Eugene Onegin Page 4

  Tragedies': The Covetous Knight, Mozart and Salieri, The Stone Guest, Feast in Time of Plague.

  1831 Marries Natalya Goncharova on 18 February; settles in St Petersburg; appointed official historiographer. Finally abandons work on Eugene Onegin, which has occupied him for more than eight years.

  1831-7 Increasing personal and professional difficulties: financial troubles, unhappy married life, dismissal as a literary force by younger generation.

  1833 Second 'Boldino autumn'. Writes short story The Queen of Spades, narrative poem The Bronze Horseman; works on A History of the Pugachev Rebellion

  1836 Completes historical romance The Captain's Daughter.

  1837 Incensed by the attentions paid to his wife by Baron Georges d'Ants, a French adventurer in the Russian service, Pushkin challenges him to a duel and on 27 February is mortally wounded; he dies two days later and his coffin is taken at night to Svyatogorsky Monastery near Mikhailovskoe for burial.

  EUGENE ONEGIN

  Ptri de vanit il avait encore plus de cette espce d'orgueil qui fait avouer avec la mme indiffrence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de supriorit, peut-tre imaginaire.

  Tir d'une lettre particulire*

  Dedication*

  Not thinking of the proud world's pleasure,

  But cherishing your friendship's claim,

  I would have wished a finer treasure

  To pledge my token to your name

  One worthy of your soul's perfection,

  The sacred dreams that fill your gaze,

  Your verse's limpid, live complexion,

  Your noble thoughts and simple ways.

  But let it be. Take this collection

  Of sundry chapters as my suit:

  Half humorous, half pessimistic,

  Blending the plain and idealistic

  Amusement's yield, the careless fruit

  Of sleepless nights, light inspirations,

  Born of my green and withered years . . .

  The intellect's cold observations,

  The heart's reflections, writ in tears.

  Chapter 1

  To live he hurries and to feel makes haste. Prince Vjazemsky

  1

  'My uncle, man of firm convictions* . . .

  By falling gravely ill, he's won

  A due respect for his afflictions

  The only clever thing he's done.

  May his example profit others;

  But God, what deadly boredom, brothers,

  To tend a sick man night and day,

  Not daring once to steal away!

  And, oh, how base to pamper grossly

  And entertain the nearly dead,

  To fluff the pillows for his head,

  And pass him medicines morosely

  While thinking under every sigh:

  The devil take you, Uncle. Die!'

  2

  Just so a youthful rake reflected,

  As through the dust by post he flew,

  By mighty Zeus's will elected

  Sole heir to all the kin he knew.

  Ludmila's and Rusln's adherents!*

  Without a foreword's interference,

  May I present, as we set sail,

  The hero of my current tale:

  Ongin, my good friend and brother,

  Was born beside the Neva's span,

  Where maybe, reader, you began,

  Or sparkled in one way or other.

  I too there used to saunter forth,

  But found it noxious in the north.*

  3

  An honest man who'd served sincerely,

  His father ran up debts galore;

  He gave a ball some three times yearly,

  Until he had no means for more.

  Fate watched Eugene in his dependence;

  At first Madame was in attendance;

  And then Monsieur took on the child,

  A charming lad, though somewhat wild.

  Monsieur l'Abb, a needy fellow,

  To spare his charge excessive pain,

  Kept lessons light and rather plain;

  His views on morals ever mellow,

  He seldom punished any lark,

  And walked the boy in Letny Park.*

  4

  But when the age of restless turnings

  Became in time our young man's fate,

  The age of hopes and tender yearnings,

  Monsieur l'Abb was shown the gate.

  And here's Oneginliberated,

  To fad and fashion newly mated:

  A London dandy, hair all curled,

  At last he's ready for the world!

  In French he could and did acutely

  Express himself and even write;

  In dancing too his step was light,

  And bows he'd mastered absolutely.

  Who'd ask for more? The world could tell

  That he had wit and charm as well.

  5

  We've all received an education

  In something somehow, have we not?

  So thank the Lord that in this nation

  A little learning means a lot.

  Onegin was, so some decided

  (Strict judges, not to be derided),

  A learned, if pedantic, sort.

  He did possess the happy forte

  Of free and easy conversation,

  Or in a grave dispute he'd wear

  The solemn expert's learned air

  And keep to silent meditation;

  And how the ladies' eyes he lit

  With flashes of his sudden wit!

  6

  The Latin vogue today is waning,

  And yet I'll say on his behalf,

  He had sufficient Latin training

  To gloss a common epigraph,

  Cite Juvenal in conversation, P

  ut vale in a salutation;

  And he recalled, at least in part,

  A line or two of Virgil's art.

  He lacked, it's true, all predilection

  For rooting in the ancient dust

  Of history's annals full of must,

  But knew by heart a fine collection

  Of anecdotes of ages past:

  F

  rom Romulus to Tuesday last.

  7

  Lacking the fervent dedication

  That sees in sounds life's highest quest,

  He never knew, to our frustration,

  A dactyl from an anapest.

  Theocritus and Homer bored him,

  But reading Adam Smith restored him,

  And economics he knew well;

  Which is to say that he could tell

  The ways in which a state progresses

  The actual things that make it thrive,

  And why for gold it need not strive,

  When basic products it possesses.

  His father never understood

  And mortgaged all the land he could.

  8

  I have no leisure for retailing

  The sum of all our hero's parts,

  But where his genius proved unfailing,

  The thing he'd learned above all arts,

  What from his prime had been his pleasure,

  His only torment, toil, and treasure,

  What occupied, the livelong day,

  His languid spirit's fretful play

  Was love itself, the art of ardour,

  Which Ovid sang in ages past,

  And for which song he paid at last

  By ending his proud days a martyr

  In dim Moldavia's vacant waste,

  Far from the Rome his heart embraced.

  (9)* 10

  How early on he could dissemble,

  Conceal his hopes, play jealous swain,

  Compel belief, or make her tremble, S

  eem cast in gloom or mute with pain,

  Appear so proud or so forbearing,

  At times attentive, then uncaring!

  What languor when his lips were seal
ed,

  What fiery art his speech revealed!

  What casual letters he would send her!

  He lived, he breathed one single dream,

  How self-oblivious he could seem!

  How keen his glance, how bold and tender;

  And when he wished, he'd make appear

  The quickly summoned, glistening tear!

  11

  How shrewdly he could be inventive

  And playfully astound the young,

  Use flattery as warm incentive,

  Or frighten with despairing tongue.

  And how he'd seize a moment's weakness

  To conquer youthful virtue's meekness

  Through force of passion and of sense,

  And then await sweet recompense.

  At first he'd beg a declaration,

  And listen for the heart's first beat,

  Then stalk love fasterand entreat

  A lover's secret assignation . . .

  And then in private he'd prepare

  In silence to instruct the fair!

  12

  How early he could stir or worry

  The hearts of even skilled coquettes!

  And when he found it necessary

  To crush a rivaloh, what nets,

  What clever traps he'd set before him!

  And how his wicked tongue would gore him!

  But you, you men in wedded bliss,

  You stayed his friends despite all this:

  The crafty husband fawned and chuckled

  (Faublas'* disciple and his tool),

  As did the skeptical old fool,

  And the majestic, antlered cuckold

  So pleased with all he had in life:

  Himself, his dinner, and his wife.

  (13-14) 15

  Some mornings still abed he drowses,

  Until his valet brings his tray.

  What? Invitations? Yes, three houses

  Have asked him to a grand soire.

  There'll be a ball, a children's party;

  Where will he dash to, my good hearty?

  Where will he make the night's first call?

  Oh, never mindhe'll make them all.

  But meanwhile, dressed for morning pleasure,

  Bedecked in broad-brimmed Bolivar,*

  He drives to Nevsky Boulevard,

  To stroll about at total leisure,

  Until Brguet's* unsleeping chime

  Reminds him that it's dinner time.

  16

  He calls a sleigh as daylight's dimming;

  The cry resounds: 'Make way! Let's go!'

  His collar with its beaver trimming

  Is silver bright with frosted snow.

  He's off to Talon's,* late, and racing,

  Quite sure he'll find Kavrin* pacing;

  He enterscork and bottle spout!

  The comet wine* comes gushing out,

  A bloody roastbeef's on the table,

  And truffles, youth's delight so keen,

  The very flower of French cuisine,

  And Strasbourg pie,* that deathless fable;

  While next to Limburg's lively mould

  Sits ananas in splendid gold.

  17

  Another round would hardly hurt them,

  To wash those sizzling cutlets down;

  But now the chime and watch alert them:

  The brand new ballet's on in town!

  He's off!this critic most exacting

  Of all that touches art or acting,

  This fickel swain of every star,

  And honoured patron of the barre

  To join the crowd, where each is ready

  To greet an entrechat with cheers,

  Or Cleopatra with his jeers,

  To hiss at Phdreso unsteady,

  Recall Moi'na* . . . and rejoice

  That everyone has heard his voice.

  18

  Enchanted land! There for a season,

  That friend of freedom ruled the scene,

  The daring satirist Fonvizin,

  As did derivative Knyazhnin;

  There Ozerov received the nation's

  Unbidden tears and its ovations,

  Which young Semynova did share;

  And our Katnin gave us there

  Corneille's full genius resurrected;

  And there the caustic Shakhovsky

  Refreshed the stage with comic joy,

  Didelot his crown of fame perfected.*

  There too, beneath the theatre's tent,

  My fleeting, youthful days were spent.

  19

  My goddesses! You vanished faces!

  Oh, hearken to my woeful call:

  Have other maidens gained your places,

  Yet not replaced you after all?

  Shall once again I hear your chants?

  Or see the Russian muse of dance

  Perform her soaring, soulful flight?

  Or shall my mournful gaze alight

  On unknown faces on the stages?

  And when across this world I pass

  A disenchanted opera glass,

  Shall I grow bored with mirth and rages,

  And shall I then in silence yawn

  And recollect a time that's gone?

  20

  The theatre's full, the boxes glitter;

  The restless gallery claps and roars;

  The stalls and pit are all ajitter;

  The curtain rustles as it soars.

  And there . .. ethereal. .. resplendent,

  Poised to the magic bow attendant,

  A throng of nymphs her guardian band,

  Istmina* takes up her stand.

  One foot upon the ground she places,

  And then the other slowly twirls,

  And now she leaps! And now she whirls!

  Like down from Eol's lips she races;

  Then spins and twists and stops to beat

  Her rapid, dazzling, dancing feet.

  21

  As all applaud, Onegin enters

  And treads on toes to reach his seat;

  His double glass he calmly centres

  On ladies he has yet to meet.

  He takes a single glance to measure

  These clothes and faces with displeasure;

  Then trading bows on every side

  With men he knew or friends he spied,

  He turned at last and vaguely fluttered

  His eyes toward the stage and play

  Then yawned and turned his head away:

  'It's time for something new,' he muttered,