Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]

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. Onéguine 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 corvée, 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 Onéguine’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 Onéguine 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 In love’s campaigns Onéguine heard With quite a lachrymose expression The youthful poet’s fond confession. He with an innocence extreme His inner consciousness laid bare, And Eugene soon discovered there The story of his young love’s dream, Where plentifully feelings flow Which we experienced long ago. XX Alas! he loved as in our times Men love no more, as only the Mad spirit of the man who rhymes Is still condemned in love to be; One image occupied his mind, Constant affection intertwined And an habitual sense of pain; And distance interposed in vain, Nor years of separation all Nor homage which the Muse demands Nor beauties of far distant lands Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball His constant soul could ever tire, Which glowed with virginal desire. XXI When but a boy he Olga loved Unknown as yet the aching heart, He witnessed tenderly and moved Her girlish gaiety and sport. Beneath the sheltering oak tree’s shade He with his little maiden played, Whilst the fond parents, friends thro’ life, Dreamed in the future man and wife. And full of innocent delight, As in a thicket’s humble shade, Beneath her parents’ eyes the maid Grew like a lily pure and white, Unseen in thick and tangled grass By bee and butterfly which pass. XXII ’Twas she who first within his breast Poetic transport did infuse, And thoughts of Olga first impressed A mournful temper on his Muse. Farewell! thou golden days of love! ’Twas then he loved the tangled grove And solitude and calm delight, The moon, the stars, and shining night— The moon, the lamp of heaven above, To whom we used to consecrate A promenade in twilight late With tears which secret sufferers love— But now in her effulgence pale A substitute for lamps we hail! XXIII Obedient she had ever been And modest, cheerful as the morn, As a poetic life serene, Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn. Her eyes were of cerulean blue, Her locks were of a golden hue, Her movements, voice and figure slight, All about Olga—to a light Romance of love I pray refer, You’ll find her portrait there, I vouch; I formerly admired her much But finally grew bored by her. But with her elder sister I