Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels To cool the cutlets' seething grease, When the sonorous Breguet tells Of the commencement of the piece. A critic of the stage malicious, A slave of actresses capricious, Oneguine was a citizen Of the domains of the side-scene. To the theatre he repairs Where each young critic ready stands, Capers applauds with clap of hands, With hisses Cleopatra scares, Moina recalls for this alone That all may hear his voice's tone.
XV
Thou fairy-land! Where formerly Shone pungent Satire's dauntless king, Von Wisine, friend of liberty, And Kniajnine, apt at copying. The young Simeonova too there With Ozeroff was wont to share Applause, the people's donative. There our Katenine did revive Corneille's majestic genius, Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out His comedies, a noisy rout, There Didelot became glorious, There, there, beneath the side-scene's shade The drama of my youth was played.(10)
[Note 10: Denis Von Wisine (1741-92), a favourite Russian dramatist. His first comedy "The Brigadier," procured him the favour of the second Catherine. His best, however, is the "Minor" (Niedorosl). Prince Potemkin, after witnessing it, summoned the author, and greeted him with the exclamation, "Die now, Denis!" In fact, his subsequent performances were not of equal merit.
Jacob Borissovitch Kniajnine (1742-91), a clever adapter of French tragedy.
Simeonova, a celebrated tragic actress, who retired from the stage in early life and married a Prince Gagarine.
Ozeroff, one of the best-known Russian dramatists of the period; he possessed more originality than Kniajnine. "Oedipus in Athens," "Fingal," "Demetrius Donskoi," and "Polyxena," are the best known of his tragedies.
Katenine translated Corneille's tragedies into Russian.
Didelot, sometime Director of the ballet at the Opera at St. Petersburg.]
XVI
My goddesses, where are your shades? Do ye not hear my mournful sighs? Are ye replaced by other maids Who cannot conjure former joys? Shall I your chorus hear anew, Russia's Terpsichore review Again in her ethereal dance? Or will my melancholy glance On the dull stage find all things changed, The disenchanted glass direct Where I can no more recollect?— A careless looker-on estranged In silence shall I sit and yawn And dream of life's delightful dawn?
XVII
The house is crammed. A thousand lamps On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze, Impatiently the gallery stamps, The curtain now they slowly raise. Obedient to the magic strings, Brilliant, ethereal, there springs Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding Istomina(*) the nimbly-bounding; With one foot resting on its tip Slow circling round its fellow swings And now she skips and now she springs Like down from Aeolus's lip, Now her lithe form she arches o'er And beats with rapid foot the floor.
[Note: Istomina—A celebrated Circassian dancer of the day, with whom the poet in his extreme youth imagined himself in love.]
XVIII
Shouts of applause! Oneguine passes Between the stalls, along the toes; Seated, a curious look with glasses On unknown female forms he throws. Free scope he yields unto his glance, Reviews both dress and countenance, With all dissatisfaction shows. To male acquaintances he bows, And finally he deigns let fall Upon the stage his weary glance. He yawns, averts his countenance, Exclaiming, "We must change 'em all! I long by ballets have been bored, Now Didelot scarce can be endured!"
XIX
Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout Across the stage still madly sweep, Whilst the tired serving-men without Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep. Still the loud stamping doth not cease, Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze, Still everywhere, without, within, The lamps illuminating shine; The steed benumbed still pawing stands And of the irksome harness tires, And still the coachmen round the fires(11) Abuse their masters, rub their hands: But Eugene long hath left the press To array himself in evening dress.
[Note 11: In Russia large fires are lighted in winter time in front of the theatres for the benefit of the menials, who, considering the state of the thermometer, cannot be said to have a jovial time of it. But in this, as in other cases, "habit" alleviates their lot, and they bear the cold with a wonderful equanimity.]
XX
Faithfully shall I now depict, Portray the solitary den Wherein the child of fashion strict Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again? All that industrial London brings For tallow, wood and other things Across the Baltic's salt sea waves, All which caprice and affluence craves, All which in Paris eager taste, Choosing a profitable trade, For our amusement ever made And ease and fashionable waste,— Adorned the apartment of Eugene, Philosopher just turned eighteen.
XXI
China and bronze the tables weight, Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows, And, joy of souls effeminate, Phials of crystal scents enclose. Combs of all sizes, files of steel, Scissors both straight and curved as well, Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes Both for the nails and for the tushes. Rousseau, I would remark in passing,(12) Could not conceive how serious Grimm Dared calmly cleanse his nails 'fore him, Eloquent raver all-surpassing,— The friend of liberty and laws In this case quite mistaken was.
[Note 12: "Tout le monde sut qu'il (Grimm) mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyait rien, je commencai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint, et pour avoir trouve des tasses de blanc sur la toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvais brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expres, ouvrage qu'il continua fierement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau." Confessions de J. J. Rousseau]
XXII
The most industrious man alive May yet be studious of his nails; What boots it with the age to strive? Custom the despot soon prevails. A new Kaverine Eugene mine, Dreading the world's remarks malign, Was that which we are wont to call A fop, in dress pedantical. Three mortal hours per diem he Would loiter by the looking-glass, And from his dressing-room would pass Like Venus when, capriciously, The goddess would a masquerade Attend in male attire arrayed.
XXIII
On this artistical retreat Having once fixed your interest, I might to connoisseurs repeat The style in which my hero dressed; Though I confess I hardly dare Describe in detail the affair, Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat, To Russ indigenous are not; And also that my feeble verse— Pardon I ask for such a sin— With words of foreign origin Too much I'm given to intersperse, Though to the Academy I come And oft its Dictionary thumb.(13)
[Note 13: Refers to Dictionary of the Academy, compiled during the reign of Catherine II under the supervision of Lomonossoff.]
XXIV
But such is not my project now, So let us to the ball-room haste, Whither at headlong speed doth go Eugene in hackney carriage placed. Past darkened windows and long streets Of slumbering citizens he fleets, Till carriage lamps, a double row, Cast a gay lustre on the snow, Which shines with iridescent hues. He nears a spacious mansion's gate, By many a lamp illuminate, And through the lofty windows views Profiles of lovely dames he knows And also fashionable beaux.
XXV
Our hero stops and doth alight, Flies past the porter to the stair, But, ere he mounts the marble flight, With hurried hand smooths down his hair. He enters: in the hall a crowd, No more the music thunders loud, Some a mazurka occupies, Crushing and a confusing noise; Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash, The feet of graceful ladies fly, And following them ye might espy Full many a glance like lightning flash, And by the fiddle's rushing sound The voice of jealousy is drowned.
XXVI
In my young days of wild delight On balls I madly used to dote, Fond declarations they invite Or the delivery of a note. So hearken, every worthy spouse, I would your vigilance arouse, Attentive be unto my rhymes And due precautions take betimes. Ye mothers also, caution use, Upon your daughters keep an eye, Employ your glasses constantly, For otherwise—God only knows! I lift a warning voice because I long have ceased to offend the laws.
XXVII
Alas! life's hours which swiftly fly I've wasted in amusements vain, But were it not immoral I Should dearly like a dance again. I love its furious delight, The crowd and merriment and light, The ladies, their fantastic dress, Also their feet—yet ne'ertheless Scarcely in Russia can ye find Three pairs of handsome female feet; Ah! I still struggle to forget A pair; though desolate my mind, Their memory lingers still and seems To agitate me in my dreams.
XXVIII
When, where, and in what desert land, Madman, wilt thou from memory raze Those feet? Alas! on what far strand Do ye of spring the blossoms graze? Lapped in your Eastern luxury, No trace ye left in passing by Upon the dreary northern snows, But better loved the soft repose Of splendid carpets richly wrought. I once forgot for your sweet cause The thirst for fame and man's applause, My country and an exile's lot; My joy in youth was fleeting e'en As your light footprints on the green.
XXIX
Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks, Are admirable, my dear friend, But yet Terpsichore bespeaks Charms more enduring in the end. For promises her feet reveal Of untold gain she must conceal, Their privileged allurements fire A hidden train of wild desire. I love them, O my dear Elvine,(14) Beneath the table-cloth of white, In winter on the fender bright, In springtime on the meadows green, Upon the ball-room's glassy floor Or by the ocean's rocky shore.
[Note 14: Elvine, or Elvina, was not improbably the owner of the seductive feet apostrophized by the poet, since, in 1816, he wrote an ode, "To Her," which commences thus:
"Elvina, my dear, come, give me thine hand," and so forth.]
XXX
Beside the stormy sea one day I envied sore the billows tall, Which rushed in eager dense array Enamoured at her feet to fall. How like the billow I desired To kiss the feet which I admired! No, never in the early blaze Of fiery youth's untutored days So ardently did I desire A young Armida's lips to press, Her cheek of rosy loveliness Or bosom full of languid fire,— A gust of passion never tore My spirit with such pangs before.
XXXI
Another time, so willed it Fate, Immersed in secret thought I stand And grasp a stirrup fortunate— Her foot was in my other hand. Again imagination blazed, The contact of the foot I raised Rekindled in my withered heart The fires of passion and its smart— Away! and cease to ring their praise For ever with thy tattling lyre, The proud ones are not worth the fire Of passion they so often raise. The words and looks of charmers sweet Are oft deceptive—like their feet.
XXXII
Where is Oneguine? Half asleep, Straight from the ball to bed he goes, Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep The drum already doth arouse. The shopman and the pedlar rise And to the Bourse the cabman plies; The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,(15) Crunching the morning snow she treads; Morning awakes with joyous sound; The shutters open; to the skies In column blue the smoke doth rise; The German baker looks around His shop, a night-cap on his head, And pauses oft to serve out bread.
[Note 15: i.e. the milkmaid from the Okhta villages, a suburb of St. Petersburg on the right bank of the Neva chiefly inhabited by the labouring classes.]
XXXIII
But turning morning into night, Tired by the ball's incessant noise, The votary of vain delight Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys, Late in the afternoon to rise, When the same life before him lies Till morn—life uniform but gay, To-morrow just like yesterday. But was our friend Eugene content, Free, in the blossom of his spring, Amidst successes flattering And pleasure's daily blandishment, Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare Was he in health and void of care?—
XXXIV
Even so! His passions soon abated, Hateful the hollow world became, Nor long his mind was agitated By love's inevitable flame. For treachery had done its worst; Friendship and friends he likewise curst, Because he could not gourmandise Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies And irrigate them with champagne; Nor slander viciously could spread Whene'er he had an aching head; And, though a plucky scatterbrain, He finally lost all delight In bullets, sabres, and in fight.
XXXV
His malady, whose cause I ween It now to investigate is time, Was nothing but the British spleen Transported to our Russian clime. It gradually possessed his mind; Though, God be praised! he ne'er designed To slay himself with blade or ball, Indifferent he became to all, And like Childe Harold gloomily He to the festival repairs, Nor boston nor the world's affairs Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh Impressed him in the least degree,— Callous to all he seemed to be.
XXXVI
Ye miracles of courtly grace, He left you first, and I must own The manners of the highest class Have latterly vexatious grown; And though perchance a lady may Discourse of Bentham or of Say, Yet as a rule their talk I call Harmless, but quite nonsensical. Then they're so innocent of vice, So full of piety, correct, So prudent, and so circumspect Stately, devoid of prejudice, So inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16)
[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian scholiast remarks:—"The whole of this ironical stanza is but a refined eulogy of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen. Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV. Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements, combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael." It will occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair "doth protest too much." The poet in all probability wrote the offending stanza in a fit of Byronic "spleen," as he would most likely himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their utterances under its influence for what they are worth.]
XXXVII
And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meets Urging your droshkies swift as air Along Saint Petersburg's paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen. He thought to write, but labour long Inspired him with disgust and so Nought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell among That vicious set whom I don't blame— Because a member I became.
XXXVIII
Once more to idleness consigned, He felt the laudable desire From mere vacuity of mind The wit of others to acquire. A case of books he doth obtain— He reads at random, reads in vain. This nonsense, that dishonest seems, This wicked, that absurd he deems, All are constrained and fetters bear, Antiquity no pleasure gave, The moderns of the ancients rave— Books he abandoned like the fair, His book-shelf instantly doth drape With taffety instead of crape.
XXXIX
Having abjured the haunts of men, Like him renouncing vanity, His friendship I acquired just then; His character attracted me. An innate love of meditation, Original imagination, And cool sagacious mind he had: I was incensed and he was sad. Both were of passion satiate And both of dull existence tired, Extinct the flame which once had fired; Both were expectant of the hate With which blind Fortune oft betrays The very morning of our days.
XL
He who hath lived and living, thinks, Must e'en despise his kind at last; He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks From shades of the relentless past. No fond illusions live to soothe, But memory like a serpent's tooth With late repentance gnaws and stings. All this in many cases brings A charm with it in conversation. Oneguine's speeches I abhorred At first, but soon became inured To the sarcastic observation, To witticisms and taunts half-vicious And gloomy epigrams malicious.
XLI
How oft, when on a summer night Transparent o'er the Neva beamed The firmament in mellow light, And when the watery mirror gleamed No more with pale Diana's rays,(17) We called to mind our youthful days— The days of love and of romance! Then would we muse as in a trance, Impressionable for an hour, And breathe the balmy breath of night; And like the prisoner's our delight Who for the greenwood quits his tower, As on the rapid wings of thought The early days of life we sought.
[Note 17: The midsummer nights in the latitude of St. Petersburg are a prolonged twilight.]
XLII
Absorbed in melancholy mood And o'er the granite coping bent, Oneguine meditative stood, E'en as the poet says he leant.(18) 'Tis silent all! Alone the cries Of the night sentinels arise And from the Millionaya afar(19) The sudden rattling of a car. Lo! on the sleeping river borne, A boat with splashing oar floats by, And now we hear delightedly A jolly song and distant horn; But sweeter in a midnight dream Torquato Tasso's strains I deem.
[Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff's "Goddess of the Neva." At St. Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with splendid granite quays.]
[Note 19: A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.]
XLIII
Ye billows of blue Hadria's sea, O Brenta, once more we shall meet And, inspiration firing me, Your magic voices I shall greet, Whose tones Apollo's sons inspire, And after Albion's proud lyre (20) Possess my love and sympathy. The nights of golden Italy I'll pass beneath the firmament, Hid in the gondola's dark shade, Alone with my Venetian maid, Now talkative, now reticent; From her my lips shall learn the tongue Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.
[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron's genius on the imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian tastes, see his poem of "Angelo," founded upon "Measure for Measure."]
XLIV
When will my hour of freedom come! Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales Awaiting on the shore I roam And beckon to the passing sails. Upon the highway of the sea When shall I wing my passage free On waves by tempests curdled o'er! 'Tis time to quit this weary shore So uncongenial to my mind, To dream upon the sunny strand Of Africa, ancestral land,(21) Of dreary Russia left behind, Wherein I felt love's fatal dart, Wherein I buried left my heart.
[Note 21: The poet was, on his mother's side, of African extraction, a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal's brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburg for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank of general in the Russian service.]
XLV
Eugene designed with me to start And visit many a foreign clime, But Fortune cast our lots apart For a protracted space of time. Just at that time his father died, And soon Oneguine's door beside Of creditors a hungry rout Their claims and explanations shout. But Eugene, hating litigation And with his lot in life content, To a surrender gave consent, Seeing in this no deprivation, Or counting on his uncle's death And what the old man might bequeath.
XLVI
And in reality one day The steward sent a note to tell How sick to death his uncle lay And wished to say to him farewell. Having this mournful document Perused, Eugene in postchaise went And hastened to his uncle's side, But in his heart dissatisfied, Having for money's sake alone Sorrow to counterfeit and wail— Thus we began our little tale— But, to his uncle's mansion flown, He found him on the table laid, A due which must to earth be paid.
XLVII
The courtyard full of serfs he sees, And from the country all around Had come both friends and enemies— Funeral amateurs abound! The body they consigned to rest, And then made merry pope and guest, With serious air then went away As men who much had done that day. Lo! my Oneguine rural lord! Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes, He now a full possession takes, He who economy abhorred, Delighted much his former ways To vary for a few brief days.
XLVIII
For two whole days it seemed a change To wander through the meadows still, The cool dark oaken grove to range, To listen to the rippling rill. But on the third of grove and mead He took no more the slightest heed; They made him feel inclined to doze; And the conviction soon arose, Ennui can in the country dwell Though without palaces and streets, Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fetes; On him spleen mounted sentinel And like his shadow dogged his life, Or better,—like a faithful wife.
XLIX
I was for calm existence made, For rural solitude and dreams, My lyre sings sweeter in the shade And more imagination teems. On innocent delights I dote, Upon my lake I love to float, For law I far niente take And every morning I awake The child of sloth and liberty. I slumber much, a little read, Of fleeting glory take no heed. In former years thus did not I In idleness and tranquil joy The happiest days of life employ?
L
Love, flowers, the country, idleness And fields my joys have ever been; I like the difference to express Between myself and my Eugene, Lest the malicious reader or Some one or other editor Of keen sarcastic intellect Herein my portrait should detect, And impiously should declare, To sketch myself that I have tried Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride, As if impossible it were To write of any other elf Than one's own fascinating self.
LI
Here I remark all poets are Love to idealize inclined; I have dreamed many a vision fair And the recesses of my mind Retained the image, though short-lived, Which afterwards the muse revived. Thus carelessly I once portrayed Mine own ideal, the mountain maid, The captives of the Salguir's shore.(22) But now a question in this wise Oft upon friendly lips doth rise: Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore? To whom amongst the jealous throng Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?
[Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of the poet. The former line indicates the Prisoner of the Caucasus, the latter, The Fountain of Baktchiserai. The Salguir is a river of the Crimea.]
LII
Whose glance reflecting inspiration With tenderness hath recognized Thy meditative incantation— Whom hath thy strain immortalized? None, be my witness Heaven above! The malady of hopeless love I have endured without respite. Happy who thereto can unite Poetic transport. They impart A double force unto their song Who following Petrarch move along And ease the tortures of the heart— Perchance they laurels also cull— But I, in love, was mute and dull.
LIII
The Muse appeared, when love passed by And my dark soul to light was brought; Free, I renewed the idolatry Of harmony enshrining thought. I write, and anguish flies away, Nor doth my absent pen portray Around my stanzas incomplete Young ladies' faces and their feet. Extinguished ashes do not blaze— I mourn, but tears I cannot shed— Soon, of the tempest which hath fled Time will the ravages efface— When that time comes, a poem I'll strive To write in cantos twenty-five.
LIV
I've thought well o'er the general plan, The hero's name too in advance, Meantime I'll finish whilst I can Canto the First of this romance. I've scanned it with a jealous eye, Discovered much absurdity, But will not modify a tittle— I owe the censorship a little. For journalistic deglutition I yield the fruit of work severe. Go, on the Neva's bank appear, My very latest composition! Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows— Misunderstanding, words and blows.
END OF CANTO THE FIRST
CANTO THE SECOND
The Poet
"O Rus!"—Horace
Canto The Second
[Note: Odessa, December 1823.]
I
The village wherein yawned Eugene Was a delightful little spot, There friends of pure delight had been Grateful to Heaven for their lot. The lonely mansion-house to screen From gales a hill behind was seen; Before it ran a stream. Behold! Afar, where clothed in green and gold Meadows and cornfields are displayed, Villages in the distance show And herds of oxen wandering low; Whilst nearer, sunk in deeper shade, A thick immense neglected grove Extended—haunt which Dryads love.
II
'Twas built, the venerable pile, As lordly mansions ought to be, In solid, unpretentious style, The style of wise antiquity. Lofty the chambers one and all, Silk tapestry upon the wall, Imperial portraits hang around And stoves of various shapes abound. All this I know is out of date, I cannot tell the reason why, But Eugene, incontestably, The matter did not agitate, Because he yawned at the bare view Of drawing-rooms or old or new.
III
He took the room wherein the old Man—forty years long in this wise— His housekeeper was wont to scold, Look through the window and kill flies. 'Twas plain—an oaken floor ye scan, Two cupboards, table, soft divan, And not a speck of dirt descried. Oneguine oped the cupboards wide. In one he doth accounts behold, Here bottles stand in close array, There jars of cider block the way, An almanac but eight years old. His uncle, busy man indeed, No other book had time to read.
