Текст книги "Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse"

Автор книги: Alexander Pushkin

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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;

Do not cold-bloodedly repeat

The sneers of critics superfine;

And you, O maids immaculate,

Whom vice, if named, doth agitate

E'en as the presence of a snake,

I the same admonition make.

Who knows? with love's consuming flame

Perchance you also soon may burn,

Then to some gallant in your turn

Will be ascribed by treacherous Fame

The triumph of a conquest new.

The God of Love is after you!

XXVII

A coquette loves by calculation,

Tattiana's love was quite sincere,

A love which knew no limitation,

Even as the love of children dear.

She did not think "procrastination

Enhances love in estimation

And thus secures the prey we seek.

His vanity first let us pique

With hope and then perplexity,

Excruciate the heart and late

With jealous fire resuscitate,

Lest jaded with satiety,

The artful prisoner should seek

Incessantly his chains to break."

XXVIII

I still a complication view,

My country's honour and repute

Demands that I translate for you

The letter which Tattiana wrote.

At Russ she was by no means clever

And read our newspapers scarce ever,

And in her native language she

Possessed nor ease nor fluency,

So she in French herself expressed.

I cannot help it I declare,

Though hitherto a lady ne'er

In Russ her love made manifest,

And never hath our language proud

In correspondence been allowed.(39)

[Note 39: It is well known that until the reign of the late Tsar French was the language of the Russian court and of Russian fashionable society. It should be borne in mind that at the time this poem was written literary warfare more or less open was being waged between two hostile schools of Russian men of letters. These consisted of the Arzamass, or French school, to which Pushkin himself together with his uncle Vassili Pushkin the "Nestor of the Arzamass" belonged, and their opponents who devoted themselves to the cultivation of the vernacular.]

XXIX

They wish that ladies should, I hear,

Learn Russian, but the Lord defend!

I can't conceive a little dear

With the "Well-Wisher" in her hand!(40)

I ask, all ye who poets are,

Is it not true? the objects fair,

To whom ye for unnumbered crimes

Had to compose in secret rhymes,

To whom your hearts were consecrate,—

Did they not all the Russian tongue

With little knowledge and that wrong

In charming fashion mutilate?

Did not their lips with foreign speech

The native Russian tongue impeach?

[Note 40: The "Blago-Namierenni," or "Well-Wisher," was an inferior Russian newspaper of the day, much scoffed at by contemporaries. The editor once excused himself for some gross error by pleading that he had been "on the loose."]

XXX

God grant I meet not at a ball

Or at a promenade mayhap,

A schoolmaster in yellow shawl

Or a professor in tulle cap.

As rosy lips without a smile,

The Russian language I deem vile

Without grammatical mistakes.

May be, and this my terror wakes,

The fair of the next generation,

As every journal now entreats,

Will teach grammatical conceits,

Introduce verse in conversation.

But I—what is all this to me?

Will to the old times faithful be.

XXXI

Speech careless, incorrect, but soft,

With inexact pronunciation

Raises within my breast as oft

As formerly much agitation.

Repentance wields not now her spell

And gallicisms I love as well

As the sins of my youthful days

Or Bogdanovitch's sweet lays.(41)

But I must now employ my Muse

With the epistle of my fair;

I promised!—Did I so?—Well, there!

Now I am ready to refuse.

I know that Parny's tender pen(42)

Is no more cherished amongst men.

[Note 41: Hippolyte Bogdanovitch—b. 1743, d. 1803—though possessing considerable poetical talent was like many other Russian authors more remarkable for successful imitation than for original genius. His most remarkable production is "Doushenka," "The Darling," a composition somewhat in the style of La Fontaine's "Psyche." Its merit consists in graceful phraseology, and a strong pervading sense of humour.]

[Note 42: Parny—a French poet of the era of the first Napoleon, b. 1753, d. 1814. Introduced to the aged Voltaire during his last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands upon the youth's head and exclaimed: "Mon cher Tibulle." He is chiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted the affectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a student at the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted a pension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damage his literary reputation by inditing an "epic" poem entitled "Goddam! Goddam! par un French—Dog." It is descriptive of the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, and treats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to a successful conclusion and become matter of history. A good account of the bard and his creations will be found in the Saturday Reviewof the 2d August 1879.]

XXXII

Bard of the "Feasts," and mournful breast,(43)

If thou wert sitting by my side,

With this immoderate request

I should alarm our friendship tried:

In one of thine enchanting lays

To russify the foreign phrase

Of my impassioned heroine.

Where art thou? Come! pretensions mine

I yield with a low reverence;

But lonely beneath Finnish skies

Where melancholy rocks arise

He wanders in his indolence;

Careless of fame his spirit high

Hears not my importunity!

[Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and a lyric poet of some originality and talent. The "Feasts" is a short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkin is therein praised as the best of companions "beside the bottle."]

XXXIII

Tattiana's letter I possess,

I guard it as a holy thing,

And though I read it with distress,

I'm o'er it ever pondering.

Inspired by whom this tenderness,

This gentle daring who could guess?

Who this soft nonsense could impart,

Imprudent prattle of the heart,

Attractive in its banefulness?

I cannot understand. But lo!

A feeble version read below,

A print without the picture's grace,

Or, as it were, the Freischutz' score

Strummed by a timid schoolgirl o'er.

Tattiana's Letter to Oneguine

I write to you! Is more required?

Can lower depths beyond remain?

'Tis in your power now, if desired,

To crush me with a just disdain.

But if my lot unfortunate

You in the least commiserate

You will not all abandon me.

At first, I clung to secrecy:

Believe me, of my present shame

You never would have heard the name,

If the fond hope I could have fanned

At times, if only once a week,

To see you by our fireside stand,

To listen to the words you speak,

Address to you one single phrase

And then to meditate for days

Of one thing till again we met.

'Tis said you are a misanthrope,

In country solitude you mope,

And we—an unattractive set—

Can hearty welcome give alone.

Why did you visit our poor place?

Forgotten in the village lone,

I never should have seen your face

And bitter torment never known.

The untutored spirit's pangs calmed down

By time (who can anticipate?)

I had found my predestinate,

Become a faithful wife and e'en

A fond and careful mother been.

Another! to none other I

My heart's allegiance can resign,

My doom has been pronounced on high,

'Tis Heaven's will and I am thine.

The sum of my existence gone

But promise of our meeting gave,

I feel thou wast by God sent down

My guardian angel to the grave.

Thou didst to me in dreams appear,

Unseen thou wast already dear.

Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,

I heard thy voice's resonance

Long ago. Dream it cannot be!

Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,

I flushed up, stupefied I grew,

And cried within myself: 'tis he!

Is it not truth? in tones suppressed

With thee I conversed when I bore

Comfort and succour to the poor,

And when I prayer to Heaven addressed

To ease the anguish of my breast.

Nay! even as this instant fled,

Was it not thou, O vision bright,

That glimmered through the radiant night

And gently hovered o'er my head?

Was it not thou who thus didst stoop

To whisper comfort, love and hope?

Who art thou? Guardian angel sent

Or torturer malevolent?

Doubt and uncertainty decide:

All this may be an empty dream,

Delusions of a mind untried,

Providence otherwise may deem—

Then be it so! My destiny

From henceforth I confide to thee!

Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour

And thy protection I implore.

Imagine! Here alone am I!

No one my anguish comprehends,

At times my reason almost bends,

And silently I here must die—

But I await thee: scarce alive

My heart with but one look revive;

Or to disturb my dreams approach

Alas! with merited reproach.

'Tis finished. Horrible to read!

With shame I shudder and with dread—

But boldly I myself resign:

Thine honour is my countersign!

XXXIV

Tattiana moans and now she sighs

And in her grasp the letter shakes,

Even the rosy wafer dries

Upon her tongue which fever bakes.

Her head upon her breast declines

And an enchanting shoulder shines

From her half-open vest of night.

But lo! already the moon's light

Is waning. Yonder valley deep

Looms gray behind the mist and morn

Silvers the brook; the shepherd's horn

Arouses rustics from their sleep.

'Tis day, the family downstairs,

But nought for this Tattiana cares.

XXXV

The break of day she doth not see,

But sits in bed with air depressed,

Nor on the letter yet hath she

The image of her seal impressed.

But gray Phillippevna the door

Opened with care, and entering bore

A cup of tea upon a tray.

"'Tis time, my child, arise, I pray!

My beauty, thou art ready too.

My morning birdie, yesternight

I was half silly with affright.

But praised be God! in health art thou!

The pains of night have wholly fled,

Thy cheek is as a poppy red!"

XXXVI

"Ah! nurse, a favour do for me!"

"Command me, darling, what you choose"

"Do not—you might—suspicious be;

But look you—ah! do not refuse."

"I call to witness God on high—"

"Then send your grandson quietly

To take this letter to O– Well!

Unto our neighbour. Mind you tell—

Command him not to say a word—

I mean my name not to repeat."

"To whom is it to go, my sweet?

Of late I have been quite absurd,—

So many neighbours here exist—

Am I to go through the whole list?"

XXXVII

"How dull you are this morning, nurse!"

"My darling, growing old am I!

In age the memory gets worse,

But I was sharp in times gone by.

In times gone by thy bare command—"

"Oh! nurse, nurse, you don't understand!

What is thy cleverness to me?

The letter is the thing, you see,—

Oneguine's letter!"—"Ah! the thing!

Now don't be cross with me, my soul,

You know that I am now a fool—

But why are your cheeks whitening?"

"Nothing, good nurse, there's nothing wrong,

But send your grandson before long."

XXXVIII

No answer all that day was borne.

Another passed; 'twas just the same.

Pale as a ghost and dressed since morn

Tattiana waits. No answer came!

Olga's admirer came that day:

"Tell me, why doth your comrade stay?"

The hostess doth interrogate:

"He hath neglected us of late."—

Tattiana blushed, her heart beat quick—

"He promised here this day to ride,"

Lenski unto the dame replied,

"The post hath kept him, it is like."

Shamefaced, Tattiana downward looked

As if he cruelly had joked!

XXXIX

'Twas dusk! Upon the table bright

Shrill sang the samovarat eve,(44)

The china teapot too ye might

In clouds of steam above perceive.

Into the cups already sped

By Olga's hand distributed

The fragrant tea in darkling stream,

And a boy handed round the cream.

Tania doth by the casement linger

And breathes upon the chilly glass,

Dreaming of what not, pretty lass,

And traces with a slender finger

Upon its damp opacity,

The mystic monogram, O. E.

[Note 44: The samovar, i.e. "self-boiler," is merely an urn for hot water having a fire in the center. We may observe a similar contrivance in our own old-fashioned tea-urns which are provided with a receptacle for a red-hot iron cylinder in center. The tea-pot is usually placed on the top of the samovar.]

XL

In the meantime her spirit sinks,

Her weary eyes are filled with tears—

A horse's hoofs she hears—She shrinks!

Nearer they come—Eugene appears!

Ah! than a spectre from the dead

More swift the room Tattiana fled,

From hall to yard and garden flies,

Not daring to cast back her eyes.

She fears and like an arrow rushes

Through park and meadow, wood and brake,

The bridge and alley to the lake,

Brambles she snaps and lilacs crushes,

The flowerbeds skirts, the brook doth meet,

Till out of breath upon a seat

XLI

She sank.—

   "He's here! Eugene is here!

Merciful God, what will he deem?"

Yet still her heart, which torments tear,

Guards fondly hope's uncertain dream.

She waits, on fire her trembling frame—

Will he pursue?—But no one came.

She heard of servant-maids the note,

Who in the orchards gathered fruit,

Singing in chorus all the while.

(This by command; for it was found,

However cherries might abound,

They disappeared by stealth and guile,

So mouths they stopt with song, not fruit—

Device of rural minds acute!)

The Maidens' Song

Young maidens, fair maidens,

Friends and companions,

Disport yourselves, maidens,

Arouse yourselves, fair ones.

Come sing we in chorus

The secrets of maidens.

Allure the young gallant

With dance and with song.

As we lure the young gallant,

Espy him approaching,

Disperse yourselves, darlings,

And pelt him with cherries,

With cherries, red currants,

With raspberries, cherries.

Approach not to hearken

To secrets of virgins,

Approach not to gaze at

The frolics of maidens.

XLII

They sang, whilst negligently seated,

Attentive to the echoing sound,

Tattiana with impatience waited

Until her heart less high should bound—

Till the fire in her cheek decreased;

But tremor still her frame possessed,

Nor did her blushes fade away,

More crimson every moment they.

Thus shines the wretched butterfly,

With iridescent wing doth flap

When captured in a schoolboy's cap;

Thus shakes the hare when suddenly

She from the winter corn espies

A sportsman who in covert lies.

XLIII

But finally she heaves a sigh,

And rising from her bench proceeds;

But scarce had turned the corner nigh,

Which to the neighbouring alley leads,

When Eugene like a ghost did rise

Before her straight with roguish eyes.

Tattiana faltered, and became

Scarlet as burnt by inward flame.

But this adventure's consequence

To-day, my friends, at any rate,

I am not strong enough to state;

I, after so much eloquence,

Must take a walk and rest a bit—

Some day I'll somehow finish it.

End of Canto the Third

CANTO THE FOURTH

Rural Life

'La Morale est dans la nature des choses.'—Necker

Canto The Fourth

[Mikhailovskoe, 1825]

I

THE less we love a lady fair

The easier 'tis to gain her grace,

And the more surely we ensnare

Her in the pitfalls which we place.

Time was when cold seduction strove

To swagger as the art of love,

Everywhere trumpeting its feats,

Not seeking love but sensual sweets.

But this amusement delicate

Was worthy of that old baboon,

Our fathers used to dote upon;

The Lovelaces are out of date,

Their glory with their heels of red

And long perukes hath vanished.

II

For who imposture can endure,

A constant harping on one tune,

Serious endeavours to assure

What everybody long has known;

Ever to hear the same replies

And overcome antipathies

Which never have existed, e'en

In little maidens of thirteen?

And what like menaces fatigues,

Entreaties, oaths, fictitious fear,

Epistles of six sheets or near,

Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues,

Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny,

And husbands' tedious amity?

III

Such were the musings of Eugene.

He in the early years of life

Had a deluded victim been

Of error and the passions' strife.

By daily life deteriorated,

Awhile this beauty captivated,

And that no longer could inspire.

Slowly exhausted by desire,

Yet satiated with success,

In solitude or worldly din,

He heard his soul's complaint within,

With laughter smothered weariness:

And thus he spent eight years of time,

Destroyed the blossom of his prime.

IV

Though beauty he no more adored,

He still made love in a queer way;

Rebuffed—as quickly reassured,

Jilted—glad of a holiday.

Without enthusiasm he met

The fair, nor parted with regret,

Scarce mindful of their love and guile.

Thus a guest with composure will

To take a hand at whist oft come:

He takes his seat, concludes his game,

And straight returning whence he came,

Tranquilly goes to sleep at home,

And in the morning doth not know

Whither that evening he will go.

V

However, Tania's letter reading,

Eugene was touched with sympathy;

The language of her girlish pleading

Aroused in him sweet reverie.

He called to mind Tattiana's grace,

Pallid and melancholy face,

And in a vision, sinless, bright,

His spirit sank with strange delight.

May be the empire of the sense,

Regained authority awhile,

But he desired not to beguile

Such open-hearted innocence.

But to the garden once again

Wherein we lately left the twain.

VI

Two minutes they in silence spent,

Oneguine then approached and said:

"You have a letter to me sent.

Do not excuse yourself. I read

Confessions which a trusting heart

May well in innocence impart.

Charming is your sincerity,

Feelings which long had ceased to be

It wakens in my breast again.

But I came not to adulate:

Your frankness I shall compensate

By an avowal just as plain.

An ear to my confession lend;

To thy decree my will I bend.

VII

"If the domestic hearth could bless—

My sum of happiness contained;

If wife and children to possess

A happy destiny ordained:

If in the scenes of home I might

E'en for an instant find delight,

Then, I say truly, none but thee

I would desire my bride to be—

I say without poetic phrase,

Found the ideal of my youth,

Thee only would I choose, in truth,

As partner of my mournful days,

Thee only, pledge of all things bright,

And be as happy—as I might.

VIII

"But strange am I to happiness;

'Tis foreign to my cast of thought;

Me your perfections would not bless;

I am not worthy them in aught;

And honestly 'tis my belief

Our union would produce but grief.

Though now my love might be intense,

Habit would bring indifference.

I see you weep. Those tears of yours

Tend not my heart to mitigate,

But merely to exasperate;

Judge then what roses would be ours,

What pleasures Hymen would prepare

For us, may be for many a year.

IX

"What can be drearier than the house,

Wherein the miserable wife

Deplores a most unworthy spouse

And leads a solitary life?

The tiresome man, her value knowing,

Yet curses on his fate bestowing,

Is full of frigid jealousy,

Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.

Such am I. This did ye expect,

When in simplicity ye wrote

Your innocent and charming note

With so much warmth and intellect?

Hath fate apportioned unto thee

This lot in life with stern decree?

X

"Ideas and time ne'er backward move;

My soul I cannot renovate—

I love you with a brother's love,

Perchance one more affectionate.

Listen to me without disdain.

A maid hath oft, may yet again

Replace the visions fancy drew;

Thus trees in spring their leaves renew

As in their turn the seasons roll.

'Tis evidently Heaven's will

You fall in love again. But still—

Learn to possess more self-control.

Not all will like myself proceed—

And thoughtlessness to woe might lead."

XI

Thus did our friend Oneguine preach:

Tattiana, dim with tears her eyes,

Attentive listened to his speech,

All breathless and without replies.

His arm he offers. Mute and sad

( Mechanically, let us add),

Tattiana doth accept his aid;

And, hanging down her head, the maid

Around the garden homeward hies.

Together they returned, nor word

Of censure for the same incurred;

The country hath its liberties

And privileges nice allowed,

Even as Moscow, city proud.

XII

Confess, O ye who this peruse,

Oneguine acted very well

By poor Tattiana in the blues;

'Twas not the first time, I can tell

You, he a noble mind disclosed,

Though some men, evilly disposed,

Spared him not their asperities.

His friends and also enemies

(One and the same thing it may be)

Esteemed him much as the world goes.

Yes! every one must have his foes,

But Lord! from friends deliver me!

The deuce take friends, my friends, amends

I've had to make for having friends!

XIII

But how? Quite so. Though I dismiss

Dark, unavailing reverie,

I just hint, in parenthesis,

There is no stupid calumny

Born of a babbler in a loft

And by the world repeated oft,

There is no fishmarket retort

And no ridiculous report,

Which your true friend with a sweet smile

Where fashionable circles meet

A hundred times will not repeat,

Quite inadvertently meanwhile;

And yet he in your cause would strive

And loves you as—a relative!

XIV

Ahem! Ahem! My reader noble,

Are all your relatives quite well?

Permit me; is it worth the trouble

For your instruction here to tell

What I by relatives conceive?

These are your relatives, believe:

Those whom we ought to love, caress,

With spiritual tenderness;

Whom, as the custom is of men,

We visit about Christmas Day,

Or by a card our homage pay,

That until Christmas comes again

They may forget that we exist.

And so—God bless them, if He list.

XV

In this the love of the fair sex

Beats that of friends and relatives:

In love, although its tempests vex,

Our liberty at least survives:

Agreed! but then the whirl of fashion,

The natural fickleness of passion,

The torrent of opinion,

And the fair sex as light as down!

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?

My venerated reader, oh!

Cease the pursuit of shadows vain,

Spare yourself unavailing pain

And all your love on self bestow;

A worthy object 'tis, and well

I know there's none more amiable.

XVII

But from the interview what flowed?

Alas! It is not hard to guess.

The insensate fire of love still glowed

Nor discontinued to distress

A spirit which for sorrow yearned.

Tattiana more than ever burned

With hopeless passion: from her bed

Sweet slumber winged its way and fled.

Her health, life's sweetness and its bloom,

Her smile and maidenly repose,

All vanished as an echo goes.

Across her youth a shade had come,

As when the tempest's veil is drawn

Across the smiling face of dawn.

XVIII

Alas! Tattiana fades away,

Grows pale and sinks, but nothing says;

Listless is she the livelong day

Nor interest in aught betrays.

Shaking with serious air the head,

In whispers low the neighbours said:

'Tis time she to the altar went!

But enough! Now, 'tis my intent

The imagination to enliven

With love which happiness extends;

Against my inclination, friends,

By sympathy I have been driven.

Forgive me! Such the love I bear

My heroine, Tattiana dear.

XIX

Vladimir, hourly more a slave

To youthful Olga's beauty bright,

Into delicious bondage gave

His ardent soul with full delight.

Always together, eventide

Found them in darkness side by side,

At morn, hand clasped in hand, they rove

Around the meadow and the grove.

And what resulted? Drunk with love,

But with confused and bashful air,

Lenski at intervals would dare,

If Olga smilingly approve,

Dally with a dishevelled tress

Or kiss the border of her dress.

XX

To Olga frequently he would

Some nice instructive novel read,

Whose author nature understood

Better than Chateaubriand did

Yet sometimes pages two or three

(Nonsense and pure absurdity,

For maiden's hearing deemed unfit),

He somewhat blushing would omit:

Far from the rest the pair would creep

And (elbows on the table) they

A game of chess would often play,

Buried in meditation deep,

Till absently Vladimir took

With his own pawn alas! his rook!

XXI

Homeward returning, he at home

Is occupied with Olga fair,

An album, fly-leaf of the tome,

He leisurely adorns for her.

Landscapes thereon he would design,

A tombstone, Aphrodite's shrine,

Or, with a pen and colours fit,

A dove which on a lyre doth sit;

The "in memoriam" pages sought,

Where many another hand had signed

A tender couplet he combined,

A register of fleeting thought,

A flimsy trace of musings past

Which might for many ages last.

XXII

Surely ye all have overhauled

A country damsel's album trim,

Which all her darling friends have scrawled

From first to last page to the rim.

Behold! orthography despising,

Metreless verses recognizing

By friendship how they were abused,

Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.

Upon the opening page ye find:

Qu'ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?

Subscribed, toujours a vous, Annette;

And on the last one, underlined:

Who in thy love finds more delight

Beyond this may attempt to write.

XXIII

Infallibly you there will find

Two hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath,

And vows will probably be signed:

Affectionately yours till death.

Some army poet therein may

Have smuggled his flagitious lay.

In such an album with delight

I would, my friends, inscriptions write,

Because I should be sure, meanwhile,

My verses, kindly meant, would earn

Delighted glances in return;

That afterwards with evil smile

They would not solemnly debate

If cleverly or not I prate.

XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare,

Which from the devil's bookcase start,

Albums magnificent which scare

The fashionable rhymester's heart!

Yea! although rendered beauteous

By Tolstoy's pencil marvellous,

Though Baratynski verses penned,(45)

The thunderbolt on you descend!

Whene'er a brilliant courtly dame

Presents her quarto amiably,

Despair and anger seize on me,

And a malicious epigram

Trembles upon my lips from spite,—

And madrigals I'm asked to write!

[Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequently became Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg. Baratynski, see Note 43.]

XXV

But Lenski madrigals ne'er wrote

In Olga's album, youthful maid,

To purest love he tuned his note

Nor frigid adulation paid.

What never was remarked or heard

Of Olga he in song averred;

His elegies, which plenteous streamed,

Both natural and truthful seemed.

Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46)

In amorous flights when so inspired,

Singing God knows what maid admired,

And all thy precious elegies,

Sometime collected, shall relate

The story of thy life and fate.

[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise—unfulfilled.]

XXVI

Since Fame and Freedom he adored,

Incited by his stormy Muse

Odes Lenski also had outpoured,

But Olga would not such peruse.

When poets lachrymose recite

Beneath the eyes of ladies bright

Their own productions, some insist

No greater pleasure can exist

Just so! that modest swain is blest

Who reads his visionary theme

To the fair object of his dream,

A beauty languidly at rest,

Yes, happy—though she at his side

By other thoughts be occupied.

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 Oneguine! A propos!

Friends, I must your indulgence pray.

His daily occupations, lo!

Minutely I will now portray.

A hermit's life Oneguine led,

At seven in summer rose from bed,

And clad in airy costume took

His course unto the running brook.

There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned

His Hellespont from bank to bank,

And then a cup of coffee drank,

Some wretched journal in his hand;

Then dressed himself…(*)

[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]

XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,

The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,

The uncontaminated kiss

Of a young dark-eyed country maid,

A fiery, yet well-broken horse,

A dinner, whimsical each course,

A bottle of a vintage white

And solitude and calm delight.

Such was Oneguine's sainted life,

And such unconsciously he led,

Nor marked how summer's prime had fled

In aimless ease and far from strife,

The curse of commonplace delight.

And town and friends forgotten quite.

XXX

This northern summer of our own,

On winters of the south a skit,

Glimmers and dies. This is well known,

Though we will not acknowledge it.

Already Autumn chilled the sky,

The tiny sun shone less on high

And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom

Were stripped with melancholy sound,

Upon the earth a mist did lie

And many a caravan on high

Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand—

November at the gate did stand.

XXXI

The morn arises foggy, cold,

The silent fields no peasant nears,

The wolf upon the highways bold

With his ferocious mate appears.

Detecting him the passing horse

snorts, and his rider bends his course

And wisely gallops to the hill.

No more at dawn the shepherd will

Drive out the cattle from their shed,

Nor at the hour of noon with sound

Of horn in circle call them round.

Singing inside her hut the maid

Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night,

The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

XXXII

Already crisp hoar frosts impose

O'er all a sheet of silvery dust

(Readers expect the rhyme of rose,

There! take it quickly, if ye must).

Behold! than polished floor more nice

The shining river clothed in ice;

A joyous troop of little boys

Engrave the ice with strident noise.

A heavy goose on scarlet feet,

Thinking to float upon the stream,

Descends the bank with care extreme,

But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet

The first bright wreathing storm of snow

Which falls in starry flakes below.

XXXIII

How in the country pass this time?

Walking? The landscape tires the eye

In winter by its blank and dim

And naked uniformity.