Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

As in her heart the thought sank home,

I am in love, my hour hath come!

Thus in the earth the seed expands

Obedient to warm Spring's commands.

Long time her young imagination

By indolence and languor fired

The fated nutriment desired;

And long internal agitation

Had filled her youthful breast with gloom,

She waited for—I don't know whom!

VII

The fatal hour had come at last—

She oped her eyes and cried: 'tis he!

Alas! for now before her passed

The same warm vision constantly;

Now all things round about repeat

Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet

His name: the tenderness of home

Tiresome unto her hath become

And the kind-hearted servitors:

Immersed in melancholy thought,

She hears of conversation nought

And hated casual visitors,

Their coming which no man expects,

And stay whose length none recollects.

VIII

Now with what eager interest

She the delicious novel reads,

With what avidity and zest

She drinks in those seductive deeds!

All the creations which below

From happy inspiration flow,

The swain of Julia Wolmar,

Malek Adel and De Linar,(31)

Werther, rebellious martyr bold,

And that unrivalled paragon,

The sleep-compelling Grandison,

Our tender dreamer had enrolled

A single being: 'twas in fine

No other than Oneguine mine.

[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin's time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One has now to search for the very names of most of the popular authors of Pushkin's day and rummage biographical dictionaries for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet's prime was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson's popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]

IX

Dreaming herself the heroine

Of the romances she preferred,

Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,—(32)

Tattiana through the forest erred,

And the bad book accompanies.

Upon those pages she descries

Her passion's faithful counterpart,

Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.

She heaves a sigh and deep intent

On raptures, sorrows not her own,

She murmurs in an undertone

A letter for her hero meant:

That hero, though his merit shone,

Was certainly no Grandison.

[Note 32: Referring to Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," "La

Nouvelle Heloise," and Madame de Stael's "Delphine."]

X

Alas! my friends, the years flit by

And after them at headlong pace

The evanescent fashions fly

In motley and amusing chase.

The world is ever altering!

Farthingales, patches, were the thing,

And courtier, fop, and usurer

Would once in powdered wig appear;

Time was, the poet's tender quill

In hopes of everlasting fame

A finished madrigal would frame

Or couplets more ingenious still;

Time was, a valiant general might

Serve who could neither read nor write.

XI

Time was, in style magniloquent

Authors replete with sacred fire

Their heroes used to represent

All that perfection could desire;

Ever by adverse fate oppressed,

Their idols they were wont to invest

With intellect, a taste refined,

And handsome countenance combined,

A heart wherein pure passion burnt;

The excited hero in a trice

Was ready for self-sacrifice,

And in the final tome we learnt,

Vice had due punishment awarded,

Virtue was with a bride rewarded.

XII

But now our minds are mystified

And Virtue acts as a narcotic,

Vice in romance is glorified

And triumphs in career erotic.

The monsters of the British Muse

Deprive our schoolgirls of repose,

The idols of their adoration

A Vampire fond of meditation,

Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he,

The Eternal Jew or the Corsair

Or the mysterious Sbogar.(33)

Byron's capricious phantasy

Could in romantic mantle drape

E'en hopeless egoism's dark shape.

[Note 33: "Melmoth," a romance by Maturin, and "Jean Sbogar," by

Ch. Nodier. "The Vampire," a tale published in 1819, was

erroneously attributed to Lord Byron. "Salathiel; the Eternal

Jew," a romance by Geo. Croly.]

XIII

My friends, what means this odd digression?

May be that I by heaven's decrees

Shall abdicate the bard's profession,

And shall adopt some new caprice.

Thus having braved Apollo's rage

With humble prose I'll fill my page

And a romance in ancient style

Shall my declining years beguile;

Nor shall my pen paint terribly

The torment born of crime unseen,

But shall depict the touching scene

Of Russian domesticity;

I will descant on love's sweet dream,

The olden time shall be my theme.

XIV

Old people's simple conversations

My unpretending page shall fill,

Their offspring's innocent flirtations

By the old lime-tree or the rill,

Their Jealousy and separation

And tears of reconciliation:

Fresh cause of quarrel then I'll find,

But finally in wedlock bind.

The passionate speeches I'll repeat,

Accents of rapture or despair

I uttered to my lady fair

Long ago, prostrate at her feet.

Then they came easily enow,