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EUGENE ONÉGUINE [Onegin]:
A Romance of Russian Life in Verse
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated from the Russian by Lieut.-Col. [Henry] Spalding
London: Macmillan and Co.
1881
PREFACE
Eugene Onéguine, the chief poetical work of Russia’s greatest poet, having
been translated into all the principal languages of Europe except our own,
I hope that this version may prove an acceptable contribution to
literature. Tastes are various in matters of poetry, but the present work
possesses a more solid claim to attention in the series of faithful
pictures it offers of Russian life and manners. If these be compared with
Mr. Wallace’s book on Russia, it will be seen that social life in that
empire still preserves many of the characteristics which distinguished it
half a century ago—the period of the first publication of the latter
cantos of this poem.
Many references will be found in it to our own country and its literature.
Russian poets have carefully plagiarized the English— notably
Joukóvski. Pushkin, however, was no plagiarist, though undoubtedly his
mind was greatly influenced by the genius of Byron— more especially
in the earliest part of his career. Indeed, as will be remarked in the
following pages, he scarcely makes an effort to disguise this fact.
The biographical sketch is of course a mere outline. I did not think a
longer one advisable, as memoirs do not usually excite much interest till
the subjects of them are pretty well known. In the “notes” I have
endeavored to elucidate a somewhat obscure subject. Some of the poet’s
allusions remain enigmatical to the present day. The point of each sarcasm
naturally passed out of mind together with the society against which it
was levelled. If some of the versification is rough and wanting in “go,” I
must plead in excuse the difficult form of the stanza, and in many
instances the inelastic nature of the subject matter to be versified.
Stanza XXXV Canto II forms a good example of the latter difficulty, and is
omitted in the German and French versions to which I have had access. The
translation of foreign verse is comparatively easy so long as it is
confined to conventional poetic subjects, but when it embraces abrupt
scraps of conversation and the description of local customs it becomes a
much more arduous affair. I think I may say that I have adhered closely to
the text of the original.
The following foreign translations of this poem have appeared:
1. French prose. Oeuvres choisis de Pouchekine. H. Dupont. Paris, 1847.
2. German verse. A. Puschkin’s poetische Werke. F. Bodenstedt. Berlin,
1854.
3. Polish verse. Eugeniusz Oniegin. Roman Aleksandra Puszkina. A.
Sikorski. Vilnius, 1847.
4. Italian prose. Racconti poetici di A. Puschkin, tradotti da A. Delatre.
Firenze, 1856.
London, May 1881.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
MON PORTRAIT
A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF ALEXANDER
PUSHKIN.
EUGENE ONÉGUINE
CANTO THE FIRST
CANTO THE SECOND
CANTO THE THIRD
CANTO THE FOURTH
CANTO THE FIFTH
CANTO THE SIXTH
CANTO THE SEVENTH
CANTO THE EIGHTH
MON PORTRAIT
Written by the poet at the age of 15.
Vous me demandez mon portrait,
Mais peint d’après nature:
Mon cher, il sera bientot fait,
Quoique en miniature.
Je suis un jeune polisson
Encore dans les classes;
Point sot, je le dis sans façon,
Et sans fades grimaces.
Oui! il ne fut babillard
Ni docteur de Sorbonne,
Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard
Que moi-même en personne.
Ma taille, à celle des plus longs,
Elle n’est point egalée;
J’ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds,
Et la tete bouclée.
J’aime et le monde et son fracas,
Je hais la solitude;
J’abhorre et noises et débats,
Et tant soit peu l’étude.
Spectacles, bals, me plaisent fort,
Et d’après ma pensee,
Je dirais ce que j’aime encore,
Si je n’étais au Lycée.
Après cela, mon cher ami,
L’on peut me reconnaître,
Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit,
Je veux toujours paraître.
Vrai dé1mon, par l’espiéglerie,
Vrai singe par sa mine,
Beaucoup et trop d’étourderie,
Ma foi! voilà Pouchekine.
Note: Russian proper names to be pronounced as in French (the nasal sound
of m and n excepted) in the following translation. The accent, which is
very arbitrary in the Russian language, is indicated unmistakably in a
rhythmical composition.
A SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN.
Alexander Sergévitch Pushkin was born in 1799 at Pskoff, and was a scion
of an ancient Russian family. In one of his letters it is recorded that no
less than six Pushkins signed the Charta declaratory of the election of
the Románoff family to the throne of Russia, and that two more affixed
their marks from inability to write.
In 1811 he entered the Lyceum, an aristocratic educational establishment
at Tsarskoe Selo, near St. Petersburg, where he was the friend and
schoolmate of Prince Gortchakoff the Russian Chancellor. As a scholar he
displayed no remarkable amount of capacity, but was fond of general
reading and much given to versification. Whilst yet a schoolboy he wrote
many lyrical compositions and commenced _Ruslan and Liudmila_, his
first poem of any magnitude, and, it is asserted, the first readable one
ever produced in the Russian language. During his boyhood he came much
into contact with the poets Dmitrieff and Joukóvski, who were intimate
with his father, and his uncle, Vassili Pushkin, himself an author of no
mean repute. The friendship of the historian Karamzine must have exercised
a still more beneficial influence upon him.
In 1817 he quitted the Lyceum and obtained an appointment in the Foreign
Office at St. Petersburg. Three years of reckless dissipation in the
capital, where his lyrical talent made him universally popular, resulted
in 1818 in a putrid fever which was near carrying him off. At this period
of his life he scarcely slept at all; worked all day and dissipated at
night. Society was open to him from the palace of the prince to the
officers’ quarters of the Imperial Guard. The reflection of this mode of
life may be noted in the first canto of _Eugene Onéguine_ and the
early dissipations of the “Philosopher just turned eighteen,”— the
exact age of Pushkin when he commenced his career in the Russian capital.
In 1820 he was transferred to the bureau of Lieutenant-General Inzoff, at
Kishineff in Bessarabia. This event was probably due to his composing and
privately circulating an “Ode to Liberty,” though the attendant
circumstances have never yet been thoroughly brought to light. An
indiscreet admiration for Byron most likely involved the young poet in
this scrape. The tenor of this production, especially its audacious
allusion to the murder of the emperor Paul, father of the then reigning
Tsar, assuredly deserved, according to aristocratic ideas, the deportation
to Siberia which was said to have been prepared for the author. The
intercession of Karamzine and Joukóvski procured a commutation of his
sentence. Strangely enough, Pushkin appeared anxious to deceive the public
as to the real cause of his sudden disappearance from the capital; for in
an Ode to Ovid composed about this time he styles himself a “voluntary
exile.” (See Note 4 to this volume.)
During the four succeeding years he made numerous excursions amid the
beautiful countries which from the basin of the Euxine—and amongst
these the Crimea and the Caucasus. A nomad life passed amid the beauties
of nature acted powerfully in developing his poetical genius. To this
period he refers in the final canto of _Eugene Onéguine_ (st. v.),
when enumerating the various influences which had contributed to the
formation of his Muse:
“Then, the far capital forgot,
Its splendour and its blandishments,
In poor Moldavia cast her lot,
She visited the humble tents
Of migratory gipsy hordes,” etc. etc.
During these pleasant years of youth he penned some of his most delightful
poetical works: amongst these, _The Prisoner of the Caucasus, The
Fountain of Baktchiserai_, and the _Gipsies_. Of the two former it
may be said that they are in the true style of the _Giaour_ and the
_Corsair_. In fact, just at that point of time Byron’s fame—like
the setting sun—shone out with dazzling lustre and irresistibly
charmed the mind of Pushkin amongst many others. The _Gipsies_ is
more original; indeed the poet himself has been identified with Aleko, the
hero of the tale, which may well be founded on his own personal adventures
without involving the guilt of a double murder. His undisguised admiration
for Byron doubtless exposed him to imputations similar to those commonly
levelled against that poet. But Pushkin’s talent was too genuine for him
to remain long subservient to that of another, and in a later period of
his career he broke loose from all trammels and selected a line peculiarly
his own. Before leaving this stage in our narrative we may point out the
fact that during the whole of this period of comparative seclusion the
poet was indefatigably occupied in study. Not only were the standard works
of European literature perused, but two more languages—namely
Italian and Spanish—were added to his original stock: French,
English, Latin and German having been acquired at the Lyceum. To this
happy union of literary research with the study of nature we must
attribute the sudden bound by which he soon afterwards attained the
pinnacle of poetic fame amongst his own countrymen.
In 1824 he once more fell under the imperial displeasure. A letter seized
in the post, and expressive of atheistical sentiments (possibly but a
transient vagary of his youth) was the ostensible cause of his banishment
from Odessa to his paternal estate of Mikhailovskoe in the province of
Pskoff. Some, however, aver that personal pique on the part of Count
Vorontsoff, the Governor of Odessa, played a part in the transaction. Be
this as it may, the consequences were serious for the poet, who was not
only placed under the surveillance of the police, but expelled from the
Foreign Office by express order of the Tsar “for bad conduct.” A letter on
this subject, addressed by Count Vorontsoff to Count Nesselrode, is an
amusing instance of the arrogance with which stolid mediocrity frequently
passes judgment on rising genius. I transcribe a portion thereof:
Odessa, 28_th March_ (7_th April_) 1824
Count—Your Excellency is aware of the reasons for which, some time
ago, young Pushkin was sent with a letter from Count Capo d’Istria to
General Inzoff. I found him already here when I arrived, the General
having placed him at my disposal, though he himself was at Kishineff. I
have no reason to complain about him. On the contrary, he is much steadier
than formerly. But a desire for the welfare of the young man himself, who
is not wanting in ability, and whose faults proceed more from the head
than from the heart, impels me to urge upon you his removal from Odessa.
Pushkin’s chief failing is ambition. He spent the bathing season here, and
has gathered round him a crowd of adulators who praise his genius. This
maintains in him a baneful delusion which seems to turn his head—namely,
that he is a “distinguished writer;” whereas, in reality he is but a
feeble imitator of an author in whose favour very little can be said
(Byron). This it is which keeps him from a serious study of the great
classical poets, which might exercise a beneficial effect upon his talents—which
cannot be denied him—and which might make of him in course of time a
“distinguished writer.”
The best thing that can be done for him is to remove him hence....
The Emperor Nicholas on his accession pardoned Pushkin and received him
once more into favour. During an interview which took place it is said
that the Tsar promised the poet that he alone would in future be the
censor of his productions. Pushkin was restored to his position in the
Foreign Office and received the appointment of Court Historian. In 1828 he
published one of his finest poems, _Poltava_, which is founded on
incidents familiar to English readers in Byron’s _Mazeppa_. In 1829
the hardy poet accompanied the Russian army which under Paskevitch
captured Erzeroum. In 1831 he married a beautiful lady of the Gontchareff
family and settled in the neighbourhood of St. Petersburg, where he
remained for the remainder of his life, only occasionally visiting Moscow
and Mikhailovskoe. During this period his chief occupation consisted in
collecting and investigating materials for a projected history of Peter
the Great, which was undertaken at the express desire of the Emperor. He
likewise completed a history of the revolt of Pougatchoff, which occurred
in the reign of Catherine II. [Note: this individual having personated
Peter III, the deceased husband of the Empress, raised the Orenburg
Cossacks in revolt. This revolt was not suppressed without extensive
destruction of life and property.] In 1833 the poet visited Orenburg, the
scene of the dreadful excesses he recorded; the fruit of his journey being
one of the most charming tales ever written, _The Captain’s Daughter_.
[Note: Translated in _Russian Romance_, by Mrs. Telfer, 1875.]
The remaining years of Pushkin’s life, spent in the midst of domestic
bliss and grateful literary occupation, were what lookers-on style “years
of unclouded happiness.” They were, however, drawing rapidly to a close.
Unrivalled distinction rarely fails to arouse bitter animosity amongst the
envious, and Pushkin’s existence had latterly been embittered by
groundless insinuations against his wife’s reputation in the shape of
anonymous letters addressed to himself and couched in very insulting
language. He fancied he had traced them to one Georges d’Anthés, a
Frenchman in the Cavalier Guard, who had been adopted by the Dutch envoy
Heeckeren. D’Anthés, though he had espoused Madame Pushkin’s sister, had
conducted himself with impropriety towards the former lady. The poet
displayed in this affair a fierce hostility quite characteristic of his
African origin but which drove him to his destruction. D’Anthés, it was
subsequently admitted, was not the author of the anonymous letters; but as
usual when a duel is proposed, an appeal to reason was thought to smack of
cowardice. The encounter took place in February 1837 on one of the islands
of the Neva. The weapons used were pistols, and the combat was of a
determined, nay ferocious character. Pushkin was shot before he had time
to fire, and, in his fall, the barrel of his pistol became clogged with
snow which lay deep upon the ground at the time. Raising himself on his
elbow, the wounded man called for another pistol, crying, “I’ve strength
left to fire my shot!” He fired, and slightly wounded his opponent,
shouting “Bravo!” when he heard him exclaim that he was hit. D’Anthés was,
however, but slightly contused whilst Pushkin was shot through the
abdomen. He was transported to his residence and expired after several
days passed in extreme agony. Thus perished in the thirty-eighth year of
his age this distinguished poet, in a manner and amid surroundings which
make the duel scene in the sixth canto of this poem seem almost prophetic.
His reflections on the premature death of Lenski appear indeed strangely
applicable to his own fate, as generally to the premature extinction of
genius.
Pushkin was endowed with a powerful physical organisation. He was fond of
long walks, unlike the generality of his countrymen, and at one time of
his career used daily to foot it into St. Petersburg and back, from his
residence in the suburbs, to conduct his investigations in the Government
archives when employed on the History of Peter the Great. He was a good
swordsman, rode well, and at one time aspired to enter the cavalry; but
his father not being able to furnish the necessary funds he declined
serving in the less romantic infantry. Latterly he was regular in his
habits; rose early, retired late, and managed to get along with but very
little sleep. On rising he betook himself forthwith to his literary
occupations, which were continued till afternoon, when they gave place to
physical exercise. Strange as it will appear to many, he preferred the
autumn months, especially when rainy, chill and misty, for the production
of his literary compositions, and was proportionally depressed by the
approach of spring. (Cf. Canto VII st. ii.)
“Mournful is thine approach to me,
O Spring, thou chosen time of love,” etc.
He usually left St. Petersburg about the middle of September and remained
in the country till December. In this space of time it was his custom to
develop and perfect the inspirations of the remaining portion of the year.
He was of an impetuous yet affectionate nature and much beloved by a
numerous circle of friends. An attractive feature in his character was his
unalterable attachment to his aged nurse, a sentiment which we find
reflected in the pages of _Eugene Onéguine_ and elsewhere.
The preponderating influence which Byron exercised in the formation of his
genius has already been noticed. It is indeed probable that we owe _Onéguine_
to the combined impressions of _Childe Harold_ and _Don Juan_
upon his mind. Yet the Russian poem excels these masterpieces of Byron in
a single particular—namely, in completeness of narrative, the plots
of the latter being mere vehicles for the development of the poet’s
general reflections. There is ground for believing that Pushkin likewise
made this poem the record of his own experience. This has doubtless been
the practice of many distinguished authors of fiction whose names will
readily occur to the reader. Indeed, as we are never cognizant of the real
motives which actuate others, it follows that nowhere can the secret
springs of human action be studied to such advantage as within our own
breasts. Thus romance is sometimes but the reflection of the writer’s own
individuality, and he adopts the counsel of the American poet:
Look then into thine heart and write!
But a further consideration of this subject would here be out of place.
Perhaps I cannot more suitably conclude this sketch than by quoting from
his _Ode to the Sea_ the poet’s tribute of admiration to the genius
of Napoleon and Byron, who of all contemporaries seem the most to have
swayed his imagination.
Farewell, thou pathway of the free,
For the last time thy waves I view
Before me roll disdainfully,
Brilliantly beautiful and blue.
Why vain regret? Wherever now
My heedless course I may pursue
One object on thy desert brow
I everlastingly shall view—
A rock, the sepulchre of Fame!
The poor remains of greatness gone
A cold remembrance there became,
There perished great Napoleon.
In torment dire to sleep he lay;
Then, as a tempest echoing rolls,
Another genius whirled away,
Another sovereign of our souls.
He perished. Freedom wept her child,
He left the world his garland bright.
Wail, Ocean, surge in tumult wild,
To sing of thee was his delight.
Impressed upon him was thy mark,
His genius moulded was by thee;
Like thee, he was unfathomed, dark
And untamed in his majesty.
Note: It may interest some to know that Georges d’Anthés was tried by
court-martial for his participation in the duel in which Pushkin fell,
found guilty, and reduced to the ranks; but, not being a Russian subject,
he was conducted by a gendarme across the frontier and then set at
liberty.
EUGENE ONÉGUINE
Pétri de vanité, il avait encore plus de cette espèce d’orgueil, qui fait
avouer avec la même indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions,
suite d’un sentiment de supériorité, peut-être imaginaire.— _Tiré
d’une lettre particulière_.
[Note: Written in 1823 at Kishineff and Odessa.]
CANTO THE FIRST
‘The Spleen’
‘He rushes at life and exhausts the passions.’
Prince Viazemski
Canto the First
I
“My uncle’s goodness is extreme,
If seriously he hath disease;
He hath acquired the world’s esteem
And nothing more important sees;
A paragon of virtue he!
But what a nuisance it will be,
Chained to his bedside night and day
Without a chance to slip away.
Ye need dissimulation base
A dying man with art to soothe,
Beneath his head the pillow smooth,
And physic bring with mournful face,
To sigh and meditate alone:
When will the devil take his own!”
II
Thus mused a madcap young, who drove
Through clouds of dust at postal pace,
By the decree of Mighty Jove,
Inheritor of all his race.
Friends of Liudmila and Ruslan,(1)
Let me present ye to the man,
Who without more prevarication
The hero is of my narration!
Onéguine, O my gentle readers,
Was born beside the Neva, where
It may be ye were born, or there
Have shone as one of fashion’s leaders.
I also wandered there of old,
But cannot stand the northern cold.(2)
[Note 1: _Ruslan and Liudmila_, the title of Pushkin’s first
important work, written 1817-20. It is a tale relating the adventures
of the knight-errant Ruslan in search of his fair lady Liudmila, who
has been carried off by a _kaldoon_, or magician.]
[Note 2: Written in Bessarabia.]
III
Having performed his service truly,
Deep into debt his father ran;
Three balls a year he gave ye duly,
At last became a ruined man.
But Eugene was by fate preserved,
For first “madame” his wants observed,
And then “monsieur” supplied her place;(3)
The boy was wild but full of grace.
“Monsieur l’Abbé” a starving Gaul,
Fearing his pupil to annoy,
Instructed jestingly the boy,
Morality taught scarce at all;
Gently for pranks he would reprove
And in the Summer Garden rove.
[Note 3: In Russia foreign tutors and governesses are commonly
styled “monsieur” or “madame.”]
IV
When youth’s rebellious hour drew near
And my Eugene the path must trace—
The path of hope and tender fear—
Monsieur clean out of doors they chase.
Lo! my Onéguine free as air,
Cropped in the latest style his hair,
Dressed like a London dandy he
The giddy world at last shall see.
He wrote and spoke, so all allowed,
In the French language perfectly,
Danced the mazurka gracefully,
Without the least constraint he bowed.
What more’s required? The world replies,
He is a charming youth and wise.
V
We all of us of education
A something somehow have obtained,
Thus, praised be God! a reputation
With us is easily attained.
Onéguine was—so many deemed
[Unerring critics self-esteemed],
Pedantic although scholar like,
In truth he had the happy trick
Without constraint in conversation
Of touching lightly every theme.
Silent, oracular ye’d see him
Amid a serious disputation,
Then suddenly discharge a joke
The ladies’ laughter to provoke.
VI
Latin is just now not in vogue,
But if the truth I must relate,
Onéguine knew enough, the rogue
A mild quotation to translate,
A little Juvenal to spout,
With “vale” finish off a note;
Two verses he could recollect
Of the Æneid, but incorrect.
In history he took no pleasure,
The dusty chronicles of earth
For him were but of little worth,
Yet still of anecdotes a treasure
Within his memory there lay,
From Romulus unto our day.
VII
For empty sound the rascal swore he
Existence would not make a curse,
Knew not an iamb from a choree,
Although we read him heaps of verse.
Homer, Theocritus, he jeered,
But Adam Smith to read appeared,
And at economy was great;
That is, he could elucidate
How empires store of wealth unfold,
How flourish, why and wherefore less
If the raw product they possess
The medium is required of gold.
The father scarcely understands
His son and mortgages his lands.
VIII
But upon all that Eugene knew
I have no leisure here to dwell,
But say he was a genius who
In one thing really did excel.
It occupied him from a boy,
A labour, torment, yet a joy,
It whiled his idle hours away
And wholly occupied his day—
The amatory science warm,
Which Ovid once immortalized,
For which the poet agonized
Laid down his life of sun and storm
On the steppes of Moldavia lone,
Far from his Italy—his own.(4)
[Note 4: Referring to Tomi, the reputed place of exile of Ovid.
Pushkin, then residing in Bessarabia, was in the same predicament
as his predecessor in song, though he certainly did not plead
guilty to the fact, since he remarks in his ode to Ovid:
To exile _self-consigned_,
With self, society, existence, discontent,
I visit in these days, with melancholy mind,
The country whereunto a mournful age thee sent.
Ovid thus enumerates the causes which brought about his banishment:
“Perdiderint quum me _duo_ crimina, carmen et error,
Alterius facti culpa silenda mihi est.”
_Ovidii Nasonis Tristium_, lib. ii. 207.]
IX
How soon he learnt deception’s art,
Hope to conceal and jealousy,
False confidence or doubt to impart,
Sombre 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,(5)
And the suspicious veteran old,
The pompous, swaggering cuckold too,
Who floats contentedly through life,
Proud of his dinners and his wife!
[Note 5: _Les Aventures du Chevalier de Faublas_, a romance of a
loose character by Jean Baptiste Louvet de Couvray, b. 1760,
d. 1797, famous for his bold oration denouncing Robespierre,
Marat and Danton.]
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”(6)
He hies unto the “Boulevard,”
To loiter there in idleness
Until the sleepless Bréguet chime(7)
Announcing to him dinner-time.
[Note 6: A la “Bolivar,” from the founder of Bolivian independence.]
[Note 7: M. Bréguet, a celebrated Parisian watchmaker—hence a
slang term for a watch.]
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, where(8)
He knows Kaverine will repair.(9)
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.
[Note 8: Talon, a famous St. Petersburg restaurateur.]
[Note 9: Paul Petròvitch 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. The poet on one occasion
addressed the following impromptu to his friend’s portrait:
“Within him daily see the the fires of punch and war,
Upon the fields of Mars a gallant warrior,
A faithful friend to friends, of ladies torturer,
But ever the Hussar.”]
XIV
Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels
To cool the cutlets’ seething grease,
When the sonorous Bréguet tells
Of the commencement of the piece.
A critic of the stage malicious,
A slave of actresses capricious,
Onéguine 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 Katènine 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.(10)
[Note 10: _Denis Von Wisine_ (1741-92), 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_ (1742-91), 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. “Œdipus
in Athens,” “Fingal,” “Demetrius Donskoi,” and “Polyxena,” are
the best known of his tragedies.
_Katènine_ translated Corneille’s tragedies into Russian.
_Didelot_, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at
St. Petersburg.]
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 of nymphs surrounding
Istomina(*) the nimbly-bounding;
With one foot resting on its tip
Slow circling round its fellow swings
And now she skips and now she springs
Like down from Aeolus’s lip,
Now her lithe form she arches o’er
And beats with rapid foot the floor.
[Note: Istomina—A celebrated Circassian dancer of the day, with
whom the poet in his extreme youth imagined himself in love.]
XVIII
Shouts of applause! Onéguine passes
Between the stalls, along the toes;
Seated, a curious look with glasses
On unknown female forms he throws.
Free scope he yields unto his glance,
Reviews both dress and countenance,
With all dissatisfaction shows.
To male acquaintances he bows,
And finally he deigns let fall
Upon the stage his weary glance.
He yawns, averts his countenance,
Exclaiming, “We must change ’em all!
I long by ballets have been bored,
Now Didelot scarce can be endured!”
XIX
Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout
Across the stage still madly sweep,
Whilst the tired serving-men without
Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep.
Still the loud stamping doth not cease,
Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze,
Still everywhere, without, within,
The lamps illuminating shine;
The steed benumbed still pawing stands
And of the irksome harness tires,
And still the coachmen round the fires(11)
Abuse their masters, rub their hands:
But Eugene long hath left the press
To array himself in evening dress.
[Note 11: In Russia large fires are lighted in winter time in front
of the theatres for the benefit of the menials, who, considering
the state of the thermometer, cannot be said to have a jovial
time of it. But in this, as in other cases, “habit” alleviates
their lot, and they bear the cold with a wonderful equanimity.]
XX
Faithfully shall I now depict,
Portray the solitary den
Wherein the child of fashion strict
Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again?
All that industrial London brings
For tallow, wood and other things
Across the Baltic’s salt sea waves,
All which caprice and affluence craves,
All which in Paris eager taste,
Choosing a profitable trade,
For our amusement ever made
And ease and fashionable waste,—
Adorned the apartment of Eugene,
Philosopher just turned eighteen.
XXI
China and bronze the tables weight,
Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows,
And, joy of souls effeminate,
Phials of crystal scents enclose.
Combs of all sizes, files of steel,
Scissors both straight and curved as well,
Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes
Both for the nails and for the tushes.
Rousseau, I would remark in passing,(12)
Could not conceive how serious Grimm
Dared calmly cleanse his nails ’fore him,
Eloquent raver all-surpassing,—
The friend of liberty and laws
In this case quite mistaken was.
[Note 12: “Tout le monde sut qu’il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; et
moi, qui n’en croyait rien, je commençai de le croire, non
seulement par l’embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouvé
des tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu’entrant un
matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avec
une petite vergette faite exprès, ouvrage qu’il continua fièrement
devant moi. Je jugeai qu’un homme qui passe deux heures tous les
matins à brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants à
remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau.”
_Confessions de J. J. Rousseau_]
XXII
The most industrious man alive
May yet be studious of his nails;
What boots it with the age to strive?
Custom the despot soon prevails.
A new Kaverine Eugene mine,
Dreading the world’s remarks malign,
Was that which we are wont to call
A fop, in dress pedantical.
Three mortal hours per diem he
Would loiter by the looking-glass,
And from his dressing-room would pass
Like Venus when, capriciously,
The goddess would a masquerade
Attend in male attire arrayed.
XXIII
On this artistical retreat
Having once fixed your interest,
I might to connoisseurs repeat
The style in which my hero dressed;
Though I confess I hardly dare
Describe in detail the affair,
Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat,
To Russ indigenous are not;
And also that my feeble verse—
Pardon I ask for such a sin—
With words of foreign origin
Too much I’m given to intersperse,
Though to the Academy I come
And oft its Dictionary thumb.(13)
[Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during the
reign of Catherine II under the supervision of Lomonossoff.]
XXIV
But such is not my project now,
So let us to the ball-room haste,
Whither at headlong speed doth go
Eugene in hackney carriage placed.
Past darkened windows and long streets
Of slumbering citizens he fleets,
Till carriage lamps, a double row,
Cast a gay lustre on the snow,
Which shines with iridescent hues.
He nears a spacious mansion’s gate,
By many a lamp illuminate,
And through the lofty windows views
Profiles of lovely dames he knows
And also fashionable beaux.
XXV
Our hero stops and doth alight,
Flies past the porter to the stair,
But, ere he mounts the marble flight,
With hurried hand smooths down his hair.
He enters: in the hall a crowd,
No more the music thunders loud,
Some a mazurka occupies,
Crushing and a confusing noise;
Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash,
The feet of graceful ladies fly,
And following them ye might espy
Full many a glance like lightning flash,
And by the fiddle’s rushing sound
The voice of jealousy is drowned.
XXVI
In my young days of wild delight
On balls I madly used to dote,
Fond declarations they invite
Or the delivery of a note.
So hearken, every worthy spouse,
I would your vigilance arouse,
Attentive be unto my rhymes
And due precautions take betimes.
Ye mothers also, caution use,
Upon your daughters keep an eye,
Employ your glasses constantly,
For otherwise—God only knows!
I lift a warning voice because
I long have ceased to offend the laws.
XXVII
Alas! life’s hours which swiftly fly
I’ve wasted in amusements vain,
But were it not immoral I
Should dearly like a dance again.
I love its furious delight,
The crowd and merriment and light,
The ladies, their fantastic dress,
Also their feet—yet ne’ertheless
Scarcely in Russia can ye find
Three pairs of handsome female feet;
Ah! I still struggle to forget
A pair; though desolate my mind,
Their memory lingers still and seems
To agitate me in my dreams.
XXVIII
When, where, and in what desert land,
Madman, wilt thou from memory raze
Those feet? Alas! on what far strand
Do ye of spring the blossoms graze?
Lapped in your Eastern luxury,
No trace ye left in passing by
Upon the dreary northern snows,
But better loved the soft repose
Of splendid carpets richly wrought.
I once forgot for your sweet cause
The thirst for fame and man’s applause,
My country and an exile’s lot;
My joy in youth was fleeting e’en
As your light footprints on the green.
XXIX
Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks,
Are admirable, my dear friend,
But yet Terpsichore bespeaks
Charms more enduring in the end.
For promises her feet reveal
Of untold gain she must conceal,
Their privileged allurements fire
A hidden train of wild desire.
I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14)
Beneath the table-cloth of white,
In winter on the fender bright,
In springtime on the meadows green,
Upon the ball-room’s glassy floor
Or by the ocean’s rocky shore.
[Note 14: _Elvine_, or _Elvina_, was not improbably the owner of the
seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote
an ode, “To Her,” which commences thus:
“Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand,” and so forth.]
XXX
Beside the stormy sea one day
I envied sore the billows tall,
Which rushed in eager dense array
Enamoured at her feet to fall.
How like the billow I desired
To kiss the feet which I admired!
No, never in the early blaze
Of fiery youth’s untutored days
So ardently did I desire
A young Armida’s lips to press,
Her cheek of rosy loveliness
Or bosom full of languid fire,—
A gust of passion never tore
My spirit with such pangs before.
XXXI
Another time, so willed it Fate,
Immersed in secret thought I stand
And grasp a stirrup fortunate—
Her foot was in my other hand.
Again imagination blazed,
The contact of the foot I raised
Rekindled in my withered heart
The fires of passion and its smart—
Away! and cease to ring their praise
For ever with thy tattling lyre,
The proud ones are not worth the fire
Of passion they so often raise.
The words and looks of charmers sweet
Are oft deceptive—like their feet.
XXXII
Where is Onéguine? Half asleep,
Straight from the ball to bed he goes,
Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep
The drum already doth arouse.
The shopman and the pedlar rise
And to the Bourse the cabman plies;
The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15)
Crunching the morning snow she treads;
Morning awakes with joyous sound;
The shutters open; to the skies
In column blue the smoke doth rise;
The German baker looks around
His shop, a night-cap on his head,
And pauses oft to serve out bread.
[Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St.
Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the
labouring classes.]
XXXIII
But turning morning into night,
Tired by the ball’s incessant noise,
The votary of vain delight
Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,
Late in the afternoon to rise,
When the same life before him lies
Till morn—life uniform but gay,
To-morrow just like yesterday.
But was our friend Eugene content,
Free, in the blossom of his spring,
Amidst successes flattering
And pleasure’s daily blandishment,
Or vainly ’mid luxurious fare
Was he in health and void of care?—
XXXIV
Even so! His passions soon abated,
Hateful the hollow world became,
Nor long his mind was agitated
By love’s inevitable flame.
For treachery had done its worst;
Friendship and friends he likewise curst,
Because he could not gourmandise
Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies
And irrigate them with champagne;
Nor slander viciously could spread
Whene’er he had an aching head;
And, though a plucky scatterbrain,
He finally lost all delight
In bullets, sabres, and in fight.
XXXV
His malady, whose cause I ween
It now to investigate is time,
Was nothing but the British spleen
Transported to our Russian clime.
It gradually possessed his mind;
Though, God be praised! he ne’er designed
To slay himself with blade or ball,
Indifferent he became to all,
And like Childe Harold gloomily
He to the festival repairs,
Nor boston nor the world’s affairs
Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh
Impressed him in the least degree,—
Callous to all he seemed to be.
XXXVI
Ye miracles of courtly grace,
He left _you_ first, and I must own
The manners of the highest class
Have latterly vexatious grown;
And though perchance a lady may
Discourse of Bentham or of Say,
Yet as a rule their talk I call
Harmless, but quite nonsensical.
Then they’re so innocent of vice,
So full of piety, correct,
So prudent, and so circumspect
Stately, devoid of prejudice,
So inaccessible to men,
Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16)
[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian
scholiast remarks:—“The whole of this ironical stanza is but a
_refined eulogy_ of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen.
Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV.
Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements,
combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of
Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael.” It will
occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair “doth
protest too much.” The poet in all probability wrote the offending
stanza in a fit of Byronic “spleen,” as he would most likely
himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school
seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their
utterances under its influence for what they are worth.]
XXXVII
And you, my youthful damsels fair,
Whom latterly one often meets
Urging your droshkies swift as air
Along Saint Petersburg’s paved streets,
From you too Eugene took to flight,
Abandoning insane delight,
And isolated from all men,
Yawning betook him to a pen.
He thought to write, but labour long
Inspired him with disgust and so
Nought from his pen did ever flow,
And thus he never fell among
That vicious set whom I don’t blame—
Because a member I became.
XXXVIII
Once more to idleness consigned,
He felt the laudable desire
From mere vacuity of mind
The wit of others to acquire.
A case of books he doth obtain—
He reads at random, reads in vain.
This nonsense, that dishonest seems,
This wicked, that absurd he deems,
All are constrained and fetters bear,
Antiquity no pleasure gave,
The moderns of the ancients rave—
Books he abandoned like the fair,
His book-shelf instantly doth drape
With taffety instead of crape.
XXXIX
Having abjured the haunts of men,
Like him renouncing vanity,
His friendship I acquired just then;
His character attracted me.
An innate love of meditation,
Original imagination,
And cool sagacious mind he had:
I was incensed and he was sad.
Both were of passion satiate
And both of dull existence tired,
Extinct the flame which once had fired;
Both were expectant of the hate
With which blind Fortune oft betrays
The very morning of our days.
XL
He who hath lived and living, thinks,
Must e’en despise his kind at last;
He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks
From shades of the relentless past.
No fond illusions live to soothe,
But memory like a serpent’s tooth
With late repentance gnaws and stings.
All this in many cases brings
A charm with it in conversation.
Onéguine’s speeches I abhorred
At first, but soon became inured
To the sarcastic observation,
To witticisms and taunts half-vicious
And gloomy epigrams malicious.
XLI
How oft, when on a summer night
Transparent o’er the Neva beamed
The firmament in mellow light,
And when the watery mirror gleamed
No more with pale Diana’s rays,(17)
We called to mind our youthful days—
The days of love and of romance!
Then would we muse as in a trance,
Impressionable for an hour,
And breathe the balmy breath of night;
And like the prisoner’s our delight
Who for the greenwood quits his tower,
As on the rapid wings of thought
The early days of life we sought.
[Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of St. Petersburg
are a prolonged twilight.]
XLII
Absorbed in melancholy mood
And o’er the granite coping bent,
Onéguine meditative stood,
E’en as the poet says he leant.(18)
’Tis silent all! Alone the cries
Of the night sentinels arise
And from the Millionaya afar(19)
The sudden rattling of a car.
Lo! on the sleeping river borne,
A boat with splashing oar floats by,
And now we hear delightedly
A jolly song and distant horn;
But sweeter in a midnight dream
Torquato Tasso’s strains I deem.
[Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff’s “Goddess of the Neva.” At St.
Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with
splendid granite quays.]
[Note 19:
A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from
the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.]
XLIII
Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea,
O Brenta, once more we shall meet
And, inspiration firing me,
Your magic voices I shall greet,
Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire,
And after Albion’s proud lyre (20)
Possess my love and sympathy.
The nights of golden Italy
I’ll pass beneath the firmament,
Hid in the gondola’s dark shade,
Alone with my Venetian maid,
Now talkative, now reticent;
From her my lips shall learn the tongue
Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.
[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron’s genius on the
imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other
English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind,
which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an
essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian
tastes, see his poem of “Angelo,” founded upon “Measure for Measure.”]
XLIV
When will my hour of freedom come!
Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales
Awaiting on the shore I roam
And beckon to the passing sails.
Upon the highway of the sea
When shall I wing my passage free
On waves by tempests curdled o’er!
’Tis time to quit this weary shore
So uncongenial to my mind,
To dream upon the sunny strand
Of Africa, ancestral land,(21)
Of dreary Russia left behind,
Wherein I felt love’s fatal dart,
Wherein I buried left my heart.
[Note 21: The poet was, on his mother’s side, of African extraction,
a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of
his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petròvitch Hannibal,
was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a
corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian
Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused
him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal’s
brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburg
for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his
godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank
of general in the Russian service.]
XLV
Eugene designed with me to start
And visit many a foreign clime,
But Fortune cast our lots apart
For a protracted space of time.
Just at that time his father died,
And soon Onéguine’s door beside
Of creditors a hungry rout
Their claims and explanations shout.
But Eugene, hating litigation
And with his lot in life content,
To a surrender gave consent,
Seeing in this no deprivation,
Or counting on his uncle’s death
And what the old man might bequeath.
XLVI
And in reality one day
The steward sent a note to tell
How sick to death his uncle lay
And wished to say to him farewell.
Having this mournful document
Perused, Eugene in postchaise went
And hastened to his uncle’s side,
But in his heart dissatisfied,
Having for money’s sake alone
Sorrow to counterfeit and wail—
Thus we began our little tale—
But, to his uncle’s mansion flown,
He found him on the table laid,
A due which must to earth be paid.
XLVII