From: Eugene Onegin
Chapter Two
O rus! Hor.
O Rus!
I
The village where Eugene languished Was a delightful little nook; There a friend of innocent pleasures Might have blessed the heavens. The manor house, secluded, Sheltered from the winds by hills, Stood above a river. In the distance Before it bloomed and glowed Meadows and golden fields of grain, Villages flickered here and there; Herds wandered through the meadows, And a huge, neglected garden Spread its dense shade wide— A refuge for pensive dryads.
II
The worthy manor house was built As manor houses ought to be: Exceedingly solid and serene In the style of sensible antiquity. Everywhere high-ceilinged rooms, Damask wallpaper in the drawing room, Portraits of tsars upon the walls, And stoves with colored tiles. All this had now grown decrepit— I don't know why, truly; But then, my friend Had very little need of it, Since he yawned equally Amid fashionable and antique halls.
III
He settled in that chamber Where the country old-timer Had quarreled with the housekeeper for forty years, Looked out the window and swatted flies. Everything was simple: an oak floor, Two cupboards, a table, a feather sofa, Not a spot of ink anywhere. Onegin opened the cupboards; In one he found an account ledger, In the other a whole array of liqueurs, Jugs of apple water, And a calendar from the year eight: The old man, having many affairs, Never looked at other books.
IV
Alone among his possessions, Just to pass the time, At first our Eugene planned To establish a new order. A hermit sage in his wilderness, He replaced the yoke of old-fashioned corvée With a light quitrent; And the slave blessed his fate. But in his corner sulked, Seeing terrible harm in this, His calculating neighbor; Another smiled slyly, And everyone decided unanimously That he was a most dangerous eccentric.
V
At first everyone came to visit him; But since from the back porch They usually brought him A Don stallion As soon as along the main road They heard the sound of approaching carriages— Offended by such behavior, All broke off their friendship with him. "Our neighbor is an ignoramus; he's mad; He's a Freemason; he drinks nothing but Red wine from a glass; He doesn't kiss ladies' hands; It's all 'yes' and 'no'; he won't say 'yes, sir' Or 'no, sir.'" Such was the common voice.
VI
To his village at the same time A new landowner came galloping And gave equal cause for strict censure In the neighborhood. By name Vladimir Lensky, With a soul straight from Göttingen, A handsome youth in the full flower of years, A devotee of Kant and a poet. From misty Germany He brought the fruits of learning: Freedom-loving dreams, A passionate and rather strange spirit, Always enthusiastic speech, And black curls down to his shoulders.
VII
From the cold depravity of society Not yet having withered, His soul was warmed By a friend's greeting, by maidens' caresses; In his heart he was a dear innocent, Hope cherished him, And the world's new glitter and noise Still captivated his youthful mind. He entertained with sweet reverie The doubts of his heart; The purpose of our life for him Was an alluring riddle, He racked his brains over it And suspected miracles.
VIII
He believed that a kindred soul Must unite with him, That, languishing without comfort, She awaited him daily; He believed that friends were ready To accept chains for his honor, And that their hand would not tremble To smash the slanderer's vessel; That there are those chosen by fate, Sacred friends of mankind; That their immortal family With irresistible rays Will someday illuminate us And endow the world with bliss.
IX
Indignation, compassion, Pure love for the good, And the sweet torment of glory Stirred his blood early on. He wandered the world with his lyre; Under the sky of Schiller and Goethe, With their poetic fire His soul was inflamed; And the lofty arts of the Muses, Fortunate one, he did not disgrace: He proudly preserved in his songs Always lofty feelings, The impulses of virginal reverie, And the charm of noble simplicity.
X
He sang of love, obedient to love, And his song was clear As the thoughts of an artless maiden, As an infant's dream, as the moon In the serene deserts of heaven, Goddess of secrets and tender sighs; He sang of separation and sorrow, And something, and misty distance, And romantic roses; He sang of those distant lands Where long into the bosom of silence His living tears had flowed; He sang life's faded flower— At not quite eighteen years.
XI
In the wilderness where Eugene alone Could appreciate his gifts, He did not like the feasts Of the neighboring estates' lords; He fled their noisy gatherings, Their sensible conversation About haymaking, about wine, About kennels, about their relatives— Of course, it shone with neither feeling Nor poetic fire, Nor wit, nor intelligence, Nor the art of social grace; But the conversation of their dear wives Was far less intelligent still.
XII
Rich, handsome, Lensky Was received everywhere as a suitor; Such is the country custom; Everyone intended their daughters For the half-Russian neighbor; Whenever he arrived, the conversation Immediately turned aside To the tedium of bachelor life; They'd invite the neighbor for tea, And Dunya would pour, They'd whisper to her: "Dunya, take note!" Then they'd bring out a guitar; And she'd squeal (good God!): "Come to my golden chamber!.."
XIII
But Lensky, certainly having No desire to bear the bonds of marriage, Wished heartily To establish closer acquaintance with Onegin. They came together. Wave and stone, Verse and prose, ice and flame Were not so different from each other. At first by their mutual dissimilarity They bored each other; Then they took a liking; then They met on horseback every day, And soon became inseparable. Thus people (I confess I'm first) From having nothing to do are friends.
XIV
But even that friendship is not among us. Having destroyed all prejudices, We consider everyone zeros, And ourselves—the units. We all look upon ourselves as Napoleons; Millions of two-legged creatures Are for us but a single tool; Feeling is strange and ridiculous to us. Eugene was more tolerable than many; Though he knew people, of course, And generally despised them— Yet (there are no rules without exceptions) Some he distinguished greatly And respected their feelings from afar.
XV
He listened to Lensky with a smile. The poet's ardent discourse, His mind, still wavering in judgments, His eternally inspired gaze— All this was new to Onegin; He tried to restrain The cooling word on his lips And thought: it's foolish of me to interfere With his momentary bliss; Without me the time will come, Let him live for now And believe in the world's perfection; Let us forgive the fever of young years, Both youthful heat and youthful delirium.
XVI
Between them everything gave rise to disputes And drew them to reflection: The covenants of bygone tribes, The fruits of science, good and evil, And age-old prejudices, And the fateful mysteries of the grave, Fate and life in their turn— All came under their judgment. The poet in the heat of his opinions Would read, forgetting himself, meanwhile Fragments of northern poems, And the indulgent Eugene, Though he understood them little, Listened attentively to the youth.
XVII
But more often passions occupied The minds of my hermits. Having escaped from their turbulent power, Onegin spoke of them With an involuntary sigh of regret; Blessed is he who has known their turmoil And finally left them behind; More blessed he who has not known them, Who cooled love—with separation, Enmity—with slander; at times Yawned with friends and with his wife, Not troubled by jealous torment, And did not entrust his grandfathers' faithful capital To the treacherous deuce.
XVIII
When we take refuge under the banner Of sensible tranquility, When the flame of passions dies out And their willfulness or impulses And belated echoes Become laughable to us— Humbled, not without effort, We sometimes love to listen To the rebellious language of others' passions, And it stirs our heart. Just so an old invalid Willingly inclines his attentive ear To the tales of young mustachioed men, Forgotten in his hut.
XIX
But passionate youth Cannot hide anything. Enmity, love, sorrow, and joy It's ready to blurt out. Considering himself an invalid in love, Onegin listened with an important air As, loving the heart's confession, The poet revealed himself; His trusting conscience He artlessly laid bare. Eugene learned without effort The young tale of his love, An account abundant with feelings, Long since not new to us.
XX
Ah, he loved as in our times They no longer love; as one Mad poet's soul Is still condemned to love: Always, everywhere one dream, One habitual desire, One habitual sorrow. Neither the cooling distance, Nor long years of separation, Nor hours given to the Muses, Nor foreign beauties, Nor the noise of festivities, nor sciences Changed within him the soul Warmed by virginal fire.
XXI
Barely a youth, captivated by Olga, Not yet knowing heartache, He was a tender witness Of her childish games; In the protective shade of the oak grove He shared her amusements, And friends-neighbors, their fathers, Destined the children for wedding crowns. In the wilderness, beneath humble shelter, Full of innocent charm, In her parents' eyes, she Bloomed like a hidden lily of the valley, Unknown in the thick grass To butterflies or bees.
XXII
She gave the poet The first dream of youthful raptures, And thoughts of her animated The first moan of his reed pipe. Farewell, golden games! He came to love the dense groves, Solitude, silence, And night, and stars, and the moon, The moon, heavenly lamp, To which we dedicated Walks amid evening darkness, And tears, the solace of secret torments… But now we see in her only A replacement for dim lanterns.
XXIII
Always modest, always obedient, Always cheerful as morning, Simple as a poet's life, Sweet as love's kiss, Eyes blue as heaven; A smile, flaxen curls, Movements, voice, slender figure— All in Olga… but any novel You take will contain, surely, Her portrait: it's very pretty, I myself once loved it, But it has bored me immeasurably. Permit me, my reader, To turn to the elder sister.
XXIV
Her sister was called Tatyana… For the first time with such a name The tender pages of a novel We willfully consecrate. And what of it? It's pleasant, sonorous; But with it, I know, is inseparably linked The memory of antiquity Or the servants' quarters! We all must Admit: there's very little taste In us and in our names (Not to speak of verses); Enlightenment has not suited us, And we have received from it Affectation—nothing more.
XXV
So, she was called Tatyana. Neither with her sister's beauty, Nor with the freshness of her rosy cheeks Would she have attracted eyes. Wild, sad, silent, Timid as a forest doe, She in her own family Seemed an alien girl. She did not know how to caress Her father or her mother; A child herself, amid a crowd of children She did not want to play and skip, And often all day alone She sat silently by the window.
XXVI
Pensiveness, her companion From her very cradle days, Adorned for her with dreams The course of country leisure. Her delicate fingers Knew no needles; bending over an embroidery frame, With silken pattern she Did not enliven the canvas. The sign of the desire to command— A child with an obedient doll Prepares playfully For propriety, the law of society, And solemnly repeats to it Her mama's lessons.
XXVII
But even in those years Tatyana never took dolls in hand; About city news, about fashions She held no conversations. And childish pranks Were alien to her: frightening tales In winter in the darkness of nights Captivated her heart more. When the nurse gathered For Olga on the broad meadow All her little friends, She didn't play tag, The ringing laughter was tedious to her, And the noise of their frivolous amusements.
XXVIII
She loved on the balcony To anticipate the sunrise, When on the pale horizon The chorus of stars disappears, And quietly the earth's edge grows light, And the wind, herald of morning, blows, And day gradually ascends. In winter, when the nocturnal shadow Holds sway over half the world longer, And longer in idle silence, Beneath the misty moon, The lazy East reposes, Awakened at the accustomed hour She arose by candlelight.
XXIX
She liked novels early on; They replaced everything for her; She fell in love with the deceptions Of both Richardson and Rousseau. Her father was a good soul, Belated in the past century; But he saw no harm in books; He, never reading, Considered them an idle toy And did not care What secret volume Slumbered till morning under his daughter's pillow. His wife herself was Mad about Richardson.
XXX
She loved Richardson Not because she had read him, Not because she preferred Grandison To Lovelace; But long ago Princess Alina, Her Moscow cousin, Often told her about them. At that time her future husband Was still a fiancé, but against his will; She sighed for another Who pleased her far more In heart and mind: This Grandison was a splendid dandy, A gambler and a sergeant in the Guards.
XXXI
Like him, she was dressed Always fashionably and becomingly; But without asking her counsel, They took the maiden to the altar. And to distract her from her grief, Her sensible husband soon departed To his country estate, where she, God knows by whom surrounded, Struggled and wept at first, Nearly divorced her husband; Then took up housekeeping, Grew accustomed and became content. Habit is given us from above: It is a replacement for happiness.
XXXII
Habit sweetened grief That nothing could dispel; A great discovery soon Consoled her completely: She discovered the secret, between work and leisure, Of how to govern her husband Autocratically, And then everything went smoothly. She drove out to oversee the work, Salted mushrooms for winter, Kept the accounts, shaved foreheads, Went to the bathhouse on Saturdays, Beat the servant girls in anger— All this without asking her husband.
XXXIII
Once upon a time, she used to write in blood In the albums of tender maidens, Called Praskovia Pauline, And spoke in a singsong voice, Wore a very tight corset, And the Russian N, like the French N, She could pronounce nasally; But soon all that passed; The corset, album, Princess Alina, The notebook of sentimental verses She forgot; began to call The former Selina Akulka, And finally renewed Her quilted dressing gown and nightcap.
XXXIV
But her husband loved her heartily, Did not meddle in her schemes, Trusted her in everything carelessly, And himself in a robe ate and drank; His life rolled on peacefully; In the evening sometimes there gathered A good family of neighbors, Unceremonious friends, To grieve a bit, to gossip, And laugh about this and that. Time passes; meanwhile They'd order Olga to prepare tea, Then supper, then time for bed, And the guests would drive from the yard.
XXXV
They preserved in their peaceful life The habits of dear old times; At their rich Shrovetide Russian pancakes were served; Twice a year they took communion; They loved round swings, Fortune-telling songs, round dances; On Trinity Day, when the folk Listen yawning to the prayer service, Tenderly over a bunch of greenery They dropped three tears; Kvass was as necessary to them as air, And at their table for guests Dishes were served according to rank.
XXXVI
And so they both grew old. And at last there opened Before the husband the doors of the grave, And he received a new crown. He died an hour before dinner, Mourned by his neighbor, His children, and his faithful wife More sincerely than many another. He was a simple and good master, And there, where his dust lies, A gravestone proclaims: "Humble sinner, Dmitry Larin, The Lord's servant and brigadier, Beneath this stone tastes peace."
XXXVII
Returned to his ancestral home, Vladimir Lensky visited The neighbor's humble monument And dedicated a sigh to his ashes; And long his heart was sad. "Poor Yorick!" he said mournfully, "He held me in his arms. How often in childhood I played With his Ochakov medal! He intended Olga for me, He said: will I live to see the day?.." And full of sincere sorrow, Vladimir there and then composed For him a funeral madrigal.
XXXVIII
And there, too, with a mournful inscription, In tears, for his father and mother, He honored the patriarchal dust… Alas! On life's furrows In a momentary harvest, generations, By the secret will of providence, Rise, ripen, and fall; Others follow after them… Thus our frivolous tribe Grows, surges, seethes, And presses toward our grandfathers' tomb. It will come, will come, our time too, And our grandsons in good time Will crowd us out of the world as well!
XXXIX
Meanwhile enjoy it, This fleeting life, friends! I understand its worthlessness And am little attached to it; I have closed my eyelids to phantoms; But distant hopes Sometimes trouble my heart: Without an imperceptible trace I would be sad to leave the world. I live, I write not for praise; But I would, it seems, wish To glorify my sad lot, So that about me, like a faithful friend, At least a single sound might remind.
XL
And it will touch someone's heart; And, preserved by fate, Perhaps in Lethe will not drown The stanza composed by me; Perhaps (flattering hope!), Some future ignoramus will point To my celebrated portrait And say: now that was a poet! Accept then my gratitude, Worshipper of the peaceful Muses, O you whose memory will preserve My fleeting creations, Whose benevolent hand Will pat the old man's laurels!