Eugene Onegin

by Александр Пушкин

Mad with regret and anguished feeling,

  Eugene fell down before her, kneeling;

  She shuddered, but she didn't speak,

  Just looked at himher visage bleak

  Without surprise or indignation.

  His stricken, sick, extinguished eyes,

  Imploring aspect, mute replies

  She saw it all. In desolation,

  The simple girl he'd known before,

  Who'd dreamt and loved, was born once more.

  42

  Her gaze upon his face still lingers;

  She does not bid him rise or go,

  Does not withdraw impassive fingers

  From avid lips that press them so.

  What dreams of hers were re-enacted?

  The heavy silence grew protracted,

  Until at last she whispered low: '

  Enough; get up. To you I owe

  A word of candid explanation.

  O

  negin, do you still retain

  Some memory of that park and lane,

  Where fate once willed our confrontation,

  And I so meekly heard you preach?

  It's my turn now to make a speech.

  43

  'Onegin, I was then much younger,

  I daresay better-looking too,

  And loved you with a girlish hunger;

  But what did I then find in you?

  What answer came? Just stern rejection.

  A little maiden's meek affection

  To you, I'm sure, was trite and old.

  Oh God!my blood can still turn cold

  When I recall how you reacted:

  Your frigid glance . . . that sermonette! . . .

  But I can't blame you or forget

  How nobly in a sense you acted,

  How right toward me that awful day:

  I'm grateful now in every way. . . .

  44

  'Back thenfar off from vain commotion,

  In our backwoods, as you'll allow,

  You had no use for my devotion . . .

  So why do you pursue me now?

  Why mark me out for your attention?

  Is it perhaps my new ascension

  To circles that you find more swank;

  Or that I now have wealth and rank;

  Or that my husband, maimed in battle,

  Is held in high esteem at Court?

  Or would my fall perhaps be sport,

  A cause for all the monde to tattle

  Which might in turn bring you some claim

  To social scandal's kind of fame?

  45

  'I'm weeping. . . . Oh, at this late hour,

  If you recall your Tanya still,

  Then knowthat were it in my power,

  I'd much prefer words harsh and chill,

  Stern censure in your former fashion

  To this offensive show of passion,

  To all these letters and these tears.

  Oh then at least, my tender years

  Aroused in you some hint of kindness;

  You pitied then my girlish dreams. . . .

  But now! . . . What unbecoming schemes

  Have brought you to my feet? What blindness!

  Can you, so strong of mind and heart,

  Now stoop to play so base a part?

  46

  'To me, Onegin, all these splendours,

  This weary tinselled life of mine,

  This homage that the great world tenders,

  My stylish house where princes dine

  Are empty. ... I'd as soon be trading

  This tattered life of masquerading,

  This world of glitter, fumes, and noise,

  For just my books, the simple joys

  Of our old home, its walks and flowers,

  For all those haunts that I once knew . . .

  Where first, Onegin, I saw you;

  For that small churchyard's shaded bowers,

  Where over my poor nanny now

  there stands a cross beneath a bough.

  47

  'And happiness was ours ... so nearly!

  It came so close!. . . But now my fate

  Has been decreed. I may have merely

  Been foolish when I failed to wait;

  But mother with her lamentation

  Implored me, and in resignation

  (All futures seemed alike in woe)

  I married. . . .

  Now I beg you, go!

  I've faith in you and do not tremble;

  I know that in your heart reside

  Both honour and a manly pride.

  I love you (why should I dissemble?);

  But I am now another's wife,

  And I'll be faithful all my life.'

  48

  She left him then. Eugene, forsaken,

  Stood seared, as if by heaven's fire.

  How deep his stricken heart is shaken!

  With what a tempest of desire!

  A sudden clink of spurs rings loudly,

  As Tanya's husband enters proudly

  And here ... at this unhappy turn

  For my poor hero, we'll adjourn

  And leave him, reader, at his station. . .

  For long . . . forever. In his train

  We've roamed the world down one slim lane

  For long enough. Congratulation

  On reaching land at last. Hurray!

  And long since time, I'm sure you'd say!

  49

  Whatever, reader, your reaction,

  and whether you be foe or friend,

  I hope we part in satisfaction. . .

  As comrades now. Whatever end

  You may have sought in these reflections

  Tumultuous, fond recollections,

  Relief from labours for a time,

  Live images, or wit in rhyme,

  Or maybe merely faulty grammar

  God grant that in my careless art,

  For fun, for dreaming, for the heart. . .

  For raising journalistic clamour,

  You've found at least a crumb or two.

  And so let's part; farewell. . . adieu!

  50

  Farewell, you too, my moody neighbour,

  And you, my true ideal, my own!

  And you, small book, my constant labour,

  In whose bright company I've known

  All that a poet's soul might cherish:

  Oblivion when tempests flourish,

  Sweet talk with friends, on which I've fed.

  Oh, many, many days have fled

  Since young Tatyana with her lover,

  As in a misty dream at night,

  First floated dimly into sight

  And I as yet could not uncover

  Or through the magic crystal see

  My novel's shape or what would be.

  51

  But those to whom, as friends and brothers,

  My first few stanzas I once read

  'Some are no more, and distant. . . others.'*

  As Sadi* long before us said.

  Without them my Onegin's fashioned.

  And she from whom I drew, impassioned,

  My fair Tatyana's noblest trait. . .

  Oh, much, too much you've stolen, Fate!

  But blest is he who rightly gauges

  The time to quit the feast and fly,

  Who never drained life's chalice dry,

  Nor read its novel's final pages;

  But all at once for good withdrew

  As I from my Onegin do.

  THE END

  APPENDIX

  EXCERPTS FROM ONEGIN'S JOURNEY

  PUSHKIN'S FOREWORD

  The last (eighth) chapter of Eugene Onegin was published separately with the following foreword:

  The omission of certain stanzas has given rise on more than one occasion to criticism and jesting (no doubt most just and witty). The author candidly confesses that he has removed from his novel an entire chapter, in which Onegin's journey across Russia was
described. It behoved him to indicate this omitted chapter by dots or a numeral, but to avoid ambiguity he thought it preferable to label as number eight, instead of nine, the final chapter of Eugene Onegin, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas:

  It's time: my pen demands a pillow; Nine cantos have I duly wrought, And now the ninth and final billow To joyful shore my bark has brought. All praise to you, #62038; nine Camenae,* etc.

  P. A. Katenin* (whose fine poetic talent in no way prevents him from being a subtle critic as well) has observed to us that this excision, though advantageous perhaps for the reader, is none the less harmful to the work as a whole, for it makes the transition from Tatyana the provincial miss to Tatyana the exalted lady too sudden and unexplained: an observation that reveals the accomplished artist. The author himself felt the justness of this reproach but decided to omit the chapter for reasons important to him, but not to the public. Some few excerpts have been published already; we insert them here, along with several other stanzas.

  ONEGIN TRAVELS FROM MOSCOW TO NIZHNI NOVGOROD

  * * *

  before his eyes Makriev Market* stirs and bustles,

  A-seethe with plenty's wares and cries.

  The Hindu's herehis pearls to proffer,

  All Europespecious wines to offer;

  The breeder from the steppe as well

  Has brought defective steeds to sell;

  The gambler's here with dice all loaded,

  With decks of cards of every type,

  The landed gentwith daughters ripe,

  Bedraped in dresses long outmoded;

  All bustle round and lie like cheats,

  And commerce reigns in all the streets

  * * * Ennui! . . .

  ONEGIN DRIVES TO ASTRAKHAN, AND FROM THERE TO THE CAUCASUS

  * * *

  He sees the wilful Terek* roaring

  Outside its banks in wayward flow;

  He spies a stately eagle soaring,

  A standing deer with horns held low,

  By shaded cliff a camel lying,

  Circassian steed on meadow flying;

  All round the nomad-tented land

  The sheep of Kalmuk herdsmen stand,

  And far aheadCaucasian masses.

  The way lies open; war has passed

  Beyond this great divide at last,

  Across these once imperilled passes.

  The Kra's and Argva's banks*

  Have seen the Russians' tented ranks.

  * * *

  And now his gazing eye discovers

  Beshtu,* the watchman of the waste;

  Sharp-peaked and ringed by hills, it hovers . . .

  And there's Mashk,* all green-encased,

  Mashk, the source of healing waters;

  Amid its magic brooks and quarters

  In pallid swarms the patients press,

  All victims: someof war's distress,

  And some of Venus, some of Piles.

  Within those waves each martyred soul

  Would mend life's thread and make it whole;

  Coquettes would leave their ageing smiles

  Beneath the waves, while older men

  For just one day seek youth again.

  * * *

  Consumed by bitter meditation,

  Onegin, mid those mournful crowds,

  With gaze of keen commiseration

  Regards those streams and smoky clouds,

  And with a wistful sigh he muses:

  Oh, why have I no bullet's bruises?

  Or why am I not old and spare,

  Like that poor tax collector there?

  Or why not crippled with arthritis,

  The fate that Tula clerk was dealt?

  And why #62038; Lordhave I not felt

  A twinge at least of some bursitis?

  I'm young and still robust, you see;

  So what's ahead? Ennui, ennui! .. .

  ONEGIN THEN VISITS TAURIS [THE CRIMEA]

  * * *

  A land by which the mind is fired:

  Orestes with his friend here vied,*

  And here great Mithridates* died,

  And here Mickiwicz* sang inspired,

  And, by these coastal cliffs enthralled,

  His distant homeland he recalled.

  * * *

  O lovely land, you shores of Tauris,

  From shipboard looming into sight,

  As first I saw you rise before us,

  Like Cypris* bathed in morning's light.

  You came to me in nuptial splendour;

  Against a sky all blue and tender

  The masses of your mountains gleamed;

  Your valleys, woods, and hamlets seemed

  A patterned vision spread before me.

  And there where Tartar tongues are spoke

  What passions in my soul awoke!

  What mad and magic yearnings tore me

  And held my flaming bosom fast!

  But now, #62038; Muse, forget the past!

  * * *

  Whatever feelings then lay hidden

  Within me now they are no more:

  They've passed away or changed unbidden ...

  So peace to you, you woes of yore!

  Back then it seemed that I required

  Those desert wastes and waves inspired,

  Those massive cliffs and pounding sea,

  The vision too of 'maiden free,'

  And nameless pangs and sweet perdition . . .

  But other days bring other dreams;

  You're now subdued, you vaulting schemes

  Of youthful springtime's vast ambition,

  And in this poet's cup of mine

  I now mix water with my wine.

  ***

  Of other scenes have I grown fonder:

  I like a sandy slope of late,

  A cottage with two rowans yonder,

  A broken fence, a wicket gate,

  Grey clouds against a sky that lowers,

  Great heaps of straw from threshing mowers,

  And 'neath the spreading willow tree

  A pond for ducks to wallow free.

  The balalaika's now my pleasure,

  And by the country tavern door

  The peasant dance's drunken roar.

  A housewife now is what I treasure;

  I long for peace, for simple fare:

  Just cabbage soup and room to spare.

  ***

  The other day, in rainy weather,

  As I approached the farm . . . Enough!

  What prosy ravings strung together,

  The Flemish painter's motley stuff!

  Was I like that when I was tender,

  Bakhchisarai,* you fount of splendour!