Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse Page 5

  Free, I renewed the idolatry

  Of harmony enshrining thought.

  I write, and anguish flies away,

  Nor doth my absent pen portray

  Around my stanzas incomplete

  Young ladies' faces and their feet.

  Extinguished ashes do not blaze—

  I mourn, but tears I cannot shed—

  Soon, of the tempest which hath fled

  Time will the ravages efface—

  When that time comes, a poem I'll strive

  To write in cantos twenty-five.

  LIV

  I've thought well o'er the general plan,

  The hero's name too in advance,

  Meantime I'll finish whilst I can

  Canto the First of this romance.

  I've scanned it with a jealous eye,

  Discovered much absurdity,

  But will not modify a tittle—

  I owe the censorship a little.

  For journalistic deglutition

  I yield the fruit of work severe.

  Go, on the Neva's bank appear,

  My very latest composition!

  Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows—

  Misunderstanding, words and blows.

  END OF CANTO THE FIRST

  CANTO THE SECOND

  The Poet

  "O Rus!"—Horace

  Canto The Second

  [Note: Odessa, December 1823.]

  I

  The village wherein yawned Eugene

  Was a delightful little spot,

  There friends of pure delight had been

  Grateful to Heaven for their lot.

  The lonely mansion-house to screen

  From gales a hill behind was seen;

  Before it ran a stream. Behold!

  Afar, where clothed in green and gold

  Meadows and cornfields are displayed,

  Villages in the distance show

  And herds of oxen wandering low;

  Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade,

  A thick immense neglected grove

  Extended—haunt which Dryads love.

  II

  'Twas built, the venerable pile,

  As lordly mansions ought to be,

  In solid, unpretentious style,

  The style of wise antiquity.

  Lofty the chambers one and all,

  Silk tapestry upon the wall,

  Imperial portraits hang around

  And stoves of various shapes abound.

  All this I know is out of date,

  I cannot tell the reason why,

  But Eugene, incontestably,

  The matter did not agitate,

  Because he yawned at the bare view

  Of drawing-rooms or old or new.

  III

  He took the room wherein the old

  Man—forty years long in this wise—

  His housekeeper was wont to scold,

  Look through the window and kill flies.

  'Twas plain—an oaken floor ye scan,

  Two cupboards, table, soft divan,

  And not a speck of dirt descried.

  Oneguine oped the cupboards wide.

  In one he doth accounts behold,

  Here bottles stand in close array,

  There jars of cider block the way,

  An almanac but eight years old.

  His uncle, busy man indeed,

  No other book had time to read.

  IV

  Alone amid possessions great,

  Eugene at first began to dream,

  If but to lighten Time's dull rate,

  Of many an economic scheme;

  This anchorite amid his waste

  The ancient barshtchina replaced

  By an obrok's indulgent rate:(23)

  The peasant blessed his happy fate.

  But this a heinous crime appeared

  Unto his neighbour, man of thrift,

  Who secretly denounced the gift,

  And many another slily sneered;

  And all with one accord agreed,

  He was a dangerous fool indeed.

  [Note 23: The barshtchina was the corvee, or forced labour of three days per week rendered previous to the emancipation of 1861 by the serfs to their lord.

  The obrok was a species of poll-tax paid by a serf, either in lieu of the forced labour or in consideration of being permitted to exercise a trade or profession elsewhere. Very heavy obroks have at times been levied on serfs possessed of skill or accomplishments, or who had amassed wealth; and circumstances may be easily imagined which, under such a system, might lead to great abuses.]

  V

  All visited him at first, of course;

  But since to the backdoor they led

  Most usually a Cossack horse

  Upon the Don's broad pastures bred

  If they but heard domestic loads

  Come rumbling up the neighbouring roads,

  Most by this circumstance offended

  All overtures of friendship ended.

  "Oh! what a fool our neighbour is!

  He's a freemason, so we think.

  Alone he doth his claret drink,

  A lady's hand doth never kiss.

  'Tis yes! no! never madam! sir!"(24)

  This was his social character.

  [Note 24: The neighbours complained of Oneguine's want of courtesy. He always replied "da" or "nyet," yes or no, instead of "das" or "nyets"—the final s being a contraction of "sudar" or "sudarinia," i.e. sir or madam.]

  VI

  Into the district then to boot

  A new proprietor arrived,

  From whose analysis minute

  The neighbourhood fresh sport derived.

  Vladimir Lenski was his name,

  From Gottingen inspired he came,

  A worshipper of Kant, a bard,

  A young and handsome galliard.

  He brought from mystic Germany

  The fruits of learning and combined

  A fiery and eccentric mind,

  Idolatry of liberty,

  A wild enthusiastic tongue,

  Black curls which to his shoulders hung.

  VII

  The pervert world with icy chill

  Had not yet withered his young breast.

  His heart reciprocated still

  When Friendship smiled or Love caressed.

  He was a dear delightful fool—

  A nursling yet for Hope to school.

  The riot of the world and glare

  Still sovereigns of his spirit were,

  And by a sweet delusion he

  Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,

  He deemed of human life the goal

  To be a charming mystery:

  He racked his brains to find its clue

  And marvels deemed he thus should view.

  VIII

  This he believed: a kindred spirit

  Impelled to union with his own

  Lay languishing both day and night—

  Waiting his coming—his alone!

  He deemed his friends but longed to make

  Great sacrifices for his sake!

  That a friend's arm in every case

  Felled a calumniator base!

  That chosen heroes consecrate,

  Friends of the sons of every land,

  Exist—that their immortal band

  Shall surely, be it soon or late,

  Pour on this orb a dazzling light

  And bless mankind with full delight.

  IX

  Compassion now or wrath inspires

  And now philanthropy his soul,

  And now his youthful heart desires

  The path which leads to glory's goal.

  His harp beneath that sky had rung

  Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,

  And at the altar of their fame

  He kindled his poetic flame.

  But from the Muses' loftiest height

  The gifted songster
never swerved,

  But proudly in his song preserved

  An ever transcendental flight;

  His transports were quite maidenly,

  Charming with grave simplicity.

  X

  He sang of love—to love a slave.

  His ditties were as pure and bright

  As thoughts which gentle maidens have,

  As a babe's slumber, or the light

  Of the moon in the tranquil skies,

  Goddess of lovers' tender sighs.

  He sang of separation grim,

  Of what not, and of distant dim,

  Of roses to romancers dear;

  To foreign lands he would allude,

  Where long time he in solitude

  Had let fall many a bitter tear:

  He sang of life's fresh colours stained

  Before he eighteen years attained.

  XI

  Since Eugene in that solitude

  Gifts such as these alone could prize,

  A scant attendance Lenski showed

  At neighbouring hospitalities.

  He shunned those parties boisterous;

  The conversation tedious

  About the crop of hay, the wine,

  The kennel or a kindred line,

  Was certainly not erudite

  Nor sparkled with poetic fire,

  Nor wit, nor did the same inspire

  A sense of social delight,

  But still more stupid did appear

  The gossip of their ladies fair.

  XII

  Handsome and rich, the neighbourhood

  Lenski as a good match received,—

  Such is the country custom good;

  All mothers their sweet girls believed

  Suitable for this semi-Russian.

  He enters: rapidly discussion

  Shifts, tacks about, until they prate

  The sorrows of a single state.

  Perchance where Dunia pours out tea

  The young proprietor we find;

  To Dunia then they whisper: Mind!

  And a guitar produced we see,

  And Heavens! warbled forth we hear:

  Come to my golden palace, dear!(25)

  [Note 25: From the lay of the Russalka, i.e. mermaid of the Dnieper.]

  XIII

  But Lenski, having no desire

  Vows matrimonial to break,

  With our Oneguine doth aspire

  Acquaintance instantly to make.

  They met. Earth, water, prose and verse,

  Or ice and flame, are not diverse

  If they were similar in aught.

  At first such contradictions wrought

  Mutual repulsion and ennui,

  But grown familiar side by side

  On horseback every day they ride—

  Inseparable soon they be.

  Thus oft—this I myself confess—

  Men become friends from idleness.

  XIV

  But even thus not now-a-days!

  In spite of common sense we're wont

  As cyphers others to appraise,

  Ourselves as unities to count;

  And like Napoleons each of us

  A million bipeds reckons thus

  One instrument for his own use—

  Feeling is silly, dangerous.

  Eugene, more tolerant than this

  (Though certainly mankind he knew

  And usually despised it too),

  Exceptionless as no rule is,

  A few of different temper deemed,

  Feeling in others much esteemed.

  XV

  With smiling face he Lenski hears;

  The poet's fervid conversation

  And judgment which unsteady veers

  And eye which gleams with inspiration—

  All this was novel to Eugene.

  The cold reply with gloomy mien

  He oft upon his lips would curb,

  Thinking: 'tis foolish to disturb

  This evanescent boyish bliss.

  Time without me will lessons give,

  So meantime let him joyous live

  And deem the world perfection is!

  Forgive the fever youth inspires,

  And youthful madness, youthful fires.

  XVI

  The gulf between them was so vast,

  Debate commanded ample food—

  The laws of generations past,

  The fruits of science, evil, good,

  The prejudices all men have,

  The fatal secrets of the grave,

  And life and fate in turn selected

  Were to analysis subjected.

  The fervid poet would recite,

  Carried away by ecstasy,

  Fragments of northern poetry,

  Whilst Eugene condescending quite,

  Though scarcely following what was said,

  Attentive listened to the lad.

  XVII

  But more the passions occupy

  The converse of our hermits twain,

  And, heaving a regretful sigh,

  An exile from their troublous reign,

  Eugene would speak regarding these.

  Thrice happy who their agonies

  Hath suffered but indifferent grown,

  Still happier he who ne'er hath known!

  By absence who hath chilled his love,

  His hate by slander, and who spends

  Existence without wife or friends,

  Whom jealous transport cannot move,

  And who the rent-roll of his race

  Ne'er trusted to the treacherous ace.

  XVIII

  When, wise at length, we seek repose

  Beneath the flag of Quietude,

  When Passion's fire no longer glows

  And when her violence reviewed—

  Each gust of temper, silly word,

  Seems so unnatural and absurd:

  Reduced with effort unto sense,

  We hear with interest intense

  The accents wild of other's woes,

  They stir the heart as heretofore.

  So ancient warriors, battles o'er,

  A curious interest disclose

  In yarns of youthful troopers gay,

  Lost in the hamlet far away.

  XIX

  And in addition youth is flame

  And cannot anything conceal,

  Is ever ready to proclaim

  The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.

  Deeming himself a veteran scarred