Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

She seemed of him oblivious,

Despite the anguish of his breast,

Received him freely at her house,

At times three words to him addressed

In company, or simply bowed,

Or recognized not in the crowd.

No coquetry was there, I vouch—

Society endures not such!

Oneguine's cheek grew ashy pale,

Either she saw not or ignored;

Oneguine wasted; on my word,

Already he grew phthisical.

All to the doctors Eugene send,

And they the waters recommend.

XXXI

He went not—sooner was prepared

To write his forefathers to warn

Of his approach; but nothing cared

Tattiana—thus the sex is born.—

He obstinately will remain,

Still hopes, endeavours, though in vain.

Sickness more courage doth command

Than health, so with a trembling hand

A love epistle he doth scrawl.

Though correspondence as a rule

He used to hate—and was no fool—

Yet suffering emotional

Had rendered him an invalid;

But word for word his letter read.

Oneguine's Letter to Tattiana

All is foreseen. My secret drear

Will sound an insult in your ear.

What acrimonious scorn I trace

Depicted on your haughty face!

What do I ask? What cause assigned

That I to you reveal my mind?

To what malicious merriment,

It may be, I yield nutriment!

Meeting you in times past by chance,

Warmth I imagined in your glance,

But, knowing not the actual truth,

Restrained the impulses of youth;

Also my wretched liberty

I would not part with finally;

This separated us as well—

Lenski, unhappy victim, fell,

From everything the heart held dear

I then resolved my heart to tear;

Unknown to all, without a tie,

I thought—retirement, liberty,

Will happiness replace. My God!

How I have erred and felt the rod!

No, ever to behold your face,

To follow you in every place,

Your smiling lips, your beaming eyes,

To watch with lovers' ecstasies,

Long listen, comprehend the whole

Of your perfections in my soul,

Before you agonized to die—

This, this were true felicity!

But such is not for me. I brood

Daily of love in solitude.

My days of life approach their end,

Yet I in idleness expend

The remnant destiny concedes,

And thus each stubbornly proceeds.

I feel, allotted is my span;

But, that life longer may remain,

At morn I must assuredly

Know that thy face that day I see.

I tremble lest my humble prayer

You with stern countenance declare

The artifice of villany—

I hear your harsh, reproachful cry.

If ye but knew how dreadful 'tis

To bear love's parching agonies—

To burn, yet reason keep awake

The fever of the blood to slake—

A passionate desire to bend

And, sobbing at your feet, to blend

Entreaties, woes and prayers, confess

All that the heart would fain express—

Yet with a feigned frigidity

To arm the tongue and e'en the eye,

To be in conversation clear

And happy unto you appear.

So be it! But internal strife

I cannot longer wage concealed.

The die is cast! Thine is my life!

Into thy hands my fate I yield!

XXXII

No answer! He another sent.

Epistle second, note the third,

Remained unnoticed. Once he went

To an assembly—she appeared

Just as he entered. How severe!

She will not see, she will not hear.

Alas! she is as hard, behold,

And frosty as a Twelfth Night cold.

Oh, how her lips compressed restrain

The indignation of her heart!

A sidelong look doth Eugene dart:

Where, where, remorse, compassion, pain?

Where, where, the trace of tears? None, none!

Upon her brow sits wrath alone—

XXXIII

And it may be a secret dread

Lest the world or her lord divine

A certain little escapade

Well known unto Oneguine mine.

'Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee

Cursing his own stupidity,

And brooding o'er the ills he bore,

Society renounced once more.

Then in the silent cabinet

He in imagination saw

The time when Melancholy's claw

'Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet,

Caught him and by the collar took

And shut him in a lonely nook.

XXXIV

He read as vainly as before,

perusing Gibbon and Rousseau,

Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,(85)

Madame de Stael, Bichat, Tissot:

He read the unbelieving Bayle,

Also the works of Fontenelle,

Some Russian authors he perused—

Nought in the universe refused:

Nor almanacs nor newspapers,

Which lessons unto us repeat,

Wherein I castigation get;

And where a madrigal occurs

Writ in my honour now and then—

E sempre bene, gentlemen!

[Note 85: Owing to the unstable nature of fame the names of some of the above literary worthies necessitate reference at this period in the nineteenth century.

Johann Gottfried von Herder, b. 1744, d. 1803, a German philosopher, philanthropist and author, was the personal friend of Goethe and held the poet of court chaplain at Weimar. His chief work is entitled, "Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind," in 4 vols.