To live it hurries and to feel it hastes.
Prince Vyazemski
I
“My uncle has most honest principles:
when taken ill in earnest,
he has made one respect him
[4] and nothing better could invent.
To others his example is a lesson;
but, good God, what a bore
to sit by a sick man both day and night,
[8] without moving a step away!
What base perfidiousness
the half-alive one to amuse,
adjust for him the pillows,
[12] sadly present the medicine,
sigh—and think inwardly
when will the devil take you?”
Thus a young scapegrace thought,
with posters flying in the dust,
by the most lofty will of Zeus
[4] the heir of all his relatives.
Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!
The hero of my novel,
without preambles, forthwith,
[8] I’d like to have you meet:
Onegin, a good pal of mine,
was born upon the Neva’s banks,
where maybe you were born,
[12] or used to shine, my reader!
There formerly I too promenaded—
but harmful is the North to me.1
[1 For Pushkin’s notes, see below, pp. 313–20]
III
Having served excellently, nobly,
his father lived by means of debts;
gave three balls yearly
[4] and squandered everything at last.
Fate guarded Eugene:
at first, Madame looked after him;
later, Monsieur replaced her.
[8] The child was boisterous but nice.
Monsieur l’Abbé, a poor wretch of a Frenchman,
not to wear out the infant,
would teach him everything in play,
[12] bothered him not with stern moralization,
scolded him slightly for his pranks,
and to the Letniy Sad took him for walks.
Then, when tumultuous youth’s
season for Eugene came,
season of hopes and tender melancholy,
[4] Monsieur was ousted from the place.
Now my Onegin is at large:
hair cut after the latest fashion,
dressed like a London Dandy—2
[8] and finally he saw the World.
In French impeccably
he could express himself and write,
danced the mazurka lightly,
[12] and bowed unconstrainedly—
what would you more? The World decided
he was clever and very nice.
V
All of us had a bit of schooling
in something and somehow:
hence education, God be praised,
[4] is in our midst not hard to flaunt.
Onegin was, in the opinion of many
(judges resolute and stern),
a learned fellow but a pedant.
[8] He had the happy talent,
without constraint, in conversation
slightly to touch on everything,
with an expert’s learned air
[12] keep silent in a grave discussion,
and provoke the smile of ladies
with the fire of unexpected epigrams.
Latin has gone at present out of fashion;
still, to tell you the truth,
he had enough knowledge of Latin
[4] to make out epigraphs,
descant on Juvenal,
put at the bottom of a letter vale,
and he remembered, though not without fault,
[8] two lines from the Aeneid.
He had no urge to rummage
in the chronological dust
of the earth’s historiography,
[12] but anecdotes of days gone by,
from Romulus to our days,
he did keep in his memory.
VII
Lacking the lofty passion
not to spare life for the sake of sounds,
an iamb from a trochee he could not—
[4] no matter how we strove—distinguish;
dispraised Homer, Theocritus,
but read, in compensation, Adam Smith,
and was a deep economist:
[8] that is, he could assess the way
a state grows rich,
and what it lives upon, and why
it needs not gold
[12] when it has got the simple product.
His father could not understand him,
and mortgaged his lands.
All Eugene knew besides
I have no leisure to recount;
but where he was a veritable genius,
[4] what he more firmly knew than all the arts,
what since his prime had been to him
toil, anguish, joy,
what occupied the livelong day
[8] his fretting indolence—
was the art of soft passion
which Naso sang,
wherefore a sufferer he ended
[12] his brilliant and tumultuous span
in Moldavia, in the wild depth of steppes,
far from his Italy.
IX
X
How early he was able to dissemble,
conceal a hope, show jealousy,
shake one’s belief, make one believe,
[4] seem gloomy, pine away,
appear proud and obedient,
attentive or indifferent!
How languorously he was silent,
[8] how flamingly eloquent,
in letters of the heart, how casual!
With one thing breathing, one thing loving,
how self-oblivious he could be!
[12] How quick and tender was his gaze,
bashful and daring, while at times
it shone with an obedient tear!
How he was able to seem new,
to amaze innocence in sport,
alarm with ready desperation,
[4] amuse with pleasant flattery,
catch the minute of softheartedness;
the prejudices of innocent years
conquer by means of wits and passion,
[8] wait for involuntary favors,
beg and demand avowals,
eavesdrop upon a heart’s first sound,
pursue a love—and suddenly
[12] obtain a secret assignation,
and afterward, alone with her,
in the quietness give her lessons!
XII
How early he already could disturb
the hearts of the professed coquettes!
Or when he wanted to annihilate
[4] his rivals,
how bitingly he’d tattle!
What snares prepare for them!
But you, blest husbands,
[8] you remained friends with him:
him petted the sly spouse,
Faublas’ disciple of long standing,
and the distrustful oldster,
[12] and the majestical cornuto,
always pleased with himself,
his dinner, and his wife.
XV
It happened, he’d be still in bed
when little billets would be brought him.
What? Invitations? Yes, indeed,
[4] to a soiree three houses bid him!
here, there will be a ball; elsewhere, a children’s
So whither will my prankster scurry? fete.
Whom will he start with? Never mind:
[8] no problem getting everywhere in time.
Meanwhile, in morning dress,
having donned a broad bolivar,3
Onegin drives to the boulevard
[12] and there goes strolling unconfined
till vigilant Bréguet
to him chimes dinner.
XVI
It is already dark. He gets into a sleigh.
The cry “Way, way!” resounds.
With frostdust silvers
[4] his beaver collar.
To Talon’s4 he has dashed off: he is certain
that there already waits for him [Kavérin];
has entered—and the cork goes ceilingward,
[8] the flow of comet wine has spurted,
a bloody roast beef is before him,
and truffles, luxury of youthful years,
the best flower of French cookery,
[12] and a decayless Strasbourg pie
between a living Limburg cheese
and a golden ananas.
Thirst clamors for more beakers
to drown the hot fat of the cutlets;
but Bréguet’s chime reports to them
[4] that a new ballet has begun.
The theater’s unkind lawgiver,
inconstant worshipper
of the enchanting actresses,
[8] honorary citizen of the coulisses,
Onegin has flown to the theater,
where everybody, breathing criticism,
is ready to applaud an entrechat,
[12] hiss Phaedra, Cleopatra,
call out Moëna—for the purpose
merely of being heard.
XVIII
A magic region! There in olden years
the sovereign of courageous satire,
Fonvizin shone, the friend of freedom,
[4] and adaptorial Knyazhnin;
there Ózerov involuntary tributes
of public tears, of plaudits
shared with the young Semyónova;
[8] there our Katénin resurrected
Corneille’s majestic genius;
there caustic Shahovskóy brought forth
the noisy swarm of his comedies;
[12] there, too, Didelot with glory crowned himself;
there, there, beneath the shelter of coulisses,
my young days swept along.
My goddesses! What has become of you? Where are you?
Hark my sad voice:
Are all of you the same? Have other maidens
[4] taken your place without replacing you?
Am I to hear again your choruses?
Am I to see Russian Terpsichore’s
flight, full of soul?
[8] Or will the mournful gaze not find
familiar faces on the dreary stage,
and at an alien world having directed
a disenchanted lorgnette,
[12] of gaiety indifferent spectator
shall I yawn wordlessly
and bygones recollect?
XX
The house is full already; boxes glitter,
parterre and stalls—all seethes;
in the top gallery impatiently they clap,
[4] and, soaring up, the curtain swishes.
Resplendent, half ethereal,
obedient to the magic bow,
surrounded by a throng of nymphs,
[8] Istómina stands: she,
while touching with one foot the floor,
gyrates the other slowly,
and suddenly a leap, and suddenly she flies,
[12] she flies like fluff from Eol’s lips
now twines and now untwines her waist
and beats one swift small foot against the other.
All clap as one. Onegin enters:
he walks—on people’s toes—between the stalls;
askance, his double lorgnette trains
[4] upon the loges of strange ladies;
he has scanned all the tiers;
he has seen everything; with faces, garb,
he’s dreadfully displeased;
[8] with men on every side
he has exchanged salutes; then at the stage
in great abstraction he has glanced,
has turned away, and yawned,
[12] and uttered: “Time all were replaced;
ballets I’ve long endured,
but even of Didelot I’ve had enough.”5
XXII
Still amors, devils, serpents
on the stage caper and make noise;
still the tired footmen
[4] sleep on the pelisses at the carriage porch;
still people have not ceased to stamp,
blow noses, cough, hiss, clap;
still, outside and inside,
[8] lanterns shine everywhere;
still, feeling chilled, the horses fidget,
bored with their harness,
and the coachmen around the fires
[12] curse their masters and beat their palms together;
and yet Onegin has already left;
he’s driving home to dress.
Shall I present a faithful picture
of the secluded cabinet,
where the exemplary pupil of fashions
[4] is dressed, undressed, and dressed again?
Whatever, for the copious whim,
London the trinkleter deals in
and o’er the Baltic waves
[8] conveys to us for timber and for tallow;
whatever avid taste in Paris,
a useful trade having selected,
invents for pastimes,
[12] for luxury, for modish mollitude;
all this adorned the cabinet
of a philosopher at eighteen years of age.
XXIV
Amber on Tsargrad’s pipes,
porcelain and bronzes on a table,
and—of the pampered senses joy—
[4] perfumes in crystal cut with facets;
combs, little files of steel,
straight scissors, curvate ones,
and brushes of thirty kinds—
[8] these for the nails, those for the teeth.
Rousseau (I shall observe in passing)
could not understand how dignified Grimm
dared clean his nails in front of him,
[12] the eloquent crackbrain.6
The advocate of liberty and rights
was in the present case not right at all.
One can he an efficient man—
and mind the beauty of one’s nails:
why fruitlessly argue with the age?
[4] Custom is despot among men.
My Eugene, a second [Chadáev],
being afraid of jealous censures,
was in his dress a pedant
[8] and what we’ve called a fop.
He three hours, at the least,
in front of mirrors spent,
and from his dressing room came forth
[12] akin to giddy Venus
when, having donned a masculine attire,
the goddess drives to a masquerade.
XXVI
With toilette in the latest taste
having engaged your curious glance,
I might before the learned world
[4] describe here his attire;
this would, no doubt, be bold,
however, ’tis my business to describe;
but “pantaloons,” “dress coat,” “waistcoat”—
[8] in Russian all these words are not;
whereas, I see (my guilt I lay before you)
that my poor style already as it is
might be much less variegated
[12] with outland words,
though I did erstwhile dip
into the Academic Dictionary.
Not this is our concern at present:
we’d better hurry to the ball
whither headlong in a hack coach
[4] already my Onegin has sped off.
In front of darkened houses,
alongst the slumbering street in rows
the twin lamps of coupés
[8] pour forth a merry light
and project rainbows on the snow.
Studded around with lampions,
glitters a splendid house;
[12] across its whole-glassed windows shadows move:
there come and go the profiled heads
of ladies and of modish quizzes.
XXVIII
Up to the entrance hall our hero now has driven;
past the concierge he, like an arrow,
has flown up the marble stairs,
[4] has run his fingers through his hair,
has entered. The ballroom is full of people;
the music has already tired of crashing;
the crowd is occupied with the mazurka;
[8] there’s all around both noise and crush;
there clink the cavalier guard’s spurs;
the little feet of winsome ladies flit;
upon their captivating tracks
[12] flit flaming glances,
and by the roar of violins is drowned
the jealous whispering of fashionable women.
In days of gaieties and desires
I was mad about balls:
there is no safer spot for declarations
[4] and for the handing of a letter.
O you, respected husbands!
I’ll offer you my services;
pray, mark my speech:
[8] I wish to forewarn you.
You too, mammas: most strictly
follow your daughters with your eyes;
hold up your lorgnettes straight!
[12] Or else … else—God forbid!
If this I write it is because
already a long time I do not sin.
XXX
Alas, at various pastimes
I’ve ruined a lot of life!
But if morals did not suffer,
[4] I’d like balls up to now.
I like furious youth,
the crush, the glitter, and the gladness,
and the considered dresses of the ladies;
[8] I like their little feet; but then ’tis doubtful
that in all Russia you will find
three pairs of shapely feminine feet.
Ah me, I long could not forget
[12] two little feet! … Doleful, grown cool,
I still remember them, and in my sleep
they disturb my heart.
So when and where, in what reclusion,
will you forget them, crazy fool?
Ah, little feet, little feet! Where are you now?
[4] Where do you trample vernant blooms?
Fostered in Oriental mollitude,
on the Northern sad snow
you left no prints:
[8] you liked the yielding rugs’
luxurious contact.
Is it long since I would forget for you
the thirst for fame and praises,
[12] the country of my fathers, and confinement?
The happiness of youthful years has vanished
as on the meadows your light trace.
XXXII
Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks,
are charming, dear friends!
However, the little foot of Terpsichore
[4] is for me in some way more charming.
By prophesying to the gaze
an unpriced recompense,
with token beauty it attracts
[8] the willful swarm of longings.
I’m fond of it, my friend Elvina,
beneath the long napery of tables,
in springtime on the turf of meads,
[12] in winter on the hearth’s cast iron,
on mirrory parquet of halls,
by the sea on granite of rocks.
I recollect the sea before a tempest :
how I envied the waves
running in turbulent succession
[4] with love to lie down at her feet!
How much I longed then with the waves
to touch the dear feet with my lips!
No, never midst the fiery days
[8] of my ebullient youth
did I long with such torment
to kiss the lips of young Armidas,
or the roses of flaming cheeks,
[12] or the breasts full of languishment—
no, never did the surge of passions
thus rive my soul!
XXXIV
I have remembrance of another time:
in chary fancies now and then
I hold the happy stirrup
[4] and in my hands I feel a little foot.
Again imagination seethes,
again that touch
has fired the blood within my withered heart,
[8] again the ache, again the love!
But ’tis enough extolling haughty ones
with my loquacious lyre:
they are not worth either the passions
[12] or songs by them inspired;
the words and gaze of these bewitchers
are as deceptive as their little feet.
And my Onegin? Half asleep,
he drives from ball to bed,
while indefatigable Petersburg
[4] is roused already by the drum.
The merchant’s up, the hawker’s on his way,
the cabby to the hack stand drags,
the Okhta girl hastes with her jug,
[8] the morning snow creaks under her.
Morn’s pleasant hubbub has awoken,
unclosed are shutters, chimney smoke
ascends in a blue column,
[12] and the baker, a punctual German
in cotton cap, has more than once
already opened his vasisdas.
XXXVI
But by the ball’s noise tired,
and having morn into midnight transformed,
sleeps peacefully in blissful shade
[4] the child of pastimes and of luxury.
He will awake past midday, and again
till morn his life will be prepared,
monotonous and motley,
[8] and next day same as yesterday.
But was my Eugene happy—
free, in the bloom of the best years,
amidst resplendent conquests,
[12] amidst daily delights?
Was he, midst banquets, with impunity
reckless and hale?
No, feelings early cooled in him.
Tedious to him became the social hum.
The fair remained not long
[4] the object of his customary thoughts.
Betrayals finally fatigued him.
Friends and friendship palled,
since plainly not always could he
[8] beefsteaks and Strasbourg pie
sluice with a champagne bottle
and scatter piquant sayings
when his head ached;
[12] and though he was a fiery scapegrace,
he lost at last his liking
for strife, saber and lead.
XXXVIII
A malady, the cause of which
’tis high time were discovered,
similar to the English “spleen”—
[4] in short, the Russian “chondria”—
took hold of him little by little.
To shoot himself, thank God,
he did not care to try,
[8] but toward life became quite cold.
Like Childe Harold, ill-humored, languid,
in drawing rooms he would appear;
neither the tattle of the monde nor boston,
[12] neither a winsome glance nor an immodest sigh,
nothing moved him,
he noticed nothing.
XXXIX, XL, XLI
Capricious belles of the grand monde!
Before all others you he left;
and it is true that in our years
[4] the upper ton is rather tedious.
Although, perhaps, this or that dame
interprets Say and Bentham,
in general their conversation
[8] is insupportable, though harmless twaddle.
On top of that they are so pure,
so stately, so intelligent,
so full of piety,
[12] so circumspect, so scrupulous,
so inaccessible to men,
that the mere sight of them begets the spleen.7
XLIII
And you, young beauties,
whom at a late hour
fleet droshkies carry off
[4] over the Petersburgan pavement,
you also were abandoned by my Eugene.
Apostate from the turbulent delights,
Onegin locked himself indoors;
[8] yawning, took up a pen;
wanted to write; but persevering toil
to him was sickening: nothing
from his pen issued,
[12] nor did he get into the cocky guild
of people, upon whom I pass no judgment—
since I belong to them.
And once again to idleness consigned,
oppressed by emptiness of soul,
he settled down with the laudable aim
[4] to make his own another’s mind;
he put a troop of books upon a shelf,
read, read—and all without avail:
here there was dullness; there, deceit and raving;
[8] this lacked conscience, that lacked sense;
on all of them were different fetters;
and the old had become old-fashioned,
and the new raved about the old.
[12] As he’d left women, he left books
and, with its dusty tribe, the shelf
with funerary taffeta he curtained.
XLV
Having cast off the burden of the monde’s conventions,
having, as he, from vain pursuits desisted,
with him I made friends at that time.
[4] I liked his traits,
to dreams the involuntary addiction,
nonimitative oddity,
and sharp, chilled mind;
[8] I was embittered, he was sullen;
the play of passions we knew both;
both, life oppressed;
in both, the heart’s glow had gone out;
[12] for both, there was in store the rancor
of blind Fortuna and of men
at the very morn of our days.
He who has lived and thought can’t help
despising people in his soul;
him who has felt disturbs
[4] the ghost of irrecoverable days;
for him there are no more enchantments;
him does the snake of memories,
him does repentance bite.
[8] All this often imparts
great charm to conversation.
At first, Onegin’s language
would trouble me; but I grew used
[12] to his sarcastic argument
and banter blent halfwise with bile
and virulence of gloomy epigrams.
XLVII
How oft in summertide,
when transparent and luminous
is the night sky above the Neva,8
[4] and the gay glass of waters
does not reflect Diana’s visage—
having recalled intrigues of former years,
having recalled a former love,
[8] impressible, carefree again,
the breath of the benignant night
we silently drank in!
As to the greenwood from a prison
[12] a slumbering clogged convict is transferred,
so we’d be borne off by a dream
to the beginning of young life.
With soul full of regrets,
and leaning on the granite,
Eugene stood pensive—
[4] as his own self the Poet9 has described.
’Twas stillness all; only the night
sentries to one another called,
and the far clip-clop of some droshky
[8] from the Mil’onnaya resounded all at once;
only a boat, oars swinging,
swam on the dozing river,
and, in the distance, captivated us
[12] a horn and a daredevil song.
But, sweeter ’mid the pastimes of the night
is the strain of Torquato’s octaves.
XLIX
Adrian waves,
O Brenta! Nay, I’ll see you
and, filled anew with inspiration,
[4] I’ll hear your magic voice!
’Tis sacred to Apollo’s nephews;
through the proud lyre of Albion
to me ’tis known, to me ’tis kindred.
[8] Of golden Italy’s nights
the sensuousness I shall enjoy in freedom,
with a youthful Venetian,
now talkative, now mute,
[12] swimming in a mysterious gondola;
with her my lips will find
the tongue of Petrarch and of love.
Will the hour of my freedom come?
’Tis time, ’tis time! To it I call;
I roam above the sea,10 I wait for the right weather,
[4] I beckon to the sails of ships.
Under the cope of storms, with waves disputing,
on the free crossway of the sea
when shall I start on my free course?
[8] ’Tis time to leave the dreary shore
of the element inimical to me,
and ’mid meridian ripples
beneath the sky of my Africa,11
[12] to sigh for somber Russia,
where I suffered, where I loved,
where I buried my heart.
LI
Onegin was prepared with me
to see alien lands;
but soon we were to be by fate
[4] sundered for a long time.
’Twas then his father died.
Before Onegin there assembled
a greedy host of creditors.
[8] Each has a mind and notion of his own.
Eugene, detesting litigations,
contented with his lot,
relinquished the inheritance to them,
[12] perceiving no great loss therein,
or precognizing from afar
the demise of his aged uncle.
All of a sudden he received indeed
from the steward a report
that uncle was nigh death in bed
[4] and would be glad to bid farewell to him.
The sad epistle having read,
Eugene incontinently to the rendez-vous
drove headlong, traveling post,
[8] and yawned already in anticipation,
preparing, for the sake of money,
for sighs, boredom, and deceit
(and with this I began my novel);
[12] but having winged his way to uncle’s manor,
he found him laid already on the table
as a prepared tribute to earth.
LIII
He found the grounds full of attendants;
to the dead man from every side
came driving foes and friends,
[4] the devotees of funerals.
The dead man was interred,
the priests and guests ate, drank,
and then gravely dispersed,
[8] as though they had been sensibly engaged.
Now our Onegin is a rural dweller,
of workshops, waters, forests, lands,
absolute lord (while up to then
[12] an enemy of order and a wastrel),
and very glad to have exchanged
his former course for something.
During two days seemed to him novel
the secluded fields,
the coolness of the somber park,
[4] the bubbling of the quiet brook;
by the third day, grove, hill, and field
did not divert him any more;
then somnolence already they induced;
[8] then plainly he perceived
that in the country, too, the boredom was the same,
although there were no streets, no palaces,
no cards, no balls, no verses.
[12] The hyp was waiting for him on the watch,
and it kept running after him
like a shadow or faithful wife.
LV
I was born for the peaceful life,
for rural quiet:
the lyre’s voice in the wild is more resounding,
[4] creative dreams are more alive.
To harmless leisures consecrated,
I wander by a wasteful lake
and far niente is my rule.
[8] By every morn I am awakened
unto sweet mollitude and freedom;
little I read, a lot I sleep,
fugitive fame do not pursue.
[12] Was it not thus in former years,
that I spent in inaction, in the [shade],
my happiest days?
Flowers, love, the country, idleness,
ye fields! my soul is vowed to you.
I’m always glad to mark the difference
[4] between Onegin and myself,
lest an ironic reader
or else some publisher
of complicated calumny,
[8] collating here my traits,
repeat thereafter shamelessly
that I have scrawled my portrait
like Byron, the poet of pride
—as if for us it were no longer possible
to write long poems about anything
than just about ourselves!
LVII
In this connection I’ll observe: all poets
are friends of fancifying love.
It used to happen that dear objects
[4] I’d dream of, and my soul
preserved their secret image;
the Muse revived them later:
thus I, carefree, would sing
[8] a maiden of the mountains, my ideal,
as well as captives of the Salgir’s banks.
From you, my friends, at present
not seldom do I hear the question:
[12] “For whom does your lyre sigh?
To whom, in the throng of jealous maids,
have you dedicated its strain?
“Whose gaze, exciting inspiration,
with a touching caress rewarded
your pensive singing?
[4] Whom did your verse idolatrize?”
Faith, nobody, my friends, I swear!
Love’s mad anxiety
I joylessly went through.
[8] Happy who blent with it
the ague of rhymes: thereby he doubled
poetry’s sacred raving,
striding in Petrarch’s tracks;
[12] as to the heart’s pangs, he allayed them,
caught also fame meanwhile—
but I, in love, was dense and mute.
LIX
Love passed, the Muse appeared,
and the dark mind cleared up.
Once free, I seek again the concord
[4] of magic sounds, feelings, and thoughts;
I write, and the heart does not fret;
the pen, lost in a trance, does not delineate
next to unfinished lines,
[8] feminine feet or heads;
extinguished ashes will no more flare up;
I’m melancholy still; but there are no more tears,
and soon, soon the storm’s trace
[12] will hush completely in my soul:
then I shall start to write
a poem in twenty-five cantos or so.
Of the plan’s form I’ve thought already
and what my hero I shall call.
Meantime, my novel’s
[4] first chapter I have finished;
all this I have looked over closely;
the inconsistencies are very many,
but to correct them I don’t wish.
[8] I shall pay censorship its due
and to the reviewers for devourment
give away the fruits of my labors.
Be off, then, to the Neva’s banks,
[12] newborn production!
And deserve for me fame’s tribute,
false interpretations, noise, and abuse!