Aleksandr Pushkin - Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

He read the unbelieving Bayle,
Also the works of Fontenelle,
Some Russian authors he perused—
Nought in the universe refused:

Nor almanacs nor newspapers,
Which lessons unto us repeat,
Wherein I castigation get;
And where a madrigal occurs
Writ in my honour now and then—
E sempre bene , gentlemen!

But what results? His eyes peruse
But thoughts meander far away—
Ideas, desires and woes confuse
His intellect in close array.

His eyes, the printed lines betwixt,
On lines invisible are fixt;
'Twas these he read and these alone
His spirit was intent upon.

They were the wonderful traditions
Of kindly, dim antiquity,
Dreams with no continuity,
Prophecies, threats and apparitions,
The lively trash of stories long
Or letters of a maiden young.

And by degrees upon him grew
A lethargy of sense, a trance,
And soon imagination threw
Before him her wild game of chance.

And now upon the snow in thaw
A young man motionless he saw,
As one who bivouacs afield,
And heard a voice cry— Why! He's killed !—

And now he views forgotten foes,
Poltroons and men of slanderous tongue,
Bevies of treacherous maidens young;
Of thankless friends the circle rose,
A mansion—by the window, see!
She sits alone—'tis ever she !

So frequently his mind would stray
He well-nigh lost the use of sense,
Almost became a poet say—
Oh! what had been his eminence!

Indeed, by force of magnetism
A Russian poem's mechanism
My scholar without aptitude
At this time almost understood.

How like a poet was my chum
When, sitting by his fire alone
Whilst cheerily the embers shone,
He "Benedetta" used to hum,
Or "Idol mio," and in the grate
Would lose his slippers or gazette.

Time flies! a genial air abroad,
Winter resigned her empire white,
Oneguine ne'er as poet showed
Nor died nor lost his senses quite.

Spring cheered him up, and he resigned
His chambers close wherein confined
He marmot-like did hibernate,
His double sashes and his grate,
And sallied forth one brilliant morn—
Along the Neva's bank he sleighs,
On the blue blocks of ice the rays
Of the sun glisten; muddy, worn,
The snow upon the streets doth melt—
Whither along them doth he pelt?

Oneguine whither gallops? Ye
Have guessed already. Yes, quite so!
Unto his own Tattiana he,
Incorrigible rogue, doth go.

Her house he enters, ghastly white,
The vestibule finds empty quite—
He enters the saloon. 'Tis blank!
A door he opens. But why shrank
He back as from a sudden blow?—
Alone the princess sitteth there,
Pallid and with dishevelled hair,
Gazing upon a note below.

Her tears flow plentifully and
Her cheek reclines upon her hand.

Oh! who her speechless agonies
Could not in that brief moment guess!
Who now could fail to recognize
Tattiana in the young princess!

Tortured by pangs of wild regret,
Eugene fell prostrate at her feet—
She starts, nor doth a word express,
But gazes on Oneguine's face
Without amaze or wrath displayed:
His sunken eye and aspect faint,
Imploring looks and mute complaint
She comprehends. The simple maid
By fond illusions once possest
Is once again made manifest.

His kneeling posture he retains—
Calmly her eyes encounter his—
Insensible her hand remains
Beneath his lips' devouring kiss.

What visions then her fancy thronged—
A breathless silence then, prolonged—
But finally she softly said:
"Enough, arise! for much we need
Without disguise ourselves explain.
Oneguine, hast forgotten yet
The hour when—Fate so willed—we met
In the lone garden and the lane?

How meekly then I heard you preach—
To-day it is my turn to teach.

"Oneguine, I was younger then,
And better, if I judge aright;
I loved you—what did I obtain?
Affection how did you requite?

But with austerity!—for you
No novelty—is it not true?—
Was the meek love a maiden feels.
But now—my very blood congeals,
Calling to mind your icy look
And sermon—but in that dread hour
I blame not your behaviour—
An honourable course ye took,
Displayed a noble rectitude—
My soul is filled with gratitude!

"Then, in the country, is't not true?
And far removed from rumour vain;
I did not please you. Why pursue
Me now, inflict upon me pain?—

Wherefore am I your quarry held?—
Is it that I am now compelled
To move in fashionable life,
That I am rich, a prince's wife?—

Because my lord, in battles maimed,
Is petted by the Emperor?—
That my dishonour would ensure
A notoriety proclaimed,
And in society might shed
A bastard fame prohibited?

"I weep. And if within your breast
My image hath not disappeared,
Know that your sarcasm ill-suppressed,
Your conversation cold and hard,
If the choice in my power were,
To lawless love I should prefer—
And to these letters and these tears.
For visions of my childish years
Then ye were barely generous,
Age immature averse to cheat—
But now—what brings you to my feet?—
How mean, how pusillanimous!
A prudent man like you and brave
To shallow sentiment a slave!

"Oneguine, all this sumptuousness,
The gilding of life's vanities,
In the world's vortex my success,
My splendid house and gaieties—

What are they? Gladly would I yield
This life in masquerade concealed,
This glitter, riot, emptiness,
For my wild garden and bookcase,—

Yes! for our unpretending home,
Oneguine—the beloved place
Where the first time I saw your face,—
Or for the solitary tomb
Wherein my poor old nurse doth lie
Beneath a cross and shrubbery.

"'Twas possible then, happiness—
Nay, near—but destiny decreed—
My lot is fixed—with thoughtlessness
It may be that I did proceed—

With bitter tears my mother prayed,
And for Tattiana, mournful maid,
Indifferent was her future fate.
I married—now, I supplicate—

For ever your Tattiana leave.
Your heart possesses, I know well,
Honour and pride inflexible.
I love you—to what end deceive?—