Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837) is the poet and writer whom Russians regard as both the source and the summit of their literature. Not only is he revered, like Shakespeare in the English tradition or Goethe in the German, as the supreme national poet, but he has become a kind of cultural myth, an iconic figure around whom a veritable cult of idolatry has been fashioned. This exalted status that Pushkin has been accorded in his own land has been something of a disservice to the living reality of his works, and it contrasts oddly with the more modest reputation that Pushkin has secured abroad. To many non-native readers of Russian literature the panegyrics of his compatriots seem excessive, and indeed, in their eyes, Pushkin has been somewhat overshadowed by the great Russian writers who came after him. They do not comprehend why these writers themselves generally grant him the first and highest place in their pantheon of artistic geniuses.

He wants, if only fleetingly, to capture everything, to absorb it all in his appetite for life—even at the risk of losing himself, or perhaps out of the need to lose himself. And the vision that emerges from this fleeting race through experience is no less perceptive and suggestive than many more lengthy examinations of life. Pushkin’s manner of describing phenomena is fleeting and abrupt because he is never sated, never content, never willing to stay in one place; he has to rush on to the next person or thing that catches his eye. His omnivorous curiosity lends a kind of ‘lightness’ as well as universality to Pushkin’s work—a lightness of touch, weight, and illumination. The quality is legendary in descriptions of Pushkin’s art, but it can be mistaken for superficiality. Our elusive author appears to take few things seriously (not excluding himself) and often poses as a mere ‘entertainer’. Entertaining he certainly is, but if we, as readers, are taken in by his ruse and allow ourselves to become inattentive, we are in danger of missing the subtle and hidden aspect of his art.

The action, set in the imperial Russia of the 1820s, begins in a glittering St Petersburg, moves for an extended stay to the bucolic country estate, sojourns for a chapter in Moscow, and then, as if closing a circle, comes to its end in the capital once more. Along its devious narrative route, the novel treats the reader to an engaging and suspenseful story; to lively scenes of city and country life; to portraits of a socially mixed cast of characters; to evocations of nature in its various seasons; and to a wealth of authorial digression and commentary, à la Byron or Sterne, on the tale in the telling and on sundry literary, philosophical, and autobiographical matters—all in a shifting play of many moods and tones: lyrical, realistic, parodic, romantic, and ironic.

Onegin, in resisting the constrictions of social conventions, adopts the dissident poses of dandy and cynic; but these are only further conventional masks, disguises borrowed from books. Onegin’s lack of a solid identity becomes clear to the reader, and to Tatyana within the novel itself, with the realization that he is mostly a congeries of literary affectations, a parody: he has modelled himself on the currently fashionable Byronic type, while at the same time he appears, in Tatyana’s vivid literary imagination, as the thrilling hero of a Gothic romance. Pushkin has great satirical fun in playing with these various literary echoes and he has his hero, more empty shell than either rebel or demon, confront his fate not in a romantically primordial wilderness, but in the homely setting of a Russian country estate.

Pushkin’s long poem has had some seven English translations prior to this one (the more thorough Germans seem to have produced about twelve), and yet it has continued to be regarded by many as a classic instance of the untranslatable work. Vladimir Nabokov has argued that a literal rendering of Pushkin’s sentences is about the best that can be achieved or even honestly attempted; that any translation that retains the original’s metre and rhyme, since it cannot be faithful to the work’s exact meaning, will necessarily result in a mere paraphrase. In his own translation of the novel, which he proudly labelled a ‘pony’, he shunned, accordingly, both metre and rhyme and gave us a version at once marvellously accurate and rather peculiar, most of its poetry resident in the accompanying commentary rather than in the translation itself. Pushkin, one has to say, loses where Nabokov gains. And of course a ‘literal’ version is, in the end, no less unfaithful to its model than a rhymed and metred one: in place of a work whose austere and harmonious shape is an essential part of its effect, it gives us something ill-proportioned and flaccid, a kind of ‘formal paraphrase’ that seems bland and inert where the original is expressive and alive.

My goddesses! You vanished faces! Oh, hearken to my woeful call: Have other maidens gained your places, Yet not replaced you after all? Shall once again I hear your chants? Or see the Russian muse of dance Perform her soaring, soulful flight? Or shall my mournful gaze alight On unknown faces on the stages? And when across this world I pass A disenchanted opera glass, Shall I grow bored with mirth and rages, And shall I then in silence yawn And recollect a time that’s gone?

While all those cupids, devils, serpents Upon the stage still romp and roar, And while the weary band of servants Still sleeps on furs at carriage door; And while the people still are tapping, Still sniffling, coughing, hissing, clapping; And while the lamps both in and out Still glitter grandly all about; And while the horses, bored at tether, Still fidget, freezing, in the snow, And coachmen by the fire’s glow Curse masters and beat palms together; Onegin now has left the scene And driven home to change and preen.

All this adorned his dressing room, Our sage of eighteen summers’ bloom. 24 Imported pipes of Turkish amber, Fine china, bronzes—all displayed; And purely to delight and pamper, Perfumes in crystal jars arrayed; Steel files and combs in many guises, Straight scissors, curved ones, thirty sizes Of brushes for the modern male— For hair and teeth and fingernail. Rousseau (permit me this digression) Could not conceive how solemn Grimm* Dared clean his nails in front of him, The brilliant madcap of confession. In this case, though, one has to say That Freedom’s Champion went astray. 25 For one may be a man of reason And mind the beauty of his nails. Why argue vainly with the season?— For custom’s rule o’er man prevails.

30 So much of life have I neglected In following where pleasure calls! Yet were not morals ill affected I even now would worship balls. I love youth’s wanton, fevered madness, The crush, the glitter, and the gladness, The ladies’ gowns so well designed; I love their feet—although you’ll find That all of Russia scarcely numbers Three pairs of shapely feet… And yet, How long it took me to forget Two special feet. And in my slumbers They still assail a soul grown cold And on my heart retain their hold.

Another memory finds me ready: In cherished dreams I sometimes stand And hold the lucky stirrup steady, Then feel her foot within my hand! Once more imagination surges, Once more that touch ignites and urges The blood within this withered heart: Once more the love … once more the dart! But stop … Enough! My babbling lyre Has overpraised these haughty things: They’re hardly worth the songs one sings Or all the passions they inspire; Their charming words and glances sweet Are quite as faithless as their feet.

Yes, soon he lost all warmth of feeling: The social buzz became a bore, And all those beauties, once appealing, Were objects of his thought no more. Inconstancy grew too fatiguing; And friends and friendship less intriguing; For after all he couldn’t drain An endless bottle of champagne To help those pies and beefsteaks settle, Or go on dropping words of wit With throbbing head about to split: And so, for all his fiery mettle, He did at last give up his love Of pistol, sword, and ready glove. 38 We still, alas, cannot forestall it— This dreadful ailment’s heavy toll; The spleen is what the English call it, We call it simply Russian soul.

Capricious belles of lofty station! You were the first that he forswore; For nowadays in our great nation, The manner grand can only bore. I wouldn’t say that ladies never Discuss a Say or Bentham*—ever; But generally, you’ll have to grant, Their talk’s absurd, if harmless, cant. On top of which, they’re so unerring, So dignified, so awfully smart, So pious and so chaste of heart, So circumspect, so strict in bearing, So inaccessibly serene, Mere sight of them brings on the spleen.

He dropped you too in sudden fashion. Apostate from the storms of passion, He locked himself within his den And, with a yawn, took up his pen And tried to write. But art’s exaction Of steady labour made him ill, And nothing issued from his quill; So thus he failed to join the faction Of writers—whom I won’t condemn Since, after all, I’m one of them.

46 He who has lived as thinking being Within his soul must hold men small; He who can feel is always fleeing The ghost of days beyond recall; For him enchantment’s deep infection Is gone; the snake of recollection And grim repentance gnaws his heart. All this, of course, can help impart Great charm to private conversation; And though the language of my friend At first disturbed me, in the end I liked his caustic disputation— His blend of banter and of bile, His sombre wit and biting style.

’Whose gaze, evoking inspiration, Rewards you with a soft caress? Whose form, in pensive adoration, Do you now clothe in sacred dress?’ Why no one, friends, as God’s my witness, For I have known too well the witless And maddened pangs of love’s refrain. Oh, blest is he who joins his pain To fevered rhyme: for thus he doubles The sacred ecstasy of art; Like Petrarch then, he calms the heart, Subduing passion’s host of troubles, And captures worldly fame to boot!— But I, in love, was dense and mute.

At first the neighbours’ calls were steady; But when they learned that in the rear Onegin kept his stallion ready So he could quickly disappear The moment one of them was sighted Or heard approaching uninvited, They took offence and, one and all, They dropped him cold and ceased to call. ’The man’s a boor, he‘s off his rocker.’ ‘Must be a Mason;* drinks, they say … Red wine, by tumbler, night and day!’ ‘Won’t kiss a lady’s hand, the mocker.’ ‘Won’t call me “sir” the way he should.’ The general verdict wasn’t good.

Vladimir Lénsky, just returning From Göttingen with soulful yearning, Was in his prime—a handsome youth And poet filled with Kantian truth. From misty Germany our squire Had carried back the fruits of art: A freedom-loving, noble heart, A spirit strange but full of fire, An always bold, impassioned speech, And raven locks of shoulder reach.

He sang of love, by love commanded, A simple and affecting tune, As clear as maiden thoughts, as candid As infant slumber, as the moon In heaven’s peaceful desert flying, That queen of secrets and of sighing. He sang of parting and of pain, Of something vague, of mists and rain; He sang the rose, romantic flower, And distant lands where once he’d shed His living tears upon the bed Of silence at a lonely hour; He sang life’s bloom gone pale and sere— He’d almost reached his eighteenth year.

Ah yes, he loved in such a fashion As men today no longer do; As only poets, mad with passion, Still love … because they’re fated to. He knew one constant source of dreaming, One constant wish forever gleaming, One ever-present cause for pain! And neither distance, nor the chain Of endless years of separation, Nor pleasure’s rounds, nor learning’s well, Nor foreign beauties’ magic spell, Nor yet the Muse, his true vocation, Could alter Lensky’s deep desire, His soul aflame with virgin fire.

35 Amid this peaceful life they cherished, They held all ancient customs dear; At Shrovetide feasts their table flourished With Russian pancakes, Russian cheer; Twice yearly too they did their fasting; Were fond of songs for fortune-casting, Of choral dances, garden swings. At Trinity, when service brings The people, yawning, in for prayer, They’d shed a tender tear or two Upon their buttercups of rue. They needed kvas no less than air, And at their table guests were served By rank in turn as each deserved.

’Let’s go.’ And so the friends departed— And on arrival duly meet That sometimes heavy, but good-hearted, Old-fashioned Russian welcome treat. The social ritual never changes: The hostess artfully arranges On little dishes her preserves, And on her covered table serves A drink of lingonberry flavour. With folded arms, along the hall, The maids have gathered, one and all, To glimpse the Larins’ brand new neighbour; While in the yard their men reproach Onegin’s taste in horse and coach.

41 But finally she rose, forsaken, And, sighing, started home for bed; But hardly had she turned and taken The garden lane, when straight ahead, His eyes ablaze, Eugene stood waiting— Like some grim shade of night’s creating; And she, as if by fire seared, Drew back and stopped when he appeared.… Just now though, friends, I feel too tired To tell you how this meeting went And what ensued from that event; I’ve talked so long that I’ve required A little walk, some rest and play; I’ll finish up another day.

Well, this was my Eugene’s conclusion. In early youth he’d been the prey Of every raging mad delusion, And uncurbed passions ruled the day. Quite pampered by a life of leisure, Enchanted with each passing pleasure, But disenchanted just as quick, Of all desire at length grown sick, And irked by fleet success soon after, He’d hear mid hum and hush alike His grumbling soul the hours strike, And smothered yawns with brittle laughter: And so he killed eight years of youth And lost life’s very bloom, in truth.

I’ll say without wrought-up insistence That, finding my ideal in you, I would have asked you—yes, it’s true— To share my baneful, sad existence, In pledge of beauty and of good, And been as happy … as I could! 14 ’But I’m not made for exaltation: My soul’s a stranger to its call; Your virtues are a vain temptation, For I’m not worthy of them all. Believe me (conscience be your token): In wedlock we would both be broken. However much I loved you, dear, Once used to you … I’d cease, I fear; You’d start to weep, but all your crying Would fail to touch my heart at all, Your tears in fact would only gall.

21 Of course the love of tender beauties Is surer far than friends or kin: Your claim upon its joyous duties Survives when even tempests spin. Of course it’s so. And yet be wary, For fashions change, and views will vary, And nature’s made of wayward stuff— The charming sex is light as fluff. What’s more, the husband’s frank opinion Is bound by any righteous wife To be respected in this life; And so your mistress (faithful minion) May in a trice be swept away: For Satan treats all love as play. 22 But whom to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end? And who’ll be kind enough to measure Our words and deeds as we intend? Who won’t sow slander all about us? Who’ll coddle us and never doubt us? To whom will all our faults be few? Who’ll never bore us through and through? You futile, searching phantom-breeder, Why spend your efforts all in vain; Just love yourself and ease the pain, My most esteemed and honoured reader! A worthy object! Never mind, A truer love you’ll never find.

32 But hush! A strident critic rises And bids us cast away the crown Of elegy in all its guises And to our rhyming guild calls down: ’Have done with all your lamentations, Your endless croakings and gyrations On “former days” and “times of yore”; Enough now! Sing of something more!’ You’re right. And will you point with praises To trumpet, mask, and dagger* too, And bid us thuswise to renew Our stock of dead ideas and phrases? Is that it, friend?—’Far from it. Nay! Write odes,* good sirs, write odes, I say …

34 By thoughts of fame and freedom smitten, Vladimir’s stormy soul grew wings; What odes indeed he might have written, But Olga didn’t read the things. How oft have tearful poets chances To read their works before the glances Of those they love? Good sense declares That no reward on earth compares. How blest, shy lover, to be granted To read to her for whom you long: The very object of your song, A beauty languid and enchanted! Ah, blest indeed … although it’s true, She may be dreaming not of you.

Or sometimes after dinners dreary, When some good neighbour drops in weary— I’ll corner him and catch his coat And stuff him with the play I wrote; Or else (and here I’m far from jesting), When off beside my lake I climb— Beset with yearning and with rhyme— I scare a flock of ducks from resting; And hearing my sweet stanzas soar, They flap their wings and fly from shore.

Our northern summers, though, are versions Of southern winters, this is clear; And though we’re loath to cast aspersions, They seem to go before they’re here! The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled; The friendly sun less often sparkled; The days grew short and as they sped, The wood with mournful murmur shed Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered; The fields all lay in misty peace; The caravan of cackling geese Turned south; and all around there hovered The sombre season near at hand; November marched across the land.

Moët, that wine most blest and heady, Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class, Is brought in bottle chilled and ready And set beside the poet’s glass. Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly, It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly (A simile in many ways); It charmed me too, in other days: For its sake once, I squandered gladly My last poor pence … remember, friend? Its magic stream brought forth no end Of acting foolish, raving madly, And, oh, how many jests and rhymes, And arguments, and happy times! 46 But all that foamy, frothy wheezing Just plays my stomach false, I fear; And nowadays I find more pleasing Sedate Bordeaux’s good quiet cheer. Aï* I find is much too risky, Aï is like a mistress—frisky, Vivacious, brilliant… and too light. But you, Bordeaux, I find just right; You’re like a comrade, ever steady, Prepared in trials or in grief To render service, give relief; And when we wish it, always ready To share a quiet evening’s end. Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!

So Lensky soared as he awaited His wedding day two weeks ahead; With joy his heart anticipated The mysteries of the marriage bed And love’s sweet crown of jubilations. But Hymen’s cares and tribulations, The frigid, yawning days to be, He never pictured once, not he. While we, the foes of Hymen’s banner, Perceive full well that home life means But one long string of dreary scenes— In Lafontaine’s* insipid manner. But my poor Lensky, deep at heart, Was born to play this very part. 51 Yes, he was loved … beyond deceiving … Or so at least with joy he thought. Oh, blest is he who lives believing, Who takes cold intellect for naught, Who rests within the heart’s sweet places As does a drunk in sleep’s embraces, Or as, more tenderly I’d say, A butterfly in blooms of May; But wretched he who’s too far-sighted, Whose head is never fancy-stirred, Who hates all gestures, each warm word, As sentiments to be derided, Whose heart… experience has cooled And barred from being loved … or fooled!

The holy days are here. What gladness! … Bright youth divines, not knowing sadness, With nothing that it must regret, With all of life before it yet— A distance luminous and boundless…. Old age divines with glasses on And sees the grave before it yawn, All thoughts of time returning—groundless; No matter: childish hope appears To murmur lies in aged ears.

Eugene throws wide the door, revealing To monstrous looks and hellish squealing Her slender form; fierce cackles sound In savage glee; all eyes turn round, All hooves and trunks—grotesque and curving, And whiskers, tusks, and tufted tails, Red bloody tongues and snouts and nails, Huge horns and bony fingers swerving— All point at her and all combine To shout as one: ‘She’s mine! She’s mine!’ 20 ‘She’s mine!’ announced Eugene, commanding; And all the monsters fled the room; The maid alone was left there standing With him amid the frosty gloom. Onegin stares at her intently, Then draws her to a corner gently And lays her on a makeshift bed, And on her shoulder rests his head….

Her dream disturbs her, and not knowing What secret message she’d been sent, Tatyana seeks some passage showing Just what the dreadful vision meant. She finds in alphabetic order What clues the index can afford her: There’s bear and blizzard, bridge, and crow, Fir, forest, hedgehog, night, and snow, And many more. But her confusion Martýn Zadéck cannot dispel; The frightful vision must foretell Sad times to come and disillusion. For several days she couldn’t find A way to calm her troubled mind.

He’s brought some news to set them cheering: The regimental band’s appearing! ‘The colonel’s sending it tonight.’ There’ll be a ball! What sheer delight! The girls all jump and grow excited. But dinner’s served. And so by pairs, And arm in arm, they seek their chairs: The girls near Tanya; men delighted To face them; and amid the din, All cross themselves and dig right in.

His unexpected reappearance, That momentary tender look, The strangeness of his interference With Olga—all confused and shook Tatyana’s soul. His true intention Remained beyond her comprehension, And jealous anguish pierced her breast— As if a chilling hand had pressed Her heart; as if in awful fashion A rumbling, black abyss did yawn…. ‘I’ll die,’ she whispers to the dawn, ‘But death from him is sweet compassion. Why murmur vainly? He can’t give The happiness for which I live.’

’Why did you leave last night so early?’ Was all that Olga, smiling, said. Poor Lensky’s muddled mind was swirling, And silently he hung his head. All jealousy and rage departed Before that gaze so openhearted, Before that soft and simple trust, Before that soul so bright and just! With misty eyes he looks on sweetly And sees the truth: she loves him yet! Tormented now by deep regret, He craves her pardon so completely, He trembles, hunts for words in vain: He’s happy now, he’s almost sane….

45 And so, life’s afternoon has started, As I must now admit, I see. But let us then as friends be parted, My sparkling youth, before you flee! I thank you for your host of treasures, For pain and grief as well as pleasures, For storms and feasts and worldly noise, For all your gifts and all your joys; My thanks to you. With you I’ve tasted, Amid the tumult and the still, Life’s essence … and enjoyed my fill. Enough! Clear-souled and far from wasted, I start upon an untrod way To take my rest from yesterday. 46 But one glance back. Farewell, you bowers, Sweet wilderness in which I spent Impassioned days and idle hours, And filled my soul with dreams, content. And you, my youthful inspiration, Come stir the bleak imagination, Enrich the slumbering heart’s dull load, More often visit my abode; Let not the poet’s soul grow bitter Or harden and congeal alone, To turn at last to lifeless stone Amid this world’s deceptive glitter, This swirling swamp in which we lie And wallow, friends, both you and I!

38 Farewell now, scene of fame unsteady, Petróvsky Castle. Hey! Be fleet! There gleam the city gates already! And now along Tverskáya Street The sleigh glides over ruts and passes By sentry booths and peasant lasses; By gardens, mansions, fashion shops; Past urchins, streetlamps, strolling fops, Bokhárins, sleighs, apothecaries, Muzhíks and merchants, Cossack guards; Past towers, hovels, boulevards, Great balconies and monasteries; Past gateway lions’ lifted paws, And crosses dense with flocks of daws.

51 They take her to the Grand Assembly:* And there the crush, the glare, the heat, The music’s roar, the ballroom trembling, The whirling flash of pairs of feet, The beauties in their filmy dresses, The swarming gallery throng that presses, The host of girls on marriage hunts— Assault the senses all at once. Here practised dandies bow and slither To show their gall… and waistcoats too, With negligent lorgnettes in view. Hussars on leave come racing hither To strut their stuff and thunder by, To dazzle, conquer … and to fly.

55 But here let’s honour with affection My Tanya’s conquest taking wing, And steer for now a new direction, Lest I forget of whom I sing— On which, herewith, these observations: l sing strange whims and aberrations, I sing a youthful friend of mine. O Muse of Epics, may you shine On my long work as I grow older! And armed with your good staff, I pray, May I not roam too far astray. Enough! The burden’s off my shoulder! To classicism I’ve been true: The foreword’s here, if overdue.

But who is that among the chosen, That figure standing mute and frozen, That stranger no one seems to know? Before him faces come and go Like spectres in a bleak procession. What is it—martyred pride, or spleen That marks his face? … Is that Eugene?! That figure with the strange expression? Can that be he? It is, I say. ’But when did fate cast him our way? 8 ’Is he the same, or is he learning? Or does he play the outcast still? In what new guise is he returning? What role does he intend to fill? Childe Harold? Melmoth for a while? Cosmopolite? A Slavophile? A Quaker? Bigot?—might one ask? Or will he sport some other mask? Or maybe he’s just dedicated, Like you and me, to being nice? In any case, here’s my advice: Give up a role when it’s outdated. He’s gulled the world … now let it go.’ ’You know him then?’ ‘Well, yes and no.’

10 Oh, blest who in his youth was tender; And blest who ripened in his prime; Who learned to bear, without surrender, The chill of life with passing time; Who never knew exotic visions, Nor scorned the social mob’s decisions; Who was at twenty fop or swell, And then at thirty, married well, At fifty shed all obligation For private and for other debts; Who gained in turn, without regrets, Great wealth and rank and reputation; Of whom lifelong the verdict ran: ’Old X is quite a splendid man.’

12 When one becomes the butt of rumour, It’s hard to bear (as you well know) When men of reason and good humour Perceive you as a freak on show, Or as a sad and raving creature, A monster of Satanic feature, Or even Demon of my pen!* Eugene (to speak of him again), Who’d killed his friend for satisfaction, Who in an aimless, idle fix Had reached the age of twenty-six, Annoyed with leisure and inaction, Without position, work, or wife— Could find no purpose for his life.

With carefree charm and winsome air She took a seat beside the chair Of brilliant Nina Voronskáya,* That Cleopatra of the North; But even Nina, shining forth With all her marble beauty’s fire— However dazzling to the sight— Could not eclipse her neighbour’s light. 17 ’Can it be true?’ Eugene reflected. ’Can that be she? … It seems … and yet… From those backwoods!’ And he directed A curious and keen lorgnette For several minutes in succession Upon the lady whose expression Called up a face from long ago. ’But tell me, Prince, you wouldn’t know Who’s standing there in conversation Beside the Spanish envoy, pray … That lady in the red beret?’ ’You have been out of circulation. But I’ll present you now with joy.’ ’Who is she, though?’ ‘My wife, old boy.’

It’s true! The lady didn’t shiver, Or blush, or suddenly turn white … Or even let an eyebrow quiver, Or press her lips together tight. Although Eugene with care inspected This placid lady, he detected No trace of Tanya from the past. And when he tried to speak at last, He found he couldn’t. She enquired When he’d arrived, and if of late he’d been back home at his estate— Then gave her spouse a look so tired, He took her arm. She moved away … And left Eugene in mute dismay.

27 But my Eugene all evening heeded Tatyana … only her alone: But not the timid maid who’d pleaded, That poor enamoured girl he’d known— But this cool princess so resplendent, This distant goddess so transcendent, Who ruled the queenly Néva’s shore. Alas! We humans all ignore Our Mother Eve’s disastrous history: What’s given to us ever palls, Incessantly the serpent calls And lures us to the tree of mystery: We’ve got to have forbidden fruit, Or Eden’s joys for us are moot.

29 To love all ages yield surrender; But to the young its raptures bring A blessing bountiful and tender— As storms refresh the fields of spring. Neath passion’s rains they green and thicken, Renew themselves with joy, and quicken; And vibrant life in taking root Sends forth rich blooms and gives sweet fruit. But when the years have made us older, And barren age has shown its face, How sad is faded passion’s trace! … Thus storms in autumn, blowing colder, Turn meadows into marshy ground And strip the forest bare all round.

Once more he turned to books and sages. He read his Gibbon and Rousseau; Chamfort, Manzoni, Herder’s pages; Madame de Staël, Bichat, Tissot. The sceptic Bayle he quite devoured, The works of Fontenelle he scoured;* He even read some Russians too, Nor did he scorn the odd review— Those journals where each modern Moses Instructs us in a moral way— Where I’m so much abused today, But where such madrigals and roses I used to meet with now and then: E sempre bene, gentlemen. 36 And yet—although his eyes were reading, His thoughts had wandered far apart; Desires, dreams, and sorrows pleading— Had crowded deep within his heart. Between the printed lines lay hidden Quite other lines that rose unbidden Before his gaze. And these alone Absorbed his soul … as he was shown: The heart’s dark secrets and traditions, The mysteries of its ancient past; Disjointed dreams—obscure and vast; Vague threats and rumours, premonitions; A drawn-out tale of fancies grand, And letters in a maiden’s hand.

‘Onegin, I was then much younger, I daresay better-looking too, And loved you with a girlish hunger; But what did I then find in you? What answer came? Just stern rejection. A little maiden’s meek affection To you, I’m sure, was trite and old. Oh God!—my blood can still turn cold When I recall how you reacted: Your frigid glance … that sermonette! … But I can’t blame you or forget How nobly in a sense you acted, How right toward me that awful day: I’m grateful now in every way….