Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

And gallicisms I love as well

As the sins of my youthful days

Or Bogdanovitch's sweet lays.(41)

But I must now employ my Muse

With the epistle of my fair;

I promised!—Did I so?—Well, there!

Now I am ready to refuse.

I know that Parny's tender pen(42)

Is no more cherished amongst men.

[Note 41: Hippolyte Bogdanovitch—b. 1743, d. 1803—though possessing considerable poetical talent was like many other Russian authors more remarkable for successful imitation than for original genius. His most remarkable production is "Doushenka," "The Darling," a composition somewhat in the style of La Fontaine's "Psyche." Its merit consists in graceful phraseology, and a strong pervading sense of humour.]

[Note 42: Parny—a French poet of the era of the first Napoleon, b. 1753, d. 1814. Introduced to the aged Voltaire during his last visit to Paris, the patriarch laid his hands upon the youth's head and exclaimed: "Mon cher Tibulle." He is chiefly known for his erotic poetry which attracted the affectionate regard of the youthful Pushkin when a student at the Lyceum. We regret to add that, having accepted a pension from Napoleon, Parny forthwith proceeded to damage his literary reputation by inditing an "epic" poem entitled "Goddam! Goddam! par un French—Dog." It is descriptive of the approaching conquest of Britain by Napoleon, and treats the embryo enterprise as if already conducted to a successful conclusion and become matter of history. A good account of the bard and his creations will be found in the Saturday Review of the 2d August 1879.]

XXXII

Bard of the "Feasts," and mournful breast,(43)

If thou wert sitting by my side,

With this immoderate request

I should alarm our friendship tried:

In one of thine enchanting lays

To russify the foreign phrase

Of my impassioned heroine.

Where art thou? Come! pretensions mine

I yield with a low reverence;

But lonely beneath Finnish skies

Where melancholy rocks arise

He wanders in his indolence;

Careless of fame his spirit high

Hears not my importunity!

[Note 43: Evgeny Baratynski, a contemporary of Pushkin and a lyric poet of some originality and talent. The "Feasts" is a short brilliant poem in praise of conviviality. Pushkin is therein praised as the best of companions "beside the bottle."]

XXXIII

Tattiana's letter I possess,

I guard it as a holy thing,

And though I read it with distress,

I'm o'er it ever pondering.

Inspired by whom this tenderness,

This gentle daring who could guess?

Who this soft nonsense could impart,

Imprudent prattle of the heart,

Attractive in its banefulness?

I cannot understand. But lo!

A feeble version read below,

A print without the picture's grace,

Or, as it were, the Freischutz' score

Strummed by a timid schoolgirl o'er.

Tattiana's Letter to Oneguine

I write to you! Is more required?

Can lower depths beyond remain?

'Tis in your power now, if desired,

To crush me with a just disdain.

But if my lot unfortunate

You in the least commiserate

You will not all abandon me.

At first, I clung to secrecy:

Believe me, of my present shame

You never would have heard the name,

If the fond hope I could have fanned

At times, if only once a week,

To see you by our fireside stand,

To listen to the words you speak,

Address to you one single phrase

And then to meditate for days

Of one thing till again we met.

'Tis said you are a misanthrope,

In country solitude you mope,

And we—an unattractive set—

Can hearty welcome give alone.

Why did you visit our poor place?

Forgotten in the village lone,

I never should have seen your face

And bitter torment never known.

The untutored spirit's pangs calmed down

By time (who can anticipate?)

I had found my predestinate,

Become a faithful wife and e'en

A fond and careful mother been.

Another! to none other I

My heart's allegiance can resign,

My doom has been pronounced on high,

'Tis Heaven's will and I am thine.

The sum of my existence gone

But promise of our meeting gave,

I feel thou wast by God sent down

My guardian angel to the grave.

Thou didst to me in dreams appear,

Unseen thou wast already dear.

Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,

I heard thy voice's resonance

Long ago. Dream it cannot be!

Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,

I flushed up, stupefied I grew,

And cried within myself: 'tis he!

Is it not truth? in tones suppressed

With thee I conversed when I bore

Comfort and succour to the poor,

And when I prayer to Heaven addressed

To ease the anguish of my breast.

Nay! even as this instant fled,

Was it not thou, O vision bright,

That glimmered through the radiant night

And gently hovered o'er my head?

Was it not thou who thus didst stoop

To whisper comfort, love and hope?

Who art thou? Guardian angel sent

Or torturer malevolent?

Doubt and uncertainty decide:

All this may be an empty dream,

Delusions of a mind untried,

Providence otherwise may deem—

Then be it so! My destiny

From henceforth I confide to thee!

Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour

And thy protection I implore.

Imagine! Here alone am I!

No one my anguish comprehends,

At times my reason almost bends,

And silently I here must die—