Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 27

There was no doubt! Eugene, alas!

Tattiana loved as when a lad, Both day and night he now must pa.s.s In love-lorn meditation sad.

Careless of every social rule, The crystals of her vestibule He daily in his drives drew near And like a shadow haunted her.

Enraptured was he if allowed To swathe her shoulders in the furs, If his hot hand encountered hers, Or he dispersed the motley crowd Of lackeys in her pathway grouped, Or to pick up her kerchief stooped.

x.x.x

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.

x.x.xI

He went not--sooner was prepared To write his forefathers to warn Of his approach; but nothing cared Tattiana--thus the s.e.x 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 a.s.signed 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 G.o.d!

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 a.s.suredly 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 pa.s.sionate 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!

x.x.xII

No answer! He another sent.

Epistle second, note the third, Remained unnoticed. Once he went To an a.s.sembly--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, compa.s.sion, pain?

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

Upon her brow sits wrath alone--

x.x.xIII

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.

x.x.xIV

He read as vainly as before, perusing Gibbon and Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,(85) Madame de Stael, b.i.+.c.hat, 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 ent.i.tled, "Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind," in 4 vols.

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 t.i.tle 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 b.i.+.c.hat, b. 1771, d. 1802, a French anatomist and physiologist of eminence. His princ.i.p.al 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 ent.i.tled "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 a.s.similation.]

x.x.xV

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.

x.x.xVI

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_!

x.x.xVII

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 apt.i.tude 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.

x.x.xVIII

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?

x.x.xIX