The fullness of her heart’s extremes,
Sighing as she grows ever nearer
To other people’s joys and woes,
And mouthing trance-like as she goes
A letter (learnt) to a nice hero.
Our hero, though, whate’er he be,
Was not a Grandison, not he. 11
Tuning his tone with chords of gravity,
A zealous bard of yesterday
Would launch his hero with great clarity:
A perfect man in every way,
A treasured object fondly burnished:
Pursued unfairly, always furnished
With sympathy of soul and mind
And features of the winsome kind.
Endued with warmth and pure affection
The ever-sanguine hero stood
For noble sacrifice and good,
And then, in the concluding section,
Evil was punished and put down,
While virtue got its well-earned crown. 12
But now all minds are fogged, and morals
Are blamed for leaving people bored.
Evil smiles out in all our novels—
Indeed it sits there like a lord.
Those fictions from the muse of Britain
Disturb the young girl’s sleep as written,
And she has come to idolize
The Vampire with his brooding eyes
Or Melmoth in his melancholy,
The Corsair or the Wandering Jew,
Or weird Sbogar. Lord Byron knew,
By some judicious flight of folly,
How hopeless egotists are given
A cloak of glum Romanticism. 13
If this makes sense, friends, let me know it.
One day, perhaps, by Heaven’s will,
I’ll give up writing like a poet,
Take a new devil for my quill,
Ignoring any threats from Phoebus,
And sink to humble prose. My readers
Will get an old-style novel. Mine
Will be a rapturous decline.
Dark pangs of criminal calamity
I shall not grimly offer you.
Instead, I’ll simply trundle through
The legends of a Russian family,
The charming dreams love brings to us,
The manners of our ancestors. 14
I’ll set down the plain conversation
Of dads, and uncles past their prime,
The children’s secret assignations
Down by the brook, beside the limes,
Throes of the hapless jealous-hearted,
Tears, and the making-up when parted…
I’ll show their tiffs, but without fail
They’ll end up at the altar rail.
I’ll catch the tones of love. The blissful
Accents of aching hearts, which I
Was wont to use in days gone by
At lovers’ feet, where I lay wishful,
Inspired me, tripping off the tongue,
But now their memory is not strong. 15
Tatyana, oh, Tatyana, darling,
I weep along with you. That man’s
A modish brute, and you are falling—
Your destiny is in his hands.
You’ll perish, but first, darling woman,
Dazzled with hope, you wish to summon
At least a darkling form of bliss
And sample what life’s sweetness is—
Desire. You drink a magic poison.
You are pursued by waking dreams,
And everywhere you fancy schemes
For meeting places blithely chosen.
Look everywhere, and everywhere
Your deadly tempter will be there. 16
Driven by aching love, Tatyana
Goes down the garden, there to brood.
She drops her gaze; her eyes are calmer.
She falters now from lassitude.
Her bosom heaves, her cheeks are bright red
And momentarily ignited.
Her breath stops at her lips and dies,
Her ears ring, flashes sear her eyes…
And night falls, with the moon patrolling
The far depths of the firmament,
And in the treetops, eloquent,
A nightingale is sweetly trolling.
Darkness. No sleep. It’s getting worse.
Tatyana whispers to her nurse. 17
“I can’t sleep, Nanny. It’s oppressive.
Open the window. Sit with me.”
“Tanya. What’s wrong?” “I feel so restive.
Let’s talk about our history.”
“Our what? Oh, Tanya, once I gloried
In lots of well-remembered stories
Of things that don’t and things that do,
With evil sprites and young girls too,
But now it’s all gone dark. Oh, Tanya,
I knew it once, but now it’s gone,
And awful times are coming on.
It’s painful.” “Tell me, Nanny—can you?—
What happened to you long ago?
Were you in love? I want to know.” 18
“Oh, come, come, Tanya. I look back on
Times when we never heard of love.
His mother would have sent me packing
(God rest her soul in heaven above).”
“But how did you get married, Nanny?”
“It must have been God’s will. My Vanya
Was not as old as me, my dear,
And I was in my fourteenth year.
A matchmaker came over, plying
My kinsfolk for a week or two,
The father gave the blessing due,
Which left me bitter, scared and crying.
They cried too, shaking out my hair
For church, and then they sang me there. 19
So I was sent to a new family…
…But you’ve not heard a word I’ve said…”
“I’m feeling awful, dearest Nanny,
I have a kind of sickly dread.
I could start crying, sobbing.” “Surely,
My little one, you must be poorly.
God save you in his mercy, dear.
What do you want? Ask, I am here.
I’ll sprinkle you with holy water.
You’re burning hot…” “I’m not ill, though,
Nanny… I’m… I’m in love.” “Oh, no,
The Lord be with you!” Nanny caught her,
Prayed softly for Tatyana, and
Crossed the maid with her small, frail hand. 20
“Yes, I’m in love,” again she whispered,
Lamenting in a doleful tone.
“You’re feeling poorly, sweetheart. Listen…”
“No, I’m in love. Leave me alone.”
And all the time the moon was glowing
With a subdued light, clearly showing
The maiden’s pale charms, and her hair
Undone and scattered everywhere,
Her tears, and near the young Tatyana
Her nanny on the wooden seat,
A scarf on her grey head, complete
With her long-hanging body-warmer.
Silence and dreams. The moon on high
An inspiration in the sky. 21
Tatyana’s heart was feeling freer
As she gazed at the moon, and lo!
She had an interesting idea.
“I want to be alone. Please go,
Nanny, but give me pen and paper.
Bring me that table. I’ll sleep later.
I’m sorry.” And when she has gone
Stillness descends… The moon shines on…
Head propped on elbow, Tanya forges
Ahead with writing (him in mind)
A hasty missive to be signed
By an ingénue lovelorn and gorgeous…
The letter’s done, folded in two.
But, Tanya—who is it going to? 22
I’ve known intractable young beauties
As cool and pure as driven snow,
Implacable, non-venal cuties,
Not for the minds of men—oh, no!
They faze me, modish and high-minded;
Their virtue has good blood behind it.
Yes, I admit to having fled,
Methinks with horror, once I read
Upon their brows that phrase from Hades:
Abandon hope now for all time.
To rouse love is, for them, a crime;
Deterrence gratifies these ladies,
And maybe by the Neva, you
Have come across such persons too. 23
With worshippers no less subservient
Other strange females I have seen
Who were self-centred and impervious
To sighs of love and flattery.
What did I find? I was astonished:
Those austere girls who had admonished,
And turned down shy love, did not lack
The clever skills to win it back,