Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 12

But finally she heaves a sigh, And rising from her bench proceeds; But scarce had turned the corner nigh, Which to the neighbouring alley leads, When Eugene like a ghost did rise Before her straight with roguish eyes.

Tattiana faltered, and became Scarlet as burnt by inward flame.

But this adventure's consequence To-day, my friends, at any rate, I am not strong enough to state; I, after so much eloquence, Must take a walk and rest a bit-- Some day I'll somehow finish it.

End of Canto the Third

CANTO THE FOURTH

Rural Life

'La Morale est dans la nature des choses.'--Necker

Canto The Fourth

[Mikhailovskoe, 1825]

I

THE less we love a lady fair The easier 'tis to gain her grace, And the more surely we ensnare Her in the pitfalls which we place.

Time was when cold seduction strove To swagger as the art of love, Everywhere trumpeting its feats, Not seeking love but sensual sweets.

But this amus.e.m.e.nt delicate Was worthy of that old baboon, Our fathers used to dote upon; The Lovelaces are out of date, Their glory with their heels of red And long perukes hath vanished.

II

For who imposture can endure, A constant harping on one tune, Serious endeavours to a.s.sure What everybody long has known; Ever to hear the same replies And overcome antipathies Which never have existed, e'en In little maidens of thirteen?

And what like menaces fatigues, Entreaties, oaths, fict.i.tious fear, Epistles of six sheets or near, Rings, tears, deceptions and intrigues, Aunts, mothers and their scrutiny, And husbands' tedious amity?

III

Such were the musings of Eugene.

He in the early years of life Had a deluded victim been Of error and the pa.s.sions' strife.

By daily life deteriorated, Awhile this beauty captivated, And that no longer could inspire.

Slowly exhausted by desire, Yet satiated with success, In solitude or worldly din, He heard his soul's complaint within, With laughter smothered weariness: And thus he spent eight years of time, Destroyed the blossom of his prime.

IV

Though beauty he no more adored, He still made love in a queer way; Rebuffed--as quickly rea.s.sured, Jilted--glad of a holiday.

Without enthusiasm he met The fair, nor parted with regret, Scarce mindful of their love and guile.

Thus a guest with composure will To take a hand at whist oft come: He takes his seat, concludes his game, And straight returning whence he came, Tranquilly goes to sleep at home, And in the morning doth not know Whither that evening he will go.

V

However, Tania's letter reading, Eugene was touched with sympathy; The language of her girlish pleading Aroused in him sweet reverie.

He called to mind Tattiana's grace, Pallid and melancholy face, And in a vision, sinless, bright, His spirit sank with strange delight.

May be the empire of the sense, Regained authority awhile, But he desired not to beguile Such open-hearted innocence.

But to the garden once again Wherein we lately left the twain.

VI

Two minutes they in silence spent, Oneguine then approached and said: "You have a letter to me sent.

Do not excuse yourself. I read Confessions which a trusting heart May well in innocence impart.

Charming is your sincerity, Feelings which long had ceased to be It wakens in my breast again.

But I came not to adulate: Your frankness I shall compensate By an avowal just as plain.

An ear to my confession lend; To thy decree my will I bend.

VII

"If the domestic hearth could bless-- My sum of happiness contained; If wife and children to possess A happy destiny ordained: If in the scenes of home I might E'en for an instant find delight, Then, I say truly, none but thee I would desire my bride to be-- I say without poetic phrase, Found the ideal of my youth, Thee only would I choose, in truth, As partner of my mournful days, Thee only, pledge of all things bright, And be as happy--as I might.

VIII

"But strange am I to happiness; 'Tis foreign to my cast of thought; Me your perfections would not bless; I am not worthy them in aught; And honestly 'tis my belief Our union would produce but grief.

Though now my love might be intense, Habit would bring indifference.

I see you weep. Those tears of yours Tend not my heart to mitigate, But merely to exasperate; Judge then what roses would be ours, What pleasures Hymen would prepare For us, may be for many a year.

IX

"What can be drearier than the house, Wherein the miserable wife Deplores a most unworthy spouse And leads a solitary life?

The tiresome man, her value knowing, Yet curses on his fate bestowing, Is full of frigid jealousy, Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.

Such am I. This did ye expect, When in simplicity ye wrote Your innocent and charming note With so much warmth and intellect?

Hath fate apportioned unto thee This lot in life with stern decree?

X

"Ideas and time ne'er backward move; My soul I cannot renovate-- I love you with a brother's love, Perchance one more affectionate.

Listen to me without disdain.

A maid hath oft, may yet again Replace the visions fancy drew; Thus trees in spring their leaves renew As in their turn the seasons roll.

'Tis evidently Heaven's will You fall in love again. But still-- Learn to possess more self-control.

Not all will like myself proceed-- And thoughtlessness to woe might lead."

XI

Thus did our friend Oneguine preach: Tattiana, dim with tears her eyes, Attentive listened to his speech, All breathless and without replies.

His arm he offers. Mute and sad (_Mechanically_, let us add), Tattiana doth accept his aid; And, hanging down her head, the maid Around the garden homeward hies.

Together they returned, nor word Of censure for the same incurred; The country hath its liberties And privileges nice allowed, Even as Moscow, city proud.

XII

Confess, O ye who this peruse, Oneguine acted very well By poor Tattiana in the blues; 'Twas not the first time, I can tell You, he a n.o.ble mind disclosed, Though some men, evilly disposed, Spared him not their asperities.

His friends and also enemies (One and the same thing it may be) Esteemed him much as the world goes.

Yes! every one must have his foes, But Lord! from friends deliver me!

The deuce take friends, my friends, amends I've had to make for having friends!

XIII

But how? Quite so. Though I dismiss Dark, unavailing reverie, I just hint, in parenthesis, There is no stupid calumny Born of a babbler in a loft And by the world repeated oft, There is no fishmarket retort And no ridiculous report, Which your true friend with a sweet smile Where fashionable circles meet A hundred times will not repeat, Quite inadvertently meanwhile; And yet he in your cause would strive And loves you as--a relative!