XXXIII
When we the boundaries of beneficial
enlightenment move farther out,
in due time (by the computation
4 of philosophic tabulae,
in some five hundred years) roads, surely,
at home will change immeasurably.
Paved highways at this point and that
8 uniting Russia will traverse her;
cast-iron bridges o'er the waters
in ample arcs will stride;
we shall part mountains; under water
12 dig daring tunnels;
and Christendom will institute
at every stage a tavern.
The roads at home are bad at present;42
forgotten bridges rot;
at stages the bedbugs and fleas
4 do not give one a minute's sleep.
No taverns. In a cold log hut
there hangs for show a highfalutin
but meager bill of fare, and teases
8 one's futile appetite,
while the rural Cyclopes
in front of a slow fire
treat with a Russian hammer
12 Europe's light article,
blessing the ruts
and ditches of the fatherland.
Now, on the other hand, driving in winter's
cold season is agreeable and easy.
As in a modish song a verse devoid of thought,
4 smooth is the winter track.
Alert are our Automedons,
our troikas never tire,
and mileposts, humoring the idle gaze,
8 before one's eyes flick like a fence.43
Unluckily, Dame Larin dragged along,
fearing expensive stages,
with her own horses, not with posters,
12 and our maid tasted
viatic tedium in full:
they traveled seven days and nights.
But now 'tis near. Before them
the ancient tops of white-stone Moscow
already glow
4 with golden crosses, ember-bright.
Ah, chums, how pleased I was
when, all at once, the hemicircle
of churches and of belfries,
8 of gardens, domes, opened before me!
How often during woeful separation,
in my wandering fate,
Moscow, I thought of you!
12 Moscow!... How much within that sound
is blended for a Russian heart!
How much is echoed there!
Here is, surrounded by its park,
Petrovskiy Castle. Somberly
it prides itself on recent glory.
4 In vain Napoleon, intoxicated
with his last fortune, waited
for kneeling Moscow with the keys
of the old Kremlin: no,
8 to him my Moscow did not go
with craven brow;
not revelry, not gifts of
bienvenue —
a conflagration she prepared
12 for the impatient hero.
From here, in meditation sunk,
he watched the formidable flame.
Good-by, witness of fallen glory,
Petrovskiy Castle. Hup! Don't stop,
get on! The turnpike posts already
4 show white. Along Tverskaya Street
the coach now hies across the dips.
There flicker by: watch boxes, peasant women,
urchins, shops, street lamps,
8 palaces, gardens, monasteries,
Bokharans, sledges, kitchen gardens,
merchants, small shacks, muzhiks,
boulevards, towers, Cossacks,
12 pharmacies, fashion shops,
balconies, lions on the gates,
and flocks of jackdaws on the crosses.
In this exhausting promenade
an hour elapses, then another,
and in a lane hard by St. Chariton's
4 the sleigh-coach at a gate before a house
now stops. To an old aunt,
for the fourth year ill with consumption,
at present they have come.
8 The door is opened wide for them
by a bespectacled gray Kalmuk,
in torn caftan, a stocking in his hand.
There meets them in the drawing room
12 the cry of the princess
on a divan prostrated. The old ladies,
weeping, embrace, and exclamations pour:
“Princess,
mon ange!” “Pachette!” “Aline!”
“Who would have thought?” “How long it's been!”
“For how much time?” “Dear! Cousin!”
4 “Sit down — how queer it is!
I'd swear the scene is from a novel!”
“And this is my daughter Tatiana.”
“Ah, Tanya! Come up here to me —
8 I seem to be delirious in my sleep.
Coz, you remember Grandison?”
“What, Grandison? Oh, Grandison!
Why, yes, I do, I do. Well, where is he?”
12 “In Moscow — dwelling by St. Simeon's;
on Christmas Eve he called on me:
got a son married recently.
“As to the other... But we'll tell it all
later, won't we? To all her kin
straightway tomorrow we'll show Tanya.
4 Pity that paying visits is for me
too much — can hardly drag my feet.
But you are worn out from the journey;
let's go and have a rest together...
8 Oh, I've no strength... my chest is tired...
now even joy, not only woe,
oppressive is to me. My dear,
I am already good for nothing...
12 When one starts getting old, life is so horrid.”
And here, exhausted utterly,
in tears, she broke into a coughing fit.
The invalid's kindness and gladness touch
Tatiana; but in her
new domicile she's ill at ease,
4 used as she is to her own chamber.
Beneath a silken curtain,
in a new bed sleep does not come to her,
and the early peal of church bells,
8 forerunner of the morning tasks,
arouses her from bed.
Tanya sits down beside the window.
The darkness thins; but she
12 does not discern her fields:
there is before her a strange yard,
a stable, kitchen house, and fence.
And now, on rounds of family dinners
Tanya they trundle daily to present
to grandsires and to grandams
4 her abstract indolence.
For kin come from afar
there's everywhere a kind reception,
and exclamations, and good cheer.
8 “How Tanya's grown! Such a short while
it seems since I godmothered you!”
“And since I bore you in my arms!”
“And since I pulled you by the ears!”
12 “And since I fed you gingerbread!”
And the grandmothers keep repeating
in chorus: “How our years do fly!”
But one can see no change in
them; in them all follows the old pattern:
the spinster princess, Aunt Eléna,
4 has got the very same tulle mob;
still cerused is Lukéria Lvóvna;
the same lies tells Lyubóv Petróvna;
Iván Petróvich is as stupid;
8 Semyón Petróvich as tightfisted;
and Palagéya Nikolávna
has the same friend, Monsieur Finemouche,
and the same spitz, and the same husband —
12 while
he is still the sedulous clubman,
is just as meek, is just as deaf,
still eats and drinks enough for two.
Their daughters embrace Tanya.
Moscow's young graces
at first in silence
4 from head to foot survey Tatiana;
find her somewhat bizarre,
provincial, and affected,
and somewhat pale and thin,
8 but on the whole not bad at all;
then, to nature submitting, they
befriend her, lead her to their rooms,
kiss her, squeeze tenderly her hands,
12 fluff up her curls after the fashion,
and in their singsong tones impart
the secrets of the heart, secrets of maidens,
conquests of others and their own,
hopes, pranks, daydreams.
The innocent talks flow,
4 embellished with slight calumny.
Then, in requital for their patter,
her heart's confession they
sweetly request.
8 But Tanya in a kind of daze
their speeches hears without response,
understands nothing,
and her heart's secret,
12 fond treasure of both tears and bliss,
she mutely guards meantime
and shares with none.
