Chapter 3

How oft, when on a summer night Transparent o’er the Neva beamed The firmament in mellow light, And when the watery mirror gleamed No more with pale Diana’s rays,(17) We called to mind our youthful days— The days of love and of romance! Then would we muse as in a trance, Impressionable for an hour, And breathe the balmy breath of night; And like the prisoner’s our delight Who for the greenwood quits his tower, As on the rapid wings of thought The early days of life we sought.

[Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of St. Petersburg are a prolonged twilight.]

XLII

Absorbed in melancholy mood And o’er the granite coping bent, Onéguine meditative stood, E’en as the poet says he leant.(18) ’Tis silent all! Alone the cries Of the night sentinels arise And from the Millionaya afar(19) The sudden rattling of a car. Lo! on the sleeping river borne, A boat with splashing oar floats by, And now we hear delightedly A jolly song and distant horn; But sweeter in a midnight dream Torquato Tasso’s strains I deem.

[Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff’s “Goddess of the Neva.” At St. Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with splendid granite quays.]

[Note 19: A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.]

XLIII

Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea, O Brenta, once more we shall meet And, inspiration firing me, Your magic voices I shall greet, Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire, And after Albion’s proud lyre (20) Possess my love and sympathy. The nights of golden Italy I’ll pass beneath the firmament, Hid in the gondola’s dark shade, Alone with my Venetian maid, Now talkative, now reticent; From her my lips shall learn the tongue Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.

[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron’s genius on the imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian tastes, see his poem of “Angelo,” founded upon “Measure for Measure.”]

XLIV

When will my hour of freedom come! Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales Awaiting on the shore I roam And beckon to the passing sails. Upon the highway of the sea When shall I wing my passage free On waves by tempests curdled o’er! ’Tis time to quit this weary shore So uncongenial to my mind, To dream upon the sunny strand Of Africa, ancestral land,(21) Of dreary Russia left behind, Wherein I felt love’s fatal dart, Wherein I buried left my heart.

[Note 21: The poet was, on his mother’s side, of African extraction, a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petròvitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal’s brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburg for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank of general in the Russian service.]

XLV

Eugene designed with me to start And visit many a foreign clime, But Fortune cast our lots apart For a protracted space of time. Just at that time his father died, And soon Onéguine’s door beside Of creditors a hungry rout Their claims and explanations shout. But Eugene, hating litigation And with his lot in life content, To a surrender gave consent, Seeing in this no deprivation, Or counting on his uncle’s death And what the old man might bequeath.

XLVI

And in reality one day The steward sent a note to tell How sick to death his uncle lay And wished to say to him farewell. Having this mournful document Perused, Eugene in postchaise went And hastened to his uncle’s side, But in his heart dissatisfied, Having for money’s sake alone Sorrow to counterfeit and wail— Thus we began our little tale— But, to his uncle’s mansion flown, He found him on the table laid, A due which must to earth be paid.

XLVII

The courtyard full of serfs he sees, And from the country all around Had come both friends and enemies— Funeral amateurs abound! The body they consigned to rest, And then made merry pope and guest, With serious air then went away As men who much had done that day. Lo! my Onéguine rural lord! Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes, He now a full possession takes, He who economy abhorred, Delighted much his former ways To vary for a few brief days.

XLVIII

For two whole days it seemed a change To wander through the meadows still, The cool dark oaken grove to range, To listen to the rippling rill. But on the third of grove and mead He took no more the slightest heed; They made him feel inclined to doze; And the conviction soon arose, Ennui can in the country dwell Though without palaces and streets, Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fêtes; On him spleen mounted sentinel And like his shadow dogged his life, Or better,—like a faithful wife.

XLIX

I was for calm existence made, For rural solitude and dreams, My lyre sings sweeter in the shade And more imagination teems. On innocent delights I dote, Upon my lake I love to float, For law I _far niente_ take And every morning I awake The child of sloth and liberty. I slumber much, a little read, Of fleeting glory take no heed. In former years thus did not I In idleness and tranquil joy The happiest days of life employ?

L

Love, flowers, the country, idleness And fields my joys have ever been; I like the difference to express Between myself and my Eugene, Lest the malicious reader or Some one or other editor Of keen sarcastic intellect Herein my portrait should detect, And impiously should declare, To sketch myself that I have tried Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride, As if impossible it were To write of any other elf Than one’s own fascinating self.

LI

Here I remark all poets are Love to idealize inclined; I have dreamed many a vision fair And the recesses of my mind Retained the image, though short-lived, Which afterwards the muse revived. Thus carelessly I once portrayed Mine own ideal, the mountain maid, The captives of the Salguir’s shore.(22) But now a question in this wise Oft upon friendly lips doth rise: Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore? To whom amongst the jealous throng Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?

[Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of the poet. The former line indicates the _Prisoner of the Caucasus_, the latter, _The Fountain of Baktchiserai_. The Salguir is a river of the Crimea.]

LII

Whose glance reflecting inspiration With tenderness hath recognized Thy meditative incantation— Whom hath thy strain immortalized? None, be my witness Heaven above! The malady of hopeless love I have endured without respite. Happy who thereto can unite Poetic transport. They impart A double force unto their song Who following Petrarch move along And ease the tortures of the heart— Perchance they laurels also cull— But I, in love, was mute and dull.

LIII

The Muse appeared, when love passed by And my dark soul to light was brought; Free, I renewed the idolatry Of harmony enshrining thought. I write, and anguish flies away, Nor doth my absent pen portray Around my stanzas incomplete Young ladies’ faces and their feet. Extinguished ashes do not blaze— I mourn, but tears I cannot shed— Soon, of the tempest which hath fled Time will the ravages efface— When that time comes, a poem I’ll strive To write in cantos twenty-five.

LIV

I’ve thought well o’er the general plan, The hero’s name too in advance, Meantime I’ll finish whilst I can Canto the First of this romance. I’ve scanned it with a jealous eye, Discovered much absurdity, But will not modify a tittle— I owe the censorship a little. For journalistic deglutition I yield the fruit of work severe. Go, on the Neva’s bank appear, My very latest composition! Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows— Misunderstanding, words and blows.

END OF CANTO THE FIRST

CANTO THE SECOND

The Poet

“O Rus!”—Horace

Canto The Second

[Note: Odessa, December 1823.]

I

The village wherein yawned Eugene Was a delightful little spot, There friends of pure delight had been Grateful to Heaven for their lot. The lonely mansion-house to screen From gales a hill behind was seen; Before it ran a stream. Behold! Afar, where clothed in green and gold Meadows and cornfields are displayed, Villages in the distance show And herds of oxen wandering low; Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade, A thick immense neglected grove Extended—haunt which Dryads love.

II

’Twas built, the venerable pile, As lordly mansions ought to be, In solid, unpretentious style, The style of wise antiquity. Lofty the chambers one and all, Silk tapestry upon the wall, Imperial portraits hang around And stoves of various shapes abound. All this I know is out of date, I cannot tell the reason why, But Eugene, incontestably, The matter did not agitate, Because he yawned at the bare view Of drawing-rooms or old or new.

III

He took the room wherein the old 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 Must now my stanzas occupy.

XXIV

Tattiana was her appellation. We are the first who such a name In pages of a love narration With such a perversity proclaim. But wherefore not?—’Tis pleasant, nice, Euphonious, though I know a spice It carries of antiquity And of the attic. Honestly, We must admit but little taste Doth in us or our names appear(26) (I speak not of our poems here), And education runs to waste, Endowing us from out her store With affectation,—nothing more.

[Note 26: The Russian annotator remarks: “The most euphonious Greek names, e.g. Agathon, Philotas, Theodora, Thekla, etc., are used amongst us by the lower classes only.”]

XXV

And so Tattiana was her name, Nor by her sister’s brilliancy Nor by her beauty she became The cynosure of every eye. Shy, silent did the maid appear As in the timid forest deer, Even beneath her parents’ roof Stood as estranged from all aloof, Nearest and dearest knew not how To fawn upon and love express; A child devoid of childishness To romp and play she ne’er would go: Oft staring through the window pane Would she in silence long remain.

XXVI

Contemplativeness, her delight, E’en from her cradle’s earliest dream, Adorned with many a vision bright Of rural life the sluggish stream; Ne’er touched her fingers indolent The needle nor, o’er framework bent, Would she the canvas tight enrich With gay design and silken stitch. Desire to rule ye may observe When the obedient doll in sport An infant maiden doth exhort Polite demeanour to preserve, Gravely repeating to another Recent instructions of its mother.

XXVII

But Tania ne’er displayed a passion For dolls, e’en from her earliest years, And gossip of the town and fashion She ne’er repeated unto hers. Strange unto her each childish game, But when the winter season came And dark and drear the evenings were, Terrible tales she loved to hear. And when for Olga nurse arrayed In the broad meadow a gay rout, All the young people round about, At prisoner’s base she never played. Their noisy laugh her soul annoyed, Their giddy sports she ne’er enjoyed.

XXVIII