Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

So let’s enjoy it while we’re able, this giddy, merry life, my friends, it’s all a worthless, futile fable, and of no value in the end. I’ve closed my eyes to all illusions, but sometimes distant hope’s effusions

8 Who is not bored with constant posing, repeating endlessly the same, persuading people by proposing what others have for years proclaimed; encountering the same objections, eradicating misconceptions which never, now or then, have been believed by damsels of thirteen?

40 Our northern summer’s a perversion of winters further south of here; it flickers briefly, a diversion which fades as soon as it appears. The sky was redolent of autumn, the sun came into view but seldom, the days had shortened steadily, the woods’ mysterious canopy, despondent, murmured as it opened, mist slowly settled on the leas, a caravan of honking geese was heading southwards like an omen; a pallid season stood before – November waited at the door.

43 What can one do throughout this season? Step out and stroll? The countryside’s an awful sight, and that by reason of its inert, undignified and naked state. Should one go riding across the barren tundra, sliding upon the treacherous ice below, and risk a fall which lays you low? Well, stay at home, however dreary, and read de Pradt, or Walter Scott! No fun? So tot up what you’ve got, complain, or drink until you’re cheery again; the weeks will pass you by, your winter woes will seem to fly.

46 But now its sparkling froth betrays me, and I prefer demure Bordeaux: its very staidness always saves me from heartburn, leaving me aglow. Champagne is like a brilliant mistress who finds me far too dull and listless, she’s volatile and glittering, yet tritely wayward, twittering. But you, Bordeaux, are like a comrade who will in times of pain and grief provide me with profound relief, a true and steady trusted soul mate, you share our leisure, joy and woe: Long live my trusty friend, Bordeaux!

21 This work, by chance, has been safeguarded, I have it still, so here it is: “Oh where, Oh where have you departed, my springtime’s golden days of bliss? What lies in store for me tomorrow? In vain I’ve tried to see the sorrow awaiting me and hidden deep beyond the murky mists of sleep. It matters not, for fate’s fair-minded: should I be pierced by its sharp dart, or should it miss my aching heart, it’s just! I’ll take it as I find it. Blest be the day with all its grief, blest too the night, which brings relief.

32 Inert he lay, a strange and pallid serenity upon his brow; right through his chest the deadly bullet had passed; the steaming blood flowed now where moments earlier inspiration, aversion, love and expectation had throbbed, where blood had boiled and seethed, where life had shimmered, spirit breathed; but here, as in a house, unlightened and bare, where all is empty, chill, this heart remains forever still, the shutters closed, the windows whitened with chalk. The chatelaine has left, all traces gone, the place bereft.

11 But it is sad to think no purpose was served by all our youthful days, that we betrayed them, made them worthless, that they, too, duped us in their way, that all our very best endeavours, our fresh-faced day-dreams have for ever decayed like leaves in rotting mounds when autumn wafts them to the ground; how odious the thought of eating, and drinking toasts unendingly, life as a mere formality, saluting toffs at genteel meetings with whom one does not even share a thought or feeling anywhere.

12 And if the prattling moral classes make one the target of critique, it’s quite outrageous if one passes (you will agree that it’s a cheek) oneself off as a fake eccentric, a tragic, crazed and wild hysteric, or some infernal, loathsome beast, or my own ‘Demon’ at the least! Eugene (returning to my hero again), since having killed his friend, and never having to attend to duties, twenty-six now, shallow, disinterested, without a wife, had nothing which could fill his life.

And here a gentleman who hated the whole wide world: in epigrams the too-sweet tea was execrated, the ladies’ platitudes were damned, bemedalled sisters with their chatter, a foolish tale that didn’t matter, the other men, reviews of books, the war, the snow, his own wife’s looks.

49 Whoe’er you are, my gentle reader, be you a friend or enemy, it’s time to part, it’s really been a delight to share your company. Farewell! And may you find whatever you’ve searched for in my poor endeavour: tumultuous remembrances, relief from work’s encumbrances, keen images, or faults of grammar, God grant that you may find a crumb of food for relaxation, some refreshment for the heart, some glamour, or fare for battles in reviews … Now let me say farewell to you!