Eugene Onegin Part 5

And once more given to inaction, Empty in spirit and alone, He settled down a to the distraction Of making other minds his own; Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful, Read, read, not even one was helpful: Here, there was dullness, there pretence; This one lacked conscience, that one sense; All were by different shackles fettered; And, past times having lost their hold, The new still raved about the old.

Like women, books he now deserted, And mourning taffeta he drew Across the bookshelf's dusty crew.

45.

Disburdened of the world's opinions, Like him, disdaining vanity, At that time we became companions.

I liked his personality, The dreams to which he was addicted, The oddness not to be depicted, The sharp, chilled mind and gloomy bent That rivalled my embitterment.

We both had known the play of pa.s.sions, By life we both had been oppressed; In each the heart had lost its zest; Each waited for the machinations Of men, and blind Fortuna's gaze, Blighting the morning of our days.

46.

He who has lived and thought can never Help in his soul despising men, He who has felt will be forever Haunted by days he can't regain.

For him there are no more enchantments, Him does the serpent of remembrance, Him does repentance always gnaw.

All this will frequently afford A great delight to conversations.

Initially, I was confused By Eugene's speech, but I grew used To his abrasive disputations, His humour halfway mixed with bile And epigrams in sombre style.

47.

How often did the summer court us, When skies at night are limpid, bright57 And when the cheerful, gla.s.s-like waters Do not reflect Diana's light; Recalling former years' romances, Recalling love that time enhances, With tenderness, with not a care, Alive, at liberty once more, We drank, in mute intoxication, The breath of the indulgent night!

Just as a sleepy convict might Be carried from incarceration Into a greenwood, so were we Borne to our youth by reverie.

48.

Leaning upon a ledge of granite, His soul full of regrets and woes, Eugene stood pensively (the Poet58 Himself appears in such a pose).

All round was silent, save a sentry Hailing another, or the entry, With sudden clip-clop from afar, Of droshkies in Millionaya.59 Upon the sleeping river, gliding, Sailed one lone boat with waving oars, Bold song and horn from distant sh.o.r.es Charmed us... but what is more delighting Than on a merry night to hear Toquato's octaves drawing near!

49.

O Adriatic waves, o Brenta!60 Nay, I shall see you and rejoice, With inspiration new I'll enter And hearken to your magic voice!

To grandsons of Apollo sacred, I know it well, to me it's kindred From Albion's proud poetry.61 The nights of golden Italy I'll spend with a Venetian daughter, Now talkative, now mute; with her In a mysterious gondola Voluptuously through the water My lips will study how to move In Petrarch's62 tongue, the tongue of love.

50.

My hour of freedom, is it coming?

I call to it: it's time, it's time!

Above the sea, forever roaming,63 I beckon every sail and clime.

Mantled by storms, with waves contending, Upon the sea's free crossway wending, When shall I start my freedom's flight?

Dull sh.o.r.e that gives me no delight, It's time to leave you for the ocean, That swells beneath a Southern sky, And in my Africa64 to sigh For sombre Russia, for the portion Of love and suffering I incurred And where I left my heart interred.

51.

Onegin was prepared to travel To foreign parts with me, but fate Was soon to part us and unravel Our plans until a future date.

His father died upon the instant.

Before Onegin an insistent Brigade of creditors appeared, Each wanting something different cleared: Eugene, detesting litigation, Contented with his lot, at once Abandoned his inheritance, In this perceiving no privation, Or was it that he could foretell His ageing uncle's death as well?

52.

Indeed, quite suddenly the steward Reported uncle gravely ill And on his deathbed, looking forward To bidding Eugene a farewell.

No sooner had he finished reading This woeful note than to this meeting Upon a post-chaise Eugene sped, And yawned, as he prepared ahead For sighs and boredom and deception For money' sake (and it was here My novel started its career); But he, instead of this reception, Found uncle on a table laid, Earth's tribute ready to be paid.

53.

He found the grounds full of attendants; Arriving from all sides to call, Friends, enemies were in attendance, All lovers of a funeral.

The dead man buried, feasting followed, The priests and guests imbibed and swallowed, And, gravely, afterwards dispersed As if some business they'd rehea.r.s.ed.

Now our Onegin, country dweller, Of land, wood, water, factory Is master (former enemy Of order and a wasteful fellow), And very glad to change his lot For something new, no matter what.

54.

For two whole days the lonely meadows, The bubbling brook's tranquillity, The oak wood's leafy cool and shadows, Appeared to him a novelty; The third day he could no more muster Delight in grove or hill or pasture; Already they put him to sleep; Clearly he saw he could not keep Out boredom in a country setting, Though not a palace, street or ball Or cards or verse were there at all.

Khandra was there, on guard and waiting, And dogged him like a faithful wife Or shadow fixed to him for life.

55.

But I was born for peaceful pleasures, For country quiet: there I thrive: There sounds the lyre with clearer measures.

Creative dreams are more alive.

In innocent pursuits I wander, By a deserted lake I ponder And far niente is my law.

I wake each morning ready for Sweet comfort and a free existence: I sleep a great deal, little read, To wanton glory pay no heed.

Casting my mind into the distance, Did I not spend my happiest days In idleness and shaded ways?

56.

O flowers, country, love, inaction, O fields! I am your devotee!

I always note with satisfaction Onegin's difference from me, Lest somewhere a sarcastic reader Or publisher or such-like breeder Of complicated calumny Discerns my physiognomy And shamelessly repeats the fable That I have crudely versified Myself like Byron, bard of pride, As if we were no longer able To write a poem and discuss A subject not concerning us.