Eugene Onegin Part 35

13.

But where now is my rambling story?

Inside Odessa's dust bowl, I Might well have said its 'dirty quarry', And that would not have been a lie.

For five, six weeks a year Odessa, At Zeus's tempest-bringing pleasure, Is flooded, blocked, its conduits burst, Into the thickest mud immersed, With houses sinking two feet under; Only pedestrians on stilts Dare breach the c.u.mulative silts; The coaches and the people flounder, And oxen, horns inclined, replace The horses with their feeble pace.

14.

But hammers are already cracking The stones, and soon the sunken town Will have acquired a novel backing As if with armour plated down.

However, in this moist Odessa There's something missing to refresh her; Why, water! What would you have thought?

Some reconstruction must be wrought...17 But really, this is no great sorrow, Particularly, you'll agree, When wine's imported duty-free.

There's Southern sun and sea tomorrow...

Where better, friends, to spend your time Or find a more propitious clime?

15.

Time was, no sooner had day risen, Marked by the naval cannonry, Than, running down with expedition, I'd leave the steep sh.o.r.e for the sea.

Then, by the briny breakers freshened, Smoking a pipe near incandescent, Like Muslims in their paradise, Coffee with Eastern grounds I'd prize, And leave then for a stroll. Already, The generous casino18 hums; Cups clash; the sleepy marker comes On to the balcony, unsteady, With broom in hand, while at the hall Two merchants, meeting, make their call.

16.

Look now a the square has put on motley.

All is alive: the people there, On business or without, run hotly, But most of them with some affair.

The merchant, child of cautious daring, Tells from the ensigns how he's faring, Whether he's favoured by the skies With sails that he can recognize.

What novel wares from sundry nations Have entered into quarantine?

Where are the promised casks of wine?

What news of plague and conflagrations?

Of famine or another war, Or something new, but similar?

17.

But we, young fellows, blithely standing Alongside anxious merchants, had Eyes only for the vessel landing, That brought us oysters from Tsargrad.

Has it arrived? What joy, what pleasure!

Youth, avaricious beyond measure, Flies off to swallow from the sh.e.l.l The cloistered molluscs, live and well, Besprinkling them with lemon lightly.

Noise, arguments a light wine is brought Straight from the cellars to our board, Where good Oton19 serves us politely.

The hours fly by, while the account Reaches unseen a grim amount.

18.

But evening's blue already thickens, The opera now calls to us, Rossini, Europe's darling, beckons a Th' intoxicating Orpheus.

To criticism inattentive, Selfsame as ever, new, inventive, He pours out tunes that effervesce, Cascade and flow and incandesce, They burn like youthful lovers' kisses In flames of love, in luxury, Or like the spurt and golden spray Of an Ai when out it fizzes...

But, gentlemen, who can define Do-re-mi-sol in terms of wine?

19.

But are these all its delectations?

What of the quizzical lorgnette?

What of the backstage a.s.signations?

The prima donna, the ballet?

The box where, in her beauty s.h.i.+ning, A trader's youthful wife,20 reclining, Disdainful and in languid pose, Whom pressing throngs of slaves enclose?

She hears, hears not the cavatina, Nor the entreaties or the jests, Halfway with flattery expressed...

While just behind her in a corner Her husband dozes, shouts 'encore', Yawns a and begins again to snore.

20.

At last there thunders the finale; The noisy audience greets the night; The square to which the people rally Is lit by stars and lantern light.

Ausonia's21 sons are gently singing A playful tune that goes on ringing Inside their heads and will not leave, While we roar out the recitative.

But it is late. Odessa's sleeping; The night is warm and mute and still.

The moon has risen, and a veil, Diaphanously light, is draping The sky. All's silent; save the roar Of Black Sea waves upon the sh.o.r.e...

21.

And so I lived then in Odessa...

CHAPTER X1.

1.

A ruler, timorous and wily, A balding fop, of toil a foe, Minion of Fame by chance entirely, Reigned over us those years ago.2 .......................................

2.

We knew him not at all so regal, When cooks, who were not ours, were sent To pluck our double-headed eagle, Where Bonaparte had pitched his tent.3 ................................................

3.