From: Eugene Onegin
Chapter One
And hastens to live, and hurries to feel. Prince Vyazemsky
I
"My uncle of most honest principles, When he fell seriously ill, He made himself be respected And could not have devised better. His example is a lesson to others; But, my God, what a bore To sit with a sick man day and night, Not departing a step away! What base cunning To amuse the half-alive, To adjust his pillows, Sadly bring him medicine, To sigh and think to oneself: When will the devil take you!"
II
Thus thought the young rake, Flying in the dust on post horses, By the supreme will of Zeus The heir of all his relatives. — Friends of Ludmila and Ruslan! With the hero of my novel Without introductions, this very moment Allow me to acquaint you: Onegin, my good friend, Was born on the banks of the Neva, Where perhaps you were born Or shone, my reader; There once I too wandered: But the north is harmful to me.
III
Having served excellently-nobly, His father lived on debts, Gave three balls annually And finally squandered everything. Fate preserved Eugene: First Madame looked after him, Then Monsieur replaced her; The child was lively, but sweet. Monsieur l'Abbé, a poor Frenchman, So the child would not be exhausted, Taught him everything in jest, Did not bore with strict morality, Scolded him lightly for pranks And took him walking in the Summer Garden.
IV
When the time of turbulent youth Came to Eugene, The time of hopes and tender sadness, Monsieur was driven from the yard. Here is my Onegin at liberty; Hair cut in the latest fashion; Dressed like a London dandy — And finally saw society. He could express himself perfectly In French and write; Danced the mazurka easily And bowed without constraint; What more do you need? Society decided That he was clever and very nice.
V
We all learned a little Of something and somehow, So with education, thank God, It's not hard to shine among us. Onegin was, in the opinion of many (Decisive and strict judges), A learned fellow, but a pedant. He had the happy talent Without constraint in conversation To touch upon everything lightly, With the learned air of a connoisseur To keep silence in important disputes And to provoke the ladies' smiles With the fire of unexpected epigrams.
VI
Latin has gone out of fashion now: So, to tell you the truth, He knew enough Latin To decipher epigraphs, To discourse about Juvenal, To put vale at the end of a letter, And remembered, though not without sin, Two verses from the Aeneid. He had no desire to rummage In the chronological dust Of the history of the earth; But anecdotes of days gone by, From Romulus to our times, He preserved in his memory.
VII
Having no high passion To spare his life for sounds, He could not distinguish iamb from trochee, No matter how we tried. He criticized Homer, Theocritus; But read Adam Smith And was a profound economist, That is, he could judge How the state grows rich, And what it lives on, and why It doesn't need gold When it has simple products. His father could not understand him And mortgaged his lands.
VIII
All that Eugene knew besides, I have no time to recount; But that in which he was a true genius, What he knew more firmly than all sciences, What from his youth was Both labor, and torment, and delight, What occupied the whole day Of his languishing idleness, — Was the science of tender passion, Which Naso sang, For which he ended as a sufferer His brilliant and turbulent age In Moldavia, in the wilderness of the steppes, Far from his Italy.
IX
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X
How early he could dissemble, Conceal hope, be jealous, Dissuade, make believe, Seem gloomy, pine away, Appear proud and submissive, Attentive or indifferent! How languidly silent he was, How ardently eloquent, How careless in heartfelt letters! Breathing one thing, loving one thing, How he could forget himself! How swift and tender was his gaze, Modest and bold, and at times Glistened with an obedient tear!
XI
How he could seem new, Playfully astonish innocence, Frighten with ready despair, Amuse with pleasant flattery, Catch the moment of tenderness, Conquer with mind and passion The prejudices of innocent years, Await involuntary caress, Beg and demand confession, Overhear the heart's first sound, Pursue love and suddenly Obtain a secret meeting… And afterward alone with her Give lessons in silence!
XII
How early could he disturb The hearts of hardened coquettes! When he wanted to destroy His rivals, How venomously he slandered! What snares he prepared for them! But you, blessed husbands, You remained his friends: The cunning spouse caressed him, Faublas's former pupil, And the mistrustful old man, And the majestic cuckold, Always satisfied with himself, His dinner and his wife.
XIII. XIV
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XV
It used to be, he was still in bed: Notes are brought to him. What? Invitations? Indeed, Three houses invite him for the evening: There will be a ball, there a children's party. Where will my rascal rush? With whom will he begin? All the same: It's not hard to be everywhere in time. Meanwhile in morning attire, Putting on a wide bolivar, Onegin drives to the boulevard, And there walks at leisure, Until the unwearying breguet Chimes him to dinner.
XVI
It's already dark: he gets into a sleigh. "Make way, make way!" — the cry rang out; His beaver collar Silvers with frosty dust. He rushes to Talon's: he's certain That Kaverin already awaits him there. He entered: and the cork to the ceiling, The stream of comet wine spurted; Before him bloody roast-beef And truffles, luxury of young years, The best flower of French cuisine, And Strasbourg's imperishable pie Between live Limburg cheese And golden pineapple.
XVII
Still the thirst for goblets asks To wash down the hot fat of cutlets, But the chime of the breguet announces to them That a new ballet has begun. The theater's wicked legislator, Inconstant adorer Of charming actresses, Honorary citizen of the wings, Onegin flew to the theater, Where everyone, breathing freedom, Is ready to applaud the entrechat, To hiss at Phaedra, Cleopatra, To call out Moina (just so That they would hear him).
XVIII
Magic land! there in old years, Satire's bold sovereign, Fonvizin shone, friend of freedom, And imitative Knyazhnin; There Ozerov shared involuntary tribute Of people's tears, of applause With young Semenova; There our Katenin resurrected Corneille's majestic genius; There the biting Shakhovskoy brought forth His noisy swarm of comedies, There too Didelot was crowned with glory, There, there under the shelter of the wings My young days flew by.
XIX
My goddesses! what are you? where are you? Hear my sad voice: Are you still the same? have other maidens, Replacing, not replaced you? Shall I hear again your choruses? Shall I see the Russian Terpsichore's Soul-filled flight? Or will my melancholy gaze not find Familiar faces on the dull stage, And, directing upon a foreign world A disillusioned lorgnette, A spectator of merriment indifferent, Shall I silently yawn And recall the past?
XX
The theater is already full; the boxes gleam; Pit and stalls, all seethe; In the gallery they impatiently clap, And, soaring, the curtain rustles. Brilliant, half-ethereal, Obedient to the magic bow, Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs, Stands Istomina; she, Touching the floor with one foot, Slowly circles with the other, And suddenly a leap, and suddenly flies, Flies like down from Aeolus's lips; Now twists her form, now unfolds it, And with swift foot beats foot.
XXI
All applaud. Onegin enters, Goes between the seats over feet, Obliquely trains his double lorgnette On the boxes of unfamiliar ladies; He surveyed all tiers with his gaze, Saw everything: faces, attire He is terribly dissatisfied with; With men from all sides He exchanged bows, then at the stage In great distraction glanced, Turned away — and yawned, And said: "It's time to change them all; I've endured ballets long enough, But even Didelot has bored me."
XXII
Still cupids, devils, serpents Jump and make noise on the stage; Still tired footmen Sleep on fur coats at the entrance; Still they haven't stopped stamping, Blowing noses, coughing, hissing, clapping; Still outside and inside Everywhere lanterns gleam; Still, grown cold, the horses beat, Weary of their harness, And coachmen, around the fires, Curse their masters and clap their hands: But already Onegin has gone out; He rides home to dress.
XXIII
Shall I depict in a faithful picture The secluded study, Where fashion's model pupil Is dressed, undressed and dressed again? All that fastidious London Trades for abundant whim And brings to us across Baltic waves For timber and tallow, All that hungry Parisian taste, Choosing useful trade, Invents for amusements, For luxury, for fashionable bliss, — All adorned the study Of the philosopher at eighteen.
XXIV
Amber on pipes of Tsaregrad, Porcelain and bronze on the table, And, delight of pampered senses, Perfumes in cut crystal; Combs, steel files, Straight scissors, curved ones, And brushes of thirty kinds Both for nails and for teeth. Rousseau (I note in passing) Could not understand how the important Grimm Dared to clean his nails before him, The eloquent madman. The defender of liberty and rights In this case was completely wrong.
XXV
One can be a practical man And think about the beauty of nails: Why argue fruitlessly with the age? Custom is a despot among men. A second Chaadaev, my Eugene, Fearing jealous condemnations, Was a pedant in his dress And what we called a fop. He spent at least three hours Before mirrors And emerged from the dressing room Like frivolous Venus, When, putting on male attire, The goddess drives to a masquerade.
XXVI
Having occupied your curious gaze With his toilet in the latest taste, I could before the learned world Describe his attire here; Of course it would be bold, To describe is my very business: But pantaloons, frock coat, waistcoat, All these words don't exist in Russian; And I see, I confess before you, That already my poor style Could be much less variegated With foreign words, Though I used to consult The Academic Dictionary.
XXVII
Now we have a different subject: We'd better hurry to the ball, Where headlong in a hired carriage My Onegin has already galloped. Before the darkened houses Along the sleeping street in rows The double lanterns of carriages Pour cheerful light And cast rainbows on the snow; Studded with lamps all around, The magnificent house shines; Past solid windows shadows move, Profiles of heads flicker Of ladies and fashionable eccentrics.
XXVIII
Here our hero has driven up to the entrance; Past the porter like an arrow He flew up the marble steps, Smoothed his hair with his hand, Entered. The hall is full of people; The music is already tired of thundering; The crowd is occupied with the mazurka; All around noise and crowding; The cavalry guard's spurs jingle; The pretty ladies' feet fly; After their captivating traces Fiery glances fly, And by the roar of violins is drowned The jealous whisper of fashionable wives.
XXIX
In days of merriment and desires I was mad about balls: There's no surer place for confessions And for handing over a letter. O you, respectable spouses! I'll offer you my services; Please note my speech: I want to warn you. You too, mothers, more strictly Watch after your daughters: Hold your lorgnette straight! Or else… or else, God forbid! I write this because I haven't sinned for a long time now.
XXX
Alas, on various amusements I've wasted much of my life! But if morals didn't suffer, I'd still love balls. I love mad youth, And crowding, and brilliance, and joy, And ladies' considered attire; I love their feet; but hardly Will you find in all Russia Three pairs of shapely women's legs. Ah! long I could not forget Two little feet… Sad, grown cold, I still remember them, and in dreams They trouble my heart.
XXXI
When and where, in what wilderness, Madman, will you forget them? Ah, little feet, little feet! where are you now? Where do you tread spring flowers? Nurtured in eastern bliss, On the northern, mournful snow You left no traces: You loved the luxurious touch Of soft carpets. Is it long since for you I forgot Both thirst for glory and praise, And my fathers' land, and exile? The happiness of young years has vanished, Like your light trace on meadows.
XXXII
Diana's breast, Flora's cheeks Are lovely, dear friends! But Terpsichore's foot Is lovelier somehow to me. She, prophesying to the gaze An invaluable reward, Attracts with conditional beauty The willful swarm of desires. I love it, my friend Elvina, Under the long tablecloth of tables, In spring on the grass of meadows, In winter on the cast iron of the fireplace, On the mirrored parquet of halls, By the sea on granite rocks.
XXXIII
I remember the sea before a storm: How I envied the waves, Running in stormy succession To lie with love at her feet! How I wished then with the waves To touch with lips the dear feet! No, never amid the ardent days Of my seething youth Did I desire with such torment To kiss the lips of young Armidas, Or the roses of flaming cheeks, Or breasts full of languor; No, never did the surge of passions So torment my soul!
XXXIV
I remember another time! In cherished dreams sometimes I hold the happy stirrup… And feel the foot in my hands; Again imagination boils, Again its touch Kindled blood in the withered heart, Again anguish, again love!.. But enough glorifying the arrogant With my chattering lyre; They're not worth either the passions, Or the songs inspired by them: The words and gaze of these enchantresses Are deceptive… like their feet.
XXXV
What of my Onegin? Half-asleep From the ball he rides to bed: While restless Petersburg Is already awakened by the drum. The merchant rises, the peddler goes, The cabman drags to the exchange, The Okhta girl with her jug hastens, Under her the morning snow crunches. The pleasant noise of morning has awakened. Shutters are opened; chimney smoke Ascends in a blue column, And the baker, a punctual German, In a paper cap, has already Opened his vasisdas more than once.
XXXVI
But, tired by the noise of the ball, And turning morning into midnight, Peacefully sleeps in blessed shade The child of amusements and luxury. He'll wake past noon, and again Until morning his life is ready, Monotonous and variegated, And tomorrow the same as yesterday. But was my Eugene happy, Free, in the flower of his best years, Amid brilliant victories, Amid daily pleasures? Was he recklessly amid feasts Incautious and healthy?
XXXVII
No: feelings cooled in him early; He was bored with society's noise; Beauties were not long The object of his habitual thoughts; Infidelities managed to tire him; Friends and friendship became tedious, Because not always could he Pour champagne bottle Over beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie And scatter sharp words, When his head ached; And though he was an ardent rake, But finally he fell out of love with Both quarrel, and saber, and lead.
XXXVIII
The malady, whose cause It's long past time to discover, Like the English spleen, In short: Russian melancholy Gradually took possession of him; He, thank God, Didn't want to try to shoot himself, But completely cooled toward life. Like Childe Harold, gloomy, languid He appeared in drawing rooms; Neither society gossip, nor boston, Nor a sweet glance, nor an immodest sigh, Nothing touched him, He noticed nothing.
XXXIX. XL. XLI
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XLII
Eccentrics of high society! He left you before all others; And it's true that in our times High tone is quite boring; Though perhaps some lady Discourses on Say and Bentham, But generally their conversation Is unbearable, though innocent nonsense; Besides they are so blameless, So stately, so intelligent, So full of piety, So circumspect, so precise, So unapproachable for men, That their very sight breeds spleen.
XLIII
And you, young beauties, Whom at a late hour Bold droshkies carry away Along the Petersburg pavement, My Eugene abandoned you too. An apostate of stormy pleasures, Onegin locked himself at home, Yawning, took up his pen, Wanted to write — but stubborn labor Was sickening to him; nothing Came from his pen, And he didn't fall into the zealous guild Of people whom I don't judge, Because I belong to them.
XLIV
And again, devoted to idleness, Languishing with spiritual emptiness, He sat down — with the laudable goal To appropriate others' minds for himself; He lined up a shelf with a detachment of books, He read, read, but all to no avail: Here boredom, there deception or delirium; In this no conscience, in that no sense; On all different fetters; And the old has become outdated, And the new raves about the old. Like women, he abandoned books, And the shelf, with their dusty family, He curtained with mourning taffeta.
XLV
Having cast off the burden of society's conditions, Like him, having withdrawn from vanity, I befriended him at that time. I liked his features, Involuntary devotion to dreams, Inimitable strangeness And sharp, cooled mind. I was embittered, he was gloomy; We both knew the play of passions; Life wearied us both; In both our hearts the fire went out; Both of us were awaited by the malice Of blind Fortune and of people At the very morning of our days.
XLVI
He who has lived and thought cannot help But despise people in his soul; He who has felt is troubled By the phantom of irrevocable days: For him there are no more enchantments, Him the serpent of memories, Him remorse gnaws. All this often lends Great charm to conversation. At first Onegin's language Confused me; but I got used To his caustic dispute, And to his joke, half-filled with bile, And to the malice of gloomy epigrams.
XLVII
How often in summertime, When transparent and bright Is the night sky over the Neva And the merry glass of waters Does not reflect Diana's face, Recalling romances of former years, Recalling former love, Sensitive, carefree again, We silently drank in The breath of benevolent night! Like into a green forest from prison A sleeping convict is transferred, So we were carried away in reverie To the beginning of young life.
XLVIII
With a soul full of regrets, And leaning on the granite, Eugene stood pensively, As the poet described himself. All was quiet; only the night Sentries called to each other; And the distant sound of a droshky Suddenly rang from Millionnaya; Only a boat, waving its oars, Floated on the slumbering river: And in the distance captivated us A horn and a daring song… But sweeter, amid nocturnal amusements, The melody of Torquato's octaves!
XLIX
Adriatic waves, O Brenta! no, I shall see you And, again full of inspiration, Shall hear your magic voice! It is sacred to Apollo's descendants; Through Albion's proud lyre It's familiar to me, it's native to me. Of golden Italian nights I'll freely enjoy the bliss With a young Venetian woman, Now talkative, now silent, Floating in a mysterious gondola; With her my lips will find The language of Petrarch and of love.
L
Will the hour of my freedom come? It's time, it's time! — I call to it; I wander above the sea, await the weather, Beckon the sails of ships. Under the robe of storms, contending with waves, Along the free expanse of the sea When shall I begin my free course? It's time to leave the tedious shore Of the element hostile to me, And amid southern swells, Under the sky of my Africa, To sigh for gloomy Russia, Where I suffered, where I loved, Where I buried my heart.
LI
Onegin was ready with me To see foreign lands; But soon we were by fate Parted for a long term. His father died then. Before Onegin assembled A greedy regiment of creditors. Each has his own mind and opinion: Eugene, hating litigation, Content with his lot, Left the inheritance to them, Seeing no great loss in it Or foreseeing from afar The death of his uncle the old man.
LII
Suddenly he received indeed From the steward a report That his uncle was at death's door in bed And would like to say goodbye to him. Having read the sad missive, Eugene immediately to the meeting Rushed headlong by post And already yawned in advance, Preparing, for the sake of money, For sighs, boredom and deception (And with that I began my novel); But, having flown to his uncle's village, He found him already on the table, As tribute, ready for the earth.
LIII
He found the yard full of servants; To the deceased from all sides Enemies and friends converged, Hunters for funerals. They buried the deceased. Priests and guests ate, drank And afterward importantly dispersed, As if occupied with business. Here is our Onegin — a country dweller, Of factories, waters, forests, lands A full master, while until now An enemy of order and a squanderer, And very glad that his former path He'd changed for something.
LIV
For two days seemed novel to him The secluded fields, The coolness of the gloomy oak grove, The murmur of the quiet brook; On the third the grove, hill and field No longer occupied him; Then they induced sleep; Then he saw clearly That in the country boredom is the same, Though there are no streets, no palaces, No cards, no balls, no verses. Melancholy awaited him on guard, And ran after him Like a shadow or faithful wife.
LV
I was born for peaceful life, For country quiet: In the wilderness the lyric voice sounds louder, Creative dreams are livelier. Devoted to innocent leisure, I wander above the deserted lake, And far niente is my law. Each morning I'm awakened For sweet bliss and freedom: I read little, sleep long, Don't chase fleeting glory. Wasn't it so in bygone years That I spent in inaction, in shade My happiest days?
LVI
Flowers, love, country, idleness, Fields! I'm devoted to you with my soul. I'm always glad to note the difference Between Onegin and me, So that a mocking reader Or some publisher Of intricate slander, Comparing here my features, Won't repeat afterward godlessly That I scribbled my portrait, Like Byron, pride's poet, As if it's already impossible for us To write poems about another, But only about ourselves.
LVII
I'll note by the way: all poets — Are friends of dreamy love. It used to be, dear objects Appeared to me in dreams, and my soul Preserved their secret image; The muse later revived them: Thus I, carefree, sang Both the maiden of the mountains, my ideal, And captives of Salgir's shores. Now from you, my friends, I often hear the question: "About whom does your lyre sigh? To whom, in the crowd of jealous maidens, Did you dedicate its melody?
LVIII
Whose gaze, stirring inspiration, With tender caress rewarded Your pensive singing? Whom did your verse deify?" And, friends, nobody, by God! Love's mad anxiety I experienced without consolation. Blessed is he who combined with it The fever of rhymes: he thereby doubled Poetry's sacred delirium, Following in Petrarch's footsteps, And calmed the torments of the heart, Caught glory meanwhile; But I, loving, was stupid and mute.
LIX
Love passed, the muse appeared, And the dark mind cleared. Free, I again seek union Of magic sounds, feelings and thoughts; I write, and the heart doesn't languish, The pen, forgetting itself, doesn't draw Near unfinished verses Either women's feet or heads; Extinguished ashes will no longer flare up, I still grieve; but there are no more tears, And soon, soon the storm's trace In my soul will completely subside: Then I'll begin to write A poem of twenty-five cantos.
LX
I already thought about the form of the plan And what to name the hero; Meanwhile of my novel I've finished the first chapter; I reviewed all this strictly; There are very many contradictions, But I don't want to correct them; I'll pay my debt to censorship And to journalists for devouring I'll give the fruits of my labors; Go then to the Neva's shores, Newborn creation, And earn me glory's tribute: Crooked talk, noise and abuse!