My former master lived here too;
On Sundays at his window station,
His glasses on, he'd deign to play
Some cards with me to pass the day.
God grant his mortal soul salvation,
And may his dear old bones be blest
In Mother Earth where he's at rest.'
19
Tatyana looks in melting pleasure
At everything around the room;
She finds it all a priceless treasure,
A painful joy that lifts her gloom
And leaves her languid soul ignited:
The desk, the lamp that stands unlighted,
The heap of books, the carpet spread
Before the window on the bed,
That semi-light, so pale and solemn,
The view outdoorsthe lunar pall,
Lord Byron's portrait on the wall,
The iron bust* upon its column
w
ith clouded brow beneath a hat,
The arms compressed and folded flat.
20
And long she stood, bewitched and glowing,
Inside that modish bachelor cell.
But now it's late. The winds are blowing,
It's cold and dark within the dell.
The grove's asleep above the river,
Behind the hill the moon's a sliver;
And now it's time, indeed long past,
That our young pilgrim leave at last.
Concealing her wrought-up condition,
Though not without a heartfelt sigh,
Tatyana turns to say goodbye,
But, taking leave, requests permission
To see the vacant house alone
And read the books he'd called his own.
21
Outside the gate Tatyana parted
From old Anisya. Next day then,
She rose at dawn and off she started
To see the empty house again;
And once inside that silent study,
Sealed off at last from everybody,
The world for just a time forgot,
Tatyana wept and mourned her lot. . .
Then turned to see the books he'd favoured.
At first she didn't wish to read,
