Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics) Page 11

  Than our glum rhymesters of today?….

  ’Your elegy lacks all perception,

  Its want of purpose is a crime;

  Whereas the ode has aims sublime.’

  One might to this take sharp exception,

  But I’ll be mute. I don’t propose

  To bring two centuries to blows.

  34

  By thoughts of fame and freedom smitten,

  Vladimir’s stormy soul grew wings;

  What odes indeed he might have written,

  But Olga didn’t read the things.

  How oft have tearful poets chances

  To read their works before the glances

  Of those they love? Good sense declares

  That no reward on earth compares.

  How blest, shy lover, to be granted

  To read to her for whom you long:

  The very object of your song,

  A beauty languid and enchanted!

  Ah, blest indeed … although it’s true,

  She may be dreaming not of you.

  35

  But I my fancy’s fruits and flowers

  (Those dreams and harmonies I tend)

  Am quite content to read for hours

  To my old nurse, my childhood’s friend;

  Or sometimes after dinners dreary,

  When some good neighbour drops in weary—

  I’ll corner him and catch his coat

  And stuff him with the play I wrote;

  Or else (and here I’m far from jesting),

  When off beside my lake I climb—

  Beset with yearning and with rhyme—

  I scare a flock of ducks from resting;

  And hearing my sweet stanzas soar,

  They flap their wings and fly from shore.

  36*

  And as I watch them disappearing,

  A hunter hidden in the brush

  Damns poetry for interfering

  And, whistling, fires with a rush.

  Each has his own preoccupation,

  His favourite sport or avocation:

  One aims a gun at ducks on high;

  One is entranced by rhyme as I;

  One swats at flies in mindless folly;

  One dreams of ruling multitudes;

  One craves the scent that war exudes;

  One likes to bask in melancholy;

  One occupies himself with wine:

  And good and bad all intertwine.

  37

  But what of our Eugene this while?

  Have patience, friends, I beg you, pray;

  I’ll tell it all in detailed style

  And show you how he spent each day.

  Onegin lived in his own heaven:

  In summer he’d get up by seven

  And, lightly clad, would take a stroll

  Down to the stream below the knoll.

  Gulnare’s proud singer* his example,

  He’d swim across this Hellespont;

  Then afterwards, as was his wont,

  He’d drink his coffee, sometimes sample

  The pages of some dull review,

  And then he’d dress….

  (38) 39

  Long rambles, reading, slumber’s blisses,

  The burbling brook, the wooded shade,

  At times the fresh and youthful kisses

  Of white-skinned, dark-eyed country maid;

  A horse of spirit fit to bridle,

  A dinner fanciful and idle,

  A bottle of some sparkling wine,

  Seclusion, quiet—these, in fine,

  Were my Onegin’s saintly pleasures,

  To which he yielded one by one,

  Unmoved to count beneath the sun

  Fair summer’s days and careless treasures,

  Unmindful too of town or friends

  And their dull means to festive ends.

  40

  Our northern summers, though, are versions

  Of southern winters, this is clear;

  And though we’re loath to cast aspersions,

  They seem to go before they’re here!

  The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled;

  The friendly sun less often sparkled;

  The days grew short and as they sped,

  The wood with mournful murmur shed

  Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered;

  The fields all lay in misty peace;

  The caravan of cackling geese

  Turned south; and all around there hovered

  The sombre season near at hand;

  November marched across the land.

  41

  The dawn arises cold and cheerless;

  The empty fields in silence wait;

  And on the road … grown lean and fearless,

  The wolf appears with hungry mate;

  Catching the scent, the road horse quivers

  And snorts in fear, the traveller shivers

  And flies uphill with all his speed;

  No more at dawn does shepherd need

  To drive the cows outside with ringing;

  Nor does his horn at midday sound

  The call that brings them gathering round.

  Inside her hut a girl is singing,

  And by the matchwood’s crackling light

  She spins away the wintry night.

  42

  The frost already cracks and crunches;

  The fields are silver where they froze …

  (And you, good reader, with your hunches,

  Expect the rhyme, so take it—Rose!)

  No fine parquet could hope to muster

  The ice-clad river’s glassy lustre;

  The joyous tribe of boys berates

  And cuts the ice with ringing skates;

  A waddling red-foot goose now scurries

  To swim upon the water’s breast;

  He treads the ice with care to test …

  And down he goes! The first snow flurries

  Come flitting, flicking, swirling round

  To fall like stars upon the ground.

  43

  But how is one, in this dull season,

  To help the rural day go by?

  Take walks? The views give little reason,

  When only bareness greets the eye.

  Go ride the steppe’s harsh open spaces?

  Your mount, if put to try his paces

  On treacherous ice in blunted shoe,

  Is sure to fall … and so will you.

  So stay beneath your roof… try reading:

  Here’s Pradt* or, better, Walter Scott!

  Or check accounts. You’d rather not?

  Then rage or drink…. Somehow proceeding,

  This night will pass (the next one too),

  And grandly you’ll see winter through!

  44

  Childe Harold-like, Onegin ponders,

  Adrift in idle, slothful ways;

  From bed to icy bath he wanders,

  And then at home all day he stays,

  Alone, and sunk in calculation,

  His only form of recreation—

  The game of billiards, all day through,

  With just two balls and blunted cue.

  But as the rural dusk encroaches,

  The cue’s forgot, the billiards fade;

  Before the hearth the table’s laid.

  He waits. … At last his guest approaches:

  It’s Lensky’s troika, three fine roans;

  ‘Come on, let’s dine, my stomach groans!’

  45

  Moët, that wine most blest and heady,

  Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class,

  Is brought in bottle chilled and ready

  And set beside the poet’s glass.

  Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly,

  It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly

  (A simile in many ways);

  It charmed me too, in other days:

  For its sake once, I squandered gladly

  My la
st poor pence … remember, friend?

  Its magic stream brought forth no end

  Of acting foolish, raving madly,

  And, oh, how many jests and rhymes,

  And arguments, and happy times!

  46

  But all that foamy, frothy wheezing

  Just plays my stomach false, I fear;

  And nowadays I find more pleasing

  Sedate Bordeaux’s good quiet cheer.

  Aï* I find is much too risky,

  Aï is like a mistress—frisky,

  Vivacious, brilliant… and too light.

  But you, Bordeaux, I find just right;

  You’re like a comrade, ever steady,

  Prepared in trials or in grief

  To render service, give relief;

  And when we wish it, always ready

  To share a quiet evening’s end.

  Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!

  47

  The fire goes out; the coal, still gleaming,

  Takes on a film of ash and pales;

  The rising vapours, faintly streaming,

  Curl out of sight; the hearth exhales

  A breath of warmth. The pipe smoke passes

  Up chimney flue. The sparkling glasses

  Stand fizzing on the table yet;

  With evening’s gloom, the day has set…

  (I’m fond of friendly conversation

  And of a friendly glass or two

  At dusk or entre chien et loup*—

  As people say without translation,

  Though why they do, I hardly know).

  But listen as our friends speak low:

  48

  ‘And how are our dear neighbours faring?

  Tatyana and your Olga, pray? …’

  ‘Just half a glass, old boy, be sparing …

  The family’s well, I think I’d say;

  They send you greetings and affection….

  Oh, God, my friend, what sheer perfection

  In Olga’s breast! What shoulders too!

  And what a soul! … Come visit, do!

  You ought to, really … they’ll be flattered;

  Or judge yourself how it must look—

  You dropped in twice and closed the book;

  Since then, it seems, they’ve hardly mattered.

  In fact … Good Lord, my wits are bleak!

  You’ve been invited there next week!’

  49

  ‘Tatyana’s name-day celebration

  Is Saturday. Her mother’s sent

  (And Olga too!) an invitation;

  Now don’t refuse, it’s time you went.’

  ‘There’ll be a crush and lots of babble

  And all that crowd of local rabble.’

  ‘Why not at all, they just intend

  To have the family, that’s all, friend;

  Come on, let’s go, do me the favour!’

  ‘Alright, I’ll go.’ ‘Well done, first class!’

  And with these words he drained his glass

  In toast to his attractive neighbour …

  And then waxed voluble once more

  In talk of Olga. Love’s a bore!

  50

  So Lensky soared as he awaited

  His wedding day two weeks ahead;

  With joy his heart anticipated

  The mysteries of the marriage bed

  And love’s sweet crown of jubilations.

  But Hymen’s cares and tribulations,

  The frigid, yawning days to be,

  He never pictured once, not he.

  While we, the foes of Hymen’s banner,

  Perceive full well that home life means

  But one long string of dreary scenes—

  In Lafontaine’s* insipid manner.

  But my poor Lensky, deep at heart,

  Was born to play this very part.

  51

  Yes, he was loved … beyond deceiving …

  Or so at least with joy he thought.

  Oh, blest is he who lives believing,

  Who takes cold intellect for naught,

  Who rests within the heart’s sweet places

  As does a drunk in sleep’s embraces,

  Or as, more tenderly I’d say,

  A butterfly in blooms of May;

  But wretched he who’s too far-sighted,

  Whose head is never fancy-stirred,

  Who hates all gestures, each warm word,

  As sentiments to be derided,

  Whose heart… experience has cooled

  And barred from being loved … or fooled!

  Chapter 5

  Oh, never know these frightful dreams, My dear Svetlana!

  Zhukovsky

  1

  The fall that year was in no hurry,

  And nature seemed to wait and wait

  For winter. Then, in January,

  The second night, the snow fell late.

  Next day as dawn was just advancing,

  Tatyana woke and, idly glancing,

  Beheld outdoors a wondrous sight:

  The roofs, the yard, the fence—all white;

  Each pane a fragile pattern showing;

  The trees in winter silver dyed,

  Gay magpies on the lawn outside,

  And all the hilltops soft and glowing

  With winter’s brilliant rug of snow—

  The world all fresh and white below.

  2

  Ah, wintertime! … The peasant, cheerful,

  Creates a passage with his sleigh;

  Aware of snow, his nag is fearful,

  But shambles somehow down the way.

  A bold kibitka skips and burrows

  And ploughs a trail of fluffy furrows;

  The driver sits behind the dash

  In sheepskin coat and scarlet sash.

  And here’s a household boy gone sleighing—

  His Blackie seated on the sled,

  While he plays horse and runs ahead;

  The rascal froze his fingers, playing,

  And laughs out loud between his howls,

  While through the glass his mother scowls.

  3

  But you, perhaps, are not attracted

  By pictures of this simple kind,

  Where lowly nature is enacted

  And nothing grand or more refined.

  Warmed by the god of inspiration,

  Another bard in exaltation

  Has painted us the snow new-laid

  And winter’s joys in every shade.*

  I’m sure you’ll find him most engaging

  When he, in flaming verse, portrays

  Clandestine rides in dashing sleighs;

  But I have no intent of waging

  A contest for his crown … or thine,

  Thou bard of Finland’s maid divine!*

  4

  Tatyana (with a Russian duty

  That held her heart, she knew not why)

  Profoundly loved, in its cold beauty,

  The Russian winter passing by:

  Crisp days when sunlit hoarfrost glimmers,

  The sleighs, and rosy snow that shimmers

  In sunset’s glow, the murky light

  That wraps about the Yuletide night.

  Those twelfthtide eves, by old tradition,

  Were marked at home on their estate:

  The servant maids would guess the fate

  Of both young girls with superstition;

  Each year they promised, as before,

  Two soldier husbands and a war.

  5

  Tatyana heeded with conviction

  All ancient folklore night and noon,

  Believed in dreams and card prediction,

  And read the future by the moon.

  All signs and portents quite alarmed her,

  All objects either scared or charmed her

  With secret meanings they’d impart;

  Forebodings filled and pressed her heart.

  If her prim tomcat sat prot
ected

  Atop the stove to wash and purr,

  Then this was certain sign to her

  That guests were soon to be expected;

  Or if upon her left she’d spy

  A waxing crescent moon on high,

  6

  Her face would pale, her teeth would chatter.

  Or when a shooting star flew by

  To light the sombre sky and shatter

  In fiery dust before her eye,

  She’d hurry and, in agitation,

  Before the star’s disintegration,

  Would whisper it her secret prayer.

  Or if she happened anywhere

  To meet a black-robed monk by error,

  Or if amid the fields one day

  A fleeing hare would cross her way,

  She’d be quite overcome with terror,

  As dark forebodings filled her mind

  Of some misfortune ill defined.

  7

  Yet even in these same afflictions

  She found a secret charm in part:

  For nature—fond of contradictions—

  Has so designed the human heart.

  The holy days are here. What gladness! …

  Bright youth divines, not knowing sadness,

  With nothing that it must regret,

  With all of life before it yet—

  A distance luminous and boundless….

  Old age divines with glasses on

  And sees the grave before it yawn,

  All thoughts of time returning—groundless;

  No matter: childish hope appears

  To murmur lies in aged ears.

  8

  Tatyana watches, fascinated,

  The molten wax submerge and turn

  To wondrous shapes which designated

  Some wondrous thing that she would learn.

  Then from a basin filled with water

  Their rings are drawn in random order;

  When Tanya’s ring turned up at last,

  The song they sang was from the past:

  ‘The peasants there have hoards of treasure,

  They spade up silver from a ditch!

  The one we sing to will be rich