Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

The morn arises foggy, cold,

The silent fields no peasant nears,

The wolf upon the highways bold

With his ferocious mate appears.

Detecting him the passing horse

snorts, and his rider bends his course

And wisely gallops to the hill.

No more at dawn the shepherd will

Drive out the cattle from their shed,

Nor at the hour of noon with sound

Of horn in circle call them round.

Singing inside her hut the maid

Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night,

The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

XXXII

Already crisp hoar frosts impose

O'er all a sheet of silvery dust

(Readers expect the rhyme of rose,

There! take it quickly, if ye must).

Behold! than polished floor more nice

The shining river clothed in ice;

A joyous troop of little boys

Engrave the ice with strident noise.

A heavy goose on scarlet feet,

Thinking to float upon the stream,

Descends the bank with care extreme,

But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet

The first bright wreathing storm of snow

Which falls in starry flakes below.

XXXIII

How in the country pass this time?

Walking? The landscape tires the eye

In winter by its blank and dim

And naked uniformity.

On horseback gallop o'er the steppe!

Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep

His footing on the treacherous rime

And may fall headlong any time.

Alone beneath your rooftree stay

And read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47)

Keep your accounts! You'd rather not?

Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day

Will pass; the same to-morrow try—

You'll spend your winter famously!

[Note 47: The Abbe de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A political pamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre, but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishop of Malines.]

XXXIV

A true Childe Harold my Eugene

To idle musing was a prey;

At morn an icy bath within

He sat, and then the livelong day,

Alone within his habitation

And buried deep in meditation,

He round the billiard-table stalked,

The balls impelled, the blunt cue chalked;

When evening o'er the landscape looms,

Billiards abandoned, cue forgot,

A table to the fire is brought,

And he waits dinner. Lenski comes,

Driving abreast three horses gray.

"Bring dinner now without delay!"

XXXV

Upon the table in a trice

Of widow Clicquot or Moet

A blessed bottle, placed in ice,

For the young poet they display.

Like Hippocrene it scatters light,

Its ebullition foaming white

(Like other things I could relate)

My heart of old would captivate.

The last poor obol I was worth—

Was it not so?—for thee I gave,

And thy inebriating wave

Full many a foolish prank brought forth;

And oh! what verses, what delights,

Delicious visions, jests and fights!

XXXVI

Alas! my stomach it betrays

With its exhilarating flow,

And I confess that now-a-days

I prefer sensible Bordeaux.

To cope with Ay no more I dare,

For Ay is like a mistress fair,

Seductive, animated, bright,

But wilful, frivolous, and light.

But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friend

Who in the agony of grief

Is ever ready with relief,

Assistance ever will extend,

Or quietly partake our woe.

All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!

XXXVII

The fire sinks low. An ashy cloak

The golden ember now enshrines,

And barely visible the smoke

Upward in a thin stream inclines.

But little warmth the fireplace lends,

Tobacco smoke the flue ascends,

The goblet still is bubbling bright—

Outside descend the mists of night.

How pleasantly the evening jogs

When o'er a glass with friends we prate

Just at the hour we designate

The time between the wolf and dogs—

I cannot tell on what pretence—

But lo! the friends to chat commence.

XXXVIII

"How are our neighbours fair, pray tell,

Tattiana, saucy Olga thine?"

"The family are all quite well—

Give me just half a glass of wine—

They sent their compliments—but oh!

How charming Olga's shoulders grow!

Her figure perfect grows with time!

She is an angel! We sometime

Must visit them. Come! you must own,

My friend, 'tis but to pay a debt,

For twice you came to them and yet

You never since your nose have shown.

But stay! A dolt am I who speak!

They have invited you this week."

XXXIX

"Me?"—"Yes! It is Tattiana's fete

Next Saturday. The Larina

Told me to ask you. Ere that date

Make up your mind to go there."—"Ah!

It will be by a mob beset

Of every sort and every set!"

"Not in the least, assured am I!"

"Who will be there?"—"The family.

Do me a favour and appear.

Will you?"—"Agreed."—"I thank you, friend,"

And saying this Vladimir drained

His cup unto his maiden dear.

Then touching Olga they depart

In fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!

XL

He was most gay. The happy date

In three weeks would arrive for them;

The secrets of the marriage state

And love's delicious diadem

With rapturous longing he awaits,

Nor in his dreams anticipates

Hymen's embarrassments, distress,

And freezing fits of weariness.

Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile,

In life domestic see a string

Of pictures painful harrowing,

A novel in Lafontaine's style,

My wretched Lenski's fate I mourn,

He seemed for matrimony born.

XLI

He was beloved: or say at least,

He thought so, and existence charmed.

The credulous indeed are blest,

And he who, jealousy disarmed,