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Pétri de vanité, il avait encore plus de cette espèce d’orgueil, qui fait avouer avec la même indifférence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d’un sentiment de superiorité, peut-être imaginaire.
Tiré d’une lettre particulière.Canto the First
‘He rushes at life and exhausts the passions.’
Prince ViazemskiI
“My uncle’s goodness is extreme,If seriously he hath disease;He hath acquired the world’s esteemAnd nothing more important sees;A paragon of virtue he!But what a nuisance it will be,Chained to his bedside night and dayWithout a chance to slip away.Ye need dissimulation baseA dying man with art to soothe,Beneath his head the pillow smooth,And physic bring with mournful face,To sigh and meditate alone:When will the devil take his own!”II
Thus mused a madcap young, who droveThrough clouds of dust at postal pace,By the decree of Mighty Jove,Inheritor of all his race.Friends of Liudmila and Ruslan[1],Let me present ye to the man,Who without more prevaricationThe hero is of my narration!Onegin, O my gentle readers,Was born beside the Neva, whereIt may be ye were born, or thereHave shone as one of fashion’s leaders.I also wandered there of old,But cannot stand the northern cold[2].III
Having performed his service truly,Deep into debt his father ran;Three balls a year he gave ye duly,At last became a ruined man.But Eugene was by fate preserved,For first “madame” his wants observed,And then “monsieur” supplied her place[3];The boy was wild but full of grace.“Monsieur l’Abbé,” a starving Gaul,Fearing his pupil to annoy,Instructed jestingly the boy,Morality taught scarce at all;Gently for pranks he would reproveAnd in the Summer Garden rove.IV
When youth’s rebellious hour drew nearAnd my Eugene the path must trace —The path of hope and tender fear —Monsieur clean out of doors they chase.Lo! my Onegin free as air,Cropped in the latest style his hair,Dressed like a London dandy heThe giddy world at last shall see.He wrote and spoke, so all allowed,In the French language perfectly,Danced the mazurka gracefully,Without the least constraint he bowed.What more’s required? The world replies,He is a charming youth and wise.V
We all of us of educationA something somehow have obtained,Thus, praised be God! a reputationWith us is easily attained.Onegin was – so many deemed[Unerring critics self-esteemed],Pedantic although scholar like,In truth he had the happy trickWithout constraint in conversationOf touching lightly every theme.Silent, oracular ye’d see himAmid a serious disputation,Then suddenly discharge a jokeThe ladies’ laughter to provoke.VI
Latin is just now not in vogue,But if the truth I must relate,Onegin knew enough, the rogueA mild quotation to translate,A little Juvenal to spout,With “vale” finish off a note;Two verses he could recollectOf the Aeneid, but incorrect.In history he took no pleasure,The dusty chronicles of earthFor him were but of little worth,Yet still of anecdotes a treasureWithin his memory there lay,From Romulus unto our day.VII
For empty sound the rascal swore heExistence would not make a curse,Knew not an iamb from a choree,Although we read him heaps of verse.Homer, Theocritus, he jeered,But Adam Smith to read appeared,And at economy was great;That is, he could elucidateHow empires store of wealth unfold,How flourish, why and wherefore lessIf the raw product they possessThe medium is required of gold.The father scarcely understandsHis son and mortgages his lands.VIII
But upon all that Eugene knewI have no leisure here to dwell,But say he was a genius whoIn one thing really did excel.It occupied him from a boy,A labour, torment, yet a joy,It whiled his idle hours awayAnd wholly occupied his day —The amatory science warm,Which Ovid once immortalized,For which the poet agonizedLaid down his life of sun and stormOn the steppes of Moldavia lone,Far from his Italy – his own.IX
How soon he learnt deception’s art,Hope to conceal and jealousy,False confidence or doubt to impart,Sombre or glad in turn to be,Haughty appear, subservient,Obsequious or indifferent!What languor would his silence show,How full of fire his speech would glow!How artless was the note which spokeOf love again, and yet again;How deftly could he transport feign!How bright and tender was his look,Modest yet daring! And a tearWould at the proper time appear.X
How well he played the greenhorn’s partTo cheat the inexperienced fair,Sometimes by pleasing flattery’s art,Sometimes by ready-made despair;The feeble moment would espyOf tender years the modestyConquer by passion and address,Await the long-delayed caress.Avowal then ’twas time to pray,Attentive to the heart’s first beating,Follow up love – a secret meetingArrange without the least delay —Then, then – well, in some solitudeLessons to give he understood!XI
How soon he learnt to titillateThe heart of the inveterate flirt!Desirous to annihilateHis own antagonists expert,How bitterly he would malign,With many a snare their pathway line!But ye, O happy husbands, yeWith him were friends eternally:The crafty spouse caressed him, whoBy Faublas in his youth was schooled[4],And the suspicious veteran old,The pompous, swaggering cuckold too,Who floats contentedly through life,Proud of his dinners and his wife!XII
One morn whilst yet in bed he lay,His valet brings him letters three.What, invitations? The same dayAs many entertainments be!A ball here, there a children’s treat,Whither shall my rapscallion flit?Whither shall he go first? He’ll see,Perchance he will to all the three.Meantime in matutinal dressAnd hat surnamed a “Bolivar”[5]He hies unto the “Boulevard,”To loiter there in idlenessUntil the sleepless Breguet chime[6]Announcing to him dinner-time.XIII
‘Tis dark. He seats him in a sleigh,“Drive on!” the cheerful cry goes forth,His furs are powdered on the wayBy the fine silver of the north.He bends his course to Talon’s[7], whereHe knows Kaverine[8] will repair.He enters. High the cork aroseAnd Comet champagne foaming flows.Before him red roast beef is seenAnd truffles, dear to youthful eyes,Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies,The choicest flowers of French cuisine,And Limburg cheese alive and oldIs seen next pine-apples of gold.XIV
Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compelsTo cool the cutlets’ seething grease,When the sonorous Breguet tellsOf the commencement of the piece.A critic of the stage malicious,A slave of actresses capricious,Onegin was a citizenOf the domains of the side-scene.To the theatre he repairsWhere each young critic ready stands,Capers applauds with clap of hands,With hisses Cleopatra scares,Moina recalls for this aloneThat all may hear his voice’s tone.XV
Thou fairy-land! Where formerlyShone pungent Satire’s dauntless king,Von Wisine, friend of liberty,And Kniajnine, apt at copying.The young Simeonova too thereWith Ozeroff was wont to shareApplause, the people’s donative.There our Katenine did reviveCorneille’s majestic genius,Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought outHis comedies, a noisy rout,There Didelot became glorious,There, there, beneath the side-scene’s shadeThe drama of my youth was played[9].XVI
My goddesses, where are your shades?Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?Are ye replaced by other maidsWho cannot conjure former joys?Shall I your chorus hear anew,Russia’s Terpsichore reviewAgain in her ethereal dance?Or will my melancholy glanceOn the dull stage find all things changed,The disenchanted glass directWhere I can no more recollect? —A careless looker-on estrangedIn silence shall I sit and yawnAnd dream of life’s delightful dawn?XVII
The house is crammed. A thousand lampsOn pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze,Impatiently the gallery stamps,The curtain now they slowly raise.Obedient to the magic strings,Brilliant, ethereal, there springsForth from the crowd of nymphs surroundingIstomina[10] the nimbly-bounding;With one foot resting on its tipSlow circling round its fellow swingsAnd now she skips and now she springsLike down from Aeolus’s lip,Now her lithe form she arches o’erAnd beats with rapid foot the floor.XVIII
Shouts of applause! Onegin passesBetween the stalls, along the toes;Seated, a curious look with glassesOn 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 fallUpon 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 shoutAcross the stage still madly sweep,Whilst the tired serving-men withoutWrapped 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 standsAnd 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 pressTo array himself in evening dress.XX
Faithfully shall I now depict,Portray the solitary denWherein the child of fashion strictDressed him, undressed, and dressed again?All that industrial London bringsFor tallow, wood and other thingsAcross 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 madeAnd 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! brushesBoth for the nails and for the tushes.Rousseau, I would remark in passing,[12]Could not conceive how serious GrimmDared calmly cleanse his nails ’fore him,Eloquent raver all-surpassing, —The friend of liberty and lawsIn this case quite mistaken was.XXII
The most industrious man aliveMay 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 callA fop, in dress pedantical.Three mortal hours per diem heWould loiter by the looking-glass,And from his dressing-room would passLike Venus when, capriciously,The goddess would a masqueradeAttend in male attire arrayed.XXIII
On this artistical retreatHaving once fixed your interest,I might to connoisseurs repeatThe style in which my hero dressed;Though I confess I hardly dareDescribe 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 originToo much I’m given to intersperse,Though to the Academy I comeAnd oft its Dictionary thumb.[13]XXIV
But such is not my project now,So let us to the ball-room haste,Whither at headlong speed doth goEugene in hackney carriage placed.Past darkened windows and long streetsOf 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 viewsProfiles of lovely dames he knowsAnd 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 espyFull many a glance like lightning flash,And by the fiddle’s rushing soundThe voice of jealousy is drowned.XXVI
In my young days of wild delightOn balls I madly used to dote,Fond declarations they inviteOr the delivery of a note.So hearken, every worthy spouse,I would your vigilance arouse,Attentive be unto my rhymesAnd 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 becauseI long have ceased to offend the laws.XXVII
Alas! life’s hours which swiftly flyI’ve wasted in amusements vain,But were it not immoral IShould 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’erthelessScarcely in Russia can ye findThree pairs of handsome female feet;Ah! I still struggle to forgetA pair; though desolate my mind,Their memory lingers still and seemsTo agitate me in my dreams.XXVIII
When, where, and in what desert land,Madman, wilt thou from memory razeThose feet? Alas! on what far strandDo ye of spring the blossoms graze?Lapped in your Eastern luxury,No trace ye left in passing byUpon the dreary northern snows,But better loved the soft reposeOf splendid carpets richly wrought.I once forgot for your sweet causeThe thirst for fame and man’s applause,My country and an exile’s lot;My joy in youth was fleeting e’enAs your light footprints on the green.XXIX
Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks,Are admirable, my dear friend,But yet Terpsichore bespeaksCharms more enduring in the end.For promises her feet revealOf untold gain she must conceal,Their privileged allurements fireA 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 floorOr by the ocean’s rocky shore.XXX
Beside the stormy sea one dayI envied sore the billows tall,Which rushed in eager dense arrayEnamoured at her feet to fall.How like the billow I desiredTo kiss the feet which I admired!No, never in the early blazeOf fiery youth’s untutored daysSo ardently did I desireA young Armida’s lips to press,Her cheek of rosy lovelinessOr bosom full of languid fire, —A gust of passion never toreMy spirit with such pangs before.XXXI
Another time, so willed it Fate,Immersed in secret thought I standAnd grasp a stirrup fortunate —Her foot was in my other hand.Again imagination blazed,The contact of the foot I raisedRekindled in my withered heartThe fires of passion and its smart —Away! and cease to ring their praiseFor ever with thy tattling lyre,The proud ones are not worth the fireOf passion they so often raise.The words and looks of charmers sweetAre oft deceptive – like their feet.XXXII
Where is Onegin? Half asleep,Straight from the ball to bed he goes,Whilst Petersburg from slumber deepThe drum already doth arouse.The shopman and the pedlar riseAnd to the Bourse the cabman plies;The Okhtenka[15] with pitcher speeds,Crunching the morning snow she treads;Morning awakes with joyous sound;The shutters open; to the skiesIn column blue the smoke doth rise;The German baker looks aroundHis shop, a night-cap on his head,And pauses oft to serve out bread.XXXIII
But turning morning into night,Tired by the ball’s incessant noise,The votary of vain delightSleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,Late in the afternoon to rise,When the same life before him liesTill 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 flatteringAnd pleasure’s daily blandishment,Or vainly ’mid luxurious fareWas he in health and void of care? —XXXIV
Even so! His passions soon abated,Hateful the hollow world became,Nor long his mind was agitatedBy love’s inevitable flame.For treachery had done its worst;Friendship and friends he likewise curst,Because he could not gourmandiseDaily beefsteaks and Strasbourg piesAnd irrigate them with champagne;Nor slander viciously could spreadWhene’er he had an aching head;And, though a plucky scatterbrain,He finally lost all delightIn bullets, sabres, and in fight.XXXV
His malady, whose cause I weenIt now to investigate is time,Was nothing but the British spleenTransported to our Russian clime.It gradually possessed his mind;Though, God be praised! he ne’er designedTo slay himself with blade or ball,Indifferent he became to all,And like Childe Harold gloomilyHe to the festival repairs,Nor boston nor the world’s affairsNor tender glance nor amorous sighImpressed 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 ownThe manners of the highest classHave latterly vexatious grown;And though perchance a lady mayDiscourse of Bentham or of Say,Yet as a rule their talk I callHarmless, but quite nonsensical.Then they’re so innocent of vice,So full of piety, correct,So prudent, and so circumspectStately, devoid of prejudice,So inaccessible to men,Their looks alone produce the spleen.XXXVII
And you, my youthful damsels fair,Whom latterly one often meetsUrging your droshkies swift as airAlong 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 longInspired him with disgust and soNought from his pen did ever flow,And thus he never fell amongThat vicious set whom I don’t blame —Because a member I became.XXXVIII
Once more to idleness consigned,He felt the laudable desireFrom mere vacuity of mindThe 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 drapeWith 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 satiateAnd both of dull existence tired,Extinct the flame which once had fired;Both were expectant of the hateWith which blind Fortune oft betraysThe 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 shrinksFrom shades of the relentless past.No fond illusions live to soothe,But memory like a serpent’s toothWith late repentance gnaws and stings.All this in many cases bringsA charm with it in conversation.Onegin’s speeches I abhorredAt first, but soon became inuredTo the sarcastic observation,To witticisms and taunts half-viciousAnd gloomy epigrams malicious.XLI
How oft, when on a summer nightTransparent o’er the Neva beamedThe firmament in mellow light,And when the watery mirror gleamedNo more with pale Diana’s rays[16],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 delightWho for the greenwood quits his tower,As on the rapid wings of thoughtThe early days of life we sought.XLII
Absorbed in melancholy moodAnd o’er the granite coping bent,Onegin meditative stood,E’en as the poet says he leant.[17]‘Tis silent all! Alone the criesOf the night sentinels ariseAnd from the Millionaya[18] afarThe sudden rattling of a car.Lo! on the sleeping river borne,A boat with splashing oar floats by,And now we hear delightedlyA jolly song and distant horn;But sweeter in a midnight dreamTorquato Tasso’s strains I deem.XLIII
Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea,O Brenta, once more we shall meetAnd, inspiration firing me,Your magic voices I shall greet,Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire,And after Albion’s proud lyrePossess my love and sympathy.The nights of golden ItalyI’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 tongueOf love which whilom Petrarch sung.XLIV
When will my hour of freedom come!Time, I invoke thee! favouring galesAwaiting on the shore I roamAnd beckon to the passing sails.Upon the highway of the seaWhen shall I wing my passage freeOn waves by tempests curdled o’er!‘Tis time to quit this weary shoreSo uncongenial to my mind,To dream upon the sunny strandOf Africa, ancestral land[19],Of dreary Russia left behind,Wherein I felt love’s fatal dart,Wherein I buried left my heart.XLV
Eugene designed with me to startAnd visit many a foreign clime,But Fortune cast our lots apartFor a protracted space of time.Just at that time his father died,And soon Onegin’s door besideOf creditors a hungry routTheir claims and explanations shout.But Eugene, hating litigationAnd with his lot in life content,To a surrender gave consent,Seeing in this no deprivation,Or counting on his uncle’s deathAnd what the old man might bequeath.XLVI
And in reality one dayThe steward sent a note to tellHow sick to death his uncle layAnd wished to say to him farewell.Having this mournful documentPerused, Eugene in postchaise wentAnd hastened to his uncle’s side,But in his heart dissatisfied,Having for money’s sake aloneSorrow 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 aroundHad 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 awayAs men who much had done that day.Lo! my Onegin rural lord!Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes,He now a full possession takes,He who economy abhorred,Delighted much his former waysTo vary for a few brief days.XLVIII
For two whole days it seemed a changeTo 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 meadHe took no more the slightest heed;They made him feel inclined to doze;And the conviction soon arose,Ennui can in the country dwellThough without palaces and streets,Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fetes;On him spleen mounted sentinelAnd 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 shadeAnd more imagination teems.On innocent delights I dote,Upon my lake I love to float,For law I far niente takeAnd every morning I awakeThe child of sloth and liberty.I slumber much, a little read,Of fleeting glory take no heed.In former years thus did not IIn idleness and tranquil joyThe happiest days of life employ?L
Love, flowers, the country, idlenessAnd fields my joys have ever been;I like the difference to expressBetween myself and my Eugene,Lest the malicious reader orSome one or other editorOf keen sarcastic intellectHerein my portrait should detect,And impiously should declare,To sketch myself that I have triedLike Byron, bard of scorn and pride,As if impossible it wereTo write of any other elfThan one’s own fascinating self.