Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics) Page 19

  It came so close! … But now my fate

  Has been decreed. I may have merely

  Been foolish when I failed to wait;

  But mother with her lamentation

  Implored me, and in resignation

  (All futures seemed alike in woe)

  I married…. Now I beg you, go!

  I’ve faith in you and do not tremble;

  I know that in your heart reside

  Both honour and a manly pride.

  I love you (why should I dissemble?);

  But I am now another’s wife,

  And I’ll be faithful all my life.’

  48

  She left him then. Eugene, forsaken,

  Stood seared, as if by heaven’s fire.

  How deep his stricken heart is shaken!

  With what a tempest of desire!

  A sudden clink of spurs rings loudly,

  As Tanya’s husband enters proudly—

  And here … at this unhappy turn

  For my poor hero, we’ll adjourn

  And leave him, reader, at his station …

  For long … forever. In his train

  We’ve roamed the world down one slim lane

  For long enough. Congratulation

  On reaching land at last. Hurray!

  And long since time, I’m sure you’d say!

  49

  Whatever, reader, your reaction,

  and whether you be foe or friend,

  I hope we part in satisfaction …

  As comrades now. Whatever end

  You may have sought in these reflections—

  Tumultuous, fond recollections,

  Relief from labours for a time,

  Live images, or wit in rhyme,

  Or maybe merely faulty grammar—

  God grant that in my careless art,

  For fun, for dreaming, for the heart…

  For raising journalistic clamour,

  You’ve found at least a crumb or two.

  And so let’s part; farewell … adieu!

  50

  Farewell, you too, my moody neighbour,

  And you, my true ideal, my own!

  And you, small book, my constant labour,

  In whose bright company I’ve known

  All that a poet’s soul might cherish:

  Oblivion when tempests flourish,

  Sweet talk with friends, on which I’ve fed.

  Oh, many, many days have fled

  Since young Tatyana with her lover,

  As in a misty dream at night,

  First floated dimly into sight—

  And I as yet could not uncover

  Or through the magic crystal see

  My novel’s shape or what would be.

  51

  But those to whom, as friends and brothers,

  My first few stanzas I once read—

  ‘Some are no more, and distant… others.’*

  As Sadi* long before us said.

  Without them my Onegin’s fashioned.

  And she from whom I drew, impassioned,

  My fair Tatyana’s noblest trait…

  Oh, much, too much you’ve stolen, Fate!

  But blest is he who rightly gauges

  The time to quit the feast and fly,

  Who never drained life’s chalice dry,

  Nor read its novel’s final pages;

  But all at once for good withdrew—

  As I from my Onegin do.

  APPENDIX

  EXCERPTS FROM ONEGIN’S JOURNEY

  PUSHKIN’S FOREWORD

  The last (eighth) chapter of Eugene Onegin was published separately with the following foreword:

  The omission of certain stanzas has given rise on more than one occasion to criticism and jesting (no doubt most just and witty). The author candidly confesses that he has removed from his novel an entire chapter, in which Onegin’s journey across Russia was described. It behoved him to indicate this omitted chapter by dots or a numeral, but to avoid ambiguity he thought it preferable to label as number eight, instead of nine, the final chapter of Eugene Onegin, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas:

  It’s time: my pen demands a pillow;

  Nine cantos have I duly wrought,

  And now the ninth and final billow

  To joyful shore my bark has brought.

  All praise to you, O nine Camenae,* etc.

  P. A. Katenin* (whose fine poetic talent in no way prevents him from being a subtle critic as well) has observed to us that this excision, though advantageous perhaps for the reader, is none the less harmful to the work as a whole, for it makes the transition from Tatyana the provincial miss to Tatyana the exalted lady too sudden and unexplained: an observation that reveals the accomplished artist. The author himself felt the justness of this reproach but decided to omit the chapter for reasons important to him, but not to the public. Some few excerpts have been published already; we insert them here, along with several other stanzas.

  ONEGIN TRAVELS FROM MOSCOW TO NIZHNI NOVGOROD

  * * *

  . . . . . .

  before his eyes

  Makáriev Market* stirs and bustles,

  A-seethe with plenty’s wares and cries.

  The Hindu’s here—his pearls to proffer,

  All Europe—specious wines to offer;

  The breeder from the steppe as well

  Has brought defective steeds to sell;

  The gambler’s here with dice all loaded,

  With decks of cards of every type,

  The landed gent—with daughters ripe,

  Bedraped in dresses long outmoded;

  All bustle round and lie like cheats,

  And commerce reigns in all the streets

  * * *

  Ennui! …

  ONEGIN DRIVES TO ASTRAKHAN, AND FROM THERE TO THE CAUCASUS

  * * *

  He sees the wilful Terek* roaring

  Outside its banks in wayward flow;

  He spies a stately eagle soaring,

  A standing deer with horns held low,

  By shaded cliff a camel lying,

  Circassian steed on meadow flying;

  All round the nomad-tented land

  The sheep of Kalmuk herdsmen stand,

  And far ahead—Caucasian masses.

  The way lies open; war has passed

  Beyond this great divide at last,

  Across these once imperilled passes.

  The Kúra’s and Arágva’s banks*

  Have seen the Russians’ tented ranks.

  * * *

  And now his gazing eye discovers

  Beshtú,* the watchman of the waste;

  Sharp-peaked and ringed by hills, it hovers…

  And there’s Mashúk,* all green-encased,

  Mashúk, the source of healing waters;

  Amid its magic brooks and quarters

  In pallid swarms the patients press,

  All victims: some—of war’s distress,

  And some of Venus, some of Piles.

  Within those waves each martyred soul

  Would mend life’s thread and make it whole;

  Coquettes would leave their ageing smiles

  Beneath the waves, while older men

  For just one day seek youth again.

  * * *

  Consumed by bitter meditation,

  Onegin, mid those mournful crowds,

  With gaze of keen commiseration

  Regards those streams and smoky clouds,

  And with a wistful sigh he muses:

  Oh, why have I no bullet’s bruises?

  Or why am I not old and spare,

  Like that poor tax collector there?

  Or why not crippled with arthritis,

  The fate that Tula clerk was dealt?

  And why—O Lord—have I not felt

  A twinge at least of some bursitis?

  I’m young and still robust, you see;

  So what’s ahead? Ennui, ennui! …

 
; ONEGIN THEN VISITS TAURIS [THE CRIMEA]

  A land by which the mind is fired:

  Orestes with his friend here vied,*

  And here great Mithridates* died,

  And here Mickiéwicz* sang inspired,

  And, by these coastal cliffs enthralled,

  His distant homeland he recalled.

  * * *

  O lovely land, you shores of Tauris,

  From shipboard looming into sight,

  As first I saw you rise before us,

  Like Cypris* bathed in morning’s light.

  You came to me in nuptial splendour;

  Against a sky all blue and tender

  The masses of your mountains gleamed;

  Your valleys, woods, and hamlets seemed

  A patterned vision spread before me.

  And there where Tartar tongues are spoke

  What passions in my soul awoke!

  What mad and magic yearnings tore me

  And held my flaming bosom fast!

  But now, O Muse, forget the past!

  * * *

  Whatever feelings then lay hidden—

  Within me now they are no more:

  They’ve passed away or changed unbidden …

  So peace to you, you woes of yore!

  Back then it seemed that I required

  Those desert wastes and waves inspired,

  Those massive cliffs and pounding sea,

  The vision too of ‘maiden free,’

  And nameless pangs and sweet perdition …

  But other days bring other dreams;

  You’re now subdued, you vaulting schemes

  Of youthful springtime’s vast ambition,

  And in this poet’s cup of mine

  I now mix water with my wine.

  * * *

  Of other scenes have I grown fonder:

  I like a sandy slope of late,

  A cottage with two rowans yonder,

  A broken fence, a wicket gate,

  Grey clouds against a sky that lowers,

  Great heaps of straw from threshing mowers,

  And ’neath the spreading willow tree—

  A pond for ducks to wallow free.

  The balalaika’s now my pleasure,

  And by the country tavern door

  The peasant dance’s drunken roar.

  A housewife now is what I treasure;

  I long for peace, for simple fare:

  Just cabbage soup and room to spare.

  * * *

  The other day, in rainy weather,

  As I approached the farm … Enough!

  What prosy ravings strung together,

  The Flemish painter’s motley stuff!

  Was I like that when I was tender,

  Bakhchisarài,* you fount of splendour!

  Were these the thoughts that crossed my mind

  When, ’neath your endless chant I pined

  And then in silence meditated

  And pondered my Zaréma’s* fate? …

  Within those empty halls ornate,

  Upon my trail, three years belated,

  While travelling near that selfsame sea,

  Onegin, pausing, thought of me.

  * * *

  I lived back then in dry Odessa …

  Where skies for endless days are clear,

  Where commerce, bustling, crowds and presses

  And sets its sails for far and near;

  Where all breathes Europe to the senses,

  And sparkling Southern sun dispenses

  A lively, varied atmosphere.

  Along the merry streets you’ll hear

  Italian voices ringing loudly;

  You’ll meet the haughty Slav, the Greek,

  Armenian, Spaniard, Frenchman sleek,

  The stout Moldavian prancing proudly;

  And Egypt’s son as well you’ll see,

  The one-time corsair, Moralí*

  * * *

  Our friend Tumánsky* sang enchanted

  Odessa’s charms in splendid verse,

  But we must say that he was granted

  A partial view—the poet’s curse.

  No sooner here than he went roaming,

  Lorgnette in hand and senses foaming,

  Above the lonely sea … and then

  With his enraptured poet’s pen

  He praised Odessa’s gardens greatly.

  That’s fine of course, but all I’ve found

  Is barren steppeland all around,

  Though here and there much labour lately

  Has forced young boughs, I must admit,

  To spread their grudging shade a bit.

  * * *

  But where’s my rambling story rushing?

  ‘In dry Odessa’—so said I.

  I might have said: ‘Odessa gushing’

  And even so have told no lie.

  For six whole weeks it happens yearly,

  On stormy Zeus’s orders clearly:

  Odessa’s flooded, drowned, and stuck,

  Immersed in thickly oozing muck.

  In mud waist-high the houses snuggle;

  On stilts alone can feeble feet

  Attempt to ford the muddy street.

  The coaches and the people struggle,

  And then the bent-head oxen pant

  To do what helpless horses can’t.

  * * *

  But now the hammer’s smashing boulders,

  And soon with ringing slabs of slate

  The salvaged streets will muster shoulders,

  As if encased in armoured plate.

  But moist Odessa, all too sadly,

  Is lacking yet one feature badly:

  You’ll never guess … it’s water-short!

  To find the stuff is heavy sport …

  But why succumb to grim emotion?

  Especially since the local wine

  Is duty free and rather fine.

  And then there’s Southern sun and ocean…

  What more, my friends, could you demand?

  A blesséd and most favoured land!

  * * *

  No sooner would the cannon, sounding,

  Proclaim from ship the dawn of day

  Than, down the sloping shoreline bounding,

  Towards the sea I’d make my way.

  And there, my glowing pipe ignited,

  By briny waves refreshed and righted,

  In Muslim paradise complete,

  I’d sip my Turkish coffee sweet.

  I take a stroll. Inciting urges,

  The great Casino’s opened up;

  I hear the ring of glass and cup;

  The marker, half asleep, emerges

  Upon the porch, with broom in hand,

  Where two expectant merchants stand.

  * * *

  And soon the square grows gay and vital.

  Life pulses full as here and there,

  Preoccupied by work … or idle,

  All race about on some affair.

  That child of ventures and finances,

  The merchant to the port advances,

  To learn the news: has heaven brought

  The long-awaited sail he sought?

  Which just-delivered importations

  Have gone in quarantine today?

  Which wines have come without delay?

  And how’s the plague? What conflagrations,

  What wars and famines have occurred?

  He has to have the latest word.

  * * *

  But we, we band of callow joysters,

  Unlike those merchants filled with cares,

  Have been expecting only oysters …

  From Istanbul, the seaside’s wares.

  What news of oysters? Here? What rapture!

  And off runs glutton youth to capture

  And slurp from salty shells those bites

  Of plump and living anchorites,

  With just a dash of lemon flavour.

  What din, debates! The good Automne*
<
br />   From cellar store has just now come

  With sparkling wine for us to savour.

  The time goes by and, as it goes,

  The bill to awesome stature grows.

  * * *

  But now blue evening starts to darken,

  And to the opera we must get,

  The great Rossini there to harken,

  Proud Orpheus and Europe’s pet.

  Before no critic will he grovel,

  He’s ever constant, ever novel;

  He pours out tunes that effervesce,

  That in their burning flow caress

  The soul with endless youthful kisses,

  With sweetly flaming love’s refrain,

  A golden, sparkling fine champagne,

  A stream that bubbles, foams, and hisses.

  But can one justly, friends of mine,

  Compare this do-re-mi with wine?

  * * *

  And what of other fascinations?

  And what of keen lorgnettes, I say …?

  And in the wings … the assignations?

  The prima donna? The ballet?

  The loge, where, beautiful and gleaming,

  The merchant’s youthful wife sits dreaming,

  All vain and languorous with pride,

  A crowd of slaves on every side?

  She heeds and doesn’t heed the roses,

  The cavatina, heated sighs,

  The jesting praise, the pleading eyes …

  While in the back her husband dozes,

  Cries out from sleep Encore!—and then

  Emits a yawn and snores again.

  * * *

  The great finale’s thunder surges.

  In noisy haste the throng departs;

  Upon the square the crowd emerges,

  Beneath the gleam of lamps and stars.

  Ausonia’s* happy sons are humming

  The playful tune that keeps on drumming,

  Against the will, inside their brains—

  While T roar out the light refrains.

  But now it’s late. Odessa’s dreaming;

  The breathless night is warm and soft,

  While high above the moon’s aloft,

  The sky all lightly veiled and streaming.

  No stir disturbs the silence round,

  Except the sea’s incessant sound.

  * * *

  And so I lived in old Odessa …

  EXPLANATORY NOTES

  Pétri… particulière: the main epigraph to the novel, apparently written by Pushkin himself, translates roughly as follows: ‘Steeped in vanity, he was possessed moreover by that particular sort of pride that makes a man acknowledge with equal indifference both his good and evil actions, a consequence of a sense of superiority, perhaps imaginary. From a private letter.’