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   All this I know is out of date,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.
   Onéguine 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.

   IV

   Alone amid possessions great,
   Eugene at first began to dream,
   If but to lighten Time’s dull rate,
   Of many an economic scheme;
   This anchorite amid his waste
   The ancient barshtchina replaced
   By an obrok’s indulgent rate:(23)
   The peasant blessed his happy fate.
   But this a heinous crime appeared
   Unto his neighbour, man of thrift,
   Who secretly denounced the gift,
   And many another slily sneered;
   And all with one accord agreed,
   He was a dangerous fool indeed.

   [Note 23: The barshtchina was the corvée, or forced labour
   of three days per week rendered previous to the emancipation
   of 1861 by the serfs to their lord.

   The obrok was a species of poll-tax paid by a serf, either
   in lieu of the forced labour or in consideration of being
   permitted to exercise a trade or profession elsewhere. Very
   heavy obroks have at times been levied on serfs possessed of
   skill or accomplishments, or who had amassed wealth; and
   circumstances may be easily imagined which, under such a
   system, might lead to great abuses.]

   V

   All visited him at first, of course;
   But since to the backdoor they led
   Most usually a Cossack horse
   Upon the Don’s broad pastures bred
   If they but heard domestic loads
   Come rumbling up the neighbouring roads,
   Most by this circumstance offended
   All overtures of friendship ended.
   “Oh! what a fool our neighbour is!
   He’s a freemason, so we think.
   Alone he doth his claret drink,
   A lady’s hand doth never kiss.
   ’Tis yes! no! never madam! sir!”(24)
   This was his social character.

   [Note 24: The neighbours complained of Onéguine’s want of courtesy.
   He always replied “da” or “nyet,” yes or no, instead of “das”
   or “nyets”—the final s being a contraction of “sudar” or
   “sudarinia,” i.e. sir or madam.]

   VI

   Into the district then to boot
   A new proprietor arrived,
   From whose analysis minute
   The neighbourhood fresh sport derived.
   Vladimir Lenski was his name,
   From Gottingen inspired he came,
   A worshipper of Kant, a bard,
   A young and handsome galliard.
   He brought from mystic Germany
   The fruits of learning and combined
   A fiery and eccentric mind,
   Idolatry of liberty,
   A wild enthusiastic tongue,
   Black curls which to his shoulders hung.

   VII

   The pervert world with icy chill
   Had not yet withered his young breast.
   His heart reciprocated still
   When Friendship smiled or Love caressed.
   He was a dear delightful fool—
   A nursling yet for Hope to school.
   The riot of the world and glare
   Still sovereigns of his spirit were,
   And by a sweet delusion he
   Would soothe the doubtings of his soul,
   He deemed of human life the goal
   To be a charming mystery:
   He racked his brains to find its clue
   And marvels deemed he thus should view.

   VIII

   This he believed: a kindred spirit
   Impelled to union with his own
   Lay languishing both day and night—
   Waiting his coming—his alone!
   He deemed his friends but longed to make
   Great sacrifices for his sake!
   That a friend’s arm in every case
   Felled a calumniator base!
   That chosen heroes consecrate,
   Friends of the sons of every land,
   Exist—that their immortal band
   Shall surely, be it soon or late,
   Pour on this orb a dazzling light
   And bless mankind with full delight.

   IX

   Compassion now or wrath inspires
   And now philanthropy his soul,
   And now his youthful heart desires
   The path which leads to glory’s goal.
   His harp beneath that sky had rung
   Where sometime Goethe, Schiller sung,
   And at the altar of their fame
   He kindled his poetic flame.
   But from the Muses’ loftiest height
   The gifted songster never swerved,
   But proudly in his song preserved
   An ever transcendental flight;
   His transports were quite maidenly,
   Charming with grave simplicity.

   X

   He sang of love—to love a slave.
   His ditties were as pure and bright
   As thoughts which gentle maidens have,
   As a babe’s slumber, or the light
   Of the moon in the tranquil skies,
   Goddess of lovers’ tender sighs.
   He sang of separation grim,
   Of what not, and of distant dim,
   Of roses to romancers dear;
   To foreign lands he would allude,
   Where long time he in solitude
   Had let fall many a bitter tear:
   He sang of life’s fresh colours stained
   Before he eighteen years attained.

   XI

   Since Eugene in that solitude
   Gifts such as these alone could prize,
   A scant attendance Lenski showed
   At neighbouring hospitalities.
   He shunned those parties boisterous;
   The conversation tedious
   About the crop of hay, the wine,
   The kennel or a kindred line,
   Was certainly not erudite
   Nor sparkled with poetic fire,
   Nor wit, nor did the same inspire
   A sense of social delight,
   But still more stupid did appear
   The gossip of their ladies fair.

   XII

   Handsome and rich, the neighbourhood
   Lenski as a good match received,—
   Such is the country custom good;
   All mothers their sweet girls believed
   Suitable for this semi-Russian.
   He enters: rapidly discussion
   Shifts, tacks about, until they prate
   The sorrows of a single state.
   Perchance where Dunia pours out tea
   The young proprietor we find;
   To Dunia then they whisper: Mind!
   And a guitar produced we see,
   And Heavens! warbled forth we hear:
   Come to my golden palace, dear!(25)

   [Note 25: From the lay of the Russalka, i.e. mermaid of the Dnieper.]

   XIII

   But Lenski, having no desire
   Vows matrimonial to break,
   With our Onéguine doth aspire
   Acquaintance instantly to make.
   They met. Earth, water, prose and verse,
   Or ice and flame, are not diverse
   If they were similar in aught.
   At first such contradictions wrought
   Mutual repulsion and ennui,
   But grown familiar side by side
   On horseback every day they ride—
   Inseparable soon they be.
   Thus oft—this I myself confess—
   Men become friends from idleness.

   XIV

   But even thus not now-a-days!
   In spite of common sense we’re wont
   As cyphers others to appraise,
   Ourselves as unities to count;
   And like Napoleons each of us
   A million bipeds reckons thus
   One instrument for his own use—
   Feeling is silly, dangerous.
   Eugene, more tolerant than this
   (Though certainly mankind he knew
   And usually despised it too),
   Exceptionless as no rule is,
   A few of different temper deemed,
   Feeling in others much esteemed.

   XV

   With smiling face he Lenski hears;
   The poet’s fervid conversation
   And judgment which unsteady veers
   And eye which gleams with inspiration—
   All this was novel to Eugene.
   The cold reply with gloomy mien
   He oft upon his lips would curb,
   Thinking: ’tis foolish to disturb
   This evanescent boyish bliss.
   Time without me will lessons give,
   So meantime let him joyous live
   And deem the world perfection is!
   Forgive the fever youth inspires,
   And youthful madness, youthful fires.

   XVI

   The gulf between them was so vast,
   Debate commanded ample food—
   The laws of generations past,
   The fruits of science, evil, good,
   The prejudices all men have,
   The fatal secrets of the grave,
   And life and fate in turn selected
   Were to analysis subjected.
   The fervid poet would recite,
   Carried away by ecstasy,
   Fragments of northern poetry,
   Whilst Eugene condescending quite,
   Though scarcely following what was said,
   Attentive listened to the lad.

   XVII

   But more the passions occupy
   The converse of our hermits twain,
   And, heaving a regretful sigh,
   An exile from their troublous reign,
   Eugene would speak regarding these.
   Thrice happy who their agonies
   Hath suffered but indifferent grown,
   Still happier he who ne’er hath known!
   By absence who hath chilled his love,
   His hate by slander, and who spends
   Existence without wife or friends,
   Whom jealous transport cannot move,
   And who the rent-roll of his race
   Ne’er trusted to the treacherous ace.

   XVIII

   When, wise at length, we seek repose
   Beneath the flag of Quietude,
   When Passion’s fire no longer glows
   And when her violence reviewed—
   Each gust of temper, silly word,
   Seems so unnatural and absurd:
   Reduced with effort unto sense,
   We hear with interest intense
   The accents wild of other’s woes,
   They stir the heart as heretofore.
   So ancient warriors, battles o’er,
   A curious interest disclose
   In yarns of youthful troopers gay,
   Lost in the hamlet far away.

   XIX

   And in addition youth is flame
   And cannot anything conceal,
   Is ever ready to proclaim
   The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.
   Deeming himself a veteran scarred
   In love’s campaigns Onéguine heard
   With quite a lachrymose expression
   The youthful poet’s fond confession.
   He with an innocence extreme
   His inner consciousness laid bare,
   And Eugene soon discovered there
   The story of his young love’s dream,
   Where plentifully feelings flow
   Which we experienced long ago.

   XX

   Alas! he loved as in our times
   Men love no more, as only the
   Mad spirit of the man who rhymes
   Is still condemned in love to be;
   One image occupied his mind,
   Constant affection intertwined
   And an habitual sense of pain;
   And distance interposed in vain,
   Nor years of separation all
   Nor homage which the Muse demands
   Nor beauties of far distant lands
   Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball
   His constant soul could ever tire,
   Which glowed with virginal desire.

   XXI

   When but a boy he Olga loved
   Unknown as yet the aching heart,
   He witnessed tenderly and moved
   Her girlish gaiety and sport.
   Beneath the sheltering oak tree’s shade
   He with his little maiden played,
   Whilst the fond parents, friends thro’ life,
   Dreamed in the future man and wife.
   And full of innocent delight,
   As in a thicket’s humble shade,
   Beneath her parents’ eyes the maid
   Grew like a lily pure and white,
   Unseen in thick and tangled grass
   By bee and butterfly which pass.

   XXII

   ’Twas she who first within his breast
   Poetic transport did infuse,
   And thoughts of Olga first impressed
   A mournful temper on his Muse.
   Farewell! thou golden days of love!
   ’Twas then he loved the tangled grove
   And solitude and calm delight,
   The moon, the stars, and shining night—
   The moon, the lamp of heaven above,
   To whom we used to consecrate
   A promenade in twilight late
   With tears which secret sufferers love—
   But now in her effulgence pale
   A substitute for lamps we hail!

   XXIII

   Obedient she had ever been
   And modest, cheerful as the morn,
   As a poetic life serene,
   Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn.
   Her eyes were of cerulean blue,
   Her locks were of a golden hue,
   Her movements, voice and figure slight,
   All about Olga—to a light
   Romance of love I pray refer,
   You’ll find her portrait there, I vouch;
   I formerly admired her much
   But finally grew bored by her.
   But with her elder sister I
   Must now my stanzas occupy.

   XXIV

   Tattiana was her appellation.
   We are the first who such a name
   In pages of a love narration
   With such a perversity proclaim.
   But wherefore not?—’Tis pleasant, nice,
   Euphonious, though I know a spice
   It carries of antiquity
   And of the attic. Honestly,
   We must admit but little taste
   Doth in us or our names appear(26)
   (I speak not of our poems here),
   And education runs to waste,
   Endowing us from out her store
   With affectation,—nothing more.

   [Note 26: The Russian annotator remarks: “The most euphonious
   Greek names, e.g. Agathon, Philotas, Theodora, Thekla, etc.,
   are used amongst us by the lower classes only.”]

   XXV

   And so Tattiana was her name,
   Nor by her sister’s brilliancy
   Nor by her beauty she became
   The cynosure of every eye.
   Shy, silent did the maid appear
   As in the timid forest deer,
   Even beneath her parents’ roof
   Stood as estranged from all aloof,
   Nearest and dearest knew not how
   To fawn upon and love express;
   A child devoid of childishness
   To romp and play she ne’er would go:
   Oft staring through the window pane
   Would she in silence long remain.

   XXVI

   Contemplativeness, her delight,
   E’en from her cradle’s earliest dream,
   Adorned with many a vision bright
   Of rural life the sluggish stream;
   Ne’er touched her fingers indolent
   The needle nor, o’er framework bent,
   Would she the canvas tight enrich
   With gay design and silken stitch.
   Desire to rule ye may observe
   When the obedient doll in sport
   An infant maiden doth exhort
   Polite demeanour to preserve,
   Gravely repeating to another
   Recent instructions of its mother.

   XXVII

   But Tania ne’er displayed a passion
   For dolls, e’en from her earliest years,
   And gossip of the town and fashion
   She ne’er repeated unto hers.
   Strange unto her each childish game,
   But when the winter season came
   And dark and drear the evenings were,
   Terrible tales she loved to hear.
   And when for Olga nurse arrayed
   In the broad meadow a gay rout,
   All the young people round about,
   At prisoner’s base she never played.
   Their noisy laugh her soul annoyed,
   Their giddy sports she ne’er enjoyed.

   XXVIII

   She loved upon the balcony
   To anticipate the break of day,
   When on the pallid eastern sky
   The starry beacons fade away,
   The horizon luminous doth grow,
   Morning’s forerunners, breezes blow
   And gradually day unfolds.
   In winter, when Night longer holds
   A hemisphere beneath her sway,
   Longer the East inert reclines
   Beneath the moon which dimly shines,
   And calmly sleeps the hours away,
   At the same hour she oped her eyes
   And would by candlelight arise.

   XXIX

   Romances pleased her from the first,
   Her all in all did constitute;
   In love adventures she was versed,
   Rousseau and Richardson to boot.
   Not a bad fellow was her father
   Though superannuated rather;
   In books he saw nought to condemn
   But, as he never opened them,
   Viewed them with not a little scorn,
   And gave himself but little pain
   His daughter’s book to ascertain
   Which ’neath her pillow lay till morn.
   His wife was also mad upon
   The works of Mr. Richardson.

   XXX

   She was thus fond of Richardson
   Not that she had his works perused,
   Or that adoring Grandison
   That rascal Lovelace she abused;
   But that Princess Pauline of old,
   Her Moscow cousin, often told
   The tale of these romantic men;
   Her husband was a bridegroom then,
   And she despite herself would waste
   Sighs on another than her lord
   Whose qualities appeared to afford
   More satisfaction to her taste.
   Her Grandison was in the Guard,
   A noted fop who gambled hard.

   XXXI

   Like his, her dress was always nice,
   The height of fashion, fitting tight,
   But contrary to her advice
   The girl in marriage they unite.
   Then, her distraction to allay,
   The bridegroom sage without delay
   Removed her to his country seat,
   Where God alone knows whom she met.
   She struggled hard at first thus pent,
   Night separated from her spouse,
   Then became busy with the house,
   First reconciled and then content;
   Habit was given us in distress
   By Heaven in lieu of happiness.

   XXXII

   Habit alleviates the grief
   Inseparable from our lot;
   This great discovery relief
   And consolation soon begot.
   And then she soon ’twixt work and leisure
   Found out the secret how at pleasure
   To dominate her worthy lord,
   And harmony was soon restored.
   The workpeople she superintended,
   Mushrooms for winter salted down,
   Kept the accounts, shaved many a crown,(*)
   The bath on Saturdays attended,
   When angry beat her maids, I grieve,
   And all without her husband’s leave.

   [Note: The serfs destined for military service used to have
   a portion of their heads shaved as a distinctive mark.]

   XXXIII

   In her friends’ albums, time had been,
   With blood instead of ink she scrawled,
   Baptized Prascovia Pauline,
   And in her conversation drawled.
   She wore her corset tightly bound,
   The Russian N with nasal sound
   She would pronounce à la Française;
   But soon she altered all her ways,
   Corset and album and Pauline,
   Her sentimental verses all,
   She soon forgot, began to call
   Akulka who was once Celine,
   And had with waddling in the end
   Her caps and night-dresses to mend.

   XXXIV

   As for her spouse he loved her dearly,
   In her affairs ne’er interfered,
   Entrusted all to her sincerely,
   In dressing-gown at meals appeared.
   Existence calmly sped along,
   And oft at eventide a throng
   Of friends unceremonious would
   Assemble from the neighbourhood:
   They growl a bit—they scandalise—
   They crack a feeble joke and smile—
   Thus the time passes and meanwhile
   Olga the tea must supervise—
   ’Tis time for supper, now for bed,
   And soon the friendly troop hath fled.

   XXXV

   They in a peaceful life preserved
   Customs by ages sanctified,
   Strictly the Carnival observed,
   Ate Russian pancakes at Shrovetide,
   Twice in the year to fast were bound,
   Of whirligigs were very fond,
   Of Christmas carols, song and dance;
   When people with long countenance
   On Trinity Sunday yawned at prayer,
   Three tears they dropt with humble mein
   Upon a bunch of lovage green;
   Kvass needful was to them as air;
   On guests their servants used to wait
   By rank as settled by the State.(27)

   [Note 27: The foregoing stanza requires explanation. Russian
   pancakes or “blinni” are consumed vigorously by the lower
   orders during the Carnival. At other times it is difficult
   to procure them, at any rate in the large towns.

   The Russian peasants are childishly fond of whirligigs, which
   are also much in vogue during the Carnival.

   “Christmas Carols” is not an exact equivalent for the Russian
   phrase. “Podbliudni pessni,” are literally “dish songs,” or
   songs used with dishes (of water) during the “sviatki” or Holy
   Nights, which extend from Christmas to Twelfth Night, for
   purposes of divination. Reference will again be made to this
   superstitious practice, which is not confined to Russia. See Note 52.

   “Song and dance,” the well-known “khorovod,” in which the dance
   proceeds to vocal music.

   “Lovage,” the Levisticum officinalis, is a hardy plant growing
   very far north, though an inhabitant of our own kitchen gardens.
   The passage containing the reference to the three tears and
   Trinity Sunday was at first deemed irreligious by the Russian
   censors, and consequently expunged.

   Kvass is of various sorts: there is the common kvass of
   fermented rye used by the peasantry, and the more expensive
   kvass of the restaurants, iced and flavoured with various fruits.

   The final two lines refer to the “Tchin,” or Russian social
   hierarchy. There are fourteen grades in the Tchin assigning
   relative rank and precedence to the members of the various
   departments of the State, civil, military, naval, court,
   scientific and educational. The military and naval grades from
   the 14th up to the 7th confer personal nobility only, whilst
   above the 7th hereditary rank is acquired. In the remaining
   departments, civil or otherwise, personal nobility is only
   attained with the 9th grade, hereditary with the 4th.]

   XXXVI

   Thus age approached, the common doom,
   And death before the husband wide
   Opened the portals of the tomb
   And a new diadem supplied.(28)
   Just before dinner-time he slept,
   By neighbouring families bewept,
   By children and by faithful wife
   With deeper woe than others’ grief.
   He was an honest gentleman,
   And where at last his bones repose
   The epitaph on marble shows:
   Demetrius Larine, sinful man,
   Servant of God and brigadier,
   Enjoyeth peaceful slumber here.

   [Note 28: A play upon the word “venetz,” crown, which also
   signifies a nimbus or glory, and is the symbol of marriage
   from the fact of two gilt crowns being held over the heads
   of the bride and bridegroom during the ceremony. The literal
   meaning of the passage is therefore: his earthly marriage
   was dissolved and a heavenly one was contracted.]

   XXXVII

   To his Penates now returned,
   Vladimir Lenski visited
   His neighbour’s lowly tomb and mourned
   Above the ashes of the dead.
   There long time sad at heart he stayed:
   “Poor Yorick,” mournfully he said,
   “How often in thine arms I lay;
   How with thy medal I would play,
   The Medal Otchakoff conferred!(29)
   To me he would his Olga give,
   Would whisper: shall I so long live?”—
   And by a genuine sorrow stirred,
   Lenski his pencil-case took out
   And an elegiac poem wrote.

   [Note 29: The fortress of Otchakoff was taken by storm on the
   18th December 1788 by a Russian army under Prince Potemkin.
   Thirty thousand Turks are said to have perished during the
   assault and ensuing massacre.]

   XXXVIII

   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.

   XXXIX

   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.

   XL

   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 gratitude 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.