Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin. Александр Пушкин

absorbed by Lethe’s stream.

      Then it may be, O flattering tale,

      Some future ignoramus shall

      My famous portrait indicate

      And cry: he was a poet great!

      My gratitude do not disdain,

      Admirer of the peaceful Muse,

      Whose memory doth not refuse

      My light productions to retain,

      Whose hands indulgently caress

      The bays of age and helplessness.

      Canto the Third

      ‘Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse’

Malfilatre

      I

      “Whither away? Deuce take the bard!” —

      “Good-bye, Onegin, I must go.” —

      “I won’t detain you; but ’tis hard

      To guess how you the eve pull through.” —

      “At Larina’s.” – “Hem, that is queer!

      Pray is it not a tough affair

      Thus to assassinate the eve?” —

      “Not at all.” – “That I can’t conceive!

      ‘Tis something of this sort I deem.

      In the first place, say, am I right?

      A Russian household simple quite,

      Who welcome guests with zeal extreme,

      Preserves and an eternal prattle

      About the rain and flax and cattle.” —

      II

      “No misery I see in that” —

      “Boredom, my friend, behold the ill – ”

      “Your fashionable world I hate,

      Domestic life attracts me still,

      Where – “ – “What! another eclogue spin?

      For God’s sake, Lenski, don’t begin!

      What! really going? ’Tis too bad!

      But Lenski, I should be so glad

      Would you to me this Phyllis show,

      Fair source of every fine idea,

      Verses and tears et cetera.

      Present me.” – “You are joking.” – “No.” —

      “Delighted.” – “When?” – “This very night.

      They will receive us with delight.”

      III

      Whilst homeward by the nearest route

      Our heroes at full gallop sped,

      Can we not stealthily make out

      What they in conversation said? —

      “How now, Onegin, yawning still?” —

      “‘Tis habit, Lenski.” – “Is your ill

      More troublesome than usual?” – “No!

      How dark the night is getting though!

      Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!

      The drive becomes monotonous —

      Well! Larina appears to us

      An ancient lady full of grace. —

      That bilberry wine, I’m sore afraid,

      The deuce with my inside has played.”

      IV

      “Say, of the two which was Tattiana?”

      “She who with melancholy face

      And silent as the maid Svetlana[27]

      Hard by the window took her place.” —

      “The younger, you’re in love with her!”

      “Well!” – “I the elder should prefer,

      Were I like you a bard by trade —

      In Olga’s face no life’s displayed.

      ‘Tis a Madonna of Vandyk,

      An oval countenance and pink,

      Yon silly moon upon the brink

      Of the horizon she is like!” —

      Vladimir something curtly said

      Nor further comment that night made.

      V

      Meantime Onegin’s apparition

      At Larina’s abode produced

      Quite a sensation; the position

      To all good neighbours’ sport conduced.

      Endless conjectures all propound

      And secretly their views expound.

      What jokes and guesses now abound,

      A beau is for Tattiana found!

      In fact, some people were assured

      The wedding-day had been arranged,

      But the date subsequently changed

      Till proper rings could be procured.

      On Lenski’s matrimonial fate

      They long ago had held debate.

      VI

      Of course Tattiana was annoyed

      By such allusions scandalous,

      Yet was her inmost soul o’erjoyed

      With satisfaction marvellous,

      As in her heart the thought sank home,

      I am in love, my hour hath come!

      Thus in the earth the seed expands

      Obedient to warm Spring’s commands.

      Long time her young imagination

      By indolence and languor fired

      The fated nutriment desired;

      And long internal agitation

      Had filled her youthful breast with gloom,

      She waited for – I don’t know whom!

      VII

      The fatal hour had come at last —

      She oped her eyes and cried: ’tis he!

      Alas! for now before her passed

      The same warm vision constantly;

      Now all things round about repeat

      Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet

      His name: the tenderness of home

      Tiresome unto her hath become

      And the kind-hearted servitors:

      Immersed in melancholy thought,

      She hears of conversation nought

      And hated casual visitors,

      Their coming which no man expects,

      And stay whose length none recollects.

      VIII

      Now with what eager interest

      She the delicious novel reads,

      With what avidity and zest

      She

27

Svetlana, a short poem by Joukovski, upon which his fame mainly rests. Joukovski was an unblushing plagiarist. Many eminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him, often without going through the form of acknowledging the source of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot be pronounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty is unquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger’s poem Leonora, which has found so many English translators. Not content with a single development of Burger’s ghastly production the Russian poet has directly paraphrased Leonora under its own title, and also written a poem Liudmila in imitation of it. The principal outlines of these three poems are as follows: A maiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providence and is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother. Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover’s spirit, to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunate maiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamber the unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs to his own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute his errand. It is a repulsive subject. Svetlana, however, is more agreeable than its prototype Leonora, inasmuch as the whole catastrophe turns out a dream brought on by “sorcery,” during the “sviatki” or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamer awakes to hear the tinkling of her lover’s sledge approaching. “Svetlana” has been translated by Sir John Bowring.