53.

Noise, laughter, galop, waltz, mazurka, Bows, bustle... meanwhile from the dance Tatiana hides a the capers irk her a Beside a column, 'twixt two aunts, She looks but does not see, detesting The worldly tumult and the jesting, She, stifling here, in fancy strains To reach again her fields and lanes, Her rural life: the tranquil bowers, The poor folk, the secluded nook Where flows a tiny, limpid brook, Her novels and the country flowers, And those tenebrous linden ways Where he appeared in former days.

54.

But while her mind is in the distance, Forgetting monde and noisy ball, A certain general of substance Won't take his eyes off her at all.

The two aunts wink and in like manner Both with their elbows nudge Tatiana, And each one whispers in her ear: 'Look quickly to the left, my dear.'

'The left? But where? What is so special?'

'Well, never mind what it may be, Just look... that group... in front, you see...

Those two in uniform, official...

Gone... Wait, his profile's in between.'

'Who? That fat general, you mean?'

55.

But let's extend congratulations To dear Tatiana, triumphing, And change my course (entreating patience), Lest I forget of whom I sing.

And by the way two words, updating: 'I sing a youthful friend, relating His many eccentricities.

Please favour the felicities, O epic Muse, of my exertions, And, with your trusty staff, let me Not wander on so waywardly.'

There, done! Enough! No more diversions!

Thus, cla.s.sicism I placate: An Introduction's here, though late.

CHAPTER VIII.

Fare thee well, and, if for ever.

Still forever fare thee well.1

Byron

1.

In those far days, serene and careless, The lycee's2 gardens saw me grow, I read with pleasure Apuleius3 And disregarded Cicero4, In those far days, in dales mysterious, In spring, when swans call out, imperious, Near waters shining tranquilly, The Muse began to visit me.

My student cell was inundated With sudden light. She brought me there A youthful feast, a merry fare Of fancies that in song she feted, Sang, too, our glorious, ancient themes, Sang of the heart that stirs our dreams.

2.

And with a smile my Muse was greeted; Our first success encouraged us, We were by old Derzhavin5 heeded And blessed before he joined the dust...6

3.

And I, who make the rule of pa.s.sions The only law I recognize, Sharing my feelings with the fashions, I led my frisky Muse to prize The noise of feasts and fierce discussions, Of watch-endangering excursions;7 And to these crazy feasts she brought Her native gifts, began to sport And gambol like a young bacchante, And, over cups, to guests she'd sing, And in a youthful gathering Among the men she'd be the centre, And in that amicable crowd, My giddy mistress made me proud.

4.

But I seceded from their union And fled afar8... she followed me.

How often would she, fond companion, Sweeten my mute trajectory With secret tales and magic aura!

How often, moonlit, like Leonora,9 She d gallop with me on a horse Across the crags of Caucasus!

How often on the sh.o.r.es of Tauris10 She led me in nocturnal gloom To listen to the sea's dull boom, The Nereids11 unceasing chorus, The waves profound, eternal choir And hymn of praise to heaven's sire.

5.

And then a change in her behaviour: Forgetting feasts and opulence, Amid the wastes of sad Moldavia12 She visited the humble tents Of wandering tribes, and, living with them, Grew wild and shared their daily rhythm, Forgetting her Olympian speech For strange, scant tongues the tribesmen teach, For steppe-land song she found appealing...

Then suddenly this picture cleared And in my garden she appeared As a provincial miss, revealing A thoughtful sadness in her look And in her hands a small, French book.13

6.

And, for the first time now, I'm taking My Muse to join a worldly rout; With jealous apprehension quaking, I view the steppe-land charms she's brought.

Through solid rows aristocratic, Of army fops, corps diplomatic And past imperious dames she flits.

Now, looking quietly, she sits, The noisy mult.i.tude admiring, The flickering of dress and speech, The guests who slowly try to reach The young hostess, who waits untiring, The men, who, like dark picture frames, Surround the women and the dames.

7.

She liked the hieratic order Of oligarchic colloquies, The chill of tranquil pride that awed her, And ranks and years that mixed at ease.

But who in this august collection Stands silently, with disaffection?

Not one of them appears to know.

Before him, faces come and go Like ghosts in tedious succession.

What does his face show a spleen, hurt pride?

Why is this person at our side?

Who is he? Well, it's my impression He's Eugene. Really? Yes, it's clear.

What wind is it that's blown him here?

8.