Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

  But where, time was, I might discover

  Such madrigals to me back then:

  E sempre bene,36 gentlemen!

  36

  But even while his eyes were reading,

  His thoughts were far away, as old

  Desires, dreams, sorrows kept invading

  And crowding deep inside his soul.

  Between the lines before him, printed,

  His inward eye saw others hinted.

  On these he concentrated most,

  In their decipherment engrossed.

  These were the secret legends, fictions

  The heart’s dark story had collected,

  The dreams with all else unconnected,

  The threats, the rumours, the predictions,

  Or else some lengthy, crazy tale

  Or letters from a fledgling give.

  37

  And by degrees his thought and feeling

  By lethargy are overcome,

  Meanwhile, imagination’s dealing

  Its motley faro cards to him.

  He sees on melted snow, recumbent,

  As if asleep at some encampment,

  A youth on his nocturnal bed

  And hears a voice: ‘Well then, he’s dead!’

  He sees past enemies forgotten,

  Base cowards and calumniators,

  A swarm of youthful, female traitors,

  A group of former friends turned rotten,

  And then a country house – where she

  Sits at the window… constantly.

  38

  Such musings soon became a habit

  And nearly drove him off his head

  Or, failing this, made him a poet –

  That would have been a boon, indeed!

  Truly: by means of magnetism37

  He almost grasped the mechanism

  Of Russian poetry of the time –

  This muddled neophyte of mine.

  He looked a poet to the letter:

  Ensconced before a blazing hearth,

  He sat alone as flames would dart,

  Hummed Idol Mio, Benedetta,38

  And dropped into the fire, unseen,

  A slipper or a magazine.

  39

  Winter, as warming air blew through it,

  Was over now; the days rushed by;

  And he did not become a poet,

  Nor turn insane, nor did he die.

  Enlivened by the spring’s returning,

  He leaves upon one cloudless morning

  The shuttered rooms, where he had spent

  The winter like a marmot pent.

  From fireplace and the double windows,

  By sleigh, past the Neva he flies.

  Upon blue blocks of hewn-out ice39

  The sun disports; in dirty cinders

  The furrowed snow melts on the street:

  Where, then, upon it with such speed

  40

  Is he proceeding? Oh, already

  You’ve guessed, you’re right: my unreformed

  Eccentric’s rushing to his lady,

  To his Tatiana, unforewarned.

  He walks in like a corpse, nobody

  Is there to greet him in the lobby.

  In the reception room there’s not

  A soul. A door he opens… what

  What confronts him then, what makes him shudder?

  Before him the Princess alone

  Sits pale and unadorned, forlorn,

  Immersed in what looks like a letter,

  A flood of tears she softly sheds

  With cheek on hand… Ah, what regrets,

  41

  What silent sufferings were reflected

  In this quick moment of distress!

  Who is it could not have detected

  Poor Tanya in the new princess!

  Eugene, the moment that he saw her,

  Fell maddened with remorse before her.

  She gave a start, said not a word

  And looked at Eugene unperturbed

  Without surprise or wrath… His fading

  Appearance, his extinguished look,

  Imploring aspect, mute rebuke

  She takes in all. The simple maiden

  Returns again now, reappears

  With dreams and heart of former years.

  42

  She lets Onegin go on kneeling

  And, looking at him fixedly,

  Does not withdraw her hand unfeeling

  That he is kissing avidly…

  What is she dreaming of at present?

  A long time passes by, quiescent,

  At last she softly speaks again:

  ‘Enough, get up. I must explain

  Myself to you. I wonder whether,

  Onegin, you recall, do you,

  The garden and the avenue,

  The hour when fate brought us together

  And how you lectured me, so meek.

  Today it is my turn to speak.

  43

  ‘I was much younger at that meeting

  And better looking, to my mind,

  I loved you then, was that upsetting?

  And in your heart, what did I find?

  What was your answer? Only sternness.

  You’d never, would you, take in earnest

  A little maiden’s modest love.

  My blood runs cold now – God above! –

  The very moment I remember

  Your chilling glance, that sermon… I’m

  Not blaming you: at that dark time

  You showed at least a noble temper

  And you were right regarding me,

  I thank you for your honesty…

  44

  ‘Admit that in our backwoods haven,

  From empty rumour far away,

  I was not to your liking… Say, then,

  Why you’re pursuing me today.

  Why have you marked me for attention?

  Might it not be because convention

  Includes me in the social round,

  Because I’m wealthy and renowned,

  Because my husband’s wounds in battle

  Have gained him royal favour, fame?

  Might it not be because my shame

  Would feed the flames of tittle-tattle

  And win you, in society,

  Seductive notoriety?

  45

  ‘I weep… if you recall your Tanya,

  There’s one thing you should hear from me:

  Your sharp reproach, unfriendly manner,

  Your cold, unsparing homily,

  All this, with which you made me cower,

  I’d have preferred, had I the power,

  To this offensive passion, to

  The letters, tears I’ve had from you.

  You showed my childish dreams compassion,

  And you at least respected me

  And my young age. But now, I see

  You at my feet in coward fashion?

  How with the heart and mind you have

  Can you be paltry feeling’s slave?

  46

  ‘This pomp, Onegin, these excesses,

  The trumpery of hateful days,

  My high society successes,

  My fashionable house, soirées,

  What do they mean? Oh, I’d surrender

  At once this masquerade, this splendour,

  With all its glitter, noise and smoke

  For one wild garden and a book,

  For our poor home, to me the dearest,

  For all those places I recall,

  Where I beheld you first of all,

  And for the humble churchyard near us,

  Where now a cross and branches shade

  The grave where my poor nurse is laid…

  47

  ‘And yet that time was so auspicious

  And happiness so near… But no,

  My fate is settled. Injudicious

  I may have been, but it is so.

  With tears my moth
er begged, entreated

  And I, poor Tanya, listless, ceded,

  All lots were equal anyhow…

  I married. Pray you, leave me now.

  Your heart is honest and I prize it:

  And there resides in it true pride

  With candid honour, side by side.

  I love you (why should I disguise it?),

  But I am someone else’s wife,

  To him I shall be true for life.

  48

  She goes. He stands in desolation

  As if by thunder struck. In what

  A sudden tempest of sensation

  His heart’s ungovernably caught!

  But then a clink of spurs resounded,

  Tatiana’s husband he encountered.

  And, reader, now, in this mischance,

  In this unhappy circumstance,

  We’ll leave my hero to his meeting

  For long… for ever… in his track

  We’ve roamed around the world and back.

  On land again, let’s send our greeting

  To each and all. So, now, hurrah!

  It’s high time (you’ll agree), by far.

  49

  Whatever, reader, your opinion,

  A friend or foe, I wish to part

  With you today like a companion.

  Farewell. Whatever you may chart

  Among these careless lines, reflections –

  Whether tumultuous recollections

  Or light relief from labour’s yoke,

  The lively image, witty joke

  Or the mistakes I’ve made in grammar –

  God grant you find here just a grain

  To warm the heart, to entertain,

  To feed a dream, and cause a clamour

  With journals and their clientele,

  Upon which, let us part, farewell!

  50

  Goodbye, strange comrade, now for ever,

  And you, my true ideal – now gone,

  Goodbye, my lively, long endeavour,

  Though slender work. With you I’ve known

  The things that every poet covets:

  Oblivion, when the tempest buffets,

  Sweet talk of friends. So many days

  Have passed since in a dreamy haze

  I first saw young Tatiana near me,

  With her, Onegin – and when I

  Looked through the magic crystal’s eye,

  I could not yet distinguish clearly

  The distant reach of the domain

  That my free novel would attain.

  51

  But of those friends who, meeting, listened

  To those first strophes that I wrote…

  Some are no more now, some are distant,

  As Sadi40 once said in a note.

  They’ve missed the fully fledged Onegin,

  And she, from whom the model’s taken

  For dear Tatiana, she is gone…

  Oh, much by fate has been undone!

  Blest who betimes has left life’s revel,

  Whose wine-filled glass he has not drained,

  Who does not read right to the end

  Life’s still, as yet, unfinished novel,

  But lets it go, as I do my

  Onegin, and bid him goodbye.

  FRAGMENTS OF ONEGIN’S JOURNEY1

  FOREWORD

  The omitted stanzas gave rise to frequent reproofs and gibes (no doubt most just and witty). The author candidly confesses that he deleted from his novel an entire chapter describing Onegin’s journey through Russia. It was incumbent on him to indicate this omitted chapter by means of dots or a numeral; but in order to avoid confusion he decided it would be better to mark the last chapter as number eight instead of nine, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas:

  It’s time: for peace the pen is asking;

  Nine cantos done, and ninth the wave

  That lifts my boat and sets it basking

  Upon the joyous seashore, safe –

  Praise be to you, O nine Camenae,2 etc.

  P. A. Katenin (whom a fine poetic talent does not prevent from being also a subtle critic) remarked to us that this deletion, while perhaps advantageous for the reader, spoils the plan of the entire work, since, as a result, the transition from Tatiana the provincial miss to Tatiana the grande dame becomes too unexpected and unexplained – an observation revealing the experienced artist. The author himself felt the justice of this, but decided to leave out the chapter for reasons important to him and not to the public. Some fragments have been published; we give them here with several adjoining stanzas.

  E. Onegin leaves Moscow for Nizhny Novgorod:

  1

  … In front of him,

  Makaryev,3 kicking up a shindy,

  Seethes with its rich emporium:

  Pearls imported by the Indian,

  Wines by the European watered,

  The breeder from the steppe-land speeds

  To sell his herd of cast-off steeds;

  The gamester wagers all his cash on

  His card decks and obliging dice,

  The squire brings daughters ripe in size,

  His daughters come with last year’s fashion,

  Each bustles, lies enough for two –

  A trading spirit rules right through.

  2

  Ennui!

  Onegin travels to Astrakhan, and thence to the Caucasus.

  3

  He sees the wayward Terek,4 scoring

  Its banks in their abrupt descent,

  In front of him an eagle soaring,

  A standing deer with antlers bent;

  A camel lies in rocky shadows.

  And a Circassian’s steed through meadows

  Races; the sheep of Kalmuks graze

  Round nomad tents; Onegin’s gaze

  Takes in the far Caucasian masses.

  The way is opened: war defied

  The country’s natural divide,

  The perils of its mountain passes;

  Where the Kura, Aragva5 whirled,

  There were the Russian tents unfurled.6

  4

  Now, watchman of the desolation,

  Beshtu,7 hemmed in by hills, is seen,

  Sharp-peaked, at its eternal station,

  And there Mashuk, now turning green,

  Pours healing streams from its recesses;

  Around its magic brooklets presses

  A pallid swarm of invalids,

  The victims, some of martial deeds,

  Others of piles or Aphrodite;

  These sufferers hope to reinforce

  Life’s thread at this prodigious source:

  Coquettes – to drown the notoriety

  Of wicked years, and ancient men –

  To bring back briefly youth again.

  5

  Immersed in bitter meditation,

  Amidst this melancholy crew,

  Onegin looks with lamentation

  Upon the waters’ steamy flow,

  And thinks, with sadness overclouded:

  Why has no bullet in me landed?

  Why is it I’m not old, infirm,

  Like him, poor taxman at his term?

  Why is it I’m not paralytic

  Like him, the clerk of Tula town?

  Why don’t I in my shoulder bone

  Feel just the slightest bit rheumatic?

  I’m young, o Lord, there’s life in me:

  What’s there to come? Ennui, ennui!

  Onegin then visits Tauris:

  6

  You, land of the imagination:

  Saw Pylades, Orestes8 strive,

  And Mithridates9 take his life;

  There Mickiewicz sang his passion10

  And midst the coastal cliffs afar

  Recalled his Lithuania.

  7

  How beautiful, when day is dawning,

  To see you, shores of Tauris, when

  My ship reflects the star of morning –

  Thus
first you came into my ken;

  In bridal brilliance apparent,

  The sky behind you, blue, transparent,

  The masses of your mountains shone,

  Villages, trees and valleys spun

  A pattern spreading out before me.

  And there, among the Tatar dens…

  What ardour roused my sleeping sense!

  What magic longing caught me, bore me

  What yearning pressed my flaming heart!11

  But with the past, Muse, let me part.

  8

  Whatever feelings then lay hidden

  Within me – now they are no more:

  They went or changed, no longer bidden…

  Peace unto you, alarms of yore!

  It seemed it was the wild I needed,

  The pearl-edged waves that flowed, receded,

  The noise of sea, the rocks’ cascade,

  And my ideal of proud, young maid,

  And nameless torment, tribulation…

  Now other days, now other dreams,

  My springtime’s fancies, high-flown themes

  You’ve quietened down, with resignation,

  And into my poetic glass

  Much water have I mixed, alas.

  9

  I need another kind of image:

  A sandy, sloping eminence,

  Two rowans and a little cottage,

  A wicket gate, a broken fence,

  The sky when greyish clouds are passing,

  The straw before the thresh-barn massing,

  A pond beneath dense willow trees

  And ducklings doing as they please;

  I’ m fond now of the balalaika

  And, at the tavern’s door, the pack

  Of drunkards stamping the trepak.12

  Now my ideal’s a housewife – like her,

  It’s peace alone that I desire,

  ‘And cabbage soup, while I’m the squire.’13

  10

  When recently in rainy weather

  I dropped into the cattle yard…

  But fie on such prosaic blather,

  The motley dross of Flemish art!