Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

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by Александр Пушкин


  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.(69)

  [Note 69: The Russians not unfrequently adorn their apartments with effigies of the great Napoleon.]

  XVIII

  Long in this fashionable cell

  Tattiana as enchanted stood;

  But it grew late; cold blew the gale;

  Dark was the valley and the wood

  slept o'er the river misty grown.

  Behind the mountain sank the moon.

  Long, long the hour had past when home

  Our youthful wanderer should roam.

  She hid the trouble of her breast,

  Heaved an involuntary sigh

  And turned to leave immediately,

  But first permission did request

  Thither in future to proceed

  That certain volumes she might read.

  XIX

  Adieu she to the matron said

  At the front gates, but in brief space

  At early morn returns the maid

  To the abandoned dwelling-place.

  When in the study's calm retreat,

  Wrapt in oblivion complete,

  She found herself alone at last,

  Longtime her tears flowed thick and fast;

  But presently she tried to read;

  At first for books was disinclined,

  But soon their choice seemed to her mind

  Remarkable. She then indeed

  Devoured them with an eager zest.

  A new world was made manifest!

  XX

  Although we know that Eugene had

  Long ceased to be a reading man,

  Still certain authors, I may add,

  He had excepted from the ban:

  The bard of Juan and the Giaour,

  With it may be a couple more;

  Romances three, in which ye scan

  Portrayed contemporary man

  As the reflection of his age,

  His immorality of mind

  To arid selfishness resigned,

  A visionary personage

  With his exasperated sense,

  His energy and impotence.

  XXI

  And numerous pages had preserved

  The sharp incisions of his nail,

  And these the attentive maid observed

  With eye precise and without fail.

  Tattiana saw with trepidation

  By what idea or observation

  Oneguine was the most impressed,

  In what he merely acquiesced.

  Upon those margins she perceived

  Oneguine's pencillings. His mind

  Made revelations undesigned,

  Of what he thought and what believed,

  A dagger, asterisk, or note

  Interrogation to denote.

  XXII

  And my Tattiana now began

  To understand by slow degrees

  More clearly, God be praised, the man,

  Whom autocratic fate's decrees

  Had bid her sigh for without hope—

  A dangerous, gloomy misanthrope,

  Being from hell or heaven sent,

  Angel or fiend malevolent.

  Which is he? or an imitation,

  A bogy conjured up in joke,

  A Russian in Childe Harold's cloak,

  Of foreign whims the impersonation—

  Handbook of fashionable phrase

  Or parody of modern ways?

  XXIII

  Hath she found out the riddle yet?

  Hath she a fitting phrase selected?

  But time flies and she doth forget

  They long at home have her expected—

  Whither two neighbouring dames have walked

  And a long time about her talked.

  "What can be done? She is no child!"

  Cried the old dame with anguish filled:

  "Olinka is her junior, see.

  'Tis time to many her, 'tis true,

  But tell me what am I to do?

  To all she answers cruelly—

  I will not wed, and ever weeps

  And lonely through the forest creeps."

  XXIV

  "Is she in love?" quoth one. "With whom?

  Bouyanoff courted. She refused.

  Petoushkoff met the selfsame doom.

  The hussar Pikhtin was accused.

  How the young imp on Tania doted!

  To captivate her how devoted!

  I mused: perhaps the matter's squared—

  O yes! my hopes soon disappeared."

  "But, matushka, to Moscow you(70)

  Should go, the market for a maid,

  With many a vacancy, 'tis said."—

  "Alas! my friend, no revenue!"

  "Enough to see one winter's end;

  If not, the money I will lend."

  [Note 70: "Matushka," or "little mother," a term of endearment in constant use amongst Russian females.]

  XXV

  The venerable dame opined

  The counsel good and full of reason,

  Her money counted, and designed

  To visit Moscow in the season.

  Tattiana learns the intelligence—

  Of her provincial innocence

  The unaffected traits she now

  Unto a carping world must show—

  Her toilette's antiquated style,

  Her antiquated mode of speech,

  For Moscow fops and Circes each

  To mark with a contemptuous smile.

  Horror! had she not better stay

  Deep in the greenwood far away?

  XXVI

  Arising with the morning's light,

  Unto the fields she makes her way,

  And with emotional delight

  Surveying them, she thus doth say:

  "Ye peaceful valleys all, good-bye!

  Ye well-known mountain summits high,

  Ye groves whose depths I know so well,

  Thou beauteous sky above, farewell!

  Delicious nature, thee I fly,

  The calm existence which I prize

  I yield for splendid vanities,

  Thou too farewell, my liberty!

  Whither and wherefore do I speed

  And what will Destiny concede?"

  XXVII

  Farther Tattiana's walks extend—

  'Tis now the hillock now the rill

  Their natural attractions lend

  To stay the maid against her will.

  She the acquaintances she loves,

  Her spacious fields and shady groves,

  Another visit hastes to pay.

  But Summer swiftly fades away

  And golden Autumn draweth nigh,

  And pallid nature trembling grieves,

  A victim decked with golden leaves;

  Dark clouds before the north wind fly;

  It blew: it howled: till winter e'en

  Came forth in all her magic sheen.

  XXVIII

  The snow descends and buries all,

  Hangs heavy on the oaken boughs,

  A white and undulating pall

  O'er hillock and o'er meadow throws.

  The channel of the river stilled

  As if with eider-down is filled.

  The hoar-frost glitters: all rejoice

  In mother Winter's strange caprice.

  But Tania's heart is not at ease,

  Winter's approach she doth not hail

  Nor the frost particles inhale

  Nor the first snow of winter seize

  Her shoulders, breast and face to lave—

  Alarm the winter journey gave.

  XXIX

 
; The date was fixed though oft postponed,

  But ultimately doth approach.

  Examined, mended, newly found

  Was the old and forgotten coach;

  Kibitkas three, the accustomed train,(71)

  The household property contain:

  Saucepans and mattresses and chairs,

  Portmanteaus and preserves in jars,

  Feather-beds, also poultry-coops,

  Basins and jugs—well! everything

  To happiness contributing.

  Behold! beside their dwelling groups

  Of serfs the farewell wail have given.

  Nags eighteen to the door are driven.

  [Note 71: In former times, and to some extent the practice still continues to the present day, Russian families were wont to travel with every necessary of life, and, in the case of the wealthy, all its luxuries following in their train. As the poet complains in a subsequent stanza there were no inns; and if the simple Larinas required such ample store of creature comforts the impediments accompanying a great noble on his journeys may be easily conceived.]

  XXX

  These to the coach of state are bound,

  Breakfast the busy cooks prepare,

  Baggage is heaped up in a mound,

  Old women at the coachmen swear.

  A bearded postillion astride

  A lean and shaggy nag doth ride,

  Unto the gates the servants fly

  To bid the gentlefolk good-bye.

  These take their seats; the coach of state

  Leisurely through the gateway glides.

  "Adieu! thou home where peace abides,

  Where turmoil cannot penetrate,

  Shall I behold thee once again?"—

  Tattiana tears cannot restrain.

  XXXI

  The limits of enlightenment

  When to enlarge we shall succeed,

  In course of time (the whole extent

  Will not five centuries exceed

  By computation) it is like

  Our roads transformed the eye will strike;

  Highways all Russia will unite

  And form a network left and right;

  On iron bridges we shall gaze

  Which o'er the waters boldly leap,

  Mountains we'll level and through deep

  Streams excavate subaqueous ways,

  And Christian folk will, I expect,

  An inn at every stage erect.

  XXXII

  But now, what wretched roads one sees,

  Our bridges long neglected rot,

  And at the stages bugs and fleas

  One moment's slumber suffer not.

  Inns there are none. Pretentious but

  Meagre, within a draughty hut,

  A bill of fare hangs full in sight

  And irritates the appetite.

  Meantime a Cyclops of those parts

  Before a fire which feebly glows

  Mends with the Russian hammer's blows

  The flimsy wares of Western marts,

  With blessings on the ditches and

  The ruts of his own fatherland.

  XXXIII

  Yet on a frosty winter day

  The journey in a sledge doth please,

  No senseless fashionable lay

  Glides with a more luxurious ease;

  For our Automedons are fire

  And our swift troikas never tire;

  The verst posts catch the vacant eye

  And like a palisade flit by.(72)

  The Larinas unwisely went,

  From apprehension of the cost,

  By their own horses, not the post—

  So Tania to her heart's content

  Could taste the pleasures of the road.

  Seven days and nights the travellers plod.

  [Note 72: This somewhat musty joke has appeared in more than one national costume. Most Englishmen, if we were to replace verst-posts with milestones and substitute a graveyard for a palisade, would instantly recognize its Yankee extraction. In Russia however its origin is as ancient at least as the reign of Catherine the Second. The witticism ran thus: A courier sent by Prince Potemkin to the Empress drove so fast that his sword, projecting from the vehicle, rattled against the verst-posts as if against a palisade!]

  XXXIV

  But they draw near. Before them, lo!

  White Moscow raises her old spires,

  Whose countless golden crosses glow

  As with innumerable fires.(73)

  Ah! brethren, what was my delight

  When I yon semicircle bright

  Of churches, gardens, belfries high

  Descried before me suddenly!

  Moscow, how oft in evil days,

  Condemned to exile dire by fate,

  On thee I used to meditate!

  Moscow! How much is in the phrase

  For every loyal Russian breast!

  How much is in that word expressed!

  [Note 73: The aspect of Moscow, especially as seen from the Sparrow Hills, a low range bordering the river Moskva at a short distance from the city, is unique and splendid. It possesses several domes completely plated with gold and some twelve hundred spires most of which are surmounted by a golden cross. At the time of sunset they seem literally tipped with flame. It was from this memorable spot that Napoleon and the Grand Army first obtained a glimpse at the city of the Tsars. There are three hundred and seventy churches in Moscow. The Kremlin itself is however by far the most interesting object to the stranger.]

  XXXV

  Lo! compassed by his grove of oaks,

  Petrovski Palace! Gloomily

  His recent glory he invokes.

  Here, drunk with his late victory,

  Napoleon tarried till it please

  Moscow approach on bended knees,

  Time-honoured Kremlin's keys present.

  Not so! My Moscow never went

  To seek him out with bended head.

  No gift she bears, no feast proclaims,

  But lights incendiary flames

  For the impatient chief instead.

  From hence engrossed in thought profound

  He on the conflagration frowned.(74)

  [Note 74: Napoleon on his arrival in Moscow on the 14th September took up his quarters in the Kremlin, but on the 16th had to remove to the Petrovski Palace or Castle on account of the conflagration which broke out in all quarters of the city. He however returned to the Kremlin on the 19th September. The Palace itself is placed in the midst of extensive grounds just outside the city, on the road to Tver, i.e. to the northwest. It is perhaps worthy of remark, as one amongst numerous circumstances proving how extensively the poet interwove his own life-experiences with the plot of this poem, that it was by this road that he himself must have been in the habit of approaching Moscow from his favourite country residence of Mikhailovskoe, in the province of Pskoff.]

 

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