Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

Sebastien Roch Nicholas Chamfort, b. 1741, d. 1794, was a French novelist and dramatist of the Revolution, who contrary to his real wishes became entangled in its meshes. He exercised a considerable influence over certain of its leaders, notably Mirabeau and Sieyes. He is said to have originated the title of the celebrated tract from the pen of the latter. "What is the Tiers Etat? Nothing. What ought it to be? Everything." He ultimately experienced the common destiny in those days, was thrown into prison and though shortly afterwards released, his incarceration had such an effect upon his mind that he committed suicide.

Marie Francois Xavier Bichat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomist and physiologist of eminence. His principal works are a "Traite des Membranes," "Anatomie generale appliquee a la Physiologie et a la Medecine," and "Recherches Physiologiques sur la Vie et la Mort." He died at an early age from constant exposure to noxious exhalations during his researches.

Pierre Francois Tissot, b. 1768, d. 1864, a French writer of the Revolution and Empire. In 1812 he was appointed by Napoleon editor of the Gazette de France. He wrote histories of the Revolution, of Napoleon and of France. He was likewise a poet and author of a work entitled "Les trois Irlandais Conjures, ou l'ombre d'Emmet," and is believed to have edited Foy's "History of the Peninsular War."

The above catalogue by its heterogeneous composition gives a fair idea of the intellectual movement in Russia from the Empress Catherine the Second downwards. It is characterized by a feverish thirst for encyclopaedic knowledge without a corresponding power of assimilation.]

XXXV

But what results? His eyes peruse

But thoughts meander far away—

Ideas, desires and woes confuse

His intellect in close array.

His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,

On lines invisible are fixt;

'Twas these he read and these alone

His spirit was intent upon.

They were the wonderful traditions

Of kindly, dim antiquity,

Dreams with no continuity,

Prophecies, threats and apparitions,

The lively trash of stories long

Or letters of a maiden young.

XXXVI

And by degrees upon him grew

A lethargy of sense, a trance,

And soon imagination threw

Before him her wild game of chance.

And now upon the snow in thaw

A young man motionless he saw,

As one who bivouacs afield,

And heard a voice cry—Why! He's killed!—

And now he views forgotten foes,

Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,

Bevies of treacherous maidens young;

Of thankless friends the circle rose,

A mansion—by the window, see!

She sits alone—'tis ever she!

XXXVII

So frequently his mind would stray

He well-nigh lost the use of sense,

Almost became a poet say—

Oh! what had been his eminence!

Indeed, by force of magnetism

A Russian poem's mechanism

My scholar without aptitude

At this time almost understood.

How like a poet was my chum

When, sitting by his fire alone

Whilst cheerily the embers shone,

He "Benedetta" used to hum,

Or "Idol mio," and in the grate

Would lose his slippers or gazette.

XXXVIII

Time flies! a genial air abroad,

Winter resigned her empire white,

Oneguine ne'er as poet showed

Nor died nor lost his senses quite.

Spring cheered him up, and he resigned

His chambers close wherein confined

He marmot-like did hibernate,

His double sashes and his grate,

And sallied forth one brilliant morn—

Along the Neva's bank he sleighs,

On the blue blocks of ice the rays

Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn,

The snow upon the streets doth melt—

Whither along them doth he pelt?

XXXIX

Oneguine whither gallops? Ye

Have guessed already. Yes, quite so!

Unto his own Tattiana he,

Incorrigible rogue, doth go.

Her house he enters, ghastly white,

The vestibule finds empty quite—

He enters the saloon. 'Tis blank!

A door he opens. But why shrank

He back as from a sudden blow?—

Alone the princess sitteth there,

Pallid and with dishevelled hair,

Gazing upon a note below.

Her tears flow plentifully and

Her cheek reclines upon her hand.

XL

Oh! who her speechless agonies

Could not in that brief moment guess!

Who now could fail to recognize

Tattiana in the young princess!

Tortured by pangs of wild regret,

Eugene fell prostrate at her feet—

She starts, nor doth a word express,

But gazes on Oneguine's face

Without amaze or wrath displayed:

His sunken eye and aspect faint,

Imploring looks and mute complaint

She comprehends. The simple maid

By fond illusions once possest

Is once again made manifest.

XLI

His kneeling posture he retains—

Calmly her eyes encounter his—

Insensible her hand remains

Beneath his lips' devouring kiss.

What visions then her fancy thronged—

A breathless silence then, prolonged—

But finally she softly said:

"Enough, arise! for much we need

Without disguise ourselves explain.

Oneguine, hast forgotten yet

The hour when—Fate so willed—we met

In the lone garden and the lane?

How meekly then I heard you preach—

To-day it is my turn to teach.

XLII

"Oneguine, I was younger then,

And better, if I judge aright;

I loved you—what did I obtain?

Affection how did you requite?