Eugene Onegin Page 7

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  Another squire chose this season

  To reappear at his estate

  And gave the neighbours equal reason

  For scrutiny no less irate.

  Vladimir Lnsky, just returning

  From Gottingen with soulful yearning,

  Was in his primea handsome youth

  And poet filled with Kantian truth.

  From misty Germany our squire

  Had carried back the fruits of art:

  A freedom-loving, noble heart,

  A spirit strange but full of fire,

  An always bold, impassioned speech,

  And raven locks of shoulder reach.

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  As yet unmarked by disillusion

  Or chill corruption's deadly grasp,

  His soul still knew the warm effusion

  Of maiden's touch and friendship's clasp.

  A charming fool at love's vocation,

  He fed on hope's eternal ration;

  The world's fresh glitter and its call

  Still held his youthful mind in thrall;

  He entertained with fond illusions

  The doubts that plagued his heart and will;

  The goal of life, he found, was still

  A tempting riddle of confusions;

  He racked his brains and rather thought

  That miracles could still be wrought.

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  He knew a kindred soul was fated

  To join her life to his career,

  That even now she pined and waited,

  Expecting he would soon appear.

  And he believed that men would tender

  Their freedom for his honour's splendour;

  That friendly hands would surely rise

  To shatter slander's cup of lies;

  That there exists a holy cluster

  Of chosen ones whom men should heed,

  A happy and immortal breed,

  Whose potent light in all its lustre

  Would one day shine upon our race

  And grant the world redeeming grace.*

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  Compassion, noble indignation,

  A perfect love of righteous ways,

  And fame's delicious agitation

  Had stirred his soul since early days.

  He roamed the world with singing lyre

  And found the source of lyric fire

  Beneath the skies of distant lands,

  From Goethe's and from Schiller's hands.

  He never shamed, the happy creature,

  The lofty Muses of his art;

  He proudly sang with open heart

  Sublime emotion's every feature,

  The charm of gravely simple things,

  And youthful hopes on youthful wings.

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  He sang of love, by love commanded,

  A simple and affecting tune,

  As clear as maiden thoughts, as candid

  As infant slumber, as the moon

  In heaven's peaceful desert flying,

  That queen of secrets and of sighing.

  He sang of parting and of pain,

  Of something vague, of mists and rain;

  He sang the rose, romantic flower,

  And distant lands where once he'd shed

  His living tears upon the bed

  Of silence at a lonely hour;

  He sang life's bloom gone pale and sere

  He'd almost reached his eighteenth year.

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  Throughout that barren, dim dominion

  Eugene alone could see his worth;

  And Lensky formed a low opinion

  Of neighbours' feasts and rounds of mirth;

  He fled their noisy congregations

  And found their solemn conversations

  Of liquor, and of hay brought in,

  Of kennels, and of distant kin,

  Devoid of any spark of feeling

  Or hint of inner lyric grace;

  Both wit and brains were out of place,

  As were the arts of social dealing;

  But then their charming wives he found

  At talk were even less profound.

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  Well-off. . . and handsome in addition,

  Young Lensky seemed the perfect catch;

  And so, by countryside tradition,

  They asked him round and sought to match

  Their daughters with this semi-Russian.

  He'd calland right away discussion

  Would touch obliquely on the point

  That bachelors' lives were out of joint;

  And then the guest would be invited

  To take some tea while Dunya poured;

  They whisper: 'Dunya, don't look bored!'

  Then bring in her guitar, excited . . .

  And then, good God, she starts to bawl:

  'Come to my golden chamberhall!'

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  But Lensky, having no desire

  For marriage bonds or wedding bell,

  Had cordial hopes that he'd acquire

  The chance to know Onegin well.

  And so they metlike wave with mountain,

  Like verse with prose, like flame with fountain:

  Their natures distant and apart.

  At first their differences of heart

  Made meetings dull at one another's;

  But then their friendship grew, and soon

  They'd meet on horse each afternoon,

  And in the end were close as brothers.

  Thus peopleso it seems to me

  Become good friends from sheer ennui.

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  But even friendships like our heroes

  ' Exist no more; for we've outgrown

  All sentiments and deem men zeros

  Except of course ourselves alone.

  We all take on Napoleon's features,

  And millions of our fellow creatures

  Are nothing more to us than tools . . . Since feelings are for freaks and fools.

  Eugene, of course, had keen perceptions

  And on the whole despised mankind,

  Yet wasn't, like so many, blind;

  And since each rule permits exceptions,

  He did respect a noble few,

  And, cold himself, gave warmth its due.

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  He smiled at Lensky's conversation.

  Indeed the poet's fervent speech,

  His gaze of constant inspiration,

  His mind, still vacillant in reach

  All these were new and unexpected,

  And so, for once, Eugene elected

  To keep his wicked tongue in check,

  And thought: What foolishness to wreck

  The young man's blissful, brief infection;

  Its time will pass without my knife,

  So let him meanwhile live his life Believing in the world's perfection;

  Let's grant to fevered youthful days

  Their youthful ravings and their blaze.

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  The two found everything a basis

  For argument or food for thought:

  The covenants of bygone races,

  The fruits that learned science brought,

  The prejudice that haunts all history,

  The grave's eternal, fateful mystery,

  And Good and Evil, Life and Fate

  On each in turn they'd ruminate.

  The poet, lost in hot contention,

  Would oft recite, his eyes ablaze,

  Brief passages from Nordic lays;

  Eugene, with friendly condescension,

  Would listen with a look intense,

  Although he seldom saw their sense.

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  More often, though, my two recluses

  Would muse on passions* and their flights.

  Eugene, who'd fled their wild abuses,

  Regretted still his past delights

  And sighed, recalling their interment.

  Oh, happy he who's known the ferment


  Of passions and escaped their lot;

  More happy he who knew them not,

  Who cooled off love with separation

  And enmity with harsh contempt;

  Who yawned with wife and friends, exempt

  From pangs of jealous agitation;

  Who never risked his sound estate

  Upon a deuce, that cunning bait.

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  When we at last turn into sages

  And flock to tranquil wisdom's crest;

  When passion's flame no longer rages,

  And all the yearnings in our breast,

  The wayward fits, the final surges,

  Have all become mere comic urges,

  And pain has made us humble men

  We sometimes like to listen then

  As others tell of passions swelling;

  They stir our hearts and fan the flame.

  Just so a soldier, old and lame,

  Forgotten in his wretched dwelling,

  Will strain to hear with bated breath

  The youngbloods' yarns of courting death.

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  But flaming youth in all its madness

  Keeps nothing of its heart concealed:

  Its loves and hates, its joy and sadness,

  Are babbled out and soon revealed.

  Onegin, who was widely taken

  As one whom love had left forsaken,

  Would listen gravely to the end

  When self-expression gripped his friend;

  The poet, feasting on confession,

  Naively poured his secrets out;

  And so Eugene learned all about

  The course of youthful love's progression

  A story rich in feelings too,

  Although to us they're hardly new.

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  Ah yes, he loved in such a fashion

  As men today no longer do;

  As only poets, mad with passion,

  Still love . . . because they're fated to.

  He knew one constant source of dreaming,

  One constant wish forever gleaming,

  One ever-present cause for pain!

  And neither distance, nor the chain

  Of endless years of separation,

  Nor pleasure's rounds, nor learning's well,

  Nor foreign beauties' magic spell,

  Nor yet the Muse, his true vocation,

  Could alter Lensky's deep desire,

  His soul aflame with virgin fire.

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  When scarce a boy and not yet knowing

  The torment of a heart in flames,

  He'd been entranced by Olga growing

  And fondly watched her girlhood games;

  Beneath a shady park's protection

  He'd shared her frolics with affection.

  Their fathers, who were friends, had plans

  To read one day their marriage banns.

  And deep within her rustic bower,

  Beneath her parents' loving gaze,

  She blossomed in a maiden's ways

  A valley-lily come to flower

  Off where the grass grows dense and high,

  Unseen by bee or butterfly.

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  She gave the poet intimations

  Of youthful ecstasies unknown,

  And, filling all his meditations,

  Drew forth his flute's first ardent moan.

  Farewell, #62038; golden games' illusion!

  He fell in love with dark seclusion,

  With stillness, stars, the lonely night,

  And with the moon's celestial light

  That lamp to which we've consecrated

  A thousand walks in evening's calm

  And countless tearsthe gentle balm

  Of secret torments unabated .... T

  oday, though, all we see in her

  Is just another lantern's blur.

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  Forever modest, meek in bearing,

  As gay as morning's rosy dress,

  Like any poetopen, caring,

  As sweet as love's own soft caress;

  Her sky-blue eyes, devoid of guile,

  Her flaxen curls, her lovely smile,

  Her voice, her form, her graceful stance,

  Oh, Olga's every trait.... But glance

  In any novelyou'll discover

  Her portrait there; it's charming, true;

  I liked it once no less than you,

  But round it boredom seems to hover;

  And so, dear reader, grant me pause

  To plead her elder sister's cause.

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  Her sister bore the name Tatyana.

  And we now press our wilful claim

  To be the first who thus shall honour

  A tender novel with that name.*

  Why not? I like its intonation;

  It has, I know, association

  With olden days beyond recall,

  With humble roots and servants' hall;

  But we must grant, though it offend us:

  Our taste in names is less than weak

  (Of verses I won't even speak);

  Enlightenment has failed to mend us,

  And all we've learned from its great store

  Is affectationnothing more.

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  So she was called Tatyana, reader.

  She lacked that fresh and rosy tone

  That made her sister's beauty sweeter

  A

  nd drew all eyes to her alone.

  A wild creature, sad and pensive,

  Shy as a doe and apprehensive,

  Tatyana seemed among her kin

  A stranger who had wandered in.

  She never learned to show affection,

  To hug her parentseither one;

  A child herself, for children's fun

  She lacked the slightest predilection,

  And oftentimes she'd sit all day

  In silence at the window bay.

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  But pensiveness, her friend and treasure

  Through all her years since cradle days,

  Adorned the course of rural leisure

  By bringing dreams before her gaze.

  She never touched a fragile finger

  To thread a needle, wouldn't linger

  Above a tambour to enrich

  A linen cloth with silken stitch.

  Mark how the world compels submission:

  The little girl with docile doll