Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]

The Country Damsel ‘Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse’—Malfilatre Canto The Third [Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.] I “Whither away? Deuce take the bard!”— “Good-bye, Onéguine, I must go.”— “I won’t detain you; but ’tis hard To guess how you the eve pull through.”— “At Làrina’s.”—“Hem, that is queer! Pray is it not a tough affair Thus to assassinate the eve?”— “Not at all.”—“That I can’t conceive! ’Tis something of this sort I deem. In the first place, say, am I right? A Russian household simple quite, Who welcome guests with zeal extreme, Preserves and an eternal prattle About the rain and flax and cattle.”— II “No misery I see in that”— “Boredom, my friend, behold the ill—” “Your fashionable world I hate, Domestic life attracts me still, Where—”—“What! another eclogue spin? For God’s sake, Lenski, don’t begin! What! really going? ’Tis too bad! But Lenski, I should be so glad Would you to me this Phyllis show, Fair source of every fine idea, Verses and tears et cetera. Present me.”—“You are joking.”—“No.”— “Delighted.”—“When?”—“This very night. They will receive us with delight.” III Whilst homeward by the nearest route Our heroes at full gallop sped, Can we not stealthily make out What they in conversation said?— “How now, Onéguine, yawning still?”— “’Tis habit, Lenski.”—“Is your ill More troublesome than usual?”—“No! How dark the night is getting though! Hallo, Andriushka, onward race! The drive becomes monotonous— Well! Làrina appears to us An ancient lady full of grace.— That bilberry wine, I’m sore afraid, The deuce with my inside has played.” IV “Say, of the two which was Tattiana?” “She who with melancholy face And silent as the maid Svetlana(30) Hard by the window took her place.”— “The younger, you’re in love with her!” “Well!”—“I the elder should prefer, Were I like you a bard by trade— In Olga’s face no life’s displayed. ’Tis a Madonna of Vandyk, An oval countenance and pink, Yon silly moon upon the brink Of the horizon she is like!”— Vladimir something curtly said Nor further comment that night made. [Note 30: “Svetlana,” a short poem by Joukóvski, upon which his fame mainly rests. Joukóvski was an unblushing plagiarist. Many eminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him, often without going through the form of acknowledging the source of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot be pronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty is unquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger’s poem “Leonora,” which has found so many English translators. Not content with a single development of Burger’s ghastly production the Russian poet has directly paraphrased “Leonora” under its own title, and also written a poem “Liudmila” in imitation of it. The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: A maiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providence and is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother. Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover’s spirit, to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunate maiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamber the unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs to his own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute his errand. It is a repulsive subject. “Svetlana,” however, is more agreeable than its prototype “Leonora,” inasmuch as the whole catastrophe turns out a dream brought on by “sorcery,” during the “sviatki” or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamer awakes to hear the tinkling of her lover’s sledge approaching. “Svetlana” has been translated by Sir John Bowring.] V Meantime Onéguine’s apparition At Làrina’s abode produced Quite a sensation; the position To all good neighbours’ sport conduced. Endless conjectures all propound And secretly their views expound. What jokes and guesses now abound, A beau is for Tattiana found! In fact, some people were assured The wedding-day had been arranged, But the date subsequently changed Till proper rings could be procured. On Lenski’s matrimonial fate They long ago had held debate. VI Of course Tattiana was annoyed By such allusions scandalous, Yet was her inmost soul o’erjoyed With satisfaction marvellous, As in her heart the thought sank home, I am in love, my hour hath come! Thus in the earth the seed expands Obedient to warm Spring’s commands. Long time her young imagination By indolence and languor fired The fated nutriment desired; And long internal agitation Had filled her youthful breast with gloom, She waited for—I don’t know whom! VII The fatal hour had come at last— She oped her eyes and cried: ’tis he! Alas! for now before her passed The same warm vision constantly; Now all things round about repeat Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet His name: the tenderness of home Tiresome unto her hath become And the kind-hearted servitors: Immersed in melancholy thought, She hears of conversation nought And hated casual visitors, Their coming which no man expects, And stay whose length none recollects. VIII Now with what eager interest She the delicious novel reads, With what avidity and zest She drinks in those seductive deeds! All the creations which below From happy inspiration flow, The swain of Julia Wolmar, Malek Adel and De Linar,(31) Werther, rebellious martyr bold, And that unrivalled paragon, The sleep-compelling Grandison, Our tender dreamer had enrolled A single being: ’twas in fine No other than Onéguine mine. [Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin’s time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One has now to search for the very names of most of the popular authors of Pushkin’s day and rummage biographical dictionaries for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet’s prime was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson’s popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.] IX Dreaming herself the heroine Of the romances she preferred, Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,—(32) Tattiana through the forest erred, And the bad book accompanies. Upon those pages she descries Her passion’s faithful counterpart, Fruit of the yearnings of the heart. She heaves a sigh and deep intent On raptures, sorrows not her own, She murmurs in an undertone A letter for her hero meant: That hero, though his merit shone, Was certainly no Grandison. [Note 32: Referring to Richardson’s “Clarissa Harlowe,” “La Nouvelle Heloise,” and Madame de Stael’s “Delphine.”] X Alas! my friends, the years flit by And after them at headlong pace The evanescent fashions fly In motley and amusing chase. The world is ever altering! Farthingales, patches, were the thing, And courtier, fop, and usurer Would once in powdered wig appear; Time was, the poet’s tender quill In hopes of everlasting fame A finished madrigal would frame Or couplets more ingenious still; Time was, a valiant general might Serve who could neither read nor write. XI Time was, in style magniloquent Authors replete with sacred fire Their heroes used to represent All that perfection could desire; Ever by adverse fate oppressed, Their idols they were wont to invest With intellect, a taste refined, And handsome countenance combined, A heart wherein pure passion burnt; The excited hero in a trice Was ready for self-sacrifice, And in the final tome we learnt, Vice had due punishment awarded, Virtue was with a bride rewarded. XII But now our minds are mystified And Virtue acts as a narcotic, Vice in romance is glorified And triumphs in career erotic. The monsters of the British Muse Deprive our schoolgirls of repose, The idols of their adoration A Vampire fond of meditation, Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he, The Eternal Jew or the Corsair Or the mysterious Sbogar.(33) Byron’s capricious phantasy Could in romantic mantle drape E’en hopeless egoism’s dark shape. [Note 33: “Melmoth,” a romance by Maturin, and “Jean Sbogar,” by Ch. Nodier. “The Vampire,” a tale published in 1819, was erroneously attributed to Lord Byron. “Salathiel; the Eternal Jew,” a romance by Geo. Croly.] XIII My friends, what means this odd digression? May be that I by heaven’s decrees Shall abdicate the bard’s profession, And shall adopt some new caprice. Thus having braved Apollo’s rage With humble prose I’ll fill my page And a romance in ancient style Shall my declining years beguile; Nor shall my pen paint terribly The torment born of crime unseen, But shall depict the touching scene Of Russian domesticity; I will descant on love’s sweet dream, The olden time shall be my theme. XIV Old people’s simple conversations My unpretending page shall fill, Their offspring’s innocent flirtations By the old lime-tree or the rill, Their Jealousy and separation And tears of reconciliation: Fresh cause of quarrel then I’ll find, But finally in wedlock bind. The passionate speeches I’ll repeat, Accents of rapture or despair I uttered to my lady fair Long ago, prostrate at her feet. Then they came easily enow, My tongue is somewhat rusty now. XV Tattiana! sweet Tattiana, see! What bitter tears with thee I shed! Thou hast resigned thy destiny Unto a ruthless tyrant dread. Thou’lt suffer, dearest, but before, Hope with her fascinating power To dire contentment shall give birth And thou shalt taste the joys of earth. Thou’lt quaff love’s sweet envenomed stream, Fantastic images shall swarm In thy imagination warm, Of happy meetings thou shalt dream, And wheresoe’er thy footsteps err, Confront thy fated torturer! XVI Love’s pangs Tattiana agonize. She seeks the garden in her need— Sudden she stops, casts down her eyes And cares not farther to proceed; Her bosom heaves whilst crimson hues With sudden flush her cheeks suffuse, Barely to draw her breath she seems, Her eye with fire unwonted gleams. And now ’tis night, the guardian moon Sails her allotted course on high, And from the misty woodland nigh The nightingale trills forth her tune; Restless Tattiana sleepless lay And thus unto her nurse did say: XVII “Nurse, ’tis so close I cannot rest. Open the window—sit by me.” “What ails thee, dear?”—“I feel depressed. Relate some ancient history.” “But which, my dear?—In days of yore Within my memory I bore Many an ancient legend which In monsters and fair dames was rich; But now my mind is desolate, What once I knew is clean forgot— Alas! how wretched now my lot!”