Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]

With eye precise and without fail. Tattiana saw with trepidation By what idea or observation Onéguine was the most impressed, In what he merely acquiesced. Upon those margins she perceived Onéguine’s pencillings. His mind Made revelations undesigned, Of what he thought and what believed, A dagger, asterisk, or note Interrogation to denote. XXII And my Tattiana now began To understand by slow degrees More clearly, God be praised, the man, Whom autocratic fate’s decrees Had bid her sigh for without hope— A dangerous, gloomy misanthrope, Being from hell or heaven sent, Angel or fiend malevolent. Which is he? or an imitation, A bogy conjured up in joke, A Russian in Childe Harold’s cloak, Of foreign whims the impersonation— Handbook of fashionable phrase Or parody of modern ways? XXIII Hath she found out the riddle yet? Hath she a fitting phrase selected? But time flies and she doth forget They long at home have her expected— Whither two neighbouring dames have walked And a long time about her talked. “What can be done? She is no child!” Cried the old dame with anguish filled: “Olinka is her junior, see. ’Tis time to marry her, ’tis true, But tell me what am I to do? To all she answers cruelly— I will not wed, and ever weeps And lonely through the forest creeps.” XXIV “Is she in love?” quoth one. “With whom? Bouyànoff courted. She refused. Pétòushkoff met the selfsame doom. The hussar Pykhtin was accused. How the young imp on Tania doted! To captivate her how devoted! I mused: perhaps the matter’s squared— O yes! my hopes soon disappeared.” “But, _mátushka_, to Moscow you(70) Should go, the market for a maid, With many a vacancy, ’tis said.”— “Alas! my friend, no revenue!” “Enough to see one winter’s end; If not, the money I will lend.” [Note 70: “Mátushka,” or “little mother,” a term of endearment in constant use amongst Russian females.] XXV The venerable dame opined The counsel good and full of reason, Her money counted, and designed To visit Moscow in the season. Tattiana learns the intelligence— Of her provincial innocence The unaffected traits she now Unto a carping world must show— Her toilette’s antiquated style, Her antiquated mode of speech, For Moscow fops and Circes each To mark with a contemptuous smile. Horror! had she not better stay Deep in the greenwood far away? XXVI Arising with the morning’s light, Unto the fields she makes her way, And with emotional delight Surveying them, she thus doth say: “Ye peaceful valleys all, good-bye! Ye well-known mountain summits high, Ye groves whose depths I know so well, Thou beauteous sky above, farewell! Delicious nature, thee I fly, The calm existence which I prize I yield for splendid vanities, Thou too farewell, my liberty! Whither and wherefore do I speed And what will Destiny concede?” XXVII Farther Tattiana’s walks extend— ’Tis now the hillock now the rill Their natural attractions lend To stay the maid against her will. She the acquaintances she loves, Her spacious fields and shady groves, Another visit hastes to pay. But Summer swiftly fades away And golden Autumn draweth nigh, And pallid nature trembling grieves, A victim decked with golden leaves; Dark clouds before the north wind fly; It blew: it howled: till winter e’en Came forth in all her magic sheen. XXVIII The snow descends and buries all, Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs, A white and undulating pall O’er hillock and o’er meadow throws. The channel of the river stilled As if with eider-down is filled. The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoice In mother Winter’s strange caprice. But Tania’s heart is not at ease, Winter’s approach she doth not hail Nor the frost particles inhale Nor the first snow of winter seize Her shoulders, breast and face to lave— Alarm the winter journey gave. XXIX The date was fixed though oft postponed, But ultimately doth approach. Examined, mended, newly found Was the old and forgotten coach; Kibitkas three, the accustomed train,(71) The household property contain: Saucepans and mattresses and chairs, Portmanteaus and preserves in jars, Feather-beds, also poultry-coops, Basins and jugs—well! everything To happiness contributing. Behold! beside their dwelling groups Of serfs the farewell wail have given. Nags eighteen to the door are driven. [Note 71: In former times, and to some extent the practice still continues to the present day, Russian families were wont to travel with every necessary of life, and, in the case of the wealthy, all its luxuries following in their train. As the poet complains in a subsequent stanza there were no inns; and if the simple Làrinas required such ample store of creature comforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on his journeys may be easily conceived.] XXX These to the coach of state are bound, Breakfast the busy cooks prepare, Baggage is heaped up in a mound, Old women at the coachmen swear. A bearded postillion astride A lean and shaggy nag doth ride, Unto the gates the servants fly To bid the gentlefolk good-bye. These take their seats; the coach of state Leisurely through the gateway glides. “Adieu! thou home where peace abides, Where turmoil cannot penetrate, Shall I behold thee once again?”— Tattiana tears cannot restrain. XXXI The limits of enlightenment When to enlarge we shall succeed, In course of time (the whole extent Will not five centuries exceed By computation) it is like Our roads transformed the eye will strike; Highways all Russia will unite And form a network left and right; On iron bridges we shall gaze Which o’er the waters boldly leap, Mountains we’ll level and through deep Streams excavate subaqueous ways, And Christian folk will, I expect, An inn at every stage erect. XXXII But now, what wretched roads one sees, Our bridges long neglected rot, And at the stages bugs and fleas One moment’s slumber suffer not. Inns there are none. Pretentious but Meagre, within a draughty hut, A bill of fare hangs full in sight And irritates the appetite. Meantime a Cyclops of those parts Before a fire which feebly glows Mends with the Russian hammer’s blows The flimsy wares of Western marts, With blessings on the ditches and The ruts of his own fatherland. XXXIII Yet on a frosty winter day The journey in a sledge doth please, No senseless fashionable lay Glides with a more luxurious ease; For our Automedons are fire And our swift troikas never tire; The verst posts catch the vacant eye And like a palisade flit by.(72) The Làrinas unwisely went, From apprehension of the cost, By their own horses, not the post— So Tania to her heart’s content Could taste the pleasures of the road. Seven days and nights the travellers plod. [Note 72: This somewhat musty joke has appeared in more than one national costume. Most Englishmen, if we were to replace verst-posts with milestones and substitute a graveyard for a palisade, would instantly recognize its Yankee extraction. In Russia however its origin is as ancient at least as the reign of Catherine the Second. The witticism ran thus: A courier sent by Prince Potemkin to the Empress drove so fast that his sword, projecting from the vehicle, rattled against the verst-posts as if against a palisade!] XXXIV But they draw near. Before them, lo! White Moscow raises her old spires, Whose countless golden crosses glow As with innumerable fires.(73) Ah! brethren, what was my delight When I yon semicircle bright Of churches, gardens, belfries high Descried before me suddenly! Moscow, how oft in evil days, Condemned to exile dire by fate, On thee I used to meditate! Moscow! How much is in the phrase For every loyal Russian breast! How much is in that word expressed! [Note 73: The aspect of Moscow, especially as seen from the Sparrow Hills, a low range bordering the river Moskva at a short distance from the city, is unique and splendid. It possesses several domes completely plated with gold and some twelve hundred spires most of which are surmounted by a golden cross. At the time of sunset they seem literally tipped with flame. It was from this memorable spot that Napoleon and the Grand Army first obtained a glimpse at the city of the Tsars. There are three hundred and seventy churches in Moscow. The Kremlin itself is however by far the most interesting object to the stranger.] XXXV Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks, Petrovski Palace! Gloomily His recent glory he invokes. Here, drunk with his late victory, Napoleon tarried till it please Moscow approach on bended knees, Time-honoured Kremlin’s keys present. Not so! My Moscow never went To seek him out with bended head. No gift she bears, no feast proclaims, But lights incendiary flames For the impatient chief instead. From hence engrossed in thought profound He on the conflagration frowned.(74) [Note 74: Napoleon on his arrival in Moscow on the 14th September took up his quarters in the Kremlin, but on the 16th had to remove to the Petrovski Palace or Castle on account of the conflagration which broke out in all quarters of the city. He however returned to the Kremlin on the 19th September. The Palace itself is placed in the midst of extensive grounds just outside the city, on the road to Tver, i.e. to the northwest. It is perhaps worthy of remark, as one amongst numerous circumstances proving how extensively the poet interwove his own life-experiences with the plot of this poem, that it was by this road that he himself must have been in the habit of approaching Moscow from his favourite country residence of Mikhailovskoe, in the province of Pskoff.] XXXVI Adieu, thou witness of our glory, Petrovski Palace; come, astir! Drive on! the city barriers hoary Appear; along the road of Tver The coach is borne o’er ruts and holes, Past women, sentry-boxes, rolls, Past palaces and nunneries, Lamp-posts, shops, sledges, families, Bokharians, peasants, beds of greens, Boulevards, belfries, milliners, Huts, chemists, Cossacks, shopkeepers And fashionable magazines, Balconies, lion’s heads on doors, Jackdaws on every spire—in scores.(75) [Note 75: The first line refers to the prevailing shape of the cast-iron handles which adorn the _porte cochères_. The Russians are fond of tame birds—jackdaws, pigeons, starlings, etc., abound in Moscow and elsewhere.] XXXVII The weary way still incomplete, An hour passed by—another—till, Near Khariton’s in a side street The coach before a house stood still. At an old aunt’s they had arrived Who had for four long years survived An invalid from lung complaint. A Kalmuck gray, in caftan rent And spectacles, his knitting staid And the saloon threw open wide; The princess from the sofa cried And the newcomers welcome bade. The two old ladies then embraced And exclamations interlaced. XXXVIII “Princesse, mon ange!”—“Pachette!”— “Aline!”