Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

In jersey and in nightcap lay.

In Olga's and Tattiana's rooms

Lay all the girls by sleep embraced,

Except one by the window placed

Whom pale Diana's ray illumes—

My poor Tattiana cannot sleep

But stares into the darkness deep.

III

His visit she had not awaited,

His momentary loving glance

Her inmost soul had penetrated,

And his strange conduct at the dance

With Olga; nor of this appeared

An explanation: she was scared,

Alarmed by jealous agonies:

A hand of ice appeared to seize(62)

Her heart: it seemed a darksome pit

Beneath her roaring opened wide:

"I shall expire," Tattiana cried,

"But death from him will be delight.

I murmur not! Why mournfulness?

He cannot give me happiness."

[Note 62: There must be a peculiar appropriateness in this expression as descriptive of the sensation of extreme cold. Mr. Wallace makes use of an identical phrase in describing an occasion when he was frostbitten whilst sledging in Russia. He says (vol. i. p. 33): "My fur cloak flew open, the cold seemed to grasp me in the region of the heart, and I fell insensible."]

IV

Haste, haste thy lagging pace, my story!

A new acquaintance we must scan.

There dwells five versts from Krasnogory,

Vladimir's property, a man

Who thrives this moment as I write,

A philosophic anchorite:

Zaretski, once a bully bold,

A gambling troop when he controlled,

Chief rascal, pot-house president,

Now of a family the head,

Simple and kindly and unwed,

True friend, landlord benevolent,

Yea! and a man of honour, lo!

How perfect doth our epoch grow!

V

Time was the flattering voice of fame,

His ruffian bravery adored,

And true, his pistol's faultless aim

An ace at fifteen paces bored.

But I must add to what I write

That, tipsy once in actual fight,

He from his Kalmuck horse did leap

In mud and mire to wallow deep,

Drunk as a fly; and thus the French

A valuable hostage gained,

A modern Regulus unchained,

Who to surrender did not blench

That every morn at Verrey's cost

Three flasks of wine he might exhaust.

VI

Time was, his raillery was gay,

He loved the simpleton to mock,

To make wise men the idiot play

Openly or 'neath decent cloak.

Yet sometimes this or that deceit

Encountered punishment complete,

And sometimes into snares as well

Himself just like a greenhorn fell.

He could in disputation shine

With pungent or obtuse retort,

At times to silence would resort,

At times talk nonsense with design;

Quarrels among young friends he bred

And to the field of honour led;

VII

Or reconciled them, it may be,

And all the three to breakfast went;

Then he'd malign them secretly

With jest and gossip gaily blent.

Sed alia tempora. And bravery

(Like love, another sort of knavery!)

Diminishes as years decline.

But, as I said, Zaretski mine

Beneath acacias, cherry-trees,

From storms protection having sought,

Lived as a really wise man ought,

Like Horace, planted cabbages,

Both ducks and geese in plenty bred

And lessons to his children read.

VIII

He was no fool, and Eugene mine,

To friendship making no pretence,

Admired his judgment, which was fine,

Pervaded with much common sense.

He usually was glad to see

The man and liked his company,

So, when he came next day to call,

Was not surprised thereby at all.

But, after mutual compliments,

Zaretski with a knowing grin,

Ere conversation could begin,

The epistle from the bard presents.

Oneguine to the window went

And scanned in silence its content.

IX

It was a cheery, generous

Cartel, or challenge to a fight,

Whereto in language courteous

Lenski his comrade did invite.

Oneguine, by first impulse moved,

Turned and replied as it behoved,

Curtly announcing for the fray

That he was "ready any day."

Zaretski rose, nor would explain,

He cared no longer there to stay,

Had much to do at home that day,

And so departed. But Eugene,

The matter by his conscience tried,

Was with himself dissatisfied.

X

In fact, the subject analysed,

Within that secret court discussed,

In much his conduct stigmatized;

For, from the outset, 'twas unjust

To jest as he had done last eve,

A timid, shrinking love to grieve.

And ought he not to disregard

The poet's madness? for 'tis hard

At eighteen not to play the fool!

Sincerely loving him, Eugene

Assuredly should not have been

Conventionality's dull tool—

Not a mere hot, pugnacious boy,

But man of sense and probity.

XI

He might his motives have narrated,

Not bristled up like a wild beast,

He ought to have conciliated

That youthful heart—"But, now at least,

The opportunity is flown.

Besides, a duellist well-known

Hath mixed himself in the affair,

Malicious and a slanderer.

Undoubtedly, disdain alone

Should recompense his idle jeers,

But fools—their calumnies and sneers"—

Behold! the world's opinion!(63)

Our idol, Honour's motive force,

Round which revolves the universe.

[Note 63: A line of Griboyedoff's. (Woe from Wit.)]

XII

Impatient, boiling o'er with wrath,

The bard his answer waits at home,

But lo! his braggart neighbour hath

Triumphant with the answer come.

Now for the jealous youth what joy!

He feared the criminal might try

To treat the matter as a jest,