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.

End of Canto the Third

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,