*(This rhyme is good enough for me
'Cause Pushkin uses it, you see.)
I
"My uncle, long a prince among
The upright, got so very ill.
But honors of the highest rung
He asked for, and he got his fill.
His model men came to adore.
But, oh my goodness! what a bore
To sit with uncle night and day,
And never from his bedside stray!
What an awful, low-down scene
His half-dead person to amuse,
Arrange his pillows, and to choose
Lugubriously his medicine,
While sighing in sad undertones:
'When will old Nick consume your bones?'"
II
Thus thought this scamp, the patent heir
Of all his forbears, by decree
Of Zeus, as through the dusty air
He rode a stagecoach for a fee.
O friends of Ruslan and
Ludmilla!
Be pleased to meet this gallant feller,
The hero of my humble tale
Without ado and without fail:
Eugene Onegin, my good friend,
Came to this world on Neva's bank,
Where maybe one time you too sank
Your roots, or bright refulgence send.
There formerly I also strolled,
But cannot bear that northern cold.
III
His father lived in debt, you see,
And threw three grand balls every year.
He served extremely nobly,
But bankruptcy at last came near.
Eugene was saved by kindly Fate,
Madame
watched o'er him, soon and late.
Monsieur then took the tutor's seat---
The child was sharp, but very sweet.
Monsieur l'Abbé, a Frenchman halt,
Did not much care to tire the child,
His way with him was always mild,
Reproved in him no moral fault,
His youthful pranks he'd overlook,
And take him to a pleasure
nook.
IV
To Eugene, now a stylish lad,
There came his young, rebellious years,
His time of hopes and longings sad.
Monsieur they threw out on his ears.
Onegin now is fully free!
His locks are styled so modishly!
He entered high society,
A London toff for all to see.
His language was the tongue of France;
He spoke and wrote it as one should.
The gracious bow he understood.
A light mazurka he could dance.
What more to say? Society said
That he was smart, and so well-bred.
V
We all of us have set our mind
To study something or another.
In erudition, God being kind,
To seem to shine is no great bother.
Of many people it's the view---
Of judgment strict, decisive too---
Onegin's brain is nothing great,
But he can freely spew a spate
Of learned words (he knows a lot)
Anent whatever thing you please---
Parades opinions like a breeze,
Stays quiet when things get really hot---
Delights the women with a flow
Of unexpected, sharp bons mots.
VI
The day of Latin has now passed.
So if it's truth we want to tell,
His Latin reached the point at last
To parse the epigraphs quite well.
He finished letters up with "Vale!"
Discussed a Juvenalian sally;
And could repeat a verse or two
Of Virgil (with mistakes.) He knew
He had no love for research notes,
To rummage in the trash of time
To get a backward glimpse sublime
Of history. But anecdotes
From Romulus to our own day
He kept in mind and could relay.
VII
Onegin saw no reason why
He should give life for poetry.
He could not tell, though he might try,
An iambus from a trochee.
He brushed off Homer, Theocrit,
Preferred to study Adam
Smith,
Became a scholar deep and sage
In economics. He could gauge
The reason nations great wealth found,
On what they lived, the answer why
They need no gold to multiply
When simple products are around.
His father could not understand
Him; took a mortgage on his land.
VIII
The other things which Eugene knew
I have no time to tell you here.
But one hard science he could do,
And in that one he had no peer.
For him it was, from youngest days,
A labor, torture, cause for praise---
For every day it would possess
Onegin's dreary idleness---
The science that I mean was fond,
Strong passion of which Naso sang,
And came to end his Sturm und Drang
A suffering rebel held in bond
In Moldau's steppes, not Italy,
Far from the place he longed to see.
IX
…
X
He early learned hypocrisy,
Disbelieved and made believe,
Concealed a hope, felt jealousy,
Appeared indifferent or attentive.
Now somber, sad, or bored to death,
Now proud, now humbly holding breath,
He could be silent languidly,
Or eloquent most ardently.
To billets doux he would not render
Homage; liked this, savored that,
And took with them a little nap.
His gaze was sometimes quick, now tender,
Now shy, now bold. Once in a while
A docile tear would chase his smile.
XI
Contemporary man is he!
His grim despair could terrify.
He jokes about virginity,
Amuses with fine flattery,
Emotion senses, straightway clears
The prejudice of virgin years;
By sense and passion ardently
Demands attention instantly.
He overhears the heart's first cry,
Then love pursues, and with a sigh
A rendezvous gets presently;
And after that a darkling date,
While giving lessons tête-à-tête!
XII
Young as he was, he troubled sore
The hearts of regular coquettes.
His rival he would swiftly floor
With bitter venom; and he gets
The meed of spiteful words and snares
Gainst any man who rashly dares
Oppose him. Husbands, unaware,
Remained his friends without a care.
A crafty spouse would fondle him---
A longtime student of Faublas---
Or yet a hoary head grandpa---
A cuckold with his horns so trim---
Were all quite ready (pon my life!)
To offer dinner---and the wife!
XIII XIV
…
XV
Behold our Eugene yet abed.
The invitations come apace.
"What, who's inviting now?'' he said.
Three missives summon to their place.
A soirée there, a party here---
So childish, but he must appear.
Where shall he start? Unhappy he!
To take them all just cannot be.
Meantime, he dons his morning coat;
A high hat places on his head.
His horse the boulevard will tread,
And freely range till Eugene note
(Helped by his vigilant bréguet )
That time has come for lunch today.
XVI
Night fell. He climbs into the sleigh.
"Gee up!" The driver's cry rings out.
His beaver collar's silver-gray
With icy dust from winter's clout.
He hastes to Talon's dining rooms;
Kaverin's presence there assumes.
He enters: corks to ceiling fly
Like comets with a tail they hie
Of bubbly. Roast beef, bloody, hot---
Luxurious truffles for young years---
The best of French cuisine appears!
And Strasbourg pies which never rot,
Sharp Limburger, a living cheese,
And golden pineapples that please.
XVII
His thirst demands another cup
To cut the steaks' and chops' hot fat.
His bréguet, though, now wakes him up:
The new ballet is where it's at!
Onegin runs to see the show:
His word there's law, or yes or no.
They know all his inconstancies:
He loves and leaves the actresses,
A denizen of each backstage.
The audience will shout: Hurrah!
Be quick to cheer an entrechat,
Heckle Phaedra,
show their rage
At Cleopatra; Moëna call
Just to hear his voice; that's all.
XVIII
Land of enchantment! Years ago,
Bold lord of satire Fonvizin
Shone forth in quest of freedom so
Likewise too did Knyazhnin.
There Ozerov shared plaudits wild
(As people wept while yet they smiled).
Young Semenova also thrived.
There's our Katenin who revived
The glorious talent of Corneille;
There's Shakhovskóy with biting wit
Played comedies and made a hit.
There Didelot was
distingué.
And I too frequented the plays,
And in the wings spent my best days.
XIX
My goddesses! What's up? Where are you?
To my despondent voice give heed.
Are you still there? Do others bar you,
Replace you, to your throne succeed?
Your choruses I long to hear---
I long to see a dancer near
Perform with Russian soul ablaze
Her flights. Or will my saddened gaze
Familiar sights see nevermore?
Shall I then raise a tart lorgnette,
A joyless viewer of this set
That's little other than a bore?
A wordless yawn can I suppress,
When I recall long gone success?
XX
The theater's full! Its boxes glitter,
The pit and stalls resound with bustle,
The gallery is all a-twitter.
They raise the curtain with a rustle.
There half-above and half-below
Obedient to the magic bow
Stands splendid Istomina. Lo!
Her nymphs around her nimbly go.
With one sure foot she touches ground,
And now she leaps and now she flies,
As down flies up when Aeol sighs.
Her other foot then spins around,
Her body twists and then unwinds,
As one swift leg its fellow finds.
XXI
They all applaud. Here comes Eugene:
Thwart patrons' knees he pushes by.
His glass surveys askance the scene,
For dames unknown now meet his eye.
The circles all next bear his gaze:
Their raiment, faces, vile displays
Displease him. To the men he bows
Around, and then his eyes allows
Distractedly to view the stage.
He turns aside, begins to yawn
And says: "'Tis time for a new dawn,
Ere boring ballet make me rage.
'Tis far too long! I've had enough!
E'en Didelot I would rebuff!"
XXII
And while the Cupids, devils, snakes
Upon the stage cavort and roar,
The fur-wrapt lackey slily takes
His forty winks at entrance door.
The servants keep on stamping, flapping,
Coughing, shushing, blowing, clapping;
The lanterns shine out everywhere,
Outside, inside, and here and there.
The horses, frozen in such weather,
Are frantic, champing at the bit;
The coachmen round a bright fire sit,
And curse their lords, clap hands together.
Onegin leaves all this behind---
He hurries home, fresh clothes to find.
XXIII
Will you permit me to display
The solitary easement lieu,
Wherein my model protegé
Is dressed, undressed, and dressed anew?
Behold the whims on every side
Punctilious London can provide,
All sent to us through forests lush
And Baltic waves and northern slush.
Behold all things so à la mode
From Paris, tasteful, comforting,
De luxe and languid, disporting,
Contrived to furnish this abode.
Such beauty as is seldom seen,
All for our hero, age eighteen.
XXIV
Lo, ambered pipes from Tsaregrad,
And china, bronze too, on a table;
Of coddled sense the comfort glad---
Perfumes enclosèd in cut crystal;
Some little combs and little clippers,
And straight and crooked little scissors;
And tiny brushes to the tale
Of thirty, for the tooth and nail.
Oh, by the way, our good Rousseau
Could not conceive how pompous Grimm
Durst clean his nails in front of him!
(Grimm's eloquent and mad, you know.)
In this Rousseau who loved the right,
I'm sad to say just wasn't right.
XXV
You can be fully sensible,
Yet think about your lovely nails.
Why fight the times, though risible?
Among mankind the rule prevails.
Like Chadaev, my friend Eugene
By jealous eyes might well be seen.
He greatly feared his neighbor's gaze,
So was a dandy in his ways.
Three hours daily he would spend
With looking-glasses, more or less;
Immaculate went out in dress,
Like vesperal Venus at the end,
When, putting on her male array,
She gives a heavenly display.
XXVI
I have just drawn your nosey gaze
To toilets of the latest rage.
And clothing of the newest craze
I might describe upon this page.
But I've a problem. Pray forgive---
I have no good alternative---
The words gilet, froc,
pantalon,
Are absent from my Russian tongue.
My style, already poor enough,
Will be yet worse, if I should use
These foreign words to state my views,
And you would surely think it rough.
The dictionaries I might search,
But still they leave me in the lurch.
XXVII
Is that our subject? Not at all.
So let's grab too a hired coach,
Like Eugene, rushing to the ball,
All headlong, hurrying, abroach.
We pass the sleepy houses dark,
Along the street, so silent, stark.
The lanterns of the carriage bright
Pour out a cheerful, happy light,
And make small rainbows on the snow.
Look, see right there a splendid home,
Strewn with lampions in the gloam.
Past solid windows profiles go;
We get a hasty aperçu
Of dolled-up cranks, and ladies too.
XXVIII
Our hero in the entrance hall
Flew like an arrow past the guard,
Ran up the steps marmoreal.
His hand ensured his locks weren't marred.
A dance floor full of folk he found;
The music had begun to sound.
A Polish dance engaged the crowd;
The throng was huge, the music, loud.
The horseguards' spurs made merry ring.
Dear women threw their legs around,
As---not to their surprise---they found
The men were frankly ogling.
The modish women's jealous hum
By violins was rendered dumb.
XXIX
In my young days of love and fun,
I went bananas for a ball.
But memoirs here must stay undone---
So seek no notes amatorial.
O venerable married folk!
Your gratitude I shall evoke.
Pray listen to my caution wise;
Indulge me while I sermonize.
You mothers, watch your daughters well,
And to their steps direct your eyes.
Binoculars do not despise!
Me don't suspect; no harm befell.
To think like that would be absurd.
It's been a long time since I erred.
XXX
Alas, amusements manifold
Took up the large part of my time.
Were I by custom uncontrolled,
For me the ball would still be prime.
I love the joy of youthfulness,
The crowd, the shout of happiness,
And women's well thought-out attire.
I love their legs. You might aspire
To find in Mother Russia three
Pairs of shapely legs. You won't.
Despite the passing time, I don't
Forget one pair; they trouble me.
Now chilled and sad, I lose my sleep;
I think of them---and I must weep.
XXXI
Ah when, and past what Rubicon,
O crazy man, will you forget?
Those lovely limbs---where have they gone?
Are last spring's flowers with us yet?
By eastern luxury possessed,
Your sole wish was to be caressed
By carpets soft. You left no trace
On northern snows to bring your face
Before me. Oh, how long ago
For you I might forget the thirst
For praise and glory. And I durst
Both liberty and
home forgo.
Did young joy vanish undeplored,
Like your light footprint on the sward?
XXXII
Diana's breast, the cheeks of Flora,
Dear friends, are wonderful for me.
But yet, the leg of Terpsichóre
Is just the best that there can be.
It promises untold reward
For him who holds it in regard.
A wilful swarm of hot desire
Flies in, its beauty to admire.
Elvina, friend, I love it both
In spring, on meadows gaily prancing,
And to the winter hearth advancing,
Or even 'neath a tablecloth---
On shiny parquet let it be,
Or on the crags beside the sea.
XXXIII
Before a storm I saw that sea,
Whose waves were lapping at her feet.
Those undulations running free
I envied as they rushed to greet
Her. How I wanted with my lips
To touch her dear legs at their tips!
Never, mid the ardent days
Of my excited youth ablaze
Did I so long with such great pain
To kiss the lips of a young maid---
Or roses on her cheeks displayed---
Or breast held back with coy disdain---
For never did a burst of passion
Enkindle me in such a fashion.
XXXIV
And this event occurs to me---
In my most cherished, secret dreams,
I hold a stirrup, joyful, happy,
To place her foot. To me it seems
My fevered fancy boils again.
Her touch ignites my heart, and then,
Though it be drooping, heavy, sad,
I feel again those pangs I had.
Yet to exalt a haughty dame
With tuneful lyre and poems sweet,
It does not pay! It is not meet!
She is not worth your passion's flame!
Let not her words or legs entice---
She'll captivate you in a trice.
XXXV
What of Eugene? Why, half asleep,
He leaves the ball to seek his bed.
But Petersburg can no more sleep,
The drum roll rouses it instead.
The merchant wakes, the peddler plies,
To stock exchange the cabby hies.
The milkmaid with
her pitcher goes,
Her feet crunch in auroral snows.
The pleasant noise of morning hums,
The shutters open, chimney smoke
Rises blue, as fires they stoke.
In cotton cap a baker comes,
A German stickler to his bones,
Who Was ist das?
now oft intones.
XXXVI
But by that noisy ball undone,
And dawn as midnight having made,
This child of pleasure and of fun
Sleeps peacefully in blissful shade,
To wake up shortly after noon,
Resume his routine all too soon---
A life monotonous though gay;
Tomorrow's just like yesterday!
Yes, in the flower of his youth,
Was my Eugene rejoicing, free,
A lord of splendid victory,
Of daily pleasure rounds, in truth?
Amid the feasts was he content,
And carefree, when on revels bent?
XXXVII
No. Early on his feelings cooled.
Society's din disgusted him.
The thought of women no more ruled
Him. Beauties were not now his whim.
Adultery was bothersome;
Friends, yea friendship, troublesome.
And soon he came e'en to despise
The beefsteaks and the Strasbourg pies,
And cracking bottles of champagne
Or uttering delightful darts
Whenas in truth his poor head smarts.
Though so adept at raising Cain
He only wished he could forget
The duel, the sword, the
pistolet.
XXXVIII
Now let's decide just what we mean---
And let's agree that we must wonder---
Why Eugene got the English "spleen",
Or what, in Russian, we call "khandra."
It overtook him bit by bit---
Thank God, he was not killed by it---
Nor did he try to shoot himself,
But he lost hope in life itself.
Like Byron's Harold,
he was sad.
When he came to the drawing room,
Nothing moved him, full of gloom.
No waltz or gossip made him glad,
No loving glance, endearing sigh
Could now suffice to catch his eye.
XXXIX XL XLI
…
…
XLII
Strange ladies of the upper crust!
He left you first of everyone.
For in our day we surely must
Agree there's boredom in high tone.
Once in a while a special lady
Expounding Bentham, even
Say, de-
Lights him. As a general rule,
Their small talk's only for a fool.
Moreover, they're so very chaste,
Immaculate, and oh so lofty,
So prudent, full of piety,
So circumspect, with wisdom graced.
A man's approach they find obscene---
Just look at them and get the spleen!
XLIII
And you young beauties, who, of late,
Were driving in a droshky bold
With my Eugene to have a date
Along the cobbled streets of old
St. Petersburg---he left, and fled,
A convert from the ardent bed.
Onegin, closeted at home,
Yawned, and set about a tome.
He fain would write, but has no clue
How irksome work can be. So then
Just nothing issued from his pen.
Nor did he join the favored few,
To judge whose work I must decline
Because their fate is linked with mine.
XLIV
Anew consigned to idleness,
He set himself the worthy aim
(Beset by mental emptiness)
To grasp the thought of men of fame.
He bought up every work on sale,
And read and read, to no avail.
All's boredom and deceit and raving---
And lack of conscience, bad behaving.
Replete were books with different views,
The old was obsolete. The new
Raved in just the same way too.
Books, like women, he can't use…
And so his books (now food for moth)
He covered with funereal cloth.
XLV
I made friends with him at that time;
Society's yoke I tossed like him.
The fuss just wasn't worth a dime.
I liked his type, his every whim,
So willy-nilly dreaming free,
Of strange originality---
A sharp and quite cool-headed guy.
Though he was sad, frustrated I.
The game of passion we both know;
We both have felt life's torturous bite.
Our hearts' fires both are burning low;
And both of us await the spite
Of people, and of blindfold Fate
All from the very earliest date.
XLVI
Who ponders life must needs despise
The human race within his heart.
And if he feels, the shades arise
Of days which hastened to depart.
His charm has left him---oh, how fast!
A reverie remains at last.
Regret, repentance gnaw at him,
A fact which well may add some vim
To conversation. Yet, at first,
Onegin's talk confused me, nursed
Acceptance of his very worst
Aggresiveness, as when he cursed
His rival with a half-wry joke---
Or sadly lampooned various folk!
XLVII
How often of a summer's day
We shared a contemplative drink,
As clear and bright the night sky lay
O'er Neva, shining like a
rink,
A merry mirror unreflecting,
The pale moon's visage not deflecting.
Our youthful pranks long left behind
And puppy love we called to mind,
Passionately, of dull care free
Again. O breath of happy nights!
Just like a convict granted sights
Of leafy dale somnolently,
So were we carried in our dream
Right to the start of our life's stream.
XLVIII
Onegin, moved, plagued by regret,
"He stands as on a slab of granite"
Wrapped up in thought, he stays there yet,
As told us by a famous
poet.
Now all was still, save for the chime
Of clocks which counted out the time;
Or, list! a droshky's distant blare
Is heard on a main thoroughfare;
Or save the oars' swish, as a boat
Sails boldly thru the slumberous stream,
And from afar to hear we seem
Of sailor's horn the startling note.
Yet sweeter, mid nocturnal joys
Was Torkvatov's melodious noise.
XLIX
The Adriatic's surf and shore---
O Brenta!
you I shall yet see.
And filled with inspiration more
Your magic voice will come to me,
So sacred to Apollo's
seed
Through the proud lyre of Albion's breed,
Yet known to me; it is my own.
Italian nights of golden tone
I'll yet enjoy, at will, at large,
With a Venetian sweet and young,
Now talkative, now holding tongue,
As we float on a secret barge.
With her my lips will seek to prove
The tongue of Petrarch and of love.
L
When will my hour bring liberty?
Its time has come, it must not fail.
Fair days awaiting by the sea,
I beckon to each passing sail.
Beneath the storms' bright canopy,
Athwart the parting of the sea,
When shall I start my easy race?
'Tis time to leave this boring place
With traits unfriendly to my eye;
So, washed by ripples of the south,
My Afric skies will
slake my drouth.
For gloomy Russia then I'll sigh.
For there I loved and there I bled;
And there my heart lies burièd.
LI
Eugene and I prepared to see
Together foreign wonderlands;
But we were destined soon to be
Long parted, and not see those strands.
For then his father passed away.
A pack of greedy debtors say:
"Pay up!" Each one of them had cause
To get some money by the laws.
Onegin hated legal suits
And was accepting of his lot.
He gave the creditors all what
He had. He didn't give two hoots.
His uncle's death---perhaps he thought---
Would leave him, one day, quite unfraught.
LII
To him, in fact, there swiftly came
A steward's notice telling him
His uncle's dying---what a shame!---
And would be happy seeing him.
On reading of this sad event
Onegin hurried up and went,
And started right away to yawn
At all the boredom it would spawn,
Prepared himself for sighs, deceit,
And tedium (please see verse one.)
His voyage to his uncle done
He found him just about to meet
His savior, lying on a slab,
For Mother Earth a victim drab.
LIII
He found a courtyard brimming full
Of servants. Friend and foe alike
Came flocking to the funeral
From every side without mislike.
The dear deceased they swiftly sank.
The priests and guests all ate and drank,
And after gravely took their leave,
Content with what they could achieve.
Now, our Eugene, a city lad,
Holds, in fee simple, forests, streams,
Lands, factories---although he seems
A feckless squanderer quite bad;
He's well contented that his trip
Has placed such prospects in his grip.
LIV
The lonely fields and gloomy chill
Of oaken forests seemed quite new
Two days. But soon the quiet rill
Murmured pointless in his view.
The third day, grove and land and hill
No longer could engage or thrill.
Already, they evoked a yawn,
And on him it began to dawn
That boredom you could find here too;
Nor palaces nor streets you'll see,
No cards, no balls, no poetry.
Miss Spleen awaited him anew,
Ran after him just like a shade
Or like a real-life clinging maid.
LV
Oh, I was born for calmer life
For rural peace, tranquillity.
In country verse there is less strife,
And dreams have creativity.
I pass a solitary lake;
Amusements my diversions make,
For far niente is
my saw.
Each morning early 'tis my law
To wake betimes to liberty,
Read but a little---or sleep late---
Care naught for glory---let men prate!
In early years (do you not see?)
I spent in shaded idleness
Those happiest days which I still bless.
LVI
O Flowers, Cupid, Idleness!
O Country Fields, my soul is thine!
A difference, I must express
Between Onegin's traits and mine.
So, reader dear, should you deride---
Or should some publisher provide
A libel of complexity---
By checking my identity,
Devoid of shame, you'll not repeat
That he "wrote down his own portrait,
Like Byron, prideful and ornate,
Since he cannot achieve the feat
To write his verse about another---
Himself he sings, and no one other!"
LVII
All poets, I confide to you,
Are best of friends with dreamy love.
Those darlings, whom I fain would woo,
I dreamed of, and each precious dove
Was stored in spirit in my mind,
And later would my muse unbind
Her memory. I sang of both
Girls from the hills and was not loth
To mention those of Salhyr's shore.
Dear friends, you often question me:
"To whom refers your poetry?
Of whom are you the servitor?
Among your jealous little friends?
To which of them your fancy tends?
LVIII
"Whose ardent glance gave impetus
Unto your sad and pensive song?
Did she give you a fond caress?
To whom does all your verse belong?"
The answer: "None, in very truth."
Alarms insane and without ruth
Of love assaulted me. How blessed
Who adds to love within his breast
A fevered rhyme to magnify
By sacred poetry his rave!
So Petrarch did, and he could save
The tortures of his heart thereby.
Great glory to his Muse would come.
But I was stupid, foolish---dumb!
LIX
My Muse appeared when love passed by;
My darkened mind was free again.
By wizardry I sought to tie
Sounds, feelings, thoughts in one refrain.
I write: my heart is now so light.
My sleeping pen cannot indite
Unfinished lines poetical
Of women's legs, heads---not at all.
Can burned out ashes blaze once more?
I grieve, but have no room for tears.
The tempest's trace now disappears
And is extinguished at my core.
That's how I started to contrive
A song in cantos twenty-five.
LX
I thought about a good outline,
And how to call my paragon.
My novel's really going fine---
I've finished canto number one!
I looked it over with great care---
So many contradictions there!
To rectify them I'm not keen;
The censor gets his due, I ween.
My handiwork I'll put before
The tender mercies of the press.
Go then, my newborn work, express
My thoughts at the celestial shore.
A guerdon for me please produce---
Misunderstandings, screams, abuse!