Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin. Александр Пушкин

or glad in turn to be,

      Haughty appear, subservient,

      Obsequious or indifferent!

      What languor would his silence show,

      How full of fire his speech would glow!

      How artless was the note which spoke

      Of love again, and yet again;

      How deftly could he transport feign!

      How bright and tender was his look,

      Modest yet daring! And a tear

      Would at the proper time appear.

      X

      How well he played the greenhorn’s part

      To cheat the inexperienced fair,

      Sometimes by pleasing flattery’s art,

      Sometimes by ready-made despair;

      The feeble moment would espy

      Of tender years the modesty

      Conquer by passion and address,

      Await the long-delayed caress.

      Avowal then ’twas time to pray,

      Attentive to the heart’s first beating,

      Follow up love – a secret meeting

      Arrange without the least delay —

      Then, then – well, in some solitude

      Lessons to give he understood!

      XI

      How soon he learnt to titillate

      The heart of the inveterate flirt!

      Desirous to annihilate

      His own antagonists expert,

      How bitterly he would malign,

      With many a snare their pathway line!

      But ye, O happy husbands, ye

      With him were friends eternally:

      The crafty spouse caressed him, who

      By Faublas in his youth was schooled[4],

      And the suspicious veteran old,

      The pompous, swaggering cuckold too,

      Who floats contentedly through life,

      Proud of his dinners and his wife!

      XII

      One morn whilst yet in bed he lay,

      His valet brings him letters three.

      What, invitations? The same day

      As many entertainments be!

      A ball here, there a children’s treat,

      Whither shall my rapscallion flit?

      Whither shall he go first? He’ll see,

      Perchance he will to all the three.

      Meantime in matutinal dress

      And hat surnamed a “Bolivar”[5]

      He hies unto the “Boulevard,”

      To loiter there in idleness

      Until the sleepless Breguet chime[6]

      Announcing to him dinner-time.

      XIII

      ‘Tis dark. He seats him in a sleigh,

      “Drive on!” the cheerful cry goes forth,

      His furs are powdered on the way

      By the fine silver of the north.

      He bends his course to Talon’s[7], where

      He knows Kaverine[8] will repair.

      He enters. High the cork arose

      And Comet champagne foaming flows.

      Before him red roast beef is seen

      And truffles, dear to youthful eyes,

      Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies,

      The choicest flowers of French cuisine,

      And Limburg cheese alive and old

      Is seen next pine-apples of gold.

      XIV

      Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels

      To cool the cutlets’ seething grease,

      When the sonorous Breguet tells

      Of the commencement of the piece.

      A critic of the stage malicious,

      A slave of actresses capricious,

      Onegin was a citizen

      Of the domains of the side-scene.

      To the theatre he repairs

      Where each young critic ready stands,

      Capers applauds with clap of hands,

      With hisses Cleopatra scares,

      Moina recalls for this alone

      That all may hear his voice’s tone.

      XV

      Thou fairy-land! Where formerly

      Shone pungent Satire’s dauntless king,

      Von Wisine, friend of liberty,

      And Kniajnine, apt at copying.

      The young Simeonova too there

      With Ozeroff was wont to share

      Applause, the people’s donative.

      There our Katenine did revive

      Corneille’s majestic genius,

      Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out

      His comedies, a noisy rout,

      There Didelot became glorious,

      There, there, beneath the side-scene’s shade

      The drama of my youth was played[9].

      XVI

      My goddesses, where are your shades?

      Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?

      Are ye replaced by other maids

      Who cannot conjure former joys?

      Shall I your chorus hear anew,

      Russia’s Terpsichore review

      Again in her ethereal dance?

      Or will my melancholy glance

      On the dull stage find all things changed,

      The disenchanted glass direct

      Where I can no more recollect? —

      A careless looker-on estranged

      In silence shall I sit and yawn

      And dream of life’s delightful dawn?

      XVII

      The house is crammed. A thousand lamps

      On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze,

      Impatiently the gallery stamps,

      The curtain now they slowly raise.

      Obedient to the magic strings,

      Brilliant, ethereal, there springs

      Forth from the crowd

4

Les Aventures du Chevalier de Faublas, a romance of a loose character by Jean Baptiste Louvet de Couvray (1760–1797), famous for his bold oration denouncing Robespierre, Marat and Danton.

5

À la “Bolivar”, from the founder of Bolivian independence.

6

M. Breguet, a celebrated Parisian watchmaker – hence a slang term for a watch.

7

Talon, a famous St. Petersburg restaurateur.

8

Paul Petrovitch Kaverine, a friend for whom Pushkin in his youth appears to have entertained great respect and admiration. He was an officer in the Hussars of the Guard, and a noted “dandy” and man about town.

9

Denis Von Wisine (1741–1792), a favourite Russian dramatist. His first comedy The Brigadier, procured him the favour of the second Catherine. His best, however, is the Minor (Niedorosl). Prince Potemkin, after witnessing it, summoned the author, and greeted him with the exclamation, “Die now, Denis!” In fact, his subsequent performances were not of equal merit; Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine (1742–1791), a clever adapter of French tragedy; Simeonova, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine; Ozeroff, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. Oedipus in Athens, Fingal, Demetrius Donskoi, and Polyxena, are the best known of his tragedies; Katenine translated Corneille’s tragedies into Russian; Didelot, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.