Tatyana is regarded as one of the finest, most vividly faithful portraits of the genuine Russian woman in all Russian literature; while Olga is considered fully her equal, as a type, and in popular sympathy; and the other characters are almost equally good in their various lines.
Besides a host of beautiful lyric poems, Pushkin left several dramatic fragments: "The Rusalka" or "Water Nymph," on which Dargomyzhsky founded a beautiful opera, "The Stone Guest,"[11] "The Miserly Knight," and chief of all, and like "Evgeny Onyegin," epoch-making in its line, the historical dramatic fragment "Boris Godunoff." This founded a school in Russian dramatic writing.

It is impossible to do justice in translation to the exquisite lyrics; but the following soliloquy, from "Boris Godunoff," will serve to show Pushkin's power in blank verse.

Boris Godunoff, brother-in-law to the Tzar Feodor Mikhailovitch, has at last reached the goal of his ambition, and mounted the throne, at what cost his own speech shows: Scene: The Imperial Palace.

The Tzar enters: I've reached the height of power; 'Tis six years now that I have reigned in peace; But there's no happiness within my soul.
Is it not thus--in youth we thirst and crave The joy of love; but once that we have quenched Our hungry heart with brief possession, We're tired, and cold, and weary on the instant! The sorcerers in vain predict long life; And promise days of undisturbed power.
Nor power, nor life, nor aught can cheer my heart; My soul forebodeth heaven's wrath and woe.
I am not happy.

I did think to still With plenty and with fame my people here; To win for aye their love by bounties free.
But vain are all my cares and empty toils: A living power is hated by the herd; They love the dead alone, only the dead.
What fools we are, when popular applause, Or the loud shout of masses thrills our heart! God sent down famine on this land of ours; The people howled, gave up the ghost in torment; I threw the granaries open, and my gold I showered upon them; sought out work for them.
Made mad by suffering, they turned and cursed me! By conflagrations were their homes destroyed; I built for them their dwellings fair and new; And they accused me--said I had set the fires! That's the Lord's judgment;--seek its love who will! Then dreamed I bliss in mine own home to find; I thought to make my daughter blest in wedlock: Death, like a whirlwind, snatched her betrothed away, And rumor craftily insinuates That I am author of my own child's widowhood:-- I, I, unhappy father that I am! Let a man die--I am his secret slayer.
I hastened on the death of Feodor; I gave my sister, the Tzaritza, poison; I poisoned her, the lovely nun,--still I! Ah, yes, I know it: naught can give us calm, Amid the sorrows of this present world; Conscience alone, mayhap: Thus, when 'tis pure, it triumphs O'er bitter malice, o'er dark calumny; But if there be in it a single stain, One, only one, by accident contracted, Why then, all's done; as with foul plague The soul consumes, the heart is filled with gall, Reproaches beat, like hammers, in the ears, The man turns sick, his head whirls dizzily, And bloody children float before my eyes.[12] I'd gladly flee--yet whither?
Horrible! Yea, sad his state, whose conscience is not clean.
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