“Thus was I brought to a strange family. . . . You are not listening to what I say. . . .” “Ah, nanny, I am grieving; grieving, nanny, And I feel sick, and have felt sick all day; I am to sob, to tears give way! . . .” “My child you are unwell; oh Lord save us, I hope your illness is not dangerous. Holy water. . . . let us sprinkle. . . .” “I’m not ill, I’m. . . . you know, dear one, I’m. . . . I am in love.” “My child, dear child, may the Lord keep you still And pour upon you blessings from The kind old nurse her piety did prove; With her old flabby hand, with muttered prayer. She crossed the maid that was so much to her. XX “I am in love,” she whispered once again In piteous words to her old companion. “Dear heart, you are unwell; have you no pain?” “I am in love, and want to be alone.” Meanwhile the moonbeams through the window shone, And, by their pallid light illuminated, Tania’s languid beauty seemed translated. The moon, if curious, could have seen Her tear-stained cheeks and her unplaited hair, And by the bed of our young heroine An aged woman seated on a chair, Who strove to stem the current of despair; She wore a kerchief on her grey head, And words of consolation whisperd. XXI Then Tatiana, looking at the moon, Was flying in her thoughts far, far away. . . . But an idea to the maiden soon. . . . “I want to be alone; go, nanny, pray! Bring me a pen and paper, and them lay Upon the table. . . . push it to my bed; I want to be alone: goodnight.” she said. Now everything is still, she is alone. The moon shines on her, she begins to One name Evgenie through her mind doth run, A name to ring a heart and yet delight: What she then wrote in due course I will cite. What is this letter scribbled in gloom? For whom, my Tatiana, say, for whom?
XXII I have know women beautiful who were Cold as a winter’s day, as clear, as clean; But unapproachable, dames, I swear, Implacable, improbable, I ween; Incomprehensible they to me have been. Virtue, and modishness, appear inborn, Icebergs are they, whose company I scorn. I ran from them this poet now avows; It seems that I a note of hell had read: Lasciate ogni speranza! on their brows, And from these ports of hell this poet fled. These females love not, though they sometimes wed. All proferred love such ladies much abhor: Perhaps you them have seen on Neva’s XXIII Others there were among love’s worshippers. I saw some whim-swayed women in the throng; Self-loving, and indifferent each appears To sighs impassioned, flattery’s sweet song. With what astonishment I found among ladies, that their harsh, austere behaviour Beat down the love of a young timid lover. Yet they know well how it attract Attract, at least, by fain regret, Or tone of speech, simulated pain, At least it seemed a tender note to get. Within the heart it did beget A new-found courage and urbanity; He repursues his darling vanity. XXIV Just why was Tatiana more to blame? Is it because she simple was, direct? She knew no why should she then know shame? Believes she in her vision most select. Should we then her natural love not respect? She is obedient to inclination, By heaven gifted with imagination. Also she clever is, with vivid will, She has a passionate yet tender heart; She is a rebel, but I think you still Will her forgive, although she did impart Her feelings to her lover without art. It was a giddy, not a reckless passion, That she avowed in such straightforward fashion.
Like Lenore! Oft upon Taurida’s shore To hear old music I was led; In the night’s darkness there we heard no roar Nereids, never-silent, whisperd. And as unto the waves we listend We heard a choir, as of the cherubim, The father of the worlds praise in a hymn. V And in Moldavia, spot remote and sad, Forgetting feasts in distant capital, To visit humble tents my Muse was glad, And ’mid the wandering gypsies pleased to dwell; them she grew wild; beneath their spell The speech of gods she speedily forgot, Which may be a good thing, or maybe not. Forget the godlike tones for the poor tongue, For the steppes’ songs that pleasant were to her . . . . Such things can happen to the wild and young: But suddenly from this did she forebear: Here in my garden next did she appear, In of maiden from the provinces, French book in hand, and sad thoughts in her eyes. VI Now, for the time, to the social rout, The city’s life, the rustic Muse I bring; With jealous shyness I have brought her out, For to her rural charms I fain would cling; But I of the gay world have now to sing: Behold her slipping through the narrow rows Of courtiers, coxcombs, acknowledging their bows. The dandy and the diplomat are there, The military man, the lady She sits and at the throng doth stare, The noisy throng, with speech and music loud; She sees the guests arriving, as they To the young hostess; the dark frame of men Around the ladies, pictures which frames brighten. VII She the order of the conversation Among the oligarchs so cold in pride, Ranks and ages mixed win admiration. But who is he now standing on one side? Silent, confused, he through the throng did glide; He seems a stranger, unknown to his hosts,