Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 8

Thirty thousand Turks are said to have perished during the a.s.sault and ensuing ma.s.sacre.]

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Likewise an epitaph with tears He writes upon his parents' tomb, And thus ancestral dust reveres.

Oh! on the fields of life how bloom Harvests of souls unceasingly By Providence's dark decree!

They blossom, ripen and they fall And others rise ephemeral!

Thus our light race grows up and lives, A moment effervescing stirs, Then seeks ancestral sepulchres, The appointed hour arrives, arrives!

And our successors soon shall drive Us from the world wherein we live.

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Meantime, drink deeply of the flow Of frivolous existence, friends; Its insignificance I know And care but little for its ends.

To dreams I long have closed mine eyes, Yet sometimes banished hopes will rise And agitate my heart again; And thus it is 'twould cause me pain Without the faintest trace to leave This world. I do not praise desire, Yet still apparently aspire My mournful fate in verse to weave, That like a friendly voice its tone Rescue me from oblivion.

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Perchance some heart 'twill agitate, And then the stanzas of my theme Will not, preserved by kindly Fate, Perish absorbed by Lethe's stream.

Then it may be, O flattering tale, Some future ignoramus shall My famous portrait indicate And cry: he was a poet great!

My grat.i.tude do not disdain, Admirer of the peaceful Muse, Whose memory doth not refuse My light productions to retain, Whose hands indulgently caress The bays of age and helplessness.

End of Canto the Second.

CANTO THE THIRD

The Country Damsel

'Elle etait fille, elle etait amoureuse'--Malfilatre

Canto The Third

[Note: Odessa and Mikhailovskoe, 1824.]

I

"Whither away? Deuce take the bard!"-- "Good-bye, Oneguine, I must go."-- "I won't detain you; but 'tis hard To guess how you the eve pull through."-- "At Larina's."--"Hem, that is queer!

Pray is it not a tough affair Thus to a.s.sa.s.sinate the eve?"-- "Not at all."--"That I can't conceive!

'Tis something of this sort I deem.

In the first place, say, am I right?

A Russian household simple quite, Who welcome guests with zeal extreme, Preserves and an eternal prattle About the rain and flax and cattle."--

II

"No misery I see in that"-- "Boredom, my friend, behold the ill--"

"Your fas.h.i.+onable world I hate, Domestic life attracts me still, Where--"--"What! another eclogue spin?

For G.o.d's sake, Lenski, don't begin!

What! really going? 'Tis too bad!

But Lenski, I should be so glad Would you to me this Phyllis show, Fair source of every fine idea, Verses and tears et cetera.

Present me."--"You are joking."--"No."-- "Delighted."--"When?"--"This very night.

They will receive us with delight."

III

Whilst homeward by the nearest route Our heroes at full gallop sped, Can we not stealthily make out What they in conversation said?-- "How now, Oneguine, yawning still?"-- "'Tis habit, Lenski."--"Is your ill More troublesome than usual?"--"No!

How dark the night is getting though!

Hallo, Andriushka, onward race!

The drive becomes monotonous-- Well! Larina appears to us An ancient lady full of grace.-- That bilberry wine, I'm sore afraid, The deuce with my inside has played."

IV

"Say, of the two which was Tattiana?"

"She who with melancholy face And silent as the maid Svetlana(30) Hard by the window took her place."-- "The younger, you're in love with her!"

"Well!"--"I the elder should prefer, Were I like you a bard by trade-- In Olga's face no life's displayed.

'Tis a Madonna of Vandyk, An oval countenance and pink, Yon silly moon upon the brink Of the horizon she is like!"-- Vladimir something curtly said Nor further comment that night made.

[Note 30: "Svetlana," a short poem by Joukovski, upon which his fame mainly rests. Joukovski was an unblus.h.i.+ng plagiarist. Many eminent English poets have been laid under contribution by him, often without going through the form of acknowledging the source of inspiration. Even the poem in question cannot be p.r.o.nounced entirely original, though its intrinsic beauty is unquestionable. It undoubtedly owes its origin to Burger's poem "Leonora," which has found so many English translators. Not content with a single development of Burger's ghastly production the Russian poet has directly paraphrased "Leonora" under its own t.i.tle, and also written a poem "Liudmila" in imitation of it.

The princ.i.p.al outlines of these three poems are as follows: A maiden loses her lover in the wars; she murmurs at Providence and is vainly reproved for such blasphemy by her mother.

Providence at length loses patience and sends her lover's spirit, to all appearances as if in the flesh, who induces the unfortunate maiden to elope. Instead of riding to a church or bridal chamber the unpleasant bridegroom resorts to the graveyard and repairs to his own grave, from which he has recently issued to execute his errand. It is a repulsive subject. "Svetlana," however, is more agreeable than its prototype "Leonora," inasmuch as the whole catastrophe turns out a dream brought on by "sorcery," during the "sviatki" or Holy Nights (see Canto V. st. x), and the dreamer awakes to hear the tinkling of her lover's sledge approaching.

"Svetlana" has been translated by Sir John Bowring.]

V

Meantime Oneguine's apparition At Larina's abode produced Quite a sensation; the position To all good neighbours' sport conduced.

Endless conjectures all propound And secretly their views expound.

What jokes and guesses now abound, A beau is for Tattiana found!

In fact, some people were a.s.sured The wedding-day had been arranged, But the date subsequently changed Till proper rings could be procured.

On Lenski's matrimonial fate They long ago had held debate.

VI

Of course Tattiana was annoyed By such allusions scandalous, Yet was her inmost soul o'erjoyed With satisfaction marvellous, As in her heart the thought sank home, I am in love, my hour hath come!

Thus in the earth the seed expands Obedient to warm Spring's commands.

Long time her young imagination By indolence and languor fired The fated nutriment desired; And long internal agitation Had filled her youthful breast with gloom, She waited for--I don't know whom!

VII

The fatal hour had come at last-- She oped her eyes and cried: 'tis he!

Alas! for now before her pa.s.sed The same warm vision constantly; Now all things round about repeat Ceaselessly to the maiden sweet His name: the tenderness of home Tiresome unto her hath become And the kind-hearted servitors: Immersed in melancholy thought, She hears of conversation nought And hated casual visitors, Their coming which no man expects, And stay whose length none recollects.

VIII

Now with what eager interest She the delicious novel reads, With what avidity and zest She drinks in those seductive deeds!

All the creations which below From happy inspiration flow, The swain of Julia Wolmar, Malek Adel and De Linar,(31) Werther, rebellious martyr bold, And that unrivalled paragon, The sleep-compelling Grandison, Our tender dreamer had enrolled A single being: 'twas in fine No other than Oneguine mine.

[Note 31: The heroes of two romances much in vogue in Pushkin's time: the former by Madame Cottin, the latter by the famous Madame Krudener. The frequent mention in the course of this poem of romances once enjoying a European celebrity but now consigned to oblivion, will impress the reader with the transitory nature of merely mediocre literary reputation. One has now to search for the very names of most of the popular authors of Pushkin's day and rummage biographical dictionaries for the dates of their births and deaths. Yet the poet's prime was but fifty years ago, and had he lived to a ripe old age he would have been amongst us still. He was four years younger than the late Mr. Thomas Carlyle. The decadence of Richardson's popularity amongst his countrymen is a fact familiar to all.]

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