Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

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Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse Page 21

by Александр Пушкин


  Or "Idol mio," and in the grate

  Would lose his slippers or gazette.

  XXXVIII

  Time flies! a genial air abroad,

  Winter resigned her empire white,

  Oneguine ne'er as poet showed

  Nor died nor lost his senses quite.

  Spring cheered him up, and he resigned

  His chambers close wherein confined

  He marmot-like did hibernate,

  His double sashes and his grate,

  And sallied forth one brilliant morn—

  Along the Neva's bank he sleighs,

  On the blue blocks of ice the rays

  Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn,

  The snow upon the streets doth melt—

  Whither along them doth he pelt?

  XXXIX

  Oneguine whither gallops? Ye

  Have guessed already. Yes, quite so!

  Unto his own Tattiana he,

  Incorrigible rogue, doth go.

  Her house he enters, ghastly white,

  The vestibule finds empty quite—

  He enters the saloon. 'Tis blank!

  A door he opens. But why shrank

  He back as from a sudden blow?—

  Alone the princess sitteth there,

  Pallid and with dishevelled hair,

  Gazing upon a note below.

  Her tears flow plentifully and

  Her cheek reclines upon her hand.

  XL

  Oh! who her speechless agonies

  Could not in that brief moment guess!

  Who now could fail to recognize

  Tattiana in the young princess!

  Tortured by pangs of wild regret,

  Eugene fell prostrate at her feet—

  She starts, nor doth a word express,

  But gazes on Oneguine's face

  Without amaze or wrath displayed:

  His sunken eye and aspect faint,

  Imploring looks and mute complaint

  She comprehends. The simple maid

  By fond illusions once possest

  Is once again made manifest.

  XLI

  His kneeling posture he retains—

  Calmly her eyes encounter his—

  Insensible her hand remains

  Beneath his lips' devouring kiss.

  What visions then her fancy thronged—

  A breathless silence then, prolonged—

  But finally she softly said:

  "Enough, arise! for much we need

  Without disguise ourselves explain.

  Oneguine, hast forgotten yet

  The hour when—Fate so willed—we met

  In the lone garden and the lane?

  How meekly then I heard you preach—

  To-day it is my turn to teach.

  XLII

  "Oneguine, I was younger then,

  And better, if I judge aright;

  I loved you—what did I obtain?

  Affection how did you requite?

  But with austerity!—for you

  No novelty—is it not true?—

  Was the meek love a maiden feels.

  But now—my very blood congeals,

  Calling to mind your icy look

  And sermon—but in that dread hour

  I blame not your behaviour—

  An honourable course ye took,

  Displayed a noble rectitude—

  My soul is filled with gratitude!

  XLIII

  "Then, in the country, is't not true?

  And far removed from rumour vain;

  I did not please you. Why pursue

  Me now, inflict upon me pain?—

  Wherefore am I your quarry held?—

  Is it that I am now compelled

  To move in fashionable life,

  That I am rich, a prince's wife?—

  Because my lord, in battles maimed,

  Is petted by the Emperor?—

  That my dishonour would ensure

  A notoriety proclaimed,

  And in society might shed

  A bastard fame prohibited?

  XLIV

  "I weep. And if within your breast

  My image hath not disappeared,

  Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed,

  Your conversation cold and hard,

  If the choice in my power were,

  To lawless love I should prefer—

  And to these letters and these tears.

  For visions of my childish years

  Then ye were barely generous,

  Age immature averse to cheat—

  But now—what brings you to my feet?—

  How mean, how pusillanimous!

  A prudent man like you and brave

  To shallow sentiment a slave!

  XLV

  "Oneguine, all this sumptuousness,

  The gilding of life's vanities,

  In the world's vortex my success,

  My splendid house and gaieties—

  What are they? Gladly would I yield

  This life in masquerade concealed,

  This glitter, riot, emptiness,

  For my wild garden and bookcase,—

  Yes! for our unpretending home,

  Oneguine—the beloved place

  Where the first time I saw your face,—

  Or for the solitary tomb

  Wherein my poor old nurse doth lie

  Beneath a cross and shrubbery.

  XLVI

  "'Twas possible then, happiness—

  Nay, near—but destiny decreed—

  My lot is fixed—with thoughtlessness

  It may be that I did proceed—

  With bitter tears my mother prayed,

  And for Tattiana, mournful maid,

  Indifferent was her future fate.

  I married—now, I supplicate—

  For ever your Tattiana leave.

  Your heart possesses, I know well,

  Honour and pride inflexible.

  I love you—to what end deceive?—

  But I am now another's bride—

  For ever faithful will abide."

  XLVII

  She rose—departed. But Eugene

  Stood as if struck by lightning fire.

  What a storm of emotions keen

  Raged round him and of balked desire!

  And hark! the clank of spurs is heard

  And Tania's husband soon appeared.—

  But now our hero we must leave

  Just at a moment which I grieve

  Must be pronounced unfortunate—

  For long—for ever. To be sure

  Together we have wandered o'er

  The world enough. Congratulate

  Each other as the shore we climb!

  Hurrah! it long ago was time!

  XLVIII

  Reader, whoever thou mayst be,

  Foeman or friend, I do aspire

  To part in amity with thee!

  Adieu! whate'er thou didst desire

  From careless stanzas such as these,

  Of passion reminiscences,

  Pictures of the amusing scene,

  Repose from labour, satire keen,

  Or faults of grammar on its page—

  God grant that all who herein glance,

  In serious mood or dalliance

  Or in a squabble to engage,

  May find a crumb to satisfy.

  Now we must separate. Good-bye!

  XLIX

  And farewell thou, my gloomy friend,

  Thou also, my ideal true,

  And thou, persistent to the end,

  My little book. With thee I knew

  All that a poet could desire,

  Oblivion of life's tempest dire,

  Of friends the grateful intercourse—

  Oh, many a year hath run its course

  Since I beheld Eugene and young

  Tattiana in a misty dream,

  And my romance's open theme

  Glitte
red in a perspective long,

  And I discerned through Fancy's prism

  Distinctly not its mechanism.

  L

  But ye to whom, when friendship heard,

  The first-fruits of my tale I read,

  As Saadi anciently averred—(86)

  Some are afar and some are dead.

  Without them Eugene is complete;

  And thou, from whom Tattiana sweet;

  Was drawn, ideal of my lay—

  Ah! what hath fate not torn away!

  Happy who quit life's banquet seat

  Before the dregs they shall divine

  Of the cup brimming o'er with wine—

  Who the romance do not complete,

  But who abandon it—as I

  Have my Oneguine—suddenly.

  [Note 86: The celebrated Persian poet. Pushkin uses the passage referred to as an epigraph to the "Fountain of Baktchiserai." It runs thus: "Many, even as I, visited that fountain, but some of these are dead and some have journeyed afar." Saadi was born in 1189 at Shiraz and was a reputed descendant from Ali, Mahomet's son-in-law. In his youth he was a soldier, was taken prisoner by the Crusaders and forced to work in the ditches of Tripoli, whence he was ransomed by a merchant whose daughter he subsequently married. He did not commence writing till an advanced age. His principal work is the "Gulistan," or "Rose Garden," a work which has been translated into almost every European tongue.]

  End of Canto The Eighth

  The End

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