Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin

on the green. XXIX Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks, Are admirable, my dear friend, But yet Terpsichore bespeaks Charms more enduring in the end. For promises her feet reveal Of untold gain she must conceal, Their privileged allurements fire A hidden train of wild desire. I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14) Beneath the table-cloth of white, In winter on the fender bright, In springtime on the meadows green, Upon the ball-room's glassy floor Or by the ocean's rocky shore. [Note 14: Elvine, or Elvina, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, "To Her," which commences thus: "Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand," and so forth.] XXX Beside the stormy sea one day I envied sore the billows tall, Which rushed in eager dense array Enamoured at her feet to fall. How like the billow I desired To kiss the feet which I admired! No, never in the early blaze Of fiery youth's untutored days So ardently did I desire A young Armida's lips to press, Her cheek of rosy loveliness Or bosom full of languid fire— A gust of passion never tore My spirit with such pangs before. XXXI Another time, so willed it Fate, Immersed in secret thought I stand And grasp a stirrup fortunate— Her foot was in my other hand. 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 Oneguine? Half asleep, Straight from the ball to bed he goes, Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep The drum already doth arouse. The shopman and the pedlar rise And to the Bourse the cabman plies; The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15) Crunching the morning snow she treads; Morning awakes with joyous sound; The shutters open; to the skies In column blue the smoke doth rise; The German baker looks around His shop, a night-cap on his head, And pauses oft to serve out bread. [Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St. Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the labouring classes.] XXXIII But turning morning into night, Tired by the ball's incessant noise, The votary of vain delight Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys, Late in the afternoon to rise, When the same life before him lies Till morn—life uniform but gay, To-morrow just like yesterday. But was our friend Eugene content, Free, in the blossom of his spring, Amidst successes flattering And pleasure's daily blandishment, Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare Was he in health and void of care?— XXXIV Even so! His passions soon abated, Hateful the hollow world became, Nor long his mind was agitated By love's inevitable flame. For treachery had done its worst; Friendship and friends he likewise curst, Because he could not gourmandise Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies And irrigate them with champagne; Nor slander viciously could spread Whene'er he had an aching head; And, though a plucky scatterbrain, He finally lost all delight In bullets, sabres, and in fight. XXXV His malady, whose cause I ween It now to investigate is time, Was nothing but the British spleen Transported to our Russian clime. It gradually possessed his mind; Though, God be praised! he ne'er designed To slay himself with blade or ball, Indifferent he became to all, And like Childe Harold gloomily He to the festival repairs, Nor boston nor the world's affairs Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh Impressed him in the least degree— Callous to all he seemed to be. XXXVI Ye miracles of courtly grace, He left you first, and I must own The manners of the highest class Have latterly vexatious grown; And though perchance a lady may Discourse of Bentham or of Say, Yet as a rule their talk I call Harmless, but quite nonsensical. Then they're so innocent of vice, So full of piety, correct, So prudent, and so circumspect Stately, devoid of prejudice, So inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16) [Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian scholiast remarks:—"The whole of this ironical stanza is but a refined eulogy of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen. Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV. Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements, combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael." It will occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair "doth protest too much." The poet in all probability wrote the offending stanza in a fit of Byronic "spleen," as he would most likely himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their utterances under its influence for what they are worth.] XXXVII And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meets Urging your droshkies swift as air Along Saint Petersburg's paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen. He thought to write, but labour long Inspired him with disgust and so Nought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell among That vicious set whom I don't blame— Because a member I became. XXXVIII Once more to idleness consigned, He felt the laudable desire From mere vacuity of mind The wit of others to acquire. A case of books he doth obtain— He reads at random, reads in vain. This nonsense, that dishonest seems, This wicked, that absurd he deems, All are constrained and fetters bear, Antiquity no pleasure gave, The moderns of the ancients rave— Books he abandoned like the fair, His book-shelf instantly doth drape With taffety instead of crape. XXXIX Having abjured the haunts of men, Like him renouncing vanity, His friendship I acquired just then; His character attracted me. An innate love of meditation, Original imagination, And cool sagacious mind he had: I was incensed and he was sad. Both were of passion satiate And both of dull existence tired, Extinct the flame which once had fired; Both were expectant of the hate With which blind Fortune oft betrays The very morning of our days. XL He who hath lived and living, thinks, Must e'en despise his kind at last; He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks From shades of the relentless past. No fond illusions live to soothe, But memory like a serpent's tooth With late repentance gnaws and stings. All this in many cases brings A charm with it in conversation. Oneguine's speeches I abhorred At first, but soon became inured To the sarcastic observation, To witticisms and taunts half-vicious And gloomy epigrams malicious. XLI How oft, when on a summer night Transparent o'er the Neva beamed The firmament in mellow light, And when the watery mirror gleamed No more with pale Diana's rays,(17) We called to mind our youthful days— The days of love and of romance! Then would we muse as in a trance, Impressionable for an hour, And breathe the balmy breath of night; And like the prisoner's our delight Who for the greenwood quits his tower, As on the rapid wings of thought The early days of life we sought. [Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of St. Petersburg are a prolonged twilight.] XLII Absorbed in melancholy mood And o'er the granite coping bent, Oneguine meditative stood, E'en as the poet says he leant.(18) 'Tis silent all! Alone the cries Of the night sentinels arise And from the Millionaya afar(19) The sudden rattling of a car. Lo! on the sleeping river borne, A boat with splashing oar floats by, And now we hear delightedly A jolly song and distant horn; But sweeter in a midnight dream Torquato Tasso's strains I deem. [Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff's "Goddess of the Neva." At St. Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with splendid granite quays.] [Note 19: A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.] XLIII Ye billows of blue Hadria's sea, O Brenta, once more we shall meet And, inspiration firing me, Your magic voices I shall greet, Whose tones Apollo's sons inspire, And after Albion's proud lyre (20) Possess my love and sympathy. The nights of golden Italy I'll pass beneath the firmament, Hid in the gondola's dark shade, Alone with my Venetian maid, Now talkative, now reticent; From her my lips shall learn the tongue Of love which whilom Petrarch sung. [Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron's genius on the imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian tastes, see his poem of "Angelo," founded upon "Measure for Measure."] XLIV When will my hour of freedom come! Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales Awaiting on the shore I roam And beckon to the passing sails. Upon the highway of the sea When shall I wing my passage free On waves by tempests curdled o'er! 'Tis time to quit this weary shore So uncongenial to my mind, To dream upon the sunny strand Of Africa, ancestral land,(21) Of dreary Russia left behind, Wherein I felt love's fatal dart, Wherein I buried left my heart. [Note 21: The poet was, on his mother's side, of African extraction, a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal,