Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

And a guitar produced we see,

And Heavens! warbled forth we hear:

Come to my golden palace, dear!(25)

[Note 25: From the lay of the Russalka, i.e. mermaid of the Dnieper.]

XIII

But Lenski, having no desire

Vows matrimonial to break,

With our Oneguine doth aspire

Acquaintance instantly to make.

They met. Earth, water, prose and verse,

Or ice and flame, are not diverse

If they were similar in aught.

At first such contradictions wrought

Mutual repulsion and ennui,

But grown familiar side by side

On horseback every day they ride—

Inseparable soon they be.

Thus oft—this I myself confess—

Men become friends from idleness.

XIV

But even thus not now-a-days!

In spite of common sense we're wont

As cyphers others to appraise,

Ourselves as unities to count;

And like Napoleons each of us

A million bipeds reckons thus

One instrument for his own use—

Feeling is silly, dangerous.

Eugene, more tolerant than this

(Though certainly mankind he knew

And usually despised it too),

Exceptionless as no rule is,

A few of different temper deemed,

Feeling in others much esteemed.

XV

With smiling face he Lenski hears;

The poet's fervid conversation

And judgment which unsteady veers

And eye which gleams with inspiration—

All this was novel to Eugene.

The cold reply with gloomy mien

He oft upon his lips would curb,

Thinking: 'tis foolish to disturb

This evanescent boyish bliss.

Time without me will lessons give,

So meantime let him joyous live

And deem the world perfection is!

Forgive the fever youth inspires,

And youthful madness, youthful fires.

XVI

The gulf between them was so vast,

Debate commanded ample food—

The laws of generations past,

The fruits of science, evil, good,

The prejudices all men have,

The fatal secrets of the grave,

And life and fate in turn selected

Were to analysis subjected.

The fervid poet would recite,

Carried away by ecstasy,

Fragments of northern poetry,

Whilst Eugene condescending quite,

Though scarcely following what was said,

Attentive listened to the lad.

XVII

But more the passions occupy

The converse of our hermits twain,

And, heaving a regretful sigh,

An exile from their troublous reign,

Eugene would speak regarding these.

Thrice happy who their agonies

Hath suffered but indifferent grown,

Still happier he who ne'er hath known!

By absence who hath chilled his love,

His hate by slander, and who spends

Existence without wife or friends,

Whom jealous transport cannot move,

And who the rent-roll of his race

Ne'er trusted to the treacherous ace.

XVIII

When, wise at length, we seek repose

Beneath the flag of Quietude,

When Passion's fire no longer glows

And when her violence reviewed—

Each gust of temper, silly word,

Seems so unnatural and absurd:

Reduced with effort unto sense,

We hear with interest intense

The accents wild of other's woes,

They stir the heart as heretofore.

So ancient warriors, battles o'er,

A curious interest disclose

In yarns of youthful troopers gay,

Lost in the hamlet far away.

XIX

And in addition youth is flame

And cannot anything conceal,

Is ever ready to proclaim

The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.

Deeming himself a veteran scarred

In love's campaigns Oneguine heard

With quite a lachrymose expression

The youthful poet's fond confession.

He with an innocence extreme

His inner consciousness laid bare,

And Eugene soon discovered there

The story of his young love's dream,

Where plentifully feelings flow

Which we experienced long ago.

XX

Alas! he loved as in our times

Men love no more, as only the

Mad spirit of the man who rhymes

Is still condemned in love to be;

One image occupied his mind,

Constant affection intertwined

And an habitual sense of pain;

And distance interposed in vain,

Nor years of separation all

Nor homage which the Muse demands

Nor beauties of far distant lands

Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball

His constant soul could ever tire,

Which glowed with virginal desire.

XXI

When but a boy he Olga loved

Unknown as yet the aching heart,

He witnessed tenderly and moved

Her girlish gaiety and sport.

Beneath the sheltering oak tree's shade

He with his little maiden played,

Whilst the fond parents, friends thro' life,

Dreamed in the future man and wife.

And full of innocent delight,

As in a thicket's humble shade,

Beneath her parents' eyes the maid

Grew like a lily pure and white,

Unseen in thick and tangled grass

By bee and butterfly which pass.

XXII

'Twas she who first within his breast

Poetic transport did infuse,

And thoughts of Olga first impressed

A mournful temper on his Muse.

Farewell! thou golden days of love!

'Twas then he loved the tangled grove

And solitude and calm delight,

The moon, the stars, and shining night—

The moon, the lamp of heaven above,

To whom we used to consecrate

A promenade in twilight late

With tears which secret sufferers love—

But now in her effulgence pale

A substitute for lamps we hail!

XXIII

Obedient she had ever been

And modest, cheerful as the morn,

As a poetic life serene,

Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn.

Her eyes were of cerulean blue,

Her locks were of a golden hue,

Her movements, voice and figure slight,