Eugene Oneguine [Onegin] Part 25

Canto the Eighth

[St. Petersburg, Boldino, Tsarskoe Selo, 1880-1881]

I

In the Lyceum's noiseless shade As in a garden when I grew, I Apuleius gladly read But would not look at Cicero.

'Twas then in valleys lone, remote, In spring-time, heard the cygnet's note By waters shining tranquilly, That first the Muse appeared to me.

Into the study of the boy There came a sudden flash of light, The Muse revealed her first delight, Sang childhood's pastimes and its joy, Glory with which our history teems And the heart's agitated dreams.

II

And the world met her smilingly, A first success light pinions gave, The old Derjavine noticed me, And blest me, sinking to the grave.(78) Then my companions young with pleasure In the unfettered hours of leisure Her utterances ever heard, And by a partial temper stirred And boiling o'er with friendly heat, They first of all my brow did wreathe And an encouragement did breathe That my coy Muse might sing more sweet.

O triumphs of my guileless days, How sweet a dream your memories raise!

[Note 78: This touching scene produced a lasting impression on Pushkin's mind. It took place at a public examination at the Lyceum, on which occasion the boy poet produced a poem. The incident recalls the "Mon cher Tibulle" of Voltaire and the youthful Parny (see Note 42). Derjavine flourished during the reigns of Catherine the Second and Alexander the First. His poems are stiff and formal in style and are not much thought of by contemporary Russians. But a century back a very infinitesimal endowment of literary ability was sufficient to secure imperial reward and protection, owing to the backward state of the empire.

Stanza II properly concludes with this line, the remainder having been expunged either by the author himself or the censors. I have filled up the void with lines from a fragment left by the author having reference to this canto.]

III

Pa.s.sion's wild sway I then allowed, Her promptings unto law did make, Pursuits I followed of the crowd, My sportive Muse I used to take To many a noisy feast and fight, Terror of guardians of the night; And wild festivities among She brought with her the gift of song.

Like a Bacchante in her sport Beside the cup she sang her rhymes And the young revellers of past times Vociferously paid her court, And I, amid the friendly crowd, Of my light paramour was proud.

IV

But I abandoned their array, And fled afar--she followed me.

How oft the kindly Muse away Hath whiled the road's monotony, Entranced me by some mystic tale.

How oft beneath the moonbeams pale Like Leonora did she ride(79) With me Caucasian rocks beside!

How oft to the Crimean sh.o.r.e She led me through nocturnal mist Unto the sounding sea to list, Where Nereids murmur evermore, And where the billows hoa.r.s.ely raise To G.o.d eternal hymns of praise.

[Note 79: See Note 30, "Leonora," a poem by Gottfried Augustus Burger, b. 1748, d. 1794.]

V

Then, the far capital forgot, Its splendour and its blandishments, In poor Moldavia cast her lot, She visited the humble tents Of migratory gipsy hordes-- And wild among them grew her words-- Our G.o.dlike tongue she could exchange For savage speech, uncouth and strange, And ditties of the steppe she loved.

But suddenly all changed around!

Lo! in my garden was she found And as a country damsel roved, A pensive sorrow in her glance And in her hand a French romance.

VI

Now for the first time I my Muse Lead into good society, Her steppe-like beauties I peruse With jealous fear, anxiety.

Through dense aristocratic rows Of diplomats and warlike beaux And supercilious dames she glides, Sits down and gazes on all sides-- Amazed at the confusing crowd, Variety of speech and vests, Deliberate approach of guests Who to the youthful hostess bowed, And the dark fringe of men, like frames Enclosing pictures of fair dames.

VII

a.s.semblies oligarchical Please her by their decorum fixed, The rigour of cold pride and all t.i.tles and ages intermixed.

But who in that choice company With clouded brow stands silently?

Unknown to all he doth appear, A vision desolate and drear Doth seem to him the festal scene.

Doth his brow wretchedness declare Or suffering pride? Why is he there?

Who may he be? Is it Eugene?

Pray is it he? It is the same.

"And is it long since back he came?

VIII

"Is he the same or grown more wise?

Still doth the misanthrope appear?

He has returned, say in what guise?

What is his latest character?

What doth he act? Is it Melmoth,(80) Philanthropist or patriot, Childe Harold, quaker, devotee, Or other mask donned playfully?

Or a good fellow for the nonce, Like you and me and all the rest?-- But this is my advice, 'twere best Not to behave as he did once-- Society he duped enow."

"Is he known to you?"--"Yes and No."

[Note 80: A romance by Maturin.]

IX

Wherefore regarding him express Perverse, unfavourable views?

Is it that human restlessness For ever carps, condemns, pursues?

Is it that ardent souls of flame By recklessness amuse or shame Selfish nonent.i.ties around?

That mind which yearns for s.p.a.ce is bound?

And that too often we receive Professions eagerly for deeds, That cra.s.s stupidity misleads, That we by cant ourselves deceive, That mediocrity alone Without disgust we look upon?

X

Happy he who in youth was young, Happy who timely grew mature, He who life's frosts which early wrung Hath gradually learnt to endure; By visions who was ne'er deranged Nor from the mob polite estranged, At twenty who was prig or swell, At thirty who was married well, At fifty who relief obtained From public and from private ties, Who glory, wealth and dignities Hath tranquilly in turn attained, And unto whom we all allude As to a worthy man and good!

XI

But sad is the reflection made, In vain was youth by us received, That we her constantly betrayed And she at last hath us deceived; That our desires which n.o.blest seemed, The purest of the dreams we dreamed, Have one by one all withered grown Like rotten leaves by Autumn strown-- 'Tis fearful to antic.i.p.ate Nought but of dinners a long row, To look on life as on a show, Eternally to imitate The seemly crowd, partaking nought Its pa.s.sions and its modes of thought.

XII

The b.u.t.t of scandal having been, 'Tis dreadful--ye agree, I hope-- To pa.s.s with reasonable men For a fict.i.tious misanthrope, A visionary mortified, Or monster of Satanic pride, Or e'en the "Demon" of my strain.(81) Oneguine--take him up again-- In duel having killed his friend And reached, with nought his mind to engage, The twenty-sixth year of his age, Wearied of leisure in the end, Without profession, business, wife, He knew not how to spend his life.

[Note 81: The "Demon," a short poem by Pushkin which at its first appearance created some excitement in Russian society. A more appropriate, or at any rate explanatory t.i.tle, would have been the _Tempter_. It is descriptive of the first manifestation of doubt and cynicism in his youthful mind, allegorically as the visits of a "demon." Russian society was moved to embody this imaginary demon in the person of a certain friend of Pushkin's.

This must not be confounded with Lermontoff's poem bearing the same t.i.tle upon which Rubinstein's new opera, "Il Demonio," is founded.]

XIII

Him a disquietude did seize, A wish from place to place to roam, A very troublesome disease, In some a willing martyrdom.

Abandoned he his country seat, Of woods and fields the calm retreat, Where every day before his eyes A blood-bespattered shade would rise, And aimless journeys did commence-- But still remembrance to him clings, His travels like all other things Inspired but weariness intense; Returning, from his ship amid A ball he fell as Tchatzki did.(82)

[Note 82: Tchatzki, one of the princ.i.p.al characters in Griboyedoff's celebrated comedy "Woe from Wit" (_Gore ot Ouma_).]

XIV

Behold, the crowd begins to stir, A whisper runs along the hall, A lady draws the hostess near, Behind her a grave general.

Her manners were deliberate, Reserved, but not inanimate, Her eyes no saucy glance address, There was no angling for success.