wherein the miserable wife

  Deplores a most unworthy spouse

  And leads a solitary life?

  The tiresome man, her value knowing,

  Yet curses on his fate bestowing,

  Is full of frigid jealousy,

  Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.

  Such am I. This did ye expect,

  When in simplicity ye wrote

  Your innocent and charming note

  With so much warmth and intellect?

  Hath fate apportioned unto thee

  This lot in life with stern decree?

  X

  “Ideas and time ne’er backward move;

  My soul I cannot renovate —

  I love you with a brother’s love,

  Perchance one more affectionate.

  Listen to me without disdain.

  A maid hath oft, may yet again

  Replace the visions fancy drew;

  Thus trees in spring their leaves renew

  As in their turn the seasons roll.

  ‘Tis evidently Heaven’s will

  You fall in love again. But still —

  Learn to possess more self-control.

  Not all will like myself proceed —

  And thoughtlessness to woe might lead.”

  XI

  Thus did our friend Oneguine preach:

  Tattiana, dim with tears her eyes,

  Attentive listened to his speech,

  All breathless and without replies.

  His arm he offers. Mute and sad

  (Mechanically, let us add),

  Tattiana doth accept his aid;

  And, hanging down her head, the maid

  Around the garden homeward hies.

  Together they returned, nor word

  Of censure for the same incurred;

  The country hath its liberties

  And privileges nice allowed,

  Even as Moscow, city proud.

  XII

  Confess, O ye who this peruse,

  Oneguine acted very well

  By poor Tattiana in the blues;

  ‘Twas not the first time, I can tell

  You, he a noble mind disclosed,

  Though some men, evilly disposed,

  Spared him not their asperities.

  His friends and also enemies

  (One and the same thing it may be)

  Esteemed him much as the world goes.

  Yes! every one must have his foes,

  But Lord! from friends deliver me!

  The deuce take friends, my friends, amends

  I’ve had to make for having friends!

  XIII

  But how? Quite so. Though I dismiss

  Dark, unavailing reverie,

  I just hint, in parenthesis,

  There is no stupid calumny

  Born of a babbler in a loft

  And by the world repeated oft,

  There is no fishmarket retort

  And no ridiculous report,

  Which your true friend with a sweet smile

  Where fashionable circles meet

  A hundred times will not repeat,

  Quite inadvertently meanwhile;

  And yet he in your cause would strive

  And loves you as — a relative!

  XIV

  Ahem! Ahem! My reader noble,

  Are all your rel
atives 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 — God bless them, if He list.

  XV

  In this the love of the fair sex

  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 passion,

  The torrent of opinion,

  And the fair sex 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 passion: 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