Eugene Onegin

FRAGMENTS OF ONEGIN’S JOURNEY¹

FOREWORD

The omitted stanzas gave rise to frequent reproofs and gibes (no doubt most just and witty). The author candidly confesses that he deleted from his novel an entire chapter describing Onegin’s journey through Russia. It was incumbent on him to indicate this omitted chapter by means of dots or a numeral; but in order to avoid confusion he decided it would be better to mark the last chapter as number eight instead of nine, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas:

It’s time: for peace the pen is asking;

Nine cantos done, and ninth the wave

That lifts my boat and sets it basking

Upon the joyous seashore, safe –

Praise be to you, O nine Camenae,² etc.

P. A. Katenin (whom a fine poetic talent does not prevent from being also a subtle critic) remarked to us that this deletion, while perhaps advantageous for the reader, spoils the plan of the entire work, since, as a result, the transition from Tatiana the provincial miss to Tatiana the grande dame becomes too unexpected and unexplained – an observation revealing the experienced artist. The author himself felt the justice of this, but decided to leave out the chapter for reasons important to him and not to the public. Some fragments have been published; we give them here with several adjoining stanzas.

E. Onegin leaves Moscow for Nizhny Novgorod:

1

… In front of him,

Makaryev,³ kicking up a shindy,

Seethes with its rich emporium:

Pearls imported by the Indian,

Wines by the European watered,

The breeder from the steppe-land speeds

To sell his herd of cast-off steeds;

The gamester wagers all his cash on

His card decks and obliging dice,

The squire brings daughters ripe in size,

His daughters come with last year’s fashion,

Each bustles, lies enough for two –

A trading spirit rules right through.

2

Ennui!

Onegin travels to Astrakhan, and thence to the Caucasus.

3

He sees the wayward Terek,⁴ scoring

Its banks in their abrupt descent,

In front of him an eagle soaring,

A standing deer with antlers bent;

A camel lies in rocky shadows.

And a Circassian’s steed through meadows

Races; the sheep of Kalmuks graze

Round nomad tents; Onegin’s gaze

Takes in the far Caucasian masses.

The way is opened: war defied

The country’s natural divide,

The perils of its mountain passes;

Where the Kura, Aragva⁵ whirled,

There were the Russian tents unfurled.⁶

4

Now, watchman of the desolation,

Beshtu,⁷ hemmed in by hills, is seen,

Sharp-peaked, at its eternal station,

And there Mashuk, now turning green,

Pours healing streams from its recesses;

Around its magic brooklets presses

A pallid swarm of invalids,

The victims, some of martial deeds,

Others of piles or Aphrodite;

These sufferers hope to reinforce

Life’s thread at this prodigious source:

Coquettes – to drown the notoriety

Of wicked years, and ancient men –

To bring back briefly youth again.

5

Immersed in bitter meditation,

Amidst this melancholy crew,

Onegin looks with lamentation

Upon the waters’ steamy flow,

And thinks, with sadness overclouded:

Why has no bullet in me landed?

Why is it I’m not old, infirm,

Like him, poor taxman at his term?

Why is it I’m not paralytic

Like him, the clerk of Tula town?

Why don’t I in my shoulder bone

Feel just the slightest bit rheumatic?

I’m young, o Lord, there’s life in me:

What’s there to come? Ennui, ennui!

Onegin then visits Tauris:

6

You, land of the imagination:

Saw Pylades, Orestes⁸ strive,

And Mithridates⁹ take his life;

There Mickiewicz sang his passion¹⁰

And midst the coastal cliffs afar

Recalled his Lithuania.

7

How beautiful, when day is dawning,

To see you, shores of Tauris, when

My ship reflects the star of morning –

Thus first you came into my ken;

In bridal brilliance apparent,

The sky behind you, blue, transparent,

The masses of your mountains shone,

Villages, trees and valleys spun

A pattern spreading out before me.

And there, among the Tatar dens…

What ardour roused my sleeping sense!

What magic longing caught me, bore me

What yearning pressed my flaming heart!¹¹

But with the past, Muse, let me part.

8

Whatever feelings then lay hidden

Within me – now they are no more:

They went or changed, no longer bidden…

Peace unto you, alarms of yore!

It seemed it was the wild I needed,

The pearl-edged waves that flowed, receded,

The noise of sea, the rocks’ cascade,

And my ideal of proud, young maid,

And nameless torment, tribulation…

Now other days, now other dreams,

My springtime’s fancies, high-flown themes

You’ve quietened down, with resignation,

And into my poetic glass

Much water have I mixed, alas.

9

I need another kind of image:

A sandy, sloping eminence,

Two rowans and a little cottage,

A wicket gate, a broken fence,

The sky when greyish clouds are passing,

The straw before the thresh-barn massing,

A pond beneath dense willow trees

And ducklings doing as they please;

I’ m fond now of the balalaika

And, at the tavern’s door, the pack

Of drunkards stamping the trepak.¹²

Now my ideal’s a housewife – like her,

It’s peace alone that I desire,

‘And cabbage soup, while I’m the squire.’¹³

10

When recently in rainy weather

I dropped into the cattle yard…

But fie on such prosaic blather,

The motley dross of Flemish art!

Was such my habit in my heyday?

O fountain of Bakhchisaray,¹⁴ say!

Were such the thoughts your endless sound

Communicated to my mind,

When, watching you in silent wonder,

Zarema first appeared to me

Midst empty halls of luxury?…

Three years since then, and who should wander

Along my tracks, if not Eugene,

Recalling me, though long unseen.

11

I lived in dust-submerged Odessa…

There for a long time skies are clear,

Abundant trade that knows no leisure

Readies its sails for every sphere;

By Europe all things are invaded,

The South shines out in variegated

And lively multiformity.

The tongue of golden Italy

Resounds along the merry pavement,

Where our imperious Slav walks cheek-

By-jowl with Frenchman, Spaniard, Greek,

Armenian, ponderous Moldavian

And son of Egypt, Morali,¹⁵

Corsair, retired now from the sea.

12

Our friend Tumansky¹⁶ has depicted

Odessa in resounding rhyme,

But partiality restricted

His observations at the time.

Arriving in the town, our poet,

Armed with lorgnette, set off to know it,

Alone, above the sea – and then,

Employing an enchanting pen,

Extolled the gardens of Odessa.

All that is well and good, except

That round about is naked steppe;

In some few spots a recent measure

Has forced young boughs on sultry days

To mitigate the solar rays.

13

But where now is my rambling story?

Inside Odessa’s dust bowl, I

Might well have said its ‘dirty quarry’,

And that would not have been a lie.

For five, six weeks a year Odessa,

At Zeus’s tempest-bringing pleasure,

Is flooded, blocked, its conduits burst,

Into the thickest mud immersed,

With houses sinking two feet under;

Only pedestrians on stilts

Dare breach the cumulative silts;

The coaches and the people flounder,

And oxen, horns inclined, replace

The horses with their feeble pace.

14

But hammers are already cracking

The stones, and soon the sunken town

Will have acquired a novel backing

As if with armour plated down.

However, in this moist Odessa

There’s something missing to refresh her;

Why, water! What would you have thought?

Some reconstruction must be wrought…¹⁷

But really, this is no great sorrow,

Particularly, you’ll agree,

When wine’s imported duty-free.

There’s Southern sun and sea tomorrow…

Where better, friends, to spend your time

Or find a more propitious clime?

15

Time was, no sooner had day risen,

Marked by the naval cannonry,

Than, running down with expedition,

I’d leave the steep shore for the sea.

Then, by the briny breakers freshened,

Smoking a pipe near incandescent,

Like Muslims in their paradise,

Coffee with Eastern grounds I’d prize,

And leave then for a stroll. Already,

The generous casino¹⁸ hums;

Cups clash; the sleepy marker comes

On to the balcony, unsteady,

With broom in hand, while at the hall

Two merchants, meeting, make their call.

16

Look now – the square has put on motley.

All is alive: the people there,

On business or without, run hotly,

But most of them with some affair.

The merchant, child of cautious daring,

Tells from the ensigns how he’s faring,

Whether he’s favoured by the skies

With sails that he can recognize.

What novel wares from sundry nations

Have entered into quarantine?

Where are the promised casks of wine?

What news of plague and conflagrations?

Of famine or another war,

Or something new, but similar?

17

But we, young fellows, blithely standing

Alongside anxious merchants, had

Eyes only for the vessel landing,

That brought us oysters from Tsargrad.

Has it arrived? What joy, what pleasure!

Youth, avaricious beyond measure,

Flies off to swallow from the shell

The cloistered molluscs, live and well,

Besprinkling them with lemon lightly.

Noise, arguments – light wine is brought

Straight from the cellars to our board,

Where good Oton¹⁹ serves us politely.

The hours fly by, while the account

Reaches unseen a grim amount.

18

But evening’s blue already thickens,

The opera now calls to us,

Rossini, Europe’s darling, beckons –

Th’ intoxicating Orpheus.

To criticism inattentive,

Selfsame as ever, new, inventive,

He pours out tunes that effervesce,

Cascade and flow and incandesce,

They burn like youthful lovers’ kisses

In flames of love, in luxury,

Or like the spurt and golden spray

Of an Aí when out it fizzes…

But, gentlemen, who can define

Do-re-mi-sol in terms of wine?

19

But are these all its delectations?

What of the quizzical lorgnette?

What of the backstage assignations?

The prima donna, the ballet?

The box where, in her beauty shining,

A trader’s youthful wife,²⁰ reclining,

Disdainful and in languid pose,

Whom pressing throngs of slaves enclose?

She hears, hears not the cavatina,

Nor the entreaties or the jests,

Halfway with flattery expressed…

While just behind her in a corner

Her husband dozes, shouts ‘encore’,

Yawns – and begins again to snore.

20

At last there thunders the finale;

The noisy audience greets the night;

The square to which the people rally

Is lit by stars and lantern light.

Ausonia’s²¹ sons are gently singing

A playful tune that goes on ringing

Inside their heads and will not leave,

While we roar out the recitative.

But it is late. Odessa’s sleeping;

The night is warm and mute and still.

The moon has risen, and a veil,

Diaphanously light, is draping

The sky. All’s silent; save the roar

Of Black Sea waves upon the shore…

21

And so I lived then in Odessa…