Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

by Александр Пушкин

  III

  Passion's wild sway I then allowed,

  Her promptings unto law did make,

  Pursuits I followed of the crowd,

  My sportive Muse I used to take

  To many a noisy feast and fight,

  Terror of guardians of the night;

  And wild festivities among

  She brought with her the gift of song.

  Like a Bacchante in her sport

  Beside the cup she sang her rhymes

  And the young revellers of past times

  Vociferously paid her court,

  And I, amid the friendly crowd,

  Of my light paramour was proud.

  IV

  But I abandoned their array,

  And fled afar—she followed me.

  How oft the kindly Muse away

  Hath whiled the road's monotony,

  Entranced me by some mystic tale.

  How oft beneath the moonbeams pale

  Like Leonora did she ride(79)

  With me Caucasian rocks beside!

  How oft to the Crimean shore

  She led me through nocturnal mist

  Unto the sounding sea to list,

  Where Nereids murmur evermore,

  And where the billows hoarsely raise

  To God eternal hymns of praise.

  [Note 79: See Note 30, "Leonora," a poem by Gottfried Augustus

  Burger, b. 1748, d. 1794.]

  V

  Then, the far capital forgot,

  Its splendour and its blandishments,

  In poor Moldavia cast her lot,

  She visited the humble tents

  Of migratory gipsy hordes—

  And wild among them grew her words—

  Our godlike tongue she could exchange

  For savage speech, uncouth and strange,

  And ditties of the steppe she loved.

  But suddenly all changed around!

  Lo! in my garden was she found

  And as a country damsel roved,

  A pensive sorrow in her glance

  And in her hand a French romance.

  VI

  Now for the first time I my Muse

  Lead into good society,

  Her steppe-like beauties I peruse

  With jealous fear, anxiety.

  Through dense aristocratic rows

  Of diplomats and warlike beaux

  And supercilious dames she glides,

  Sits down and gazes on all sides—

  Amazed at the confusing crowd,

  Variety of speech and vests,

  Deliberate approach of guests

  Who to the youthful hostess bowed,

  And the dark fringe of men, like frames

  Enclosing pictures of fair dames.

  VII

  Assemblies oligarchical

  Please her by their decorum fixed,

  The rigour of cold pride and all

  Titles and ages intermixed.

  But who in that choice company

  With clouded brow stands silently?

  Unknown to all he doth appear,

  A vision desolate and drear

  Doth seem to him the festal scene.

  Doth his brow wretchedness declare

  Or suffering pride? Why is he there?

  Who may he be? Is it Eugene?

  Pray is it he? It is the same.

  "And is it long since back he came?

  VIII

  "Is he the same or grown more wise?

  Still doth the misanthrope appear?

  He has returned, say in what guise?

  What is his latest character?

  What doth he act? Is it Melmoth,(80)

  Philanthropist or patriot,

  Childe Harold, quaker, devotee,

  Or other mask donned playfully?

  Or a good fellow for the nonce,

  Like you and me and all the rest?—

  But this is my advice, 'twere best

  Not to behave as he did once—

  Society he duped enow."

  "Is he known to you?"—"Yes and No."

  [Note 80: A romance by Maturin.]

  IX

  Wherefore regarding him express

  Perverse, unfavourable views?

  Is it that human restlessness

  For ever carps, condemns, pursues?

  Is it that ardent souls of flame

  By recklessness amuse or shame

  Selfish nonentities around?

  That mind which yearns for space is bound?

  And that too often we receive

  Professions eagerly for deeds,

  That crass stupidity misleads,

  That we by cant ourselves deceive,

  That mediocrity alone

  Without disgust we look upon?

  X

  Happy he who in youth was young,

  Happy who timely grew mature,

  He who life's frosts which early wrung

  Hath gradually learnt to endure;

  By visions who was ne'er deranged

  Nor from the mob polite estranged,

  At twenty who was prig or swell,

  At thirty who was married well,

  At fifty who relief obtained

  From public and from private ties,

  Who glory, wealth and dignities

  Hath tranquilly in turn attained,

  And unto whom we all allude

  As to a worthy man and good!

  XI

  But sad is the reflection made,

  In vain was youth by us received,

  That we her constantly betrayed

  And she at last hath us deceived;

  That our desires which noblest seemed,

  The purest of the dreams we dreamed,

  Have one by one all withered grown

  Like rotten leaves by Autumn strown—

  'Tis fearful to anticipate

  Nought but of dinners a long row,

  To look on life as on a show,

  Eternally to imitate

  The seemly crowd, partaking nought

  Its passions and its modes of thought.

  XII

  The butt of scandal having been,

  'Tis dreadful—ye agree, I hope—

  To pass with reasonable men

  For a fictitious misanthrope,

  A visionary mortified,

  Or monster of Satanic pride,

  Or e'en the "Demon" of my strain.(81)

  Oneguine—take him up again—

  In duel having killed his friend

  And reached, with nought his mind to engage,

  The twenty-sixth year of his age,

  Wearied of leisure in the end,

  Without profession, business, wife,

  He knew not how to spend his life.

  [Note 81: The "Demon," a short poem by Pushkin which at its first appearance created some excitement in Russian society. A more appropriate, or at any rate explanatory title, would have been the Tempter. It is descriptive of the first manifestation of doubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as the visits of a "demon." Russian society was moved to embody this imaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin's. This must not be confounded with Lermontoff's poem bearing the same title upon which Rubinstein's new opera, "Il Demonio," is founded.]

  XIII

  Him a disquietude did seize,

  A wish from place to place to roam,

  A very troublesome disease,

  In some a willing martyrdom.

  Abandoned he his country seat,

  Of woods and fields the calm retreat,

  Where every day before his eyes

  A blood-bespattered shade would rise,

  And aimless journeys did commence—

  But still remembrance to him clings,

  His travels like all other things

  Inspired but weariness intense;

  Returning, from his ship amid

  A ball he fell as Tchatzki did.(82)

>   [Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the principal characters in Griboyedoff's celebrated comedy "Woe from Wit" (Gore ot Ouma).]

  XIV

  Behold, the crowd begins to stir,

  A whisper runs along the hall,

  A lady draws the hostess near,

  Behind her a grave general.

  Her manners were deliberate,

  Reserved, but not inanimate,

  Her eyes no saucy glance address,

  There was no angling for success.

  Her features no grimaces bleared;

  Of affectation innocent,

  Calm and without embarrassment,

  A faithful model she appeared

  Of "comme il faut." Shishkoff, forgive!

  I can't translate the adjective.(83)

  [Note 83: Shishkoff was a member of the literary school which cultivated the vernacular as opposed to the Arzamass or Gallic school, to which the poet himself and his uncle Vassili Pushkin belonged. He was admiral, author, and minister of education.]

  XV

  Ladies in crowds around her close,

  Her with a smile old women greet,

  The men salute with lower bows

  And watch her eye's full glance to meet.

  Maidens before her meekly move

  Along the hall, and high above

  The crowd doth head and shoulders rise

  The general who accompanies.

  None could her beautiful declare,

  Yet viewing her from head to foot,

  None could a trace of that impute,

  Which in the elevated sphere

  Of London life is "vulgar" called

  And ruthless fashion hath blackballed.

  XVI

  I like this word exceedingly

  Although it will not bear translation,

  With us 'tis quite a novelty

  Not high in general estimation;

  'Twould serve ye in an epigram—

  But turn we once more to our dame.

  Enchanting, but unwittingly,

  At table she was sitting by

  The brilliant Nina Voronskoi,

  The Neva's Cleopatra, and

  None the conviction could withstand

  That Nina's marble symmetry,

  Though dazzling its effulgence white,

  Could not eclipse her neighbour's light.

  XVII

  "And is it," meditates Eugene.

  "And is it she? It must be—no—

  How! from the waste of steppes unseen,"—

  And the eternal lorgnette through

  Frequent and rapid doth his glance

  Seek the forgotten countenance

  Familiar to him long ago.

  "Inform me, prince, pray dost thou know

  The lady in the crimson cap

  Who with the Spanish envoy speaks?"—

  The prince's eye Oneguine seeks:

  "Ah! long the world hath missed thy shape!

  But stop! I will present thee, if

  You choose."—"But who is she?"—"My wife."

  XVIII

  "So thou art wed! I did not know.

  Long ago?"—"'Tis the second year."

  "To—?"—"Larina."—"Tattiana?"—"So.

  And dost thou know her?"—"We live near."

  "Then come with me." The prince proceeds,

  His wife approaches, with him leads

  His relative and friend as well.

  The lady's glance upon him fell—

  And though her soul might be confused,

  And vehemently though amazed

  She on the apparition gazed,

  No signs of trouble her accused,

  A mien unaltered she preserved,

  Her bow was easy, unreserved.

  XIX

  Ah no! no faintness her attacked

  Nor sudden turned she red or white,

  Her brow she did not e'en contract

  Nor yet her lip compressed did bite.

  Though he surveyed her at his ease,

  Not the least trace Oneguine sees

  Of the Tattiana of times fled.

  He conversation would have led—

  But could not. Then she questioned him:—

  "Had he been long here, and where from?

  Straight from their province had he come?"—

  Cast upwards then her eyeballs dim

  Unto her husband, went away—

  Transfixed Oneguine mine doth stay.

  XX

  Is this the same Tattiana, say,

  Before whom once in solitude,

  In the beginning of this lay,

  Deep in the distant province rude,

  Impelled by zeal for moral worth,

  He salutary rules poured forth?

  The maid whose note he still possessed

  Wherein the heart its vows expressed,

  Where all upon the surface lies,—

  That girl—but he must dreaming be—

  That girl whom once on a time he

  Could in a humble sphere despise,

  Can she have been a moment gone

  Thus haughty, careless in her tone?

  XXI

  He quits the fashionable throng

  And meditative homeward goes,

  Visions, now sad, now grateful, long

  Do agitate his late repose.

  He wakes—they with a letter come—

  The Princess N. will be at home

  On such a day. O Heavens, 'tis she!

  Oh! I accept. And instantly

  He a polite reply doth scrawl.

  What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?

  In the recesses what hath stirred

  Of a heart cold and cynical?

  Vexation? Vanity? or strove

  Again the plague of boyhood—love?

  XXII

  The hours once more Oneguine counts,

  Impatient waits the close of day,

  But ten strikes and his sledge he mounts

  And gallops to her house away.

  Trembling he seeks the young princess—

  Tattiana finds in loneliness.

  Together moments one or two

  They sat, but conversation's flow

  Deserted Eugene. He, distraught,

  Sits by her gloomily, desponds,

  Scarce to her questions he responds,

  Full of exasperating thought.

  He fixedly upon her stares—

  She calm and unconcerned appears.