The countryside which bored Eugene
Was quite a charming little spot,
There friends of gaiety pristine
Might bless their Maker for their lot.
The manor-house, secluded, lone,
Stood by a streamlet on its own,
Protected from the wind by hills.
A distant magic picture fills
The landscape with the meadows, fields,
And you see hamlets here and there;
Herds roam the meadows everywhere.
The view an unkempt garden yields,
Which spreads out with its canopies,
A shield for minor deities.
II
The noble castle was constructed,
As castles should indeed be made;
With smart old taste it was conducted,
In strength and peacefulness arrayed.
High-ceilinged rooms throughout abounded;
The parlor's damasked walls astounded.
Just see the stoves with colored tile,
And likenesses of Czars erstwhile.
Today it is all so decrepit,
I hardly know the reason why,
But Eugene had no wish to try,
Because he had no use for it.
Halls out of date or in high fashion--
He yawned at both without compassion.
III
He settled in the very room,
In which his rustic relative
Fought two-score years the lady whom
He hired; looked out; squished fugitive
Small flies. A simple oaken floor,
A table, closets, couch, what's more,
Nowhere a speck of ink he found.
He opened cupboards, looked around,
And saw a book to calculate
Expenses; liqueurs quite a few,
And several jugs of cider too,
A calendar for eighteen-eight.
The old man's world for him was prime.
For reading books he had no time.
IV
Alone amid his great domains--
But just to pass the time of course--
Our Eugene started to take pains
A novus ordo to
enforce.
In his backwoods this country sage,
The yokes of corvee
to assuage,
Brought in a moderate quit-rent
His slaves were mightily content!
Just see the stingy neighbor pout!
He views therein the greatest harm
There in his corner in alarm.
Some archly smile, and figure out
He's mad. They all come to agree:
"A dangerous eccentric he!"
V
At first they came to call on him
But he would from the rearward stoop
Bring on a steed alive
with vim
While all of them just as a group
Would bring their homely dray horse carts--
Along the roads their rumble starts.
Offended by such churlish deeds,
Their friendship for him fast recedes.
"How ignorant! He flouts the bans!
No doubt a mason, who
drinks red
Wine by the cup and so misled
He will not kiss the women's hands,
And simply answers 'no' or 'yes'
Without respect or
politesse!"
VI
A new landlord had driven down
Just at that time to his estate.
His views were over all the town,
The same exam he seemed to rate.
From Gottingen his spirit came;
Vladímir Lenski was his name.
A handsome guy just in his prime;
He studied Kant, knew how to rhyme.
His German views would surely clash.
A fund of knowledge thence he brought,
There dreams of liberty he caught.
Strange was his spirit, somewhat rash.
His black curls on his shoulders fell.
With verve he spoke, and always well.
VII
The world with all its hard, cold vice
Had yet to fade his youthfulness.
His soul was comforted by nice
And friendly greetings, girls' caress.
An ignoramus dear at heart
By hope was cherished. For a start
This noisy world, all shiny, bright,
Held captive his young mind with might.
With a sweet dream he tries to foil
The doubts felt by his heart. The aim
Of this our life upon him came
As puzzling, alluring toil.
And over it he racks his brains
And doubts of wonders entertains.
VIII
A kindred
spirit, he believed,
In him was sure to find her mate;
Unhappily she sate and grieved
Expecting aye their meeting date.
He held his friends would not delay,
By honor bound, his bonds to stay;
Nor would they spare a quick retort
To kill a slanderous report.
The fates have chosen some, he thought,
To be devoted friends of men.
Their everlasting regimen
Rays irresistible e'er wrought
To light us up just sometime soon,
Of wordly bliss give us the boon.
IX
Full early was his blood disturbed
By love of good, and great compassion;
But glory's torment yet perturbed
Him, yea, and righteous indignation.
Throughout the world his lyre he'd ply
Beneath a Schiller-Goethe sky.
His soul was truly set aflame
By their poetic fire and fame.
His verses did not shame the high
Exalted muses of the art;
He proudly ever played his part
With feelings that might edify:
The uprush of a virgin dream,
Of weighty thoughts a simple stream.
X
Obedient to love, he sang
Of love. His song was ever clear;
Like simple maiden's thoughts it rang,
Like children's dreams, or lunar sphere,
In placid deserts of the skies,
Goddess of secrets, tender sighs.
He sang of parting and of sadness
And something like the misty distance.
Of roses and romance his song,
And of those lands so distant, far,
Where flowed his living tears which are
To stillness headed all-along.
At barely eighteen years of age
He sang of faded flowerage.
XI
In this dry land Eugene alone
Could truly estimate his gift.
He did not like the parties thrown
By neighbors; gave them all short shrift.
From their loud, noisy talk he ran,
For sensibly they always can
Discuss haymaking, and their wine,
Discuss the kennel or their line
Of relatives. They did not glitter
With feeling or poetic fire,
To smartness they did not aspire;
For high life they were hardly fitter.
And what their dear wives had to say
Had even less sense to convey.
XII
Now Lenski, very handsome, rich,
Their son-in-law they fain would make;
Such is the country custom which
Impels them all to undertake
Betrothal for their daughters to
This but half-Russian parvenu.
Of single boredom, right away
They speak--but in a cunning way.
They call him to their samovar--
None but Dunya will pour the tea;
They whisper to her: "Dunya, see!"
And then produce her sweet guitar.
O Christ! She then begins to cheep:
"Come see me in my
golden keep!"
XIII
But Lenski had no great desire
To bind himself with nuptials. So
A bosom friend he would acquire,
And our Onegin fain would know.
Soon they were friends. But prose and verse,
And wave and stone were less diverse --
Yea, ice and flame. And thus, at first,
The two of them were truly cursed
With boredom through disparities.
But this they later overcame,
And liked each other, pals became,
Found--horseback--similarities.
I'll be the first one to confess:
Men find their friends through idleness!
XIV
No more such friendship for the hero!
Our prejudices all being done,
We hold all others but a zero,
And we alone are number one.
Napoleons are we--truebreds;
The other millions of bipeds
Are but for us a single tool,
And feelings we all ridicule.
Than this Eugene was much more fair.
He knew what people were, of course;
Despised the bulk of them perforce--
"Exceptions prove the rule!" he dare
Say--singled out some special folk,
Respected feelings they awoke.
XV
He heard out Lenski with a smile--
His ardent, fervid, conversation--
His vacillation all the while--
His eterne look of inspiration.
All this to Eugene was quite new.
A cooling word he oft withdrew,
Although it teetered on his lips,
"How foolish I, to come to grips
With grim reality." His bliss
A little moment he'll enjoy.
So let him live, this naif boy,
The world's perfection soon he'll miss.
Forgive the fever of young years--
The heat--the ardor--ravings--tears.
XVI
All topics gave room for disputes,
And for reflections, as they should--
Of tribes long gone the institutes,
The fruits of science, Evil, Good,
Prejudgments made in ancient times,
Deep secrets that the grave begrimes,
Now destiny, and later, life--
All things were open to their strife.
The poet, judging, hot and keen,
Forgets himself as he recites
Poetic scraps by northern wights,
While easy, tolerant Eugene,
Scarce understanding what he heard,
Still listened to his young friend's word.
XVII
My desert dwellers, most of all,
Discussed their youthful passions' peak.
And having shed their rebel call,
Onegin aye of them would speak
With an unwilling mournful sigh.
Happy he who can descry
Their agitation, and forgo!
And happier he who does not know
Them; cools off love by separation,
His enmity, by speaking ill,
Yawns at his wife and friends. He will
Ne'er feel a jealous desperation,
Nor share his forbears' capital
With one who merits not at all.
XVIII
When we run up beneath the flag
Of prudent calm, and peace, and silence--
When passions' flame is but a drag,
Just self-will and resilience--
They are for us a simple joke;
Yet later on we feel their yoke
And need some strength to persevere.
And sometimes then we like to hear
The unquiet tales of others' heat,
Because it stirs our aging hearts;
Aye, aye, the aging brave
imparts
All gladly his attentive ear--
He listens in his wretched shed
To tales of youths high-spirited.
XIX
But ardent youth, as it appears,
Its deepest secrets would reveal,
Its enmity, love, joy, and tears
Yea, none of them can it conceal.
Onegin listened with rapt mien,
(A veteran of love he's been)
As Lenski, anxious to confess,
His heartfelt feelings would express.
With trust his conscience he laid bare,
And so Onegin got to know
Sans work his tale of love and woe
So simply told with youthful care--
A story, plentiful in feeling,
To you and me not so revealing.
XX
Alas, he loved, as in our day,
A man no longer loves. Alone
A crazy poet's soul yet may
Be destined thus to breathe love's moan.
In every place and every time--
One dream, one customary prime
Desire, and a habitual woe.
Nor cooling distance, even so,
Nor the long years of separation,
Nor on the Muses hours spent,
Nor foreign beauties' dire torment,
Nor happy noise, nor lucubration,
Could change in him a temperament,
Whose virgin fire was heaven sent.
XXI
Olga-intrigued, while yet a boy,
By longings of the heart unfazed,
Affectionate, he watched her joy,
As at her childish play he gazed.
He shared, protected by a grove,
The little games she interwove.
Their fathers, who were neighbors, friends,
To wed them, haste to recommend.
She grew up 'neath her humble roof
Embued with virginal, sweet charm,
Her parents saving her from harm,
Like tender plant she stood aloof,
Amid the jungly grass unknown
To bee or butterfly--fresh blown.
XXII
The budding poet she'd endow
With his first dream of young delight.
And thinking of her, he somehow
Would with his pipe a moan indite.
To golden games "Farewell!" he said,
And came to like dense groves instead,
And solitary stillness. Soon
He welcomed night and stars and moon,
That moon, celestial luminant,
Under whose light our steps we bent,
And shed our tears beneficent,
From torture the resuscitant.
Yet now in her we only see
Of lanterns dim the legatee.
XXIII
She's ever modest and submissive,
Like morning full of laughter, bright,
Of poet's life evocative,
As simple as love's kiss and quite
As blue as heaven's vault her eyes--
Blonde hair, a smile to idolize,
Sweet movement, slender figure, voice,
She had it all. But take your choice
Of any novel. You will find
Her picture. It's so very sweet,
I used to find it hard to beat.
But I have left all that behind.
Now, pray permit, my reader dear,
Her elder sister to appear.
XXIV
"Tatiana" was her sister's name.
For the first time a name like this
My tender novel's pages claim.
We want it. Take it not amiss.
So what? It's sonorous and nice.
I must admit, I pay a price
For using something so antique,
A common name, not very chic.
In names we now have such poor taste
(And verses too--that's by the way)
Enlightenment can lead astray,
For most of us it's just a waste.
What we get from it I abhor--
Just prudery, and nothing more.
XXV
And so, "Tatiana" was her name.
She did not draw the viewer's eye
(As did her sister's cheek aflame
With beauty fresh all might espy)
Wild, sad, and taciturn, and sere,
As timid as a forest deer.
Yea, in her very family
A stranger she appeared to be.
While yet a child she turned away
From pampering mother, and her dad.
She turned aside from what she had,
Had no desire to jump and play.
She often sat all day alone,
Just by the window, on her own.
XXVI
The urge to dream befriended her,
While yet she lay upon her cot--
Of rural peace the embellisher,
It lulled her when she was a tot.
Her pampered fingers did not know
The needle; sewed no calico
To place thereon a silken thread,
And with a pattern overspread.
With her submissive doll now she
Prepares herself by means of play
To learn the rules she must obey
To live in high society;
Her mother's lessons to her doll
Repeats--and shows her protocol.
XXVII
A doll in these most tender years
She did not take into her hand.
She would not whisper in its ears,
On modes or local news expand.
All childish pranks were strange to her.
But frightful stories would bestir
Her spirit on dark winter nights;
Such talk her interest ignites.
And when the nanny gathered all
Young Olga's friends to play with her
On the broad meadow, she'd prefer
To shun their games. Their caterwaul,
Loud laughter, and their flippant fun,
Just bored her to oblivion.
She fondly would anticipate
Daybreak upon her balcony,
When stars in their round dance abate,
And leave the skyline orderly.
The edge of earth, behold, how bright!
The wind blows, morning's acolyte.
And day just bit by bit ascends.
In winter, when night's shade extends
Its longer rule o'er half the world,
And longer in the aimless quiet,
The sluggish east is dozing yet
Beneath the misted moon bepearled:
Awakened at her usual hour,
By candlelight she leaves her bower.
XXIX
She loved books very early on.
Yes, novels filled her every void.
She snapped up Rousseau, Richardson,
By their deceptions overjoyed.
Her father was a good old guy
(Though stuck in the last century)
In books he saw no detriment;
To read them he had no intent.
Of such vain toys he had no dread,
And did not care what secret tome
His daughter would peruse at home,
And hide at night beneath her head.
As for his wife, why, Richardson
Of writers was the paragon.
XXX
Now Richardson she did not love
Because she read his books forsooth,
Nor placed she Grandison above
The character Lovelace in truth.
Princess Alina, years ago,
Her cousin who lived in Moscow,
Spoke constantly about these men.
Her husband was her boyfriend then--
Not that she loved him (God forbid)
She sighed for quite another kind,
Whom she admired in soul and mind,
Whose love her husband's could outbid.
A sergeant in the Guards was he,
A gambler and a great dandy.
XXXI
Like him, she always dressed aright,
In fashion and with goodly taste.
They dragged her to the church despite
A lack of concert unshamefaced.
So to assuage her grief and grame,
Her canny husband promptly came
Back to his village, as her groom.
Surrounded there by God knows whom,
At first she struggled, wept, and cried,
And longed for a prompt, quick, divorce,
But occupied herself, of course,
With household chores; was satisfied.
In habitude we acquiesce--
A fair exchange for happiness.
XXXII
Her sorrow was by habit charmed,
Which other things could not allay,
And soon expertly she was armed
With comfort that none could gainsay.
Between sparetime, activity,
She found a mystery. And she
Discovered paths to get her way,
And o'er her husband have her say.
And so, it all turned out just great.
She daily drove to view the farm
And mushrooms made a counter-charm
'Gainst winter; had a weekend date
With bath-house; kept the maids in check;
Her man's opinion did not reck.
XXXIII
In blood she oft would write her name
In young girls' books of autographs.
A Polly "Pauline" she would name,
And with a lilt she talks and laughs.
Her stays were very, very tight,
A Russian N she could indite
Just like a French N in her nose--
But all this soon came to a close.
Princess Alina she forgot,
The corset and the book of rhymes
So full of sentiment. At times
The name of "Frankie" she'd allot
To Frances; finally she wore
The cap and housecoat evermore.
XXXIV
Her husband's love of her was true
Her plans without him she'd fulfil.
He trusted her without ado,
In dressing gown drinks, eats his fill.
All peaceably his life rolled on;
By even sometimes had begun
A group of neighbors who stopped by
To visit quite informally.
They came to grieve, or tell a tale,
To giggle over this or that.
Time passes with a pleasant chat.
Now Olga tea must bring, and they'll
Take supper. Soon it's time for bed.
The neighbors from the court are sped.
XXXV
The customs of the dear old time
They followed in their peaceful life.
And during carnival, meantime,
The Russian blintz was ever rife.
They all must fast but twice a year
And roundabouts they all held dear,
Loved the round dance and table songs.
At Whitsun when the people throngs
And goes to service with a yawn,
Affectingly they shed three tears
On a dawn bundle with compeers.
From them no drink could be withdrawn.
And to their guests they brought their food
By rank at board in plenitude.
XXXVI
And so in time they both grew old,
And at long last the silent grave
Oped to the man its doors acold,
And unto him a new crown gave.
He died the hour just ere dinner,
Bewailed alike by friend and neighbor,
His children and his true helpmeet,
Who mourned him quite without deceit.
He was a simple, goodly barin,
And in that place where he finds rest
These graveside words his deeds attest:
The humble sinner, Dmitri Larin,
God's servant, and a brigadier,
Eternal peace enjoyeth here.
XXXVII
Returning to his hearth and home,
Vladimir solemnly passed by
His neighbor's corse beneath the loam,
And at his grave gave out a sigh.
His heart was sad for many days.
"Poor Yorick!" dolefully he says.
"How often in his arms I'd stay,
And as a child I used to play
With his Ochakov medal bright.
He wished for Olga as my bride;
'Oh, may I see that day!' he cried."
And with much sadness, true, forthright,
Vladimir then and there traced out
A tombstone madrigal devout.
XXXVIII
A sad inscription there he placed,
Thus honoring familial dust
Of father, mother, interlaced
With tears. We all rise, ripen, rust
By Providence's secret will
In a brief harvest, good or ill
Upon the furrows made by life.
Soon, others enter on this strife,
And in this way our windy race
Grows, moves about, with passion boils,
And drives its forbears to the toils
Of earth. Our time will come apace,
And at some right auspicious time
Will send us from this mortal clime.
XXXIX
Meanwhile, please get blind drunk, my friends,
Upon this flimsy, trivial life.
Without much meaning it soon ends,
And little do I love its strife.
To phantoms I have closed my eyes.
But still a faint hope sometimes tries
To move my heart. And then I know
I should be sad to die and go
Nor leave behind the slightest trace.
I do not live or write for praise,
But it appears that I should raise
A hope my sad lot to begrace,
So that one syllable I've penned
May call me up like a true friend.
XL
That sound may touch somebody's heart!
Kept safe by an auspicious fate,
My verse from mem'ry won't depart,
And sad oblivion will not rate.
I dare to hope (so may it be!)
Some future dunce will look at me,
See my famed portrait and declare:
Behold a poet posing there!
Accept my gracious thanks, then, please,
You fans of the Aonian maids;
Your recollection surely aids
To spare my fleeting syntheses.
The gracious hand, with which you bless,
This old man's laurels will caress.