Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

Until her heart less high should bound—

Till the fire in her cheek decreased;

But tremor still her frame possessed,

Nor did her blushes fade away,

More crimson every moment they.

Thus shines the wretched butterfly,

With iridescent wing doth flap

When captured in a schoolboy's cap;

Thus shakes the hare when suddenly

She from the winter corn espies

A sportsman who in covert lies.

XLIII

But finally she heaves a sigh,

And rising from her bench proceeds;

But scarce had turned the corner nigh,

Which to the neighbouring alley leads,

When Eugene like a ghost did rise

Before her straight with roguish eyes.

Tattiana faltered, and became

Scarlet as burnt by inward flame.

But this adventure's consequence

To-day, my friends, at any rate,

I am not strong enough to state;

I, after so much eloquence,

Must take a walk and rest a bit—

Some day I'll somehow finish it.

End of Canto the Third

CANTO THE FOURTH

Rural Life

'La Morale est dans la nature des choses.'—Necker

Canto The Fourth

[Mikhailovskoe, 1825]

I

THE less we love a lady fair

The easier 'tis to gain her grace,

And the more surely we ensnare

Her in the pitfalls which we place.

Time was when cold seduction strove

To swagger as the art of love,

Everywhere trumpeting its feats,

Not seeking love but sensual sweets.

But this amusement delicate

Was worthy of that old baboon,

Our fathers used to dote upon;

The Lovelaces are out of date,

Their glory with their heels of red

And long perukes hath vanished.

II

For who imposture can endure,

A constant harping on one tune,

Serious endeavours to assure

What everybody long has known;

Ever to hear the same replies

And overcome antipathies

Which never have existed, e'en

In little maidens of thirteen?

And what like menaces fatigues,

Entreaties, oaths, fictitious fear,

Epistles of six sheets or near,

Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues,

Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny,

And husbands' tedious amity?

III

Such were the musings of Eugene.

He in the early years of life

Had a deluded victim been

Of error and the passions' strife.

By daily life deteriorated,

Awhile this beauty captivated,

And that no longer could inspire.

Slowly exhausted by desire,

Yet satiated with success,

In solitude or worldly din,

He heard his soul's complaint within,

With laughter smothered weariness:

And thus he spent eight years of time,

Destroyed the blossom of his prime.

IV

Though beauty he no more adored,

He still made love in a queer way;

Rebuffed—as quickly reassured,

Jilted—glad of a holiday.

Without enthusiasm he met

The fair, nor parted with regret,

Scarce mindful of their love and guile.

Thus a guest with composure will

To take a hand at whist oft come:

He takes his seat, concludes his game,

And straight returning whence he came,

Tranquilly goes to sleep at home,

And in the morning doth not know

Whither that evening he will go.

V

However, Tania's letter reading,

Eugene was touched with sympathy;

The language of her girlish pleading

Aroused in him sweet reverie.

He called to mind Tattiana's grace,

Pallid and melancholy face,

And in a vision, sinless, bright,

His spirit sank with strange delight.

May be the empire of the sense,

Regained authority awhile,

But he desired not to beguile

Such open-hearted innocence.

But to the garden once again

Wherein we lately left the twain.

VI

Two minutes they in silence spent,

Oneguine then approached and said:

"You have a letter to me sent.

Do not excuse yourself. I read

Confessions which a trusting heart

May well in innocence impart.

Charming is your sincerity,

Feelings which long had ceased to be

It wakens in my breast again.

But I came not to adulate:

Your frankness I shall compensate

By an avowal just as plain.

An ear to my confession lend;

To thy decree my will I bend.

VII

"If the domestic hearth could bless—

My sum of happiness contained;

If wife and children to possess

A happy destiny ordained:

If in the scenes of home I might

E'en for an instant find delight,

Then, I say truly, none but thee

I would desire my bride to be—

I say without poetic phrase,

Found the ideal of my youth,

Thee only would I choose, in truth,

As partner of my mournful days,

Thee only, pledge of all things bright,

And be as happy—as I might.

VIII

"But strange am I to happiness;

'Tis foreign to my cast of thought;

Me your perfections would not bless;

I am not worthy them in aught;

And honestly 'tis my belief

Our union would produce but grief.

Though now my love might be intense,

Habit would bring indifference.

I see you weep. Those tears of yours

Tend not my heart to mitigate,

But merely to exasperate;

Judge then what roses would be ours,

What pleasures Hymen would prepare

For us, may be for many a year.

IX

"What can be drearier than the house,

Wherein the miserable wife

Deplores a most unworthy spouse

And leads a solitary life?

The tiresome man, her value knowing,

Yet curses on his fate bestowing,

Is full of frigid jealousy,

Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.

Such am I. This did ye expect,

When in simplicity ye wrote

Your innocent and charming note

With so much warmth and intellect?

Hath fate apportioned unto thee

This lot in life with stern decree?

X