Part 13 (2/2)

XXI

Homeward returning, he at home Is occupied with Olga fair, An alb.u.m, fly-leaf of the tome, He leisurely adorns for her.

Landscapes thereon he would design, A tombstone, Aphrodite's shrine, Or, with a pen and colours fit, A dove which on a lyre doth sit; The ”in memoriam” pages sought, Where many another hand had signed A tender couplet he combined, A register of fleeting thought, A flimsy trace of musings past Which might for many ages last.

XXII

Surely ye all have overhauled A country damsel's alb.u.m trim, Which all her darling friends have scrawled From first to last page to the rim.

Behold! orthography despising, Metreless verses recognizing By friends.h.i.+p how they were abused, Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.

Upon the opening page ye find: _Qu'ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?_ Subscribed, _toujours a vous, Annette;_ And on the last one, underlined: _Who in thy love finds more delight Beyond this may attempt to write_.

XXIII

Infallibly you there will find Two hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath, And vows will probably be signed: _Affectionately yours till death_.

Some army poet therein may Have smuggled his flagitious lay.

In such an alb.u.m with delight I would, my friends, inscriptions write, Because I should be sure, meanwhile, My verses, kindly meant, would earn Delighted glances in return; That afterwards with evil smile They would not solemnly debate If cleverly or not I prate.

XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare, Which from the devil's bookcase start, Alb.u.ms magnificent which scare The fas.h.i.+onable rhymester's heart!

Yea! although rendered beauteous By Tolstoy's pencil marvellous, Though Baratynski verses penned,(45) The thunderbolt on you descend!

Whene'er a brilliant courtly dame Presents her quarto amiably, Despair and anger seize on me, And a malicious epigram Trembles upon my lips from spite,-- And madrigals I'm asked to write!

[Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequently became Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg.

Baratynski, see Note 43.]

XXV

But Lenski madrigals ne'er wrote In Olga's alb.u.m, youthful maid, To purest love he tuned his note Nor frigid adulation paid.

What never was remarked or heard Of Olga he in song averred; His elegies, which plenteous streamed, Both natural and truthful seemed.

Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46) In amorous flights when so inspired, Singing G.o.d knows what maid admired, And all thy precious elegies, Sometime collected, shall relate The story of thy life and fate.

[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise--unfulfilled.]

XXVI

Since Fame and Freedom he adored, Incited by his stormy Muse Odes Lenski also had outpoured, But Olga would not such peruse.

When poets lachrymose recite Beneath the eyes of ladies bright Their own productions, some insist No greater pleasure can exist Just so! that modest swain is blest Who reads his visionary theme To the fair object of his dream, A beauty languidly at rest, Yes, happy--though she at his side By other thoughts be occupied.

XXVII

But I the products of my Muse, Consisting of harmonious lays, To my old nurse alone peruse, Companion of my childhood's days.

Or, after dinner's dull repast, I by the b.u.t.ton-hole seize fast My neighbour, who by chance drew near, And breathe a drama in his ear.

Or else (I deal not here in jokes), Exhausted by my woes and rhymes, I sail upon my lake at times And terrify a swarm of ducks, Who, heard the music of my lay, Take to their wings and fly away.

XXVIII

But to Oneguine! _A propos_!

Friends, I must your indulgence pray.

His daily occupations, lo!

Minutely I will now portray.

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