Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse Read online

  XXV

  But Lenski madrigals ne'er wrote

  In Olga's album, youthful maid,

  To purest love he tuned his note

  Nor frigid adulation paid.

  What never was remarked or heard

  Of Olga he in song averred;

  His elegies, which plenteous streamed,

  Both natural and truthful seemed.

  Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46)

  In amorous flights when so inspired,

  Singing God knows what maid admired,

  And all thy precious elegies,

  Sometime collected, shall relate

  The story of thy life and fate.

  [Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise—unfulfilled.]

  XXVI

  Since Fame and Freedom he adored,

  Incited by his stormy Muse

  Odes Lenski also had outpoured,

  But Olga would not such peruse.

  When poets lachrymose recite

  Beneath the eyes of ladies bright

  Their own productions, some insist

  No greater pleasure can exist

  Just so! that modest swain is blest

  Who reads his visionary theme

  To the fair object of his dream,

  A beauty languidly at rest,

  Yes, happy—though she at his side

  By other thoughts be occupied.

  XXVII

  But I the products of my Muse,

  Consisting of harmonious lays,

  To my old nurse alone peruse,

  Companion of my childhood's days.

  Or, after dinner's dull repast,

  I by the button-hole seize fast

  My neighbour, who by chance drew near,

  And breathe a drama in his ear.

  Or else (I deal not here in jokes),

  Exhausted by my woes and rhymes,

  I sail upon my lake at times

  And terrify a swarm of ducks,

  Who, heard the music of my lay,

  Take to their wings and fly away.

  XXVIII

  But to Oneguine! A propos!

  Friends, I must your indulgence pray.

  His daily occupations, lo!

  Minutely I will now portray.

  A hermit's life Oneguine led,

  At seven in summer rose from bed,

  And clad in airy costume took

  His course unto the running brook.

  There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned

  His Hellespont from bank to bank,

  And then a cup of coffee drank,

  Some wretched journal in his hand;

  Then dressed himself…(*)

  [Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]

  XXIX

  Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,

  The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,

  The uncontaminated kiss

  Of a young dark-eyed country maid,

  A fiery, yet well-broken horse,

  A dinner, whimsical each course,

  A bottle of a vintage white

  And solitude and calm delight.

  Such was Oneguine's sainted life,

  And such unconsciously he led,

  Nor marked how summer's prime had fled

  In aimless ease and far from strife,

  The curse of commonplace delight.

  And town and friends forgotten quite.

  XXX

  This northern summer of our own,

  On winters of the south a skit,

  Glimmers and dies. This is well known,

  Though we will not acknowledge it.

  Already Autumn chilled the sky,

  The tiny sun shone less on high

  And shorter had the days become.

  The forests in mysterious gloom

  Were stripped with melancholy sound,

  Upon the earth a mist did lie

  And many a caravan on high

  Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

  A weary season was at hand—

  November at the gate did stand.

  XXXI

  The morn arises foggy, cold,

  The silent fields no peasant nears,

  The wolf upon the highways bold

  With his ferocious mate appears.

  Detecting him the passing horse

  snorts, and his rider bends his course

  And wisely gallops to the hill.

  No more at dawn the shepherd will

  Drive out the cattle from their shed,

  Nor at the hour of noon with sound

  Of horn in circle call them round.

  Singing inside her hut the maid

  Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night,

  The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

  XXXII

  Already crisp hoar frosts impose

  O'er all a sheet of silvery dust

  (Readers expect the rhyme of rose,

  There! take it quickly, if ye must).

  Behold! than polished floor more nice

  The shining river clothed in ice;

  A joyous troop of little boys

  Engrave the ice with strident noise.

  A heavy goose on scarlet feet,

  Thinking to float upon the stream,

  Descends the bank with care extreme,

  But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet

  The first bright wreathing storm of snow

  Which falls in starry flakes below.

  XXXIII

  How in the country pass this time?

  Walking? The landscape tires the eye

  In winter by its blank and dim

  And naked uniformity.

  On horseback gallop o'er the steppe!

  Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep

  His footing on the treacherous rime

  And may fall headlong any time.

  Alone beneath your rooftree stay

  And read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47)

  Keep your accounts! You'd rather not?

  Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day

  Will pass; the same to-morrow try—

  You'll spend your winter famously!

  [Note 47: The Abbe de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A political pamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre, but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishop of Malines.]

  XXXIV

  A true Childe Harold my Eugene

  To idle musing was a prey;

  At morn an icy bath within

  He sat, and then the livelong day,

  Alone within his habitation

  And buried deep in meditation,

  He round the billiard-table stalked,

  The balls impelled, the blunt cue chalked;

  When evening o'er the landscape looms,

  Billiards abandoned, cue forgot,

  A table to the fire is brought,

  And he waits dinner. Lenski comes,

  Driving abreast three horses gray.

  "Bring dinner now without delay!"

  XXXV

  Upon the table in a trice

  Of widow Clicquot or Moet

  A blessed bottle, placed in ice,

  For the young poet they display.

  Like Hippocrene it scatters light,

  Its ebullition foaming white

  (Like other things I could relate)

  My heart of old would captivate.

  The last poor obol I was worth—

  Was it not so?—for thee I gave,

  And thy inebriating wave

  Full many a foolish prank brought forth;

  And oh! what verses, what delights,

  Delicious visions, jests and fights!

  XXXVI

  Alas! my stomach it betrays

  With its exhilarating flow,

  And I confess that now-a-days

  I prefer sensible Bordeaux.

  To cope with Ay no more I dare,

  For Ay
is like a mistress fair,

  Seductive, animated, bright,

  But wilful, frivolous, and light.

  But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friend

  Who in the agony of grief

  Is ever ready with relief,

  Assistance ever will extend,

  Or quietly partake our woe.

  All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!

  XXXVII

  The fire sinks low. An ashy cloak

  The golden ember now enshrines,

  And barely visible the smoke

  Upward in a thin stream inclines.

  But little warmth the fireplace lends,

  Tobacco smoke the flue ascends,

  The goblet still is bubbling bright—

  Outside descend the mists of night.

  How pleasantly the evening jogs

  When o'er a glass with friends we prate

  Just at the hour we designate

  The time between the wolf and dogs—

  I cannot tell on what pretence—

  But lo! the friends to chat commence.

  XXXVIII

  "How are our neighbours fair, pray tell,

  Tattiana, saucy Olga thine?"

  "The family are all quite well—

  Give me just half a glass of wine—

  They sent their compliments—but oh!

  How charming Olga's shoulders grow!

  Her figure perfect grows with time!

  She is an angel! We sometime

  Must visit them. Come! you must own,

  My friend, 'tis but to pay a debt,

  For twice you came to them and yet

  You never since your nose have shown.

  But stay! A dolt am I who speak!

  They have invited you this week."

  XXXIX

  "Me?"—"Yes! It is Tattiana's fete

  Next Saturday. The Larina

  Told me to ask you. Ere that date

  Make up your mind to go there."—"Ah!

  It will be by a mob beset

  Of every sort and every set!"

  "Not in the least, assured am I!"

  "Who will be there?"—"The family.

  Do me a favour and appear.

  Will you?"—"Agreed."—"I thank you, friend,"

  And saying this Vladimir drained

  His cup unto his maiden dear.

  Then touching Olga they depart

  In fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!

  XL

  He was most gay. The happy date

  In three weeks would arrive for them;

  The secrets of the marriage state

  And love's delicious diadem

  With rapturous longing he awaits,

  Nor in his dreams anticipates

  Hymen's embarrassments, distress,

  And freezing fits of weariness.

  Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile,

  In life domestic see a string

  Of pictures painful harrowing,

  A novel in Lafontaine's style,

  My wretched Lenski's fate I mourn,

  He seemed for matrimony born.

  XLI

  He was beloved: or say at least,

  He thought so, and existence charmed.

  The credulous indeed are blest,

  And he who, jealousy disarmed,

  In sensual sweets his soul doth steep

  As drunken tramps at nightfall sleep,

  Or, parable more flattering,

  As butterflies to blossoms cling.

  But wretched who anticipates,

  Whose brain no fond illusions daze,

  Who every gesture, every phrase

  In true interpretation hates:

  Whose heart experience icy made

  And yet oblivion forbade.

  End of Canto The Fourth

  CANTO THE FIFTH

  The Fete

  'Oh, do not dream these fearful dreams,

  O my Svetlana.'—Joukovski

  Canto The Fifth

  [Note: Mikhailovskoe, 1825-6]

  I

  That year the autumn season late

  Kept lingering on as loath to go,

  All Nature winter seemed to await,

  Till January fell no snow—

  The third at night. Tattiana wakes

  Betimes, and sees, when morning breaks,

  Park, garden, palings, yard below

  And roofs near morn blanched o'er with snow;

  Upon the windows tracery,

  The trees in silvery array,

  Down in the courtyard magpies gay,

  And the far mountains daintily

  O'erspread with Winter's carpet bright,

  All so distinct, and all so white!

  II

  Winter! The peasant blithely goes

  To labour in his sledge forgot,

  His pony sniffing the fresh snows

  Just manages a feeble trot

  Though deep he sinks into the drift;

  Forth the kibitka gallops swift,(48)

  Its driver seated on the rim

  In scarlet sash and sheepskin trim;

  Yonder the household lad doth run,

  Placed in a sledge his terrier black,

  Himself transformed into a hack;

  To freeze his finger hath begun,

  He laughs, although it aches from cold,

  His mother from the door doth scold.

  [Note 48: The "kibitka," properly speaking, whether on wheels or runners, is a vehicle with a hood not unlike a big cradle.]

  III

  In scenes like these it may be though,

  Ye feel but little interest,

  They are all natural and low,

  Are not with elegance impressed.

  Another bard with art divine

  Hath pictured in his gorgeous line

  The first appearance of the snows

  And all the joys which Winter knows.

  He will delight you, I am sure,

  When he in ardent verse portrays

  Secret excursions made in sleighs;

  But competition I abjure

  Either with him or thee in song,

  Bard of the Finnish maiden young.(49)

  [Note 49: The allusions in the foregoing stanza are in the first place to a poem entitled "The First Snow," by Prince Viazemski and secondly to "Eda," by Baratynski, a poem descriptive of life in Finland.]

  IV

  Tattiana, Russian to the core,

  Herself not knowing well the reason,