And silent and pale at the maid I stared.

I remember her prayers, her flowing blood,

But perished the girl, and with her my love.

The shawl I took from the head now dead,

And wiped in silence the bleeding steel.

When came the darkness of eve, my serf

Threw their bodies into the billows of the Danube.

Since then I kiss no charming eyes,

Since then I know no cheerful days.

I gaze demented on the black shawl,

And my cold soul is torn by grief.

10. The purpose of the author here was only to tell a story; and as success is to be measured by the ability of a writer to adapt his means to his ends, it must be acknowledged that Pushkin is here eminently successful. For the story is here well told; well told because simply told; the narrative moves, uninterrupted by excursions into side-fields. In its class therefore this poem must stand high, but it is of the lowest class.

11. For well told though this story be, it is after all only a story, with no higher purpose than merely to gratify curiosity, than merely to amuse. Its art has no higher purpose than to copy faithfully the event, than to be a faithful photograph; and moreover it is the story not of an emotion, but of a passion, and an ignoble passion at that; the passion is jealousy, - in itself an ugly thing, and the fruit of this ugly thing is a still uglier thing, - a murder. The subject therefore is not a thing of beauty, and methinks that the sole business of art is first of all to deal with things of beauty. Mediocrity, meanness, ugliness, are fit subjects for art only when they can be made to serve a higher purpose, just as the sole reason for tasting wormwood is the improvement of health. But this higher purpose is here wanting. Hence I place such a poem on the lowest plane of art.

THE OUTCAST.

On a rainy autumn evening

Into desert places went a maid;

And the secret fruit of unhappy love

In her trembling hands she held.

All was still: the woods and the hills

Asleep in the darkness of the night;

And her searching glances

In terror about she cast.

And on this babe, the innocent,

Her glance she paused with a sigh:

"Asleep thou art, my child, my grief,

Thou knowest not my sadness.

Thine eyes will ope, and though with longing,

To my breast shalt no more cling.

No kiss for thee to-morrow

From thine unhappy mother.

Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,

My everlasting shame, my guilt!

Me forget thou shalt for aye,

But thee forget shall not I;

Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers;