Even so! His pa.s.sions soon abated, Hateful the hollow world became, Nor long his mind was agitated By love's inevitable flame.

For treachery had done its worst; Friends.h.i.+p and friends he likewise curst, Because he could not gourmandise Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies And irrigate them with champagne; Nor slander viciously could spread Whene'er he had an aching head; And, though a plucky scatterbrain, He finally lost all delight In bullets, sabres, and in fight.

x.x.xV

His malady, whose cause I ween It now to investigate is time, Was nothing but the British spleen Transported to our Russian clime.

It gradually possessed his mind; Though, G.o.d be praised! he ne'er designed To slay himself with blade or ball, Indifferent he became to all, And like Childe Harold gloomily He to the festival repairs, Nor boston nor the world's affairs Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh Impressed him in the least degree,-- Callous to all he seemed to be.

x.x.xVI

Ye miracles of courtly grace, He left _you_ first, and I must own The manners of the highest cla.s.s Have latterly vexatious grown; And though perchance a lady may Discourse of Bentham or of Say, Yet as a rule their talk I call Harmless, but quite nonsensical.

Then they're so innocent of vice, So full of piety, correct, So prudent, and so circ.u.mspect Stately, devoid of prejudice, So inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16)

[Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian scholiast remarks:--"The whole of this ironical stanza is but a _refined eulogy_ of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen.

Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV.

Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements, combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael." It will occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair "doth protest too much." The poet in all probability wrote the offending stanza in a fit of Byronic "spleen," as he would most likely himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school seem to a.s.sume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their utterances under its influence for what they are worth.]

x.x.xVII

And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meets Urging your droshkies swift as air Along Saint Petersburg's paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen.

He thought to write, but labour long Inspired him with disgust and so Nought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell among That vicious set whom I don't blame-- Because a member I became.

x.x.xVIII

Once more to idleness consigned, He felt the laudable desire From mere vacuity of mind The wit of others to acquire.

A case of books he doth obtain-- He reads at random, reads in vain.

This nonsense, that dishonest seems, This wicked, that absurd he deems, All are constrained and fetters bear, Antiquity no pleasure gave, The moderns of the ancients rave-- Books he abandoned like the fair, His book-shelf instantly doth drape With taffety instead of c.r.a.pe.

x.x.xIX

Having abjured the haunts of men, Like him renouncing vanity, His friends.h.i.+p I acquired just then; His character attracted me.

An innate love of meditation, Original imagination, And cool sagacious mind he had: I was incensed and he was sad.

Both were of pa.s.sion satiate And both of dull existence tired, Extinct the flame which once had fired; Both were expectant of the hate With which blind Fortune oft betrays The very morning of our days.

XL

He who hath lived and living, thinks, Must e'en despise his kind at last; He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks From shades of the relentless past.

No fond illusions live to soothe, But memory like a serpent's tooth With late repentance gnaws and stings.

All this in many cases brings A charm with it in conversation.

Oneguine's speeches I abhorred At first, but soon became inured To the sarcastic observation, To witticisms and taunts half-vicious And gloomy epigrams malicious.

XLI

How oft, when on a summer night Transparent o'er the Neva beamed The firmament in mellow light, And when the watery mirror gleamed No more with pale Diana's rays,(17) We called to mind our youthful days-- The days of love and of romance!

Then would we muse as in a trance, Impressionable for an hour, And breathe the balmy breath of night; And like the prisoner's our delight Who for the greenwood quits his tower, As on the rapid wings of thought The early days of life we sought.

[Note 17: The midsummer nights in the lat.i.tude of St. Petersburg are a prolonged twilight.]

XLII

Absorbed in melancholy mood And o'er the granite coping bent, Oneguine meditative stood, E'en as the poet says he leant.(18) 'Tis silent all! Alone the cries Of the night sentinels arise And from the Millionaya afar(19) The sudden rattling of a car.

Lo! on the sleeping river borne, A boat with splas.h.i.+ng oar floats by, And now we hear delightedly A jolly song and distant horn; But sweeter in a midnight dream Torquato Ta.s.so's strains I deem.

[Note 18: Refers to Mouravieff's "G.o.ddess of the Neva." At St.

Petersburg the banks of the Neva are lined throughout with splendid granite quays.]

[Note 19: A street running parallel to the Neva, and leading from the Winter Palace to the Summer Palace and Garden.]

XLIII

Ye billows of blue Hadria's sea, O Brenta, once more we shall meet And, inspiration firing me, Your magic voices I shall greet, Whose tones Apollo's sons inspire, And after Albion's proud lyre (20) Possess my love and sympathy.

The nights of golden Italy I'll pa.s.s beneath the firmament, Hid in the gondola's dark shade, Alone with my Venetian maid, Now talkative, now reticent; From her my lips shall learn the tongue Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.

[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron's genius on the imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian tastes, see his poem of "Angelo," founded upon "Measure for Measure."]

XLIV

When will my hour of freedom come!

Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales Awaiting on the sh.o.r.e I roam And beckon to the pa.s.sing sails.

Upon the highway of the sea When shall I wing my pa.s.sage free On waves by tempests curdled o'er!

'Tis time to quit this weary sh.o.r.e So uncongenial to my mind, To dream upon the sunny strand Of Africa, ancestral land,(21) Of dreary Russia left behind, Wherein I felt love's fatal dart, Wherein I buried left my heart.

[Note 21: The poet was, on his mother's side, of African extraction, a circ.u.mstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petrovitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian Amba.s.sador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal's brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. Petersburg for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his G.o.dson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank of general in the Russian service.]

XLV

Eugene designed with me to start And visit many a foreign clime, But Fortune cast our lots apart For a protracted s.p.a.ce of time.

Just at that time his father died, And soon Oneguine's door beside Of creditors a hungry rout Their claims and explanations shout.

But Eugene, hating litigation And with his lot in life content, To a surrender gave consent, Seeing in this no deprivation, Or counting on his uncle's death And what the old man might bequeath.

XLVI

And in reality one day The steward sent a note to tell How sick to death his uncle lay And wished to say to him farewell.

Having this mournful doc.u.ment Perused, Eugene in postchaise went And hastened to his uncle's side, But in his heart dissatisfied, Having for money's sake alone Sorrow to counterfeit and wail-- Thus we began our little tale-- But, to his uncle's mansion flown, He found him on the table laid, A due which must to earth be paid.

XLVII

The courtyard full of serfs he sees, And from the country all around Had come both friends and enemies-- Funeral amateurs abound!

The body they consigned to rest, And then made merry pope and guest, With serious air then went away As men who much had done that day.

Lo! my Oneguine rural lord!

Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes, He now a full possession takes, He who economy abhorred, Delighted much his former ways To vary for a few brief days.

XLVIII

For two whole days it seemed a change To wander through the meadows still, The cool dark oaken grove to range, To listen to the rippling rill.

But on the third of grove and mead He took no more the slightest heed; They made him feel inclined to doze; And the conviction soon arose, Ennui can in the country dwell Though without palaces and streets, Cards, b.a.l.l.s, routs, poetry or fetes; On him spleen mounted sentinel And like his shadow dogged his life, Or better,--like a faithful wife.

XLIX

I was for calm existence made, For rural solitude and dreams, My lyre sings sweeter in the shade And more imagination teems.