Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse Page 3

  Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine (1742-91), a clever adapter of French tragedy.

  Simeonova, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine.

  Ozeroff, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. "Oedipus in Athens," "Fingal," "Demetrius Donskoi," and "Polyxena," are the best known of his tragedies.

  Katenine translated Corneille's tragedies into Russian.

  Didelot, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.]

  XVI

  My goddesses, where are your shades?

  Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?

  Are ye replaced by other maids

  Who cannot conjure former joys?

  Shall I your chorus hear anew,

  Russia's Terpsichore review

  Again in her ethereal dance?

  Or will my melancholy glance

  On the dull stage find all things changed,

  The disenchanted glass direct

  Where I can no more recollect?—

  A careless looker-on estranged

  In silence shall I sit and yawn

  And dream of life's delightful dawn?

  XVII

  The house is crammed. A thousand lamps

  On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze,

  Impatiently the gallery stamps,

  The curtain now they slowly raise.

  Obedient to the magic strings,

  Brilliant, ethereal, there springs

  Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding

  Istomina(*) the nimbly-bounding;

  With one foot resting on its tip

  Slow circling round its fellow swings

  And now she skips and now she springs

  Like down from Aeolus's lip,

  Now her lithe form she arches o'er

  And beats with rapid foot the floor.

  [Note: Istomina—A celebrated Circassian dancer of the day, with whom the poet in his extreme youth imagined himself in love.]

  XVIII

  Shouts of applause! Oneguine passes

  Between the stalls, along the toes;

  Seated, a curious look with glasses

  On unknown female forms he throws.

  Free scope he yields unto his glance,

  Reviews both dress and countenance,

  With all dissatisfaction shows.

  To male acquaintances he bows,

  And finally he deigns let fall

  Upon the stage his weary glance.

  He yawns, averts his countenance,

  Exclaiming, "We must change 'em all!

  I long by ballets have been bored,

  Now Didelot scarce can be endured!"

  XIX

  Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout

  Across the stage still madly sweep,

  Whilst the tired serving-men without

  Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep.

  Still the loud stamping doth not cease,

  Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze,

  Still everywhere, without, within,

  The lamps illuminating shine;

  The steed benumbed still pawing stands

  And of the irksome harness tires,

  And still the coachmen round the fires(11)

  Abuse their masters, rub their hands:

  But Eugene long hath left the press

  To array himself in evening dress.

  [Note 11: In Russia large fires are lighted in winter time in front of the theatres for the benefit of the menials, who, considering the state of the thermometer, cannot be said to have a jovial time of it. But in this, as in other cases, "habit" alleviates their lot, and they bear the cold with a wonderful equanimity.]

  XX

  Faithfully shall I now depict,

  Portray the solitary den

  Wherein the child of fashion strict

  Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again?

  All that industrial London brings

  For tallow, wood and other things

  Across the Baltic's salt sea waves,

  All which caprice and affluence craves,

  All which in Paris eager taste,

  Choosing a profitable trade,

  For our amusement ever made

  And ease and fashionable waste,—

  Adorned the apartment of Eugene,

  Philosopher just turned eighteen.

  XXI

  China and bronze the tables weight,

  Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows,

  And, joy of souls effeminate,

  Phials of crystal scents enclose.

  Combs of all sizes, files of steel,

  Scissors both straight and curved as well,

  Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes

  Both for the nails and for the tushes.

  Rousseau, I would remark in passing,(12)

  Could not conceive how serious Grimm

  Dared calmly cleanse his nails 'fore him,

  Eloquent raver all-surpassing,—

  The friend of liberty and laws

  In this case quite mistaken was.

  [Note 12: "Tout le monde sut qu'il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyait rien, je commencai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouve des tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expres, ouvrage qu'il continua fierement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau." Confessions de J. J. Rousseau]

  XXII

  The most industrious man alive

  May yet be studious of his nails;

  What boots it with the age to strive?

  Custom the despot soon prevails.

  A new Kaverine Eugene mine,

  Dreading the world's remarks malign,

  Was that which we are wont to call

  A fop, in dress pedantical.

  Three mortal hours per diem he

  Would loiter by the looking-glass,

  And from his dressing-room would pass

  Like Venus when, capriciously,

  The goddess would a masquerade

  Attend in male attire arrayed.

  XXIII

  On this artistical retreat

  Having once fixed your interest,

  I might to connoisseurs repeat

  The style in which my hero dressed;

  Though I confess I hardly dare

  Describe in detail the affair,

  Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat,

  To Russ indigenous are not;

  And also that my feeble verse—

  Pardon I ask for such a sin—

  With words of foreign origin

  Too much I'm given to intersperse,

  Though to the Academy I come

  And oft its Dictionary thumb.(13)

  [Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during the reign of Catherine II under the supervision of Lomonossoff.]

  XXIV

  But such is not my project now,

  So let us to the ball-room haste,

  Whither at headlong speed doth go

  Eugene in hackney carriage placed.

  Past darkened windows and long streets

  Of slumbering citizens he fleets,

  Till carriage lamps, a double row,

  Cast a gay lustre on the snow,

  Which shines with iridescent hues.

  He nears a spacious mansion's gate,

  By many a lamp illuminate,

  And through the lofty windows views

  Profiles of lovely dames he knows

  And also fashionable beaux.

  XXV

  Our hero stops and doth alight,

  Flies past the porter to the stair,

  But, ere he mounts the marble flight,

>   With hurried hand smooths down his hair.

  He enters: in the hall a crowd,

  No more the music thunders loud,

  Some a mazurka occupies,

  Crushing and a confusing noise;

  Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash,

  The feet of graceful ladies fly,

  And following them ye might espy

  Full many a glance like lightning flash,

  And by the fiddle's rushing sound

  The voice of jealousy is drowned.

  XXVI

  In my young days of wild delight

  On balls I madly used to dote,

  Fond declarations they invite

  Or the delivery of a note.

  So hearken, every worthy spouse,

  I would your vigilance arouse,

  Attentive be unto my rhymes

  And due precautions take betimes.

  Ye mothers also, caution use,

  Upon your daughters keep an eye,

  Employ your glasses constantly,

  For otherwise—God only knows!

  I lift a warning voice because

  I long have ceased to offend the laws.

  XXVII

  Alas! life's hours which swiftly fly

  I've wasted in amusements vain,

  But were it not immoral I

  Should dearly like a dance again.

  I love its furious delight,

  The crowd and merriment and light,

  The ladies, their fantastic dress,

  Also their feet—yet ne'ertheless

  Scarcely in Russia can ye find

  Three pairs of handsome female feet;

  Ah! I still struggle to forget

  A pair; though desolate my mind,

  Their memory lingers still and seems

  To agitate me in my dreams.

  XXVIII

  When, where, and in what desert land,

  Madman, wilt thou from memory raze

  Those feet? Alas! on what far strand

  Do ye of spring the blossoms graze?

  Lapped in your Eastern luxury,

  No trace ye left in passing by

  Upon the dreary northern snows,

  But better loved the soft repose

  Of splendid carpets richly wrought.

  I once forgot for your sweet cause

  The thirst for fame and man's applause,

  My country and an exile's lot;

  My joy in youth was fleeting e'en

  As your light footprints on the green.

  XXIX

  Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks,

  Are admirable, my dear friend,

  But yet Terpsichore bespeaks

  Charms more enduring in the end.

  For promises her feet reveal

  Of untold gain she must conceal,

  Their privileged allurements fire

  A hidden train of wild desire.

  I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14)

  Beneath the table-cloth of white,

  In winter on the fender bright,

  In springtime on the meadows green,

  Upon the ball-room's glassy floor

  Or by the ocean's rocky shore.

  [Note 14: Elvine, or Elvina, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, "To Her," which commences thus:

  "Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand," and so forth.]

  XXX

  Beside the stormy sea one day

  I envied sore the billows tall,

  Which rushed in eager dense array

  Enamoured at her feet to fall.

  How like the billow I desired

  To kiss the feet which I admired!

  No, never in the early blaze

  Of fiery youth's untutored days

  So ardently did I desire

  A young Armida's lips to press,

  Her cheek of rosy loveliness

  Or bosom full of languid fire,—

  A gust of passion never tore

  My spirit with such pangs before.

  XXXI

  Another time, so willed it Fate,

  Immersed in secret thought I stand

  And grasp a stirrup fortunate—

  Her foot was in my other hand.

  Again imagination blazed,

  The contact of the foot I raised

  Rekindled in my withered heart

  The fires of passion and its smart—

  Away! and cease to ring their praise

  For ever with thy tattling lyre,

  The proud ones are not worth the fire

  Of passion they so often raise.

  The words and looks of charmers sweet

  Are oft deceptive—like their feet.

  XXXII

  Where is Oneguine? Half asleep,

  Straight from the ball to bed he goes,

  Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep

  The drum already doth arouse.

  The shopman and the pedlar rise

  And to the Bourse the cabman plies;

  The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15)

  Crunching the morning snow she treads;

  Morning awakes with joyous sound;

  The shutters open; to the skies

  In column blue the smoke doth rise;

  The German baker looks around

  His shop, a night-cap on his head,

  And pauses oft to serve out bread.

  [Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St. Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the labouring classes.]

  XXXIII

  But turning morning into night,

  Tired by the ball's incessant noise,

  The votary of vain delight

  Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,

  Late in the afternoon to rise,

  When the same life before him lies

  Till morn—life uniform but gay,

  To-morrow just like yesterday.

  But was our friend Eugene content,

  Free, in the blossom of his spring,

  Amidst successes flattering

  And pleasure's daily blandishment,

  Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare

  Was he in health and void of care?—

  XXXIV

  Even so! His passions soon abated,

  Hateful the hollow world became,

  Nor long his mind was agitated

  By love's inevitable flame.

  For treachery had done its worst;

  Friendship and friends he likewise curst,

  Because he could not gourmandise