Eugene Onegin Read online

  Rousseau40 (I’ll note with your permission)

  Could not conceive how solemn Grimm41

  Dared clean his nails in front of him,

  The madcap sage and rhetorician.

  Champion of rights and liberty,

  In this case judged wrong-headedly.

  25

  One still can be a man of action

  And mind the beauty of one’s nails:

  Why fight the age’s predilection?

  Custom’s a despot and prevails.

  My Eugene, like Chaadaev,42 fearful

  Of jealous censure, was most careful

  About his dress – a pedant or

  A dandy, as we said before.

  At least three hours he spent preparing

  In front of mirrors in his lair,

  And, stepping out at last from there,

  Looked like a giddy Venus wearing

  A man’s attire, who, thus arrayed,

  Drives out to join a masquerade.

  26

  Having diverted you concerning

  The latest taste in toiletry,

  I could regale the world of learning

  With his sartorial repertory;

  An enterprise that’s bold, I know it,

  Yet, after all, I am a poet:

  But pantalons, frac and gilet43

  Are still not Russian words today.

  Indeed, I offer my excuses,

  Since my poor style, such as it is,

  Could well forgo the vanities

  Of foreign words and like abuses,

  Though I dipped into, formerly,

  The Academic Dictionary.

  27

  But to continue with our story:

  We’d better hurry to the ball

  To which Onegin in his glory

  Has sped by coach to make his call.

  Through sleeping streets, past houses darkened

  Twin carriage lamps pour out a jocund

  Illumination row on row,

  Projecting rainbows on the snow;

  With lampions around it scattered,

  A splendid house is brightly lit,

  Past whole-glass windows shadows flit

  And profiled heads are silhouetted

  Of ladies, and outlandish men –

  Fashion’s most recent specimen.

  28

  Behold our hero at the doorway;

  Past the hall porter like a dart

  He flies, ascends the marble stairway,

  Flicking his straying hair apart,

  Enters. The ballroom’s full to brimming;

  The music now is tired of dinning;

  Mazurkas entertain the crowd;

  The room is packed, the noise is loud;

  The spurs of Chevalier Gardes44 jangle,

  The little feet of ladies fly;

  Their charming tracks are followed by

  Glances that fly from every angle,

  And jealous female whisperings

  Are deafened by the howling strings.

  29

  In days of revelries and passions

  I’d go insane about a ball:

  For billets doux and declarations

  There’s no securer place at all,

  Respected husbands! May I offer

  My service to you lest you suffer;

  I beg you, note my every word,

  I want you always on your guard.

  And you, mammas, pay more attention,

  Observe your daughters’ etiquette

  And keep a hold on your lorgnette!

  Or else… you’ll need God’s intervention!

  I’m only writing this to show

  That I stopped sinning long ago.

  30

  Alas, much life I have neglected

  For every pastime thinkable,

  Yet were my morals not affected,

  I to this day would love a ball.

  I love the youthfulness and madness,

  The crush, the glitter and the gladness,

  The care with which the women dress;

  I love their little feet, yet guess

  You’d be unlikely to discover

  Three shapely pairs of women’s feet

  In all of Russia. Long indeed

  Have two small feet caused me to suffer…

  Sad, cold, I still recall their smart,

  And in my sleep they stir my heart.

  31

  To what far desert will you wander,

  Madman, to overcome their sting?

  Ah, little, little feet! I wonder

  Where now you crush the flowers of spring?

  Born to the softness of the orient,

  On our sad snows you left no imprint:

  You loved the sumptuous feel instead

  Of rugs that yielded to your tread,

  You lived in luxury, refinement.

  For you how long ago did I

  Forget renown and eulogy,

  My native land and my confinement?

  The happiness of youth has passed

  Like your light trace on meadow grass.

  32

  Diana’s45 breast, the cheeks of Flora,46

  Are charming, friends, I do agree,

  But somehow what enchant me more are

  The small feet of Terpsichore.

  To all who gaze on them magnetic,

  Of priceless recompense prophetic,

  Their classic gracefulness inspires

  A wilful swarming of desires.

  I love them, dear Elvina,47 under

  A lengthy tablecloth or pressed

  On grass in spring or when they rest

  In winter on a cast-iron fender,

  Upon the parquet floors of halls,

  Beside the sea on granite walls.

  33

  Once by the sea, a storm impending,

  I recollect my envy of

  The waves, successively descending,

  Collapsing at her feet with love.

  Oh how I wished to join their races

  And catch her feet in my embraces!

  No, never did I in the fire

  Of my ebullient youth desire

  To kiss with so much pain and hunger

  A young Armida’s48 lips or seek

  The rose upon a flaming cheek

  Or touch a bosom full of languor;

  No, never did a passion’s squall

  So rend and tear apart my soul.

  34

  Another memory comes, revealing

  A cherished dream in which I stand

  Holding a happy stirrup… feeling

  A tiny foot inside my hand.

  Imagination seethes, excited,

  Once more its contact has ignited

  The blood within my withered heart,

  Once more I love, once more I smart!…

  But why should I think it my duty

  To praise these proud ones with my lyre,

  Who don’t deserve the passions or

  The songs engendered by their beauty.

  Their charming words and glances cheat

  As surely as… their little feet.

  35

  But my Onegin? Home to bed he

  Drives sleepily through city streets,

  While restless Petersburg already

  Is wakened by the drummer’ beats.

  The merchant’s up, the hawker’s calling,

  And to his stand the cabman’s crawling,

  The Okhta49 girl, her jug held tight,

  Crunches the snow in hurried flight.

  The early-morning noise is cheering,

  Shutters unlock, in columns high

  Blue chimney smoke ascends the sky,

  The baker, punctual German, wearing

  His cotton cap, already has

  Opened and shut his vasisdas.50

  36

  But, turning morning into nighttime,

  Exhausted by the ballroom’s din,

  The child of luxury
and pastime

  In blissful shade sleeps quietly in.

  He’ll wake past noon, and till next morning

  His selfsame life will go on turning

  In its unchanging, motley way,

  Tomorrow just like yesterday.

  And yet how happy was my Eugene –

  A free man in the bloom of years

  ‘midst splendid conquests and affairs,

  ‘midst daily pleasures to indulge in?

  Was it in vain that, feasting, he

  Displayed such health and levity?

  37

  No: soon a coldness numbed his feeling;

  The social hubbub left him bored;

  The fair sex ceased to be appealing,

  To dominate his every thought.

  Betrayals no more entertained him,

  While friends and friendships simply pained him,

  Since he, not always, it was plain,

  Could drink a bottle of champagne,

  To down a Strasbourg pie and beef-steaks,

  And scatter caustic words of wit,

  While thinking that his head might split;

  And he, a fiery rake, his leave takes

  Of that exhilerating life

  Of sabre, lead and martial strife.

  38

  A malady, whose explanation

  Is overdue, and similar

  To English spleen – the Russian version,

  In short, is what we call khandra –51

  Possessed him bit by bit; not tempted,

  Thank God, to shoot himself, but, emptied

  Of all attachment to this life,

  He, like Childe Harold,52 would arrive

  In drawing rooms, dejected, languid;

  Neither the worldly gossiping,

  Nor game of boston,53 then in swing,

  Immodest sighs or glances candid,

  Naught touched Onegin to the core

  He noticed nothing any more.

  [39, 40, 41]

  42

  Capricious ladies of society!

  You were the first ones he forswore,

  And, in our years, bon ton,54 propriety

  Have, it is true, become a bore;

  While you may find a dame among them,

  Elucidating Say and Bentham,55

  Their conversation, all in all,

  While harmless, is nonsensical;

  On top of that, they are so gracious,

  Majestic and intelligent,

  So full of pious sentiment,

  So circumspect, precise and precious,

  So inaccessible to men,

  The sight of them brings on the spleen.56

  43

  And even you, young beauties, gracing

  The droshkies that career away,

  Over the city’s pavements racing

  From late at night to break of day,

  You, too, he left in equal measure.

  An apostate from stormy pleasure,

  He locked himself inside his den,

  Yawning, he reached out for a pen,

  He wished to write – but could not manage

  The pain of persevering toil,

  Nothing proceeded from his quill,

  Nor did he join that cocky parish

  Or guild of which I’ll speak no wrong,

  Since it’s among them I belong.

  44

  And once more given to inaction,

  Empty in spirit and alone,

  He settled down – to the distraction

  Of making other minds his own;

  Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful,

  Read, read, not even one was helpful:

  Here, there was dullness, there pretence;

  This one lacked conscience, that one sense;

  All were by different shackles fettered;

  And, past times having lost their hold,

  The new still raved about the old.

  Like women, books he now deserted,

  And mourning taffeta he drew

  Across the bookshelf’s dusty crew.

  45

  Disburdened of the world’s opinions,

  Like him, disdaining vanity,

  At that time we became companions.

  I liked his personality,

  The dreams to which he was addicted,

  The oddness not to be depicted,

  The sharp, chilled mind and gloomy bent

  That rivalled my embitterment.

  We both had known the play of passions,

  By life we both had been oppressed;

  In each the heart had lost its zest;

  Each waited for the machinations

  Of men, and blind Fortuna’s gaze,

  Blighting the morning of our days.

  46

  He who has lived and thought can never

  Help in his soul despising men,

  He who has felt will be forever

  Haunted by days he can’t regain.

  For him there are no more enchantments,

  Him does the serpent of remembrance,

  Him does repentance always gnaw.

  All this will frequently afford

  A great delight to conversations.

  Initially, I was confused

  By Eugene’s speech, but I grew used

  To his abrasive disputations,

  His humour halfway mixed with bile

  And epigrams in sombre style.

  47

  How often did the summer court us,

  When skies at night are limpid, bright57

  And when the cheerful, glass-like waters

  Do not reflect Diana’s light;

  Recalling former years’ romances,

  Recalling love that time enhances,

  With tenderness, with not a care,

  Alive, at liberty once more,

  We drank, in mute intoxication,

  The breath of the indulgent night!

  Just as a sleepy convict might

  Be carried from incarceration

  Into a greenwood, so were we

  Borne to our youth by reverie.

  48

  Leaning upon a ledge of granite,

  His soul full of regrets and woes,

  Eugene stood pensively (the Poet58

  Himself appears in such a pose).

  All round was silent, save a sentry

  Hailing another, or the entry,

  With sudden clip-clop from afar,

  Of droshkies in Millionaya.59

  Upon the sleeping river, gliding,

  Sailed one lone boat with waving oars,

  Bold song and horn from distant shores

  Charmed us… but what is more delighting

  Than on a merry night to hear

  Toquato’s octaves drawing near!

  49

  O Adriatic waves, o Brenta!60

  Nay, I shall see you and rejoice,

  With inspiration new I’ll enter

  And hearken to your magic voice!

  To grandsons of Apollo sacred,

  I know it well, to me it’s kindred

  From Albion’s proud poetry.61

  The nights of golden Italy

  I’ll spend with a Venetian daughter,

  Now talkative, now mute; with her

  In a mysterious gondola

  Voluptuously through the water

  My lips will study how to move

  In Petrarch’s62 tongue, the tongue of love.

  50

  My hour of freedom, is it coming?

  I call to it: it’s time, it’s time!

  Above the sea, forever roaming,63

  I beckon every sail and clime.

  Mantled by storms, with waves contending,

  Upon the sea’s free crossway wending,

  When shall I start my freedom’s flight?

  Dull shore that gives me no delight,

  It’s time to leave you for the ocean,

  That swells beneath a Southern sky,

  And
in my Africa64 to sigh

  For sombre Russia, for the portion

  Of love and suffering I incurred

  And where I left my heart interred.

  51

  Onegin was prepared to travel

  To foreign parts with me, but fate

  Was soon to part us and unravel

  Our plans until a future date.

  His father died upon the instant.

  Before Onegin an insistent

  Brigade of creditors appeared,

  Each wanting something different cleared:

  Eugene, detesting litigation,

  Contented with his lot, at once

  Abandoned his inheritance,

  In this perceiving no privation,

  Or was it that he could foretell

  His ageing uncle’s death as well?

  52

  Indeed, quite suddenly the steward

  Reported uncle gravely ill

  And on his deathbed, looking forward

  To bidding Eugene a farewell.

  No sooner had he finished reading

  This woeful note than to this meeting

  Upon a post-chaise Eugene sped,

  And yawned, as he prepared ahead

  For sighs and boredom and deception

  For money’ sake (and it was here

  My novel started its career);

  But he, instead of this reception,

  Found uncle on a table laid,

  Earth’s tribute ready to be paid.

  53

  He found the grounds full of attendants;

  Arriving from all sides to call,

  Friends, enemies were in attendance,

  All lovers of a funeral.

  The dead man buried, feasting followed,

  The priests and guests imbibed and swallowed,

  And, gravely, afterwards dispersed

  As if some business they’d rehearsed.

  Now our Onegin, country dweller,

  Of land, wood, water, factory

  Is master (former enemy

  Of order and a wasteful fellow),

  And very glad to change his lot

  For something new, no matter what.

  54

  For two whole days the lonely meadows,