Chapter 2

We all of us of education A something somehow have obtained, Thus, praised be God! a reputation With us is easily attained. Onéguine was—so many deemed [Unerring critics self-esteemed], Pedantic although scholar like, In truth he had the happy trick Without constraint in conversation Of touching lightly every theme. Silent, oracular ye’d see him Amid a serious disputation, Then suddenly discharge a joke The ladies’ laughter to provoke.

VI

Latin is just now not in vogue, But if the truth I must relate, Onéguine knew enough, the rogue A mild quotation to translate, A little Juvenal to spout, With “vale” finish off a note; Two verses he could recollect Of the Æneid, but incorrect. In history he took no pleasure, The dusty chronicles of earth For him were but of little worth, Yet still of anecdotes a treasure Within his memory there lay, From Romulus unto our day.

VII

For empty sound the rascal swore he Existence would not make a curse, Knew not an iamb from a choree, Although we read him heaps of verse. Homer, Theocritus, he jeered, But Adam Smith to read appeared, And at economy was great; That is, he could elucidate How empires store of wealth unfold, How flourish, why and wherefore less If the raw product they possess The medium is required of gold. The father scarcely understands His son and mortgages his lands.

VIII

But upon all that Eugene knew I have no leisure here to dwell, But say he was a genius who In one thing really did excel. It occupied him from a boy, A labour, torment, yet a joy, It whiled his idle hours away And wholly occupied his day— The amatory science warm, Which Ovid once immortalized, For which the poet agonized Laid down his life of sun and storm On the steppes of Moldavia lone, Far from his Italy—his own.(4)

[Note 4: Referring to Tomi, the reputed place of exile of Ovid. Pushkin, then residing in Bessarabia, was in the same predicament as his predecessor in song, though he certainly did not plead guilty to the fact, since he remarks in his ode to Ovid: To exile _self-consigned_, With self, society, existence, discontent, I visit in these days, with melancholy mind, The country whereunto a mournful age thee sent.

Ovid thus enumerates the causes which brought about his banishment:

“Perdiderint quum me _duo_ crimina, carmen et error, Alterius facti culpa silenda mihi est.” _Ovidii Nasonis Tristium_, lib. ii. 207.]

IX

How soon he learnt deception’s art, Hope to conceal and jealousy, False confidence or doubt to impart, Sombre or glad in turn to be, Haughty appear, subservient, Obsequious or indifferent! What languor would his silence show, How full of fire his speech would glow! How artless was the note which spoke Of love again, and yet again; How deftly could he transport feign! How bright and tender was his look, Modest yet daring! And a tear Would at the proper time appear.

X

How well he played the greenhorn’s part To cheat the inexperienced fair, Sometimes by pleasing flattery’s art, Sometimes by ready-made despair; The feeble moment would espy Of tender years the modesty Conquer by passion and address, Await the long-delayed caress. Avowal then ’twas time to pray, Attentive to the heart’s first beating, Follow up love—a secret meeting Arrange without the least delay— Then, then—well, in some solitude Lessons to give he understood!

XI

How soon he learnt to titillate The heart of the inveterate flirt! Desirous to annihilate His own antagonists expert, How bitterly he would malign, With many a snare their pathway line! But ye, O happy husbands, ye With him were friends eternally: The crafty spouse caressed him, who By Faublas in his youth was schooled,(5) And the suspicious veteran old, The pompous, swaggering cuckold too, Who floats contentedly through life, Proud of his dinners and his wife!

[Note 5: _Les Aventures du Chevalier de Faublas_, a romance of a loose character by Jean Baptiste Louvet de Couvray, b. 1760, d. 1797, famous for his bold oration denouncing Robespierre, Marat and Danton.]

XII

One morn whilst yet in bed he lay, His valet brings him letters three. What, invitations? The same day As many entertainments be! A ball here, there a children’s treat, Whither shall my rapscallion flit? Whither shall he go first? He’ll see, Perchance he will to all the three. Meantime in matutinal dress And hat surnamed a “Bolivar”(6) He hies unto the “Boulevard,” To loiter there in idleness Until the sleepless Bréguet chime(7) Announcing to him dinner-time.

[Note 6: A la “Bolivar,” from the founder of Bolivian independence.]

[Note 7: M. Bréguet, a celebrated Parisian watchmaker—hence a slang term for a watch.]

XIII

’Tis dark. He seats him in a sleigh, “Drive on!” the cheerful cry goes forth, His furs are powdered on the way By the fine silver of the north. He bends his course to Talon’s, where(8) He knows Kaverine will repair.(9) He enters. High the cork arose And Comet champagne foaming flows. Before him red roast beef is seen And truffles, dear to youthful eyes, Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies, The choicest flowers of French cuisine, And Limburg cheese alive and old Is seen next pine-apples of gold.

[Note 8: Talon, a famous St. Petersburg restaurateur.]

[Note 9: Paul Petròvitch Kaverine, a friend for whom Pushkin in his youth appears to have entertained great respect and admiration. He was an officer in the Hussars of the Guard, and a noted “dandy” and man about town. The poet on one occasion addressed the following impromptu to his friend’s portrait:

“Within him daily see the the fires of punch and war, Upon the fields of Mars a gallant warrior, A faithful friend to friends, of ladies torturer, But ever the Hussar.”]

XIV

Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels To cool the cutlets’ seething grease, When the sonorous Bréguet tells Of the commencement of the piece. A critic of the stage malicious, A slave of actresses capricious, Onéguine was a citizen Of the domains of the side-scene. To the theatre he repairs Where each young critic ready stands, Capers applauds with clap of hands, With hisses Cleopatra scares, Moina recalls for this alone That all may hear his voice’s tone.

XV

Thou fairy-land! Where formerly Shone pungent Satire’s dauntless king, Von Wisine, friend of liberty, And Kniajnine, apt at copying. The young Simeonova too there With Ozeroff was wont to share Applause, the people’s donative. There our Katènine did revive Corneille’s majestic genius, Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out His comedies, a noisy rout, There Didelot became glorious, There, there, beneath the side-scene’s shade The drama of my youth was played.(10)

[Note 10: _Denis Von Wisine_ (1741-92), a favourite Russian dramatist. His first comedy “The Brigadier,” procured him the favour of the second Catherine. His best, however, is the “Minor” (Niedorosl). Prince Potemkin, after witnessing it, summoned the author, and greeted him with the exclamation, “Die now, Denis!” In fact, his subsequent performances were not of equal merit.

_Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine_ (1742-91), a clever adapter of French tragedy.

_Simeonova_, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine.

_Ozeroff_, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. “Œdipus in Athens,” “Fingal,” “Demetrius Donskoi,” and “Polyxena,” are the best known of his tragedies.

_Katènine_ translated Corneille’s tragedies into Russian.

_Didelot_, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.]

XVI

My goddesses, where are your shades? Do ye not hear my mournful sighs? Are ye replaced by other maids Who cannot conjure former joys? Shall I your chorus hear anew, Russia’s Terpsichore review Again in her ethereal dance? Or will my melancholy glance On the dull stage find all things changed, The disenchanted glass direct Where I can no more recollect?— A careless looker-on estranged In silence shall I sit and yawn And dream of life’s delightful dawn?

XVII

The house is crammed. A thousand lamps On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze, Impatiently the gallery stamps, The curtain now they slowly raise. Obedient to the magic strings, Brilliant, ethereal, there springs Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding Istomina(*) the nimbly-bounding; With one foot resting on its tip Slow circling round its fellow swings And now she skips and now she springs Like down from Aeolus’s lip, Now her lithe form she arches o’er And beats with rapid foot the floor.

[Note: Istomina—A celebrated Circassian dancer of the day, with whom the poet in his extreme youth imagined himself in love.]

XVIII

Shouts of applause! Onéguine passes Between the stalls, along the toes; Seated, a curious look with glasses On unknown female forms he throws. Free scope he yields unto his glance, Reviews both dress and countenance, With all dissatisfaction shows. To male acquaintances he bows, And finally he deigns let fall Upon the stage his weary glance. He yawns, averts his countenance, Exclaiming, “We must change ’em all! I long by ballets have been bored, Now Didelot scarce can be endured!”

XIX

Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout Across the stage still madly sweep, Whilst the tired serving-men without Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep. Still the loud stamping doth not cease, Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze, Still everywhere, without, within, The lamps illuminating shine; The steed benumbed still pawing stands And of the irksome harness tires, And still the coachmen round the fires(11) Abuse their masters, rub their hands: But Eugene long hath left the press To array himself in evening dress.

[Note 11: In Russia large fires are lighted in winter time in front of the theatres for the benefit of the menials, who, considering the state of the thermometer, cannot be said to have a jovial time of it. But in this, as in other cases, “habit” alleviates their lot, and they bear the cold with a wonderful equanimity.]

XX

Faithfully shall I now depict, Portray the solitary den Wherein the child of fashion strict Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again? All that industrial London brings For tallow, wood and other things Across the Baltic’s salt sea waves, All which caprice and affluence craves, All which in Paris eager taste, Choosing a profitable trade, For our amusement ever made And ease and fashionable waste,— Adorned the apartment of Eugene, Philosopher just turned eighteen.

XXI

China and bronze the tables weight, Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows, And, joy of souls effeminate, Phials of crystal scents enclose. Combs of all sizes, files of steel, Scissors both straight and curved as well, Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes Both for the nails and for the tushes. Rousseau, I would remark in passing,(12) Could not conceive how serious Grimm Dared calmly cleanse his nails ’fore him, Eloquent raver all-surpassing,— The friend of liberty and laws In this case quite mistaken was.

[Note 12: “Tout le monde sut qu’il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n’en croyait rien, je commençai de le croire, non seulement par l’embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouvé des tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu’entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite exprès, ouvrage qu’il continua fièrement devant moi. Je jugeai qu’un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins à brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants à remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau.” _Confessions de J. J. Rousseau_]

XXII

The most industrious man alive May yet be studious of his nails; What boots it with the age to strive? Custom the despot soon prevails. A new Kaverine Eugene mine, Dreading the world’s remarks malign, Was that which we are wont to call A fop, in dress pedantical. Three mortal hours per diem he Would loiter by the looking-glass, And from his dressing-room would pass Like Venus when, capriciously, The goddess would a masquerade Attend in male attire arrayed.

XXIII

On this artistical retreat Having once fixed your interest, I might to connoisseurs repeat The style in which my hero dressed; Though I confess I hardly dare Describe in detail the affair, Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat, To Russ indigenous are not; And also that my feeble verse— Pardon I ask for such a sin— With words of foreign origin Too much I’m given to intersperse, Though to the Academy I come And oft its Dictionary thumb.(13)

[Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during the reign of Catherine II under the supervision of Lomonossoff.]

XXIV

But such is not my project now, So let us to the ball-room haste, Whither at headlong speed doth go Eugene in hackney carriage placed. Past darkened windows and long streets Of slumbering citizens he fleets, Till carriage lamps, a double row, Cast a gay lustre on the snow, Which shines with iridescent hues. He nears a spacious mansion’s gate, By many a lamp illuminate, And through the lofty windows views Profiles of lovely dames he knows And also fashionable beaux.

XXV

Our hero stops and doth alight, Flies past the porter to the stair, But, ere he mounts the marble flight, With hurried hand smooths down his hair. He enters: in the hall a crowd, No more the music thunders loud, Some a mazurka occupies, Crushing and a confusing noise; Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash, The feet of graceful ladies fly, And following them ye might espy Full many a glance like lightning flash, And by the fiddle’s rushing sound The voice of jealousy is drowned.

XXVI

In my young days of wild delight On balls I madly used to dote, Fond declarations they invite Or the delivery of a note. So hearken, every worthy spouse, I would your vigilance arouse, Attentive be unto my rhymes And due precautions take betimes. Ye mothers also, caution use, Upon your daughters keep an eye, Employ your glasses constantly, For otherwise—God only knows! I lift a warning voice because I long have ceased to offend the laws.

XXVII

Alas! life’s hours which swiftly fly I’ve wasted in amusements vain, But were it not immoral I Should dearly like a dance again. I love its furious delight, The crowd and merriment and light, The ladies, their fantastic dress, Also their feet—yet ne’ertheless Scarcely in Russia can ye find Three pairs of handsome female feet; Ah! I still struggle to forget A pair; though desolate my mind, Their memory lingers still and seems To agitate me in my dreams.

XXVIII

When, where, and in what desert land, Madman, wilt thou from memory raze Those feet? Alas! on what far strand Do ye of spring the blossoms graze? Lapped in your Eastern luxury, No trace ye left in passing by Upon the dreary northern snows, But better loved the soft repose Of splendid carpets richly wrought. I once forgot for your sweet cause The thirst for fame and man’s applause, My country and an exile’s lot; My joy in youth was fleeting e’en As your light footprints on the green.

XXIX

Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks, Are admirable, my dear friend, But yet Terpsichore bespeaks Charms more enduring in the end. For promises her feet reveal Of untold gain she must conceal, Their privileged allurements fire A hidden train of wild desire. I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14) Beneath the table-cloth of white, In winter on the fender bright, In springtime on the meadows green, Upon the ball-room’s glassy floor Or by the ocean’s rocky shore.

[Note 14: _Elvine_, or _Elvina_, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, “To Her,” which commences thus:

“Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand,” and so forth.]

XXX

Beside the stormy sea one day I envied sore the billows tall, Which rushed in eager dense array Enamoured at her feet to fall. How like the billow I desired To kiss the feet which I admired! No, never in the early blaze Of fiery youth’s untutored days So ardently did I desire A young Armida’s lips to press, Her cheek of rosy loveliness Or bosom full of languid fire,— A gust of passion never tore My spirit with such pangs before.

XXXI

Another time, so willed it Fate, Immersed in secret thought I stand And grasp a stirrup fortunate— Her foot was in my other hand. Again imagination blazed, The contact of the foot I raised Rekindled in my withered heart The fires of passion and its smart— Away! and cease to ring their praise For ever with thy tattling lyre, The proud ones are not worth the fire Of passion they so often raise. The words and looks of charmers sweet Are oft deceptive—like their feet.

XXXII

Where is Onéguine? Half asleep, Straight from the ball to bed he goes, Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep The drum already doth arouse. The shopman and the pedlar rise And to the Bourse the cabman plies; The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15) Crunching the morning snow she treads; Morning awakes with joyous sound; The shutters open; to the skies In column blue the smoke doth rise; The German baker looks around His shop, a night-cap on his head, And pauses oft to serve out bread.

[Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St. Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the labouring classes.]

XXXIII

But turning morning into night, Tired by the ball’s incessant noise, The votary of vain delight Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys, Late in the afternoon to rise, When the same life before him lies Till morn—life uniform but gay, To-morrow just like yesterday. But was our friend Eugene content, Free, in the blossom of his spring, Amidst successes flattering And pleasure’s daily blandishment, Or vainly ’mid luxurious fare Was he in health and void of care?—

XXXIV

Even so! His passions soon abated, Hateful the hollow world became, Nor long his mind was agitated By love’s inevitable flame. For treachery had done its worst; Friendship and friends he likewise curst, Because he could not gourmandise Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies And irrigate them with champagne; Nor slander viciously could spread Whene’er he had an aching head; And, though a plucky scatterbrain, He finally lost all delight In bullets, sabres, and in fight.

XXXV

His malady, whose cause I ween It now to investigate is time, Was nothing but the British spleen Transported to our Russian clime. It gradually possessed his mind; Though, God be praised! he ne’er designed To slay himself with blade or ball, Indifferent he became to all, And like Childe Harold gloomily He to the festival repairs, Nor boston nor the world’s affairs Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh Impressed him in the least degree,— Callous to all he seemed to be.

XXXVI

Ye miracles of courtly grace, He left _you_ first, and I must own The manners of the highest class Have latterly vexatious grown; And though perchance a lady may Discourse of Bentham or of Say, Yet as a rule their talk I call Harmless, but quite nonsensical. Then they’re so innocent of vice, So full of piety, correct, So prudent, and so circumspect Stately, devoid of prejudice, So inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16)

[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian scholiast remarks:—“The whole of this ironical stanza is but a _refined eulogy_ of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen. Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV. Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements, combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael.” It will occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair “doth protest too much.” The poet in all probability wrote the offending stanza in a fit of Byronic “spleen,” as he would most likely himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their utterances under its influence for what they are worth.]

XXXVII

And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meets Urging your droshkies swift as air Along Saint Petersburg’s paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen. He thought to write, but labour long Inspired him with disgust and so Nought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell among That vicious set whom I don’t blame— Because a member I became.

XXXVIII

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