Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 14

A hermit's life Oneguine led, At seven in summer rose from bed, And clad in airy costume took His course unto the running brook.

There, aping Gulnare's bard, he spanned His h.e.l.lespont from bank to bank, And then a cup of coffee drank, Some wretched journal in his hand; Then dressed himself...(*)

[Note: Stanza left unfinished by the author.]

XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss, The murmuring brook, the woodland shade, The uncontaminated kiss Of a young dark-eyed country maid, A fiery, yet well-broken horse, A dinner, whimsical each course, A bottle of a vintage white And solitude and calm delight.

Such was Oneguine's sainted life, And such unconsciously he led, Nor marked how summer's prime had fled In aimless ease and far from strife, The curse of commonplace delight.

And town and friends forgotten quite.

x.x.x

This northern summer of our own, On winters of the south a skit, Glimmers and dies. This is well known, Though we will not acknowledge it.

Already Autumn chilled the sky, The tiny sun shone less on high And shorter had the days become.

The forests in mysterious gloom Were stripped with melancholy sound, Upon the earth a mist did lie And many a caravan on high Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.

A weary season was at hand-- November at the gate did stand.

x.x.xI

The morn arises foggy, cold, The silent fields no peasant nears, The wolf upon the highways bold With his ferocious mate appears.

Detecting him the pa.s.sing horse snorts, and his rider bends his course And wisely gallops to the hill.

No more at dawn the shepherd will Drive out the cattle from their shed, Nor at the hour of noon with sound Of horn in circle call them round.

Singing inside her hut the maid Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night, The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

x.x.xII

Already crisp h.o.a.r frosts impose O'er all a sheet of silvery dust (Readers expect the rhyme of _rose_, There! take it quickly, if ye must).

Behold! than polished floor more nice The s.h.i.+ning river clothed in ice; A joyous troop of little boys Engrave the ice with strident noise.

A heavy goose on scarlet feet, Thinking to float upon the stream, Descends the bank with care extreme, But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet The first bright wreathing storm of snow Which falls in starry flakes below.

x.x.xIII

How in the country pa.s.s this time?

Walking? The landscape tires the eye In winter by its blank and dim And naked uniformity.

On horseback gallop o'er the steppe!

Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep His footing on the treacherous rime And may fall headlong any time.

Alone beneath your rooftree stay And read De Pradt or Walter Scott!(47) Keep your accounts! You'd rather not?

Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day Will pa.s.s; the same to-morrow try-- You'll spend your winter famously!

[Note 47: The Abbe de Pradt: b. 1759, d. 1837. A political pamphleteer of the French Revolution: was at first an emigre, but made his peace with Napoleon and was appointed Archbishop of Malines.]

x.x.xIV

A true Childe Harold my Eugene To idle musing was a prey; At morn an icy bath within He sat, and then the livelong day, Alone within his habitation And buried deep in meditation, He round the billiard-table stalked, The b.a.l.l.s impelled, the blunt cue chalked; When evening o'er the landscape looms, Billiards abandoned, cue forgot, A table to the fire is brought, And he waits dinner. Lenski comes, Driving abreast three horses gray.

"Bring dinner now without delay!"

x.x.xV

Upon the table in a trice Of widow Clicquot or Moet A blessed bottle, placed in ice, For the young poet they display.

Like Hippocrene it scatters light, Its ebullition foaming white (Like other things I could relate) My heart of old would captivate.

The last poor obol I was worth-- Was it not so?--for thee I gave, And thy inebriating wave Full many a foolish prank brought forth; And oh! what verses, what delights, Delicious visions, jests and fights!

x.x.xVI

Alas! my stomach it betrays With its exhilarating flow, And I confess that now-a-days I prefer sensible Bordeaux.

To cope with Ay no more I dare, For Ay is like a mistress fair, Seductive, animated, bright, But wilful, frivolous, and light.

But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friend Who in the agony of grief Is ever ready with relief, a.s.sistance ever will extend, Or quietly partake our woe.

All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!

x.x.xVII

The fire sinks low. An ashy cloak The golden ember now enshrines, And barely visible the smoke Upward in a thin stream inclines.

But little warmth the fireplace lends, Tobacco smoke the flue ascends, The goblet still is bubbling bright-- Outside descend the mists of night.

How pleasantly the evening jogs When o'er a gla.s.s with friends we prate Just at the hour we designate The time between the wolf and dogs-- I cannot tell on what pretence-- But lo! the friends to chat commence.

x.x.xVIII

"How are our neighbours fair, pray tell, Tattiana, saucy Olga thine?"

"The family are all quite well-- Give me just half a gla.s.s of wine-- They sent their compliments--but oh!

How charming Olga's shoulders grow!

Her figure perfect grows with time!

She is an angel! We sometime Must visit them. Come! you must own, My friend, 'tis but to pay a debt, For twice you came to them and yet You never since your nose have shown.

But stay! A dolt am I who speak!

They have invited you this week."

x.x.xIX

"Me?"--"Yes! It is Tattiana's fete Next Sat.u.r.day. The Larina Told me to ask you. Ere that date Make up your mind to go there."--"Ah!

It will be by a mob beset Of every sort and every set!"

"Not in the least, a.s.sured am I!"

"Who will be there?"--"The family.

Do me a favour and appear.

Will you?"--"Agreed."--"I thank you, friend,"

And saying this Vladimir drained His cup unto his maiden dear.

Then touching Olga they depart In fresh discourse. Such, love, thou art!

XL

He was most gay. The happy date In three weeks would arrive for them; The secrets of the marriage state And love's delicious diadem With rapturous longing he awaits, Nor in his dreams antic.i.p.ates Hymen's embarra.s.sments, distress, And freezing fits of weariness.

Though we, of Hymen foes, meanwhile, In life domestic see a string Of pictures painful harrowing, A novel in Lafontaine's style, My wretched Lenski's fate I mourn, He seemed for matrimony born.

XLI

He was beloved: or say at least, He thought so, and existence charmed.

The credulous indeed are blest, And he who, jealousy disarmed, In sensual sweets his soul doth steep As drunken tramps at nightfall sleep, Or, parable more flattering, As b.u.t.terflies to blossoms cling.

But wretched who antic.i.p.ates, Whose brain no fond illusions daze, Who every gesture, every phrase In true interpretation hates: Whose heart experience icy made And yet oblivion forbade.

End of Canto The Fourth