But, reader, we shall never know it; Sufficient that upon a field A youthful lover, dreamer, poet Has by a friendly hand been killed!

A leftward path from the location Where dwelt that child of inspiration Leads to two pines with roots entwined, Beneath which tiny currents wind Out of the valley's brook they border.

The ploughman rests beside their brink And female reapers come to sink Their ringing pitchers in the water; There, by the brook, in deepest shade, A simple monument is laid.21

41.

A herdsman to the tomb retreating Sings (as the spring rain dots the gra.s.s) Of Volga fishermen, while plaiting His mottled sandals made of bast.

A young townswoman who is spending Her summer in the country, wending On horseback through the fields alone, Rides headlong, comes upon the stone And halts her steed, before it pausing, As, tightening the leather leads, She lifts her veil of gauze and reads The plain inscription quickly, causing A tear to dim her tender eyes At Lensky's premature demise.

42.

And, at a trot, she rides through meadows, Sunk a long time in reverie, Her soul pervaded by the shadows Cast by the poet's destiny; And wonders: 'How did Olga suffer?22 Was it for long she mourned her lover?

Or did she only briefly rue?

And where's her sister now? Where, too, Is he, the fugitive, the hermit, Of modish belles the modish foe, Where did that gloomy oddball go, The slayer of the youthful poet?'

I promise in due time I'll bring A full account of everything,

43.

But not today. Although my feeling For Eugene has not changed a bit, Though I'll return to him, unfailing, Right now I am not up to it.

To Spartan prose the years are turning, Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning; And I a I with a sigh confess a I'm running after her much less.

My pen has lost its former pleasures Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems, Today, quite different, chilling dreams; Quite different, unrelenting pressures, In stillness or in social noise, Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.

44.

I've come to know new aspirations, I've come to know new sadness, too; The former hold no expectations, And earlier sadness still I rue.

Where are my dreams, the dreams I cherished?

What rhyme now follows, if not 'perished'?23 And is the garland of my youth Withered at last, is this the truth?

Is it the truth, all plain, unvarnished, Not in an elegiac cloak, That (hitherto said as a joke) The springtime of my days has vanished, Can't be brought back and that I'm near Already to my thirtieth year?24

45.

The noontide of my life is starting, Which I must needs accept, I know; But oh, my light youth, if we're parting, I want you as a friend to go!

My thanks to you for the enjoyments, The sadness and the pleasant torments, The hubbub, storms, festivity, For all that you have given me; My thanks to you. I have delighted In you when times were turbulent, When times were calm... to full extent; Enough now! With a soul clear-sighted I set out on another quest And from my old life take a rest.

46.

Let me glance back. Farewell, you arbours Where, in the backwoods, I recall Days filled with indolence and ardours And dreamings of a pensive soul.

And you, my youthful inspiration.

Keep stirring my imagination, My heart's inertia vivify, More often to my corner fly.

Let not a poet's soul be frozen, Made rough and hard, reduced to bone And finally be turned to stone In that benumbing world he goes in, In that intoxicating slough Where, friends, we bathe together now.25

CHAPTER VII.

Moscow, Russia's favourite daughter, Where is your equal to be found?

Dmitriyev One can't but love one's native Moscow.

Baratynsky 'Reviling Moscow! This is what

You get from seeing the world!

Where is it better, then?

Where we are not.'

Griboyedov1

1.

Chased by the vernal beams, already Down the surrounding hills the snow Has run in turbid streams that eddy On to the flooded fields below; Nature, not yet from sleep returning, Greets with a smile the new year's morning.

The skies shine with a bluish sheen, Transparent still, the woods turn green, Lending the trees a downy cover, The bee flies from its waxen comb, Bringing the meadows' tribute home.

The dales dry out and colour over.

Herds low, the hush of darkness brings The nightingale that newly sings.

2.

How sad to me is spring's arrival, Season of love, when all's in bud!

What languid tumult, what upheaval Disturb my soul, disturb my blood!

With what a heavy, tender feeling I revel in the season, breathing The vernal wind that fans my face In some secluded, rural place!

Or am I now estranged from pleasure, Does all that gladdens, animates, All that exults and radiates Cast boredom, languor in like measure Upon a soul long dead, does all Seem dark to it, funereal?

3.

Or, cheerless, when the leaves of autumn Are resurrected by the spring, We recollect a bitter fortune, Hearing the woods' new murmuring; Or we, in troubled contemplation Compare with nature's animation The withered years of our estate, That nothing can resuscitate.

Perhaps in thought we may recover, When caught in a poetic haze, Some other spring of older days That once more sets our hearts aquiver With dreams of some far distant clime, A wondrous night, a moon sublime...

4.