Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]
Once more to idleness consigned,
He felt the laudable desire
From mere vacuity of mind
The wit of others to acquire.
A case of books he doth obtain—
He reads at random, reads in vain.
This nonsense, that dishonest seems,
This wicked, that absurd he deems,
All are constrained and fetters bear,
Antiquity no pleasure gave,
The moderns of the ancients rave—
Books he abandoned like the fair,
His book-shelf instantly doth drape
With taffety instead of crape.
XXXIX
Having abjured the haunts of men,
Like him renouncing vanity,
His friendship I acquired just then;
His character attracted me.
An innate love of meditation,
Original imagination,
And cool sagacious mind he had:
I was incensed and he was sad.
Both were of passion satiate
And both of dull existence tired,
Extinct the flame which once had fired;
Both were expectant of the hate
With which blind Fortune oft betrays
The very morning of our days.
XL
He who hath lived and living, thinks,
Must e’en despise his kind at last;
He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks
From shades of the relentless past.
No fond illusions live to soothe,
But memory like a serpent’s tooth
With late repentance gnaws and stings.
All this in many cases brings
A charm with it in conversation.
Onéguine’s speeches I abhorred
At first, but soon became inured
To the sarcastic observation,
To witticisms and taunts half-vicious
And gloomy epigrams malicious.
XLI
How oft, when on a summer night
Transparent o’er the Neva beamed
The firmament in mellow light,
And when the watery mirror gleamed
No more with pale Diana’s rays,(17)
We called to mind our youthful days—
The days of love and of romance!
Then would we muse as in a trance,
Impressionable for an hour,
And breathe the balmy breath of night;
And like the prisoner’s our delight
Who for the greenwood quits his tower,
As on the rapid wings of thought
The early days of life we sought.
[Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of St. Petersburg
are a prolonged twilight.]
XLII
Absorbed in melancholy mood
And o’er the granite coping bent,
Onéguine meditative stood,
E’en as the poet says he leant.(18)
’Tis silent all! Alone the cries
Of the night sentinels arise
And from the Millionaya afar(19)
The sudden rattling of a car.
Lo! on the sleeping river borne,
A boat with splashing oar floats by,
And now we hear delightedly
A jolly song and distant horn;
But sweeter in a midnight dream
Torquato Tasso’s strains I deem.
[Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff’s “Goddess of the Neva.” At St.
Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with
splendid granite quays.]
[Note 19:
A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from
the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.]
XLIII
Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea,
O Brenta, once more we shall meet
And, inspiration firing me,
Your magic voices I shall greet,
Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire,
And after Albion’s proud lyre (20)
Possess my love and sympathy.
The nights of golden Italy
I’ll pass beneath the firmament,
Hid in the gondola’s dark shade,
Alone with my Venetian maid,
Now talkative, now reticent;
From her my lips shall learn the tongue
Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.
[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron’s genius on the
imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other
English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind,
which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an
essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian
tastes, see his poem of “Angelo,” founded upon “Measure for Measure.”]
XLIV
When will my hour of freedom come!
Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales
Awaiting on the shore I roam
And beckon to the passing sails.
Upon the highway of the sea
When shall I wing my passage free
On waves by tempests curdled o’er!
’Tis time to quit this weary shore
So uncongenial to my mind,
To dream upon the sunny strand
Of Africa, ancestral land,(21)
Of dreary Russia left behind,
Wherein I felt love’s fatal dart,
Wherein I buried left my heart.
[Note 21: The poet was, on his mother’s side, of African extraction,
a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of
his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petròvitch Hannibal,
was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a
corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian
Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused
him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal’s
brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburg
for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his
godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank
of general in the Russian service.]
XLV
Eugene designed with me to start
And visit many a foreign clime,
But Fortune cast our lots apart
For a protracted space of time.
Just at that time his father died,
And soon Onéguine’s door beside
Of creditors a hungry rout
Their claims and explanations shout.
But Eugene, hating litigation
And with his lot in life content,
To a surrender gave consent,
Seeing in this no deprivation,
Or counting on his uncle’s death
And what the old man might bequeath.
XLVI
And in reality one day
The steward sent a note to tell
How sick to death his uncle lay
And wished to say to him farewell.
Having this mournful document
Perused, Eugene in postchaise went
And hastened to his uncle’s side,
But in his heart dissatisfied,
Having for money’s sake alone
Sorrow to counterfeit and wail—
Thus we began our little tale—
But, to his uncle’s mansion flown,
He found him on the table laid,
A due which must to earth be paid.
XLVII
The courtyard full of serfs he sees,
And from the country all around
Had come both friends and enemies—
Funeral amateurs abound!
The body they consigned to rest,
And then made merry pope and guest,
With serious air then went away
As men who much had done that day.
Lo! my Onéguine rural lord!
Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes,
He now a full possession takes,
He who economy abhorred,
Delighted much his former ways
To vary for a few brief days.
XLVIII
For two whole days it seemed a change
To wander through the meadows still,
The cool dark oaken grove to range,
To listen to the rippling rill.
But on the third of grove and mead
He took no more the slightest heed;
They made him feel inclined to doze;
And the conviction soon arose,
Ennui can in the country dwell
Though without palaces and streets,
Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fêtes;
On him spleen mounted sentinel
And like his shadow dogged his life,
Or better,—like a faithful wife.
XLIX
I was for calm existence made,
For rural solitude and dreams,
My lyre sings sweeter in the shade
And more imagination teems.
On innocent delights I dote,
Upon my lake I love to float,
For law I _far niente_ take
And every morning I awake
The child of sloth and liberty.
I slumber much, a little read,
Of fleeting glory take no heed.
In former years thus did not I
In idleness and tranquil joy
The happiest days of life employ?
L
Love, flowers, the country, idleness
And fields my joys have ever been;
I like the difference to express
Between myself and my Eugene,
Lest the malicious reader or
Some one or other editor
Of keen sarcastic intellect
Herein my portrait should detect,
And impiously should declare,
To sketch myself that I have tried
Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride,
As if impossible it were
To write of any other elf
Than one’s own fascinating self.
LI
Here I remark all poets are
Love to idealize inclined;
I have dreamed many a vision fair
And the recesses of my mind
Retained the image, though short-lived,
Which afterwards the muse revived.
Thus carelessly I once portrayed
Mine own ideal, the mountain maid,
The captives of the Salguir’s shore.(22)
But now a question in this wise
Oft upon friendly lips doth rise:
Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?
To whom amongst the jealous throng
Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?
[Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of
the poet. The former line indicates the _Prisoner of the
Caucasus_, the latter, _The Fountain of Baktchiserai_. The
Salguir is a river of the Crimea.]
LII
Whose glance reflecting inspiration
With tenderness hath recognized
Thy meditative incantation—
Whom hath thy strain immortalized?
None, be my witness Heaven above!
The malady of hopeless love
I have endured without respite.
Happy who thereto can unite
Poetic transport. They impart
A double force unto their song
Who following Petrarch move along
And ease the tortures of the heart—
Perchance they laurels also cull—
But I, in love, was mute and dull.
LIII
The Muse appeared, when love passed by
And my dark soul to light was brought;
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