Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

Homeward returning, he at home

Is occupied with Olga fair,

An album, fly-leaf of the tome,

He leisurely adorns for her.

Landscapes thereon he would design,

A tombstone, Aphrodite's shrine,

Or, with a pen and colours fit,

A dove which on a lyre doth sit;

The "in memoriam" pages sought,

Where many another hand had signed

A tender couplet he combined,

A register of fleeting thought,

A flimsy trace of musings past

Which might for many ages last.

XXII

Surely ye all have overhauled

A country damsel's album trim,

Which all her darling friends have scrawled

From first to last page to the rim.

Behold! orthography despising,

Metreless verses recognizing

By friendship how they were abused,

Hewn, hacked, and otherwise ill-used.

Upon the opening page ye find:

Qu'ecrirer-vouz sur ces tablettes?

Subscribed, toujours a vous, Annette;

And on the last one, underlined:

Who in thy love finds more delight

Beyond this may attempt to write.

XXIII

Infallibly you there will find

Two hearts, a torch, of flowers a wreath,

And vows will probably be signed:

Affectionately yours till death.

Some army poet therein may

Have smuggled his flagitious lay.

In such an album with delight

I would, my friends, inscriptions write,

Because I should be sure, meanwhile,

My verses, kindly meant, would earn

Delighted glances in return;

That afterwards with evil smile

They would not solemnly debate

If cleverly or not I prate.

XXIV

But, O ye tomes without compare,

Which from the devil's bookcase start,

Albums magnificent which scare

The fashionable rhymester's heart!

Yea! although rendered beauteous

By Tolstoy's pencil marvellous,

Though Baratynski verses penned,(45)

The thunderbolt on you descend!

Whene'er a brilliant courtly dame

Presents her quarto amiably,

Despair and anger seize on me,

And a malicious epigram

Trembles upon my lips from spite,—

And madrigals I'm asked to write!

[Note 45: Count Tolstoy, a celebrated artist who subsequently became Vice-President of the Academy of Arts at St. Petersburg. Baratynski, see Note 43.]

XXV

But Lenski madrigals ne'er wrote

In Olga's album, youthful maid,

To purest love he tuned his note

Nor frigid adulation paid.

What never was remarked or heard

Of Olga he in song averred;

His elegies, which plenteous streamed,

Both natural and truthful seemed.

Thus thou, Yazykoff, dost arise(46)

In amorous flights when so inspired,

Singing God knows what maid admired,

And all thy precious elegies,

Sometime collected, shall relate

The story of thy life and fate.

[Note 46: Yazykoff, a poet contemporary with Pushkin. He was an author of promise—unfulfilled.]

XXVI

Since Fame and Freedom he adored,

Incited by his stormy Muse

Odes Lenski also had outpoured,

But Olga would not such peruse.

When poets lachrymose recite

Beneath the eyes of ladies bright

Their own productions, some insist

No greater pleasure can exist

Just so! that modest swain is blest

Who reads his visionary theme

To the fair object of his dream,

A beauty languidly at rest,

Yes, happy—though she at his side

By other thoughts be occupied.

XXVII

But I the products of my Muse,

Consisting of harmonious lays,

To my old nurse alone peruse,

Companion of my childhood's days.

Or, after dinner's dull repast,

I by the button-hole seize fast

My neighbour, who by chance drew near,

And breathe a drama in his ear.

Or else (I deal not here in jokes),

Exhausted by my woes and rhymes,

I sail upon my lake at times

And terrify a swarm of ducks,

Who, heard the music of my lay,

Take to their wings and fly away.

XXVIII

But to Oneguine! A propos!

Friends, I must your indulgence pray.

His daily occupations, lo!

Minutely I will now portray.

A hermit's life Oneguine led,

At seven in summer rose from bed,

And clad in airy costume took

His course unto the running brook.

There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned

His Hellespont from bank to bank,

And then a cup of coffee drank,

Some wretched journal in his hand;

Then dressed himself…(*)

[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]

XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,

The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,

The uncontaminated kiss

Of a young dark-eyed country maid,

A fiery, yet well-broken horse,

A dinner, whimsical each course,

A bottle of a vintage white

And solitude and calm delight.

Such was Oneguine's sainted life,

And such unconsciously he led,

Nor marked how summer's prime had fled

In aimless ease and far from strife,

The curse of commonplace delight.

And town and friends forgotten quite.

XXX

This northern summer of our own,

On winters of the south a skit,

Glimmers and dies. This is well known,

Though we will not acknowledge it.

Already Autumn chilled the sky,

The tiny sun shone less on high

And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom

Were stripped with melancholy sound,

Upon the earth a mist did lie

And many a caravan on high

Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand—

November at the gate did stand.

XXXI