Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics) Page 5

  There too, beneath the theatre’s tent,

  My fleeting, youthful days were spent.

  19

  My goddesses! You vanished faces!

  Oh, hearken to my woeful call:

  Have other maidens gained your places,

  Yet not replaced you after all?

  Shall once again I hear your chants?

  Or see the Russian muse of dance

  Perform her soaring, soulful flight?

  Or shall my mournful gaze alight

  On unknown faces on the stages?

  And when across this world I pass

  A disenchanted opera glass,

  Shall I grow bored with mirth and rages,

  And shall I then in silence yawn

  And recollect a time that’s gone?

  20

  The theatre’s full, the boxes glitter;

  The restless gallery claps and roars;

  The stalls and pit are all ajitter;

  The curtain rustles as it soars.

  And there … ethereal… resplendent,

  Poised to the magic bow attendant,

  A throng of nymphs her guardian band,

  Istómina* takes up her stand.

  One foot upon the ground she places,

  And then the other slowly twirls,

  And now she leaps! And now she whirls!

  Like down from Eol’s lips she races;

  Then spins and twists and stops to beat

  Her rapid, dazzling, dancing feet.

  21

  As all applaud, Onegin enters—

  And treads on toes to reach his seat;

  His double glass he calmly centres

  On ladies he has yet to meet.

  He takes a single glance to measure

  These clothes and faces with displeasure;

  Then trading bows on every side

  With men he knew or friends he spied,

  He turned at last and vaguely fluttered

  His eyes toward the stage and play—

  Then yawned and turned his head away:

  ’It‘s time for something new,’ he muttered,

  ’I‘ve suffered ballets long enough,

  But now Didelot is boring stuff.’

  22

  While all those cupids, devils, serpents

  Upon the stage still romp and roar,

  And while the weary band of servants

  Still sleeps on furs at carriage door;

  And while the people still are tapping,

  Still sniffling, coughing, hissing, clapping;

  And while the lamps both in and out

  Still glitter grandly all about;

  And while the horses, bored at tether,

  Still fidget, freezing, in the snow,

  And coachmen by the fire’s glow

  Curse masters and beat palms together;

  Onegin now has left the scene

  And driven home to change and preen.

  23

  Shall I abandon every scruple

  And picture truly with my pen

  The room where fashion’s model pupil

  Is dressed, undressed, and dressed again?

  Whatever clever London offers

  To those with lavish whims and coffers,

  And ships to us by Baltic seas

  In trade for tallow and for trees;

  Whatever Paris, seeking treasure,

  Devises to attract the sight,

  Or manufactures for delight,

  For luxury, for modish pleasure—

  All this adorned his dressing room,

  Our sage of eighteen summers’ bloom.

  24

  Imported pipes of Turkish amber,

  Fine china, bronzes—all displayed;

  And purely to delight and pamper,

  Perfumes in crystal jars arrayed;

  Steel files and combs in many guises,

  Straight scissors, curved ones, thirty sizes

  Of brushes for the modern male—

  For hair and teeth and fingernail.

  Rousseau (permit me this digression)

  Could not conceive how solemn Grimm*

  Dared clean his nails in front of him,

  The brilliant madcap of confession.

  In this case, though, one has to say

  That Freedom’s Champion went astray.

  25

  For one may be a man of reason

  And mind the beauty of his nails.

  Why argue vainly with the season?—

  For custom’s rule o’er man prevails.

  Now my Eugene, Chadáyev’s* double,

  From jealous critics fearing trouble,

  Was quite the pedant in his dress

  And what we called a fop, no less.

  At least three hours he peruses

  His figure in the looking-glass;

  Then through his dressing room he’ll pass

  Like flighty Venus when she chooses

  In man’s attire to pay a call

  At masquerade or midnight ball.

  26

  Your interest piqued and doubtless growing

  In current fashions of toilette,

  I might describe in terms more knowing

  His clothing for the learned set.

  This might well seem an indiscretion,

  Description, though, is my profession;

  But pantaloons, gilet, and frock—

  These words are hardly Russian stock;

  And I confess (in public sorrow)

  That as it is my diction groans

  With far too many foreign loans;

  But if indeed I overborrow,

  I have of old relied upon

  Our Academic Lexicon.

  27

  But let’s abandon idle chatter

  And hasten rather to forestall

  Our hero’s headlong, dashing clatter

  In hired coach towards the ball.

  Before the fronts of darkened houses,

  Along a street that gently drowses,

  The double carriage lamps in rows

  Pour forth their warm and cheerful glows

  And on the snow make rainbows glitter.

  One splendid house is all alight,

  Its countless lampions burning bright;

  While past its glassed-in windows flitter

  In quick succession silhouettes

  Of ladies and their modish pets.

  28

  But look, Onegin’s at the gateway;

  He’s past the porter, up the stair,

  Through marble entry rushes straightway,

  Then runs his fingers through his hair,

  And steps inside. The crush increases,

  The droning music never ceases;

  A bold mazurka grips the crowd,

  The press intense, the hubbub loud;

  The guardsman clinks his spurs and dances,

  The charming ladies twirl their feet—

  Enchanting creatures that entreat

  A hot pursuit of flaming glances;

  While muffled by the violin

  The wives their jealous gossip spin.

  29

  In days of dreams and dissipations

  On balls I madly used to dote:

  No surer place for declarations,

  Or for the passing of a note.

  And so I offer, worthy spouses,

  My services to save your houses:

  I pray you, heed my sound advice,

  A word of warning should suffice.

  You too, you mamas, I commend you

  To keep your daughters well in sight;

  Don’t lower your lorgnettes at night!

  Or else … or else … may God defend you!

  All this I now can let you know,

  Since I dropped sinning long ago.

  30

  So much of life have I neglected

  In following where pleasure calls!

  Yet were not morals ill affected

  I e
ven now would worship balls.

  I love youth’s wanton, fevered madness,

  The crush, the glitter, and the gladness,

  The ladies’ gowns so well designed;

  I love their feet—although you’ll find

  That all of Russia scarcely numbers

  Three pairs of shapely feet… And yet,

  How long it took me to forget

  Two special feet. And in my slumbers

  They still assail a soul grown cold

  And on my heart retain their hold.

  31

  In what grim desert, madman, banished,

  Will you at last cut memory’s thread?

  Ah, dearest feet, where have you vanished?

  What vernal flowers do you tread?

  Brought up in Oriental splendour,

  You left no prints, no pressings tender,

  Upon our mournful northern snow.

  You loved instead to come and go

  On yielding rugs in rich profusion;

  While I—so long ago it seems!—

  For your sake smothered all my dreams

  Of glory, country, proud seclusion.

  All gone are youth’s bright years of grace,

  As from the meadow your light trace.

  32

  Diana’s breast is charming, brothers,

  And Flora’s cheek, I quite agree;

  But I prefer above these others

  The foot of sweet Terpsichore.

  It hints to probing, ardent glances

  Of rich rewards and peerless trances;

  Its token beauty stokes the fires,

  The wilful swarm of hot desires.

  My dear Elvina, I adore it—

  Beneath the table barely seen,

  In springtime on the meadow’s green,

  In winter with the hearth before it,

  Upon the ballroom’s mirrored floor,

  Or perched on granite by the shore.

  33

  I recollect the ocean rumbling:

  O how I envied then the waves—

  Those rushing tides in tumult tumbling

  To fall about her feet like slaves!

  I longed to join the waves in pressing

  Upon those feet these lips … caressing.

  No, never midst the fiercest blaze

  Of wildest youth’s most fervent days

  Was I so racked with yearning’s anguish:

  No maiden’s lips were equal bliss,

  No rosy cheek that I might kiss,

  Or sultry breast on which to languish.

  No, never once did passion’s flood

  So rend my soul, so flame my blood.

  34

  Another memory finds me ready:

  In cherished dreams I sometimes stand

  And hold the lucky stirrup steady,

  Then feel her foot within my hand!

  Once more imagination surges,

  Once more that touch ignites and urges

  The blood within this withered heart:

  Once more the love … once more the dart!

  But stop … Enough! My babbling lyre

  Has overpraised these haughty things:

  They’re hardly worth the songs one sings

  Or all the passions they inspire;

  Their charming words and glances sweet

  Are quite as faithless as their feet.

  35

  But what of my Eugene? Half drowsing,

  He drives to bed from last night’s ball,

  While Petersburg, already rousing,

  Answers the drumbeat’s duty call.

  The merchant’s up, the pedlar scurries,

  With jug in hand the milkmaid hurries,

  Crackling the freshly fallen snow;

  The cabby plods to hackney row.

  In pleasant hubbub morn’s awaking!

  The shutters open, smoke ascends

  In pale blue shafts from chimney ends.

  The German baker’s up and baking,

  And more than once, in cotton cap,

  Has opened up his window-trap.

  36

  But wearied by the ballroom’s clamour,

  He sleeps in blissful, sheer delight—

  This child of comfort and of glamour,

  Who turns each morning into night.

  By afternoon he’ll finally waken,

  The day ahead all planned and taken:

  The endless round, the varied game;

  Tomorrow too will be the same.

  But was he happy in the flower—

  The very springtime of his days,

  Amid his pleasures and their blaze,

  Amid his conquests of the hour?

  Or was he profligate and hale

  Amid his feasts to no avail?

  37

  Yes, soon he lost all warmth of feeling:

  The social buzz became a bore,

  And all those beauties, once appealing,

  Were objects of his thought no more.

  Inconstancy grew too fatiguing;

  And friends and friendship less intriguing;

  For after all he couldn’t drain

  An endless bottle of champagne

  To help those pies and beefsteaks settle,

  Or go on dropping words of wit

  With throbbing head about to split:

  And so, for all his fiery mettle,

  He did at last give up his love

  Of pistol, sword, and ready glove.

  38

  We still, alas, cannot forestall it—

  This dreadful ailment’s heavy toll;

  The spleen is what the English call it,

  We call it simply Russian soul.

  ‘Twas this our hero had contracted;

  And though, thank God, he never acted

  To put a bullet through his head,

  His former love of life was dead.

  Like Byron’s Harold, lost in trances,

  Through drawing rooms he’d pass and stare;

  But neither whist, nor gossip there,

  Nor wanton sighs, nor tender glances—

  No, nothing touched his sombre heart,

  He noticed nothing, took no part.

  (39–41) 42

  Capricious belles of lofty station!

  You were the first that he forswore;

  For nowadays in our great nation,

  The manner grand can only bore.

  I wouldn’t say that ladies never

  Discuss a Say or Bentham*—ever;

  But generally, you’ll have to grant,

  Their talk’s absurd, if harmless, cant.

  On top of which, they’re so unerring,

  So dignified, so awfully smart,

  So pious and so chaste of heart,

  So circumspect, so strict in bearing,

  So inaccessibly serene,

  Mere sight of them brings on the spleen.*

  43

  You too, young mistresses of leisure,

  Who late at night are whisked away

  In racing droshkies bound for pleasure

  Along the Petersburg chaussée—

  He dropped you too in sudden fashion.

  Apostate from the storms of passion,

  He locked himself within his den

  And, with a yawn, took up his pen

  And tried to write. But art’s exaction

  Of steady labour made him ill,

  And nothing issued from his quill;

  So thus he failed to join the faction

  Of writers—whom I won’t condemn

  Since, after all, I’m one of them.

  44

  Once more an idler, now he smothers

  The emptiness that plagues his soul

  By making his the thoughts of others—

  A laudable and worthy goal.

  He crammed his bookshelf overflowing,

  Then read and read—frustration growing:

  Some raved or lied, and some were dense;

>   Some lacked all conscience; some, all sense;

  Each with a different dogma girded;

  The old was dated through and through,

  While nothing new was in the new;

  So books, like women, he deserted,

  And over all that dusty crowd

  He draped a linen mourning shroud.

  45

  I too had parted with convention,

  With vain pursuit of worldly ends;

  And when Eugene drew my attention,

  I liked his ways and we made friends.

  I liked his natural bent for dreaming,

  His strangeness that was more than seeming,

  The cold sharp mind that he possessed;

  I was embittered, he depressed;

  With passion’s game we both were sated;

  The fire in both our hearts was pale;

  Our lives were weary, flat, and stale;

  And for us both, ahead there waited—

  While life was still but in its morn—

  Blind fortune’s malice and men’s scorn.

  46

  He who has lived as thinking being

  Within his soul must hold men small;

  He who can feel is always fleeing

  The ghost of days beyond recall;

  For him enchantment’s deep infection

  Is gone; the snake of recollection

  And grim repentance gnaws his heart.

  All this, of course, can help impart

  Great charm to private conversation;

  And though the language of my friend

  At first disturbed me, in the end

  I liked his caustic disputation—

  His blend of banter and of bile,

  His sombre wit and biting style.

  47

  How often in the summer quarter,

  When midnight sky is limpid-light

  Above the Neva’s placid water—

  The river gay and sparkling bright,

  Yet in its mirror not reflecting

  Diana’s visage—recollecting

  The loves and intrigues of the past,

  Alive once more and free at last,

  We drank in silent contemplation