Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin

“ XXVI But my Onéguine the whole eve Within his mind Tattiana bore, Not the young timid maid, believe, Enamoured, simple-minded, poor, But the indifferent princess, Divinity without access Of the imperial Neva’s shore. O Men, how very like ye are To Eve the universal mother, Possession hath no power to please, The serpent to unlawful trees Aye bids ye in some way or other— Unless forbidden fruit we eat, Our paradise is no more sweet. ”

“ But home his body to despatch Can scarce in sweetness be a match. XXXII Well, if your pistol ball by chance The comrade of your youth should strike, Who by a haughty word or glance Or any trifle else ye like You o’er your wine insulted hath— Or even overcome by wrath Scornfully challenged you afield— Tell me, of sentiments concealed Which in your spirit dominates, When motionless your gaze beneath He lies, upon his forehead death, And slowly life coagulates— When deaf and silent he doth lie Heedless of your despairing cry? ”

“ There the confusion, pressure, heat, The crash of music, candles’ glare And rapid whirl of many feet, The ladies’ dresses airy, light, The motley moving mass and bright, Young ladies in a vasty curve, To strike imagination serve. ’Tis there that arrant fops display Their insolence and waistcoats white And glasses unemployed all night; Thither hussars on leave will stray To clank the spur, delight the fair— And vanish like a bird in air. XLIX Full many a lovely star hath night And Moscow many a beauty fair: Yet clearer shines than every light The moon in the blue atmosphere. ”

“ XXVII But I the products of my Muse, Consisting of harmonious lays, To my old nurse alone peruse, Companion of my childhood’s days. Or, after dinner’s dull repast, I by the button-hole seize fast My neighbour, who by chance drew near, And breathe a drama in his ear. Or else (I deal not here in jokes) , Exhausted by my woes and rhymes, I sail upon my lake at times And terrify a swarm of ducks, Who, heard the music of my lay, Take to their wings and fly away. XXVIII But to Onéguine! A propos! Friends, I must your indulgence pray. ”

“ 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 ”

“ XXXIII Eugene, his pistol yet in hand And with remorseful anguish filled, Gazing on Lenski’s corse did stand— Zaretski shouted: “Why, he’s killed!”— Killed! at this dreadful exclamation Onéguine went with trepidation And the attendants called in haste. Most carefully Zaretski placed Within his sledge the stiffened corse, And hurried home his awful freight. Conscious of death approximate, Loud paws the earth each panting horse, His bit with foam besprinkled o’er, And homeward like an arrow tore. XXXIV My friends, the poet ye regret! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ Again imagination blazed, The contact of the foot I raised Rekindled in my withered heart The fires of passion and its smart— Away! and cease to ring their praise For ever with thy tattling lyre, The proud ones are not worth the fire Of passion they so often raise. The words and looks of charmers sweet Are oft deceptive—like their feet. XXXII Where is Onéguine? Half asleep, Straight from the ball to bed he goes, Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep The drum already doth arouse. ”

“ XXI But borne in spirit far away Tattiana gazes on the moon, And starting suddenly doth say: “Nurse, leave me. I would be alone. Pen, paper bring: the table too Draw near. I soon to sleep shall go— Good-night.” Behold! she is alone! ’Tis silent—on her shines the moon— Upon her elbow she reclines, And Eugene ever in her soul Indites an inconsiderate scroll Wherein love innocently pines. ”

“ Spring cheered him up, and he resigned His chambers close wherein confined He marmot-like did hibernate, His double sashes and his grate, And sallied forth one brilliant morn— Along the Neva’s bank he sleighs, On the blue blocks of ice the rays Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn, The snow upon the streets doth melt— Whither along them doth he pelt? XXXIX Onéguine whither gallops? Ye Have guessed already. Yes, quite so! Unto his own Tattiana he, Incorrigible rogue, doth go. Her house he enters, ghastly white, The vestibule finds empty quite— He enters the saloon. ’Tis blank! A door he opens. ”

“ 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 ”

“ All to the doctors Eugene send, And they the waters recommend. XXXI He went not—sooner was prepared To write his forefathers to warn Of his approach; but nothing cared Tattiana—thus the sex is born.— He obstinately will remain, Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain. Sickness more courage doth command Than health, so with a trembling hand A love epistle he doth scrawl. Though correspondence as a rule He used to hate—and was no fool— Yet suffering emotional Had rendered him an invalid; But word for word his letter read. Onéguine’s Letter to Tattiana All is foreseen. ”

“ The Muse capricious let us coax, Go hear the rustling of the oaks Beside a nameless rivulet, Where in the country Eugene yet, An idle anchorite and sad, A while ago the winter spent, Near young Tattiana resident, My pretty self-deceiving maid— No more the village knows his face, For there he left a mournful trace. VI Let us proceed unto a rill, Which in a hilly neighbourhood Seeks, winding amid meadows still, The river through the linden wood. The nightingale there all night long, Spring’s paramour, pours forth her song The fountain brawls, sweetbriers bloom, And lo! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Tattiana wakes Betimes, and sees, when morning breaks, Park, garden, palings, yard below And roofs near morn blanched o’er with snow; Upon the windows tracery, The trees in silvery array, Down in the courtyard magpies gay, And the far mountains daintily O’erspread with Winter’s carpet bright, All so distinct, and all so white! II Winter! The peasant blithely goes To labour in his sledge forgot, His pony sniffing the fresh snows Just manages a feeble trot Though deep he sinks into the drift ”

“ Youth freshens beneath Passion’s showers, Develops and matures its powers, And thus in season the rich field Gay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield. But at a later, sterile age, The solstice of our earthly years, Mournful Love’s deadly trace appears As storms which in chill autumn rage And leave a marsh the fertile ground And devastate the woods around. XXIX There was no doubt! Eugene, alas! Tattiana loved as when a lad, Both day and night he now must pass In love-lorn meditation sad. ”

“ I brood Daily of love in solitude. My days of life approach their end, Yet I in idleness expend The remnant destiny concedes, And thus each stubbornly proceeds. I feel, allotted is my span; But, that life longer may remain, At morn I must assuredly Know that thy face that day I see. I tremble lest my humble prayer You with stern countenance declare The artifice of villany— I hear your harsh, reproachful cry. ”

“ XXV O ye whom tender love hath pained Without the ken of parents both, Whose hearts responsive have remained To the impressions of our youth, The all-entrancing joys of love— Young ladies, if ye ever strove The mystic lines to tear away A lover’s letter might convey, Or into bold hands anxiously Have e’er a precious tress consigned, Or even, silent and resigned, When separation’s hour drew nigh, Have felt love’s agitated kiss With tears, confused emotions, bliss,— XXVI With unanimity complete, Condemn not weak Tattiana mine ”

“ Herds low, and under night’s dark veil Already sings the nightingale. II Mournful is thine approach to me, O Spring, thou chosen time of love! What agitation languidly My spirit and my blood doth move, What sad emotions o’er me steal When first upon my cheek I feel The breath of Spring again renewed, Secure in rural quietude— Or, strange to me is happiness? Do all things which to mirth incline. And make a dark existence shine Inflict annoyance and distress Upon a soul inert and cloyed?— And is all light within destroyed? ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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. ”

“ There is no path; the storm hath strewn Both bush and brake, ravine and steep, And all in snow is buried deep. XIV The wood she enters—bear behind,— In snow she sinks up to the knee; Now a long branch itself entwined Around her neck, now violently Away her golden earrings tore; Now the sweet little shoes she wore, Grown clammy, stick fast in the snow; Her handkerchief she loses now; No time to pick it up! afraid, She hears the bear behind her press, Nor dares the skirting of her dress For shame lift up the modest maid. She runs, the bear upon her trail, Until her powers of running fail. ”

“ X Happy he who in youth was young, Happy who timely grew mature, He who life’s frosts which early wrung Hath gradually learnt to endure; By visions who was ne’er deranged Nor from the mob polite estranged, At twenty who was prig or swell, At thirty who was married well, At fifty who relief obtained From public and from private ties, Who glory, wealth and dignities Hath tranquilly in turn attained, And unto whom we all allude As to a worthy man and good! XI But sad is the reflection made, In vain was youth by us received, That we her constantly betrayed And she at last hath us deceived ”

“ God save his soul eternally And grant his weary bones their rest Deep in our mother Earth’s chill breast!” XVII Tattiana’s eyes with tender gleam On everything around her gaze, Of priceless value all things seem And in her languid bosom raise A pleasure though with sorrow knit: The table with its lamp unlit, The pile of books, with carpet spread Beneath the window-sill his bed, The landscape which the moonbeams fret, The twilight pale which softens all, Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall And the cast-iron statuette With folded arms and eyes bent low, Cocked hat and melancholy brow. ”

“ Besides the hobbies of a spouse Should be respected throughout life By every proper-minded wife, And this the faithful one allows, When in as instant she is lost,— Satan will jest, and at love’s cost. XVI Oh! where bestow our love? Whom trust? Where is he who doth not deceive? Who words and actions will adjust To standards in which we believe? Oh! who is not calumnious? Who labours hard to humour us? To whom are our misfortunes grief And who is not a tiresome thief? ”

“ And thou, youth’s early inspiration, Invigorate imagination And spur my spirit’s torpid mood! Fly frequent to my solitude, Let not the poet’s spirit freeze, Grow harsh and cruel, dead and dry, Eventually petrify In the world’s mortal revelries, Amid the soulless sons of pride And glittering simpletons beside ”