Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

In one he doth accounts behold,

Here bottles stand in close array,

There jars of cider block the way,

An almanac but eight years old.

His uncle, busy man indeed,

No other book had time to read.

IV

Alone amid possessions great,

Eugene at first began to dream,

If but to lighten Time's dull rate,

Of many an economic scheme;

This anchorite amid his waste

The ancient barshtchina replaced

By an obrok's indulgent rate:(23)

The peasant blessed his happy fate.

But this a heinous crime appeared

Unto his neighbour, man of thrift,

Who secretly denounced the gift,

And many another slily sneered;

And all with one accord agreed,

He was a dangerous fool indeed.

[Note 23: The barshtchina was the corvee, or forced labour of three days per week rendered previous to the emancipation of 1861 by the serfs to their lord.

The obrok was a species of poll-tax paid by a serf, either in lieu of the forced labour or in consideration of being permitted to exercise a trade or profession elsewhere. Very heavy obroks have at times been levied on serfs possessed of skill or accomplishments, or who had amassed wealth; and circumstances may be easily imagined which, under such a system, might lead to great abuses.]

V

All visited him at first, of course;

But since to the backdoor they led

Most usually a Cossack horse

Upon the Don's broad pastures bred

If they but heard domestic loads

Come rumbling up the neighbouring roads,

Most by this circumstance offended

All overtures of friendship ended.

"Oh! what a fool our neighbour is!

He's a freemason, so we think.

Alone he doth his claret drink,

A lady's hand doth never kiss.

'Tis yes! no! never madam! sir!"(24)

This was his social character.

[Note 24: The neighbours complained of Oneguine's want of courtesy. He always replied "da" or "nyet," yes or no, instead of "das" or "nyets"—the final s being a contraction of "sudar" or "sudarinia," i.e. sir or madam.]

VI

Into the district then to boot

A new proprietor arrived,

From whose analysis minute

The neighbourhood fresh sport derived.

Vladimir Lenski was his name,

From Gottingen inspired he came,

A worshipper of Kant, a bard,

A young and handsome galliard.

He brought from mystic Germany

The fruits of learning and combined

A fiery and eccentric mind,

Idolatry of liberty,

A wild enthusiastic tongue,

Black curls which to his shoulders hung.

VII

The pervert world with icy chill

Had not yet withered his young breast.

His heart reciprocated still

When Friendship smiled or Love caressed.

He was a dear delightful fool—

A nursling yet for Hope to school.

The riot of the world and glare

Still sovereigns of his spirit were,

And by a sweet delusion he

Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,

He deemed of human life the goal

To be a charming mystery:

He racked his brains to find its clue

And marvels deemed he thus should view.

VIII

This he believed: a kindred spirit

Impelled to union with his own

Lay languishing both day and night—

Waiting his coming—his alone!

He deemed his friends but longed to make

Great sacrifices for his sake!

That a friend's arm in every case

Felled a calumniator base!

That chosen heroes consecrate,

Friends of the sons of every land,

Exist—that their immortal band

Shall surely, be it soon or late,

Pour on this orb a dazzling light

And bless mankind with full delight.

IX

Compassion now or wrath inspires

And now philanthropy his soul,

And now his youthful heart desires

The path which leads to glory's goal.

His harp beneath that sky had rung

Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,

And at the altar of their fame

He kindled his poetic flame.

But from the Muses' loftiest height

The gifted songster never swerved,

But proudly in his song preserved

An ever transcendental flight;

His transports were quite maidenly,

Charming with grave simplicity.

X

He sang of love—to love a slave.

His ditties were as pure and bright

As thoughts which gentle maidens have,

As a babe's slumber, or the light

Of the moon in the tranquil skies,

Goddess of lovers' tender sighs.

He sang of separation grim,

Of what not, and of distant dim,

Of roses to romancers dear;

To foreign lands he would allude,

Where long time he in solitude

Had let fall many a bitter tear:

He sang of life's fresh colours stained

Before he eighteen years attained.

XI

Since Eugene in that solitude

Gifts such as these alone could prize,

A scant attendance Lenski showed

At neighbouring hospitalities.

He shunned those parties boisterous;

The conversation tedious

About the crop of hay, the wine,

The kennel or a kindred line,

Was certainly not erudite

Nor sparkled with poetic fire,

Nor wit, nor did the same inspire

A sense of social delight,

But still more stupid did appear

The gossip of their ladies fair.

XII

Handsome and rich, the neighbourhood

Lenski as a good match received,—

Such is the country custom good;

All mothers their sweet girls believed

Suitable for this semi-Russian.

He enters: rapidly discussion

Shifts, tacks about, until they prate

The sorrows of a single state.

Perchance where Dunia pours out tea

The young proprietor we find;

To Dunia then they whisper: Mind!