Rousseau40 (I’ll note with your permission)
Could not conceive how solemn Grimm41
Dared clean his nails in front of him,
The madcap sage and rhetorician.
Champion of rights and liberty,
In this case judged wrong-headedly.
25
One still can be a man of action
And mind the beauty of one’s nails:
Why fight the age’s predilection?
Custom’s a despot and prevails.
My Eugene, like Chaadaev,42 fearful
Of jealous censure, was most careful
About his dress – a pedant or
A dandy, as we said before.
At least three hours he spent preparing
In front of mirrors in his lair,
And, stepping out at last from there,
Looked like a giddy Venus wearing
A man’s attire, who, thus arrayed,
Drives out to join a masquerade.
26
Having diverted you concerning
The latest taste in toiletry,
I could regale the world of learning
With his sartorial repertory;
An enterprise that’s bold, I know it,
Yet, after all, I am a poet:
But pantalons, frac and gilet43
Are still not Russian words today.
Indeed, I offer my excuses,
Since my poor style, such as it is,
Could well forgo the vanities
Of foreign words and like abuses,
Though I dipped into, formerly,
The Academic Dictionary.
27
But to continue with our story:
We’d better hurry to the ball
To which Onegin in his glory
Has sped by coach to make his call.
Through sleeping streets, past houses darkened
Twin carriage lamps pour out a jocund
Illumination row on row,
Projecting rainbows on the snow;
With lampions around it scattered,
A splendid house is brightly lit,
Past whole-glass windows shadows flit
And profiled heads are silhouetted
Of ladies, and outlandish men –
Fashion’s most recent specimen.
28
Behold our hero at the doorway;
Past the hall porter like a dart
He flies, ascends the marble stairway,
Flicking his straying hair apart,
Enters. The ballroom’s full to brimming;
The music now is tired of dinning;
Mazurkas entertain the crowd;
The room is packed, the noise is loud;
The spurs of Chevalier Gardes44 jangle,
The little feet of ladies fly;
Their charming tracks are followed by
Glances that fly from every angle,
And jealous female whisperings
Are deafened by the howling strings.
29
In days of revelries and passions
I’d go insane about a ball:
For billets doux and declarations
There’s no securer place at all,
Respected husbands! May I offer
My service to you lest you suffer;
I beg you, note my every word,
I want you always on your guard.
And you, mammas, pay more attention,
Observe your daughters’ etiquette
And keep a hold on your lorgnette!
Or else… you’ll need God’s intervention!
I’m only writing this to show
That I stopped sinning long ago.
30
Alas, much life I have neglected
For every pastime thinkable,
Yet were my morals not affected,
I to this day would love a ball.
I love the youthfulness and madness,
The crush, the glitter and the gladness,
The care with which the women dress;
I love their little feet, yet guess
You’d be unlikely to discover
Three shapely pairs of women’s feet
In all of Russia. Long indeed
Have two small feet caused me to suffer…
Sad, cold, I still recall their smart,
And in my sleep they stir my heart.
31
To what far desert will you wander,
Madman, to overcome their sting?
Ah, little, little feet! I wonder
Where now you crush the flowers of spring?
Born to the softness of the orient,
On our sad snows you left no imprint:
You loved the sumptuous feel instead
Of rugs that yielded to your tread,
You lived in luxury, refinement.
For you how long ago did I
Forget renown and eulogy,
My native land and my confinement?
The happiness of youth has passed
Like your light trace on meadow grass.
32
Diana’s45 breast, the cheeks of Flora,46
Are charming, friends, I do agree,
But somehow what enchant me more are
The small feet of Terpsichore.
To all who gaze on them magnetic,
Of priceless recompense prophetic,
Their classic gracefulness inspires
A wilful swarming of desires.
I love them, dear Elvina,47 under
A lengthy tablecloth or pressed
On grass in spring or when they rest
In winter on a cast-iron fender,
Upon the parquet floors of halls,
Beside the sea on granite walls.
33
Once by the sea, a storm impending,
I recollect my envy of
The waves, successively descending,
Collapsing at her feet with love.
Oh how I wished to join their races
And catch her feet in my embraces!
No, never did I in the fire
Of my ebullient youth desire
To kiss with so much pain and hunger
A young Armida’s48 lips or seek
The rose upon a flaming cheek
Or touch a bosom full of languor;
No, never did a passion’s squall
So rend and tear apart my soul.
34
Another memory comes, revealing
A cherished dream in which I stand
Holding a happy stirrup… feeling
A tiny foot inside my hand.
Imagination seethes, excited,
Once more its contact has ignited
The blood within my withered heart,
Once more I love, once more I smart!…
But why should I think it my duty
To praise these proud ones with my lyre,
Who don’t deserve the passions or
The songs engendered by their beauty.
Their charming words and glances cheat
As surely as… their little feet.
35
But my Onegin? Home to bed he
Drives sleepily through city streets,
While restless Petersburg already
Is wakened by the drummer’ beats.
The merchant’s up, the hawker’s calling,
And to his stand the cabman’s crawling,
The Okhta49 girl, her jug held tight,
Crunches the snow in hurried flight.
The early-morning noise is cheering,
Shutters unlock, in columns high
Blue chimney smoke ascends the sky,
The baker, punctual German, wearing
His cotton cap, already has
Opened and shut his vasisdas.50
36
But, turning morning into nighttime,
Exhausted by the ballroom’s din,
The child of luxury
and pastime
In blissful shade sleeps quietly in.
He’ll wake past noon, and till next morning
His selfsame life will go on turning
In its unchanging, motley way,
Tomorrow just like yesterday.
And yet how happy was my Eugene –
A free man in the bloom of years
‘midst splendid conquests and affairs,
‘midst daily pleasures to indulge in?
Was it in vain that, feasting, he
Displayed such health and levity?
37
No: soon a coldness numbed his feeling;
The social hubbub left him bored;
The fair sex ceased to be appealing,
To dominate his every thought.
Betrayals no more entertained him,
While friends and friendships simply pained him,
Since he, not always, it was plain,
Could drink a bottle of champagne,
To down a Strasbourg pie and beef-steaks,
And scatter caustic words of wit,
While thinking that his head might split;
And he, a fiery rake, his leave takes
Of that exhilerating life
Of sabre, lead and martial strife.
38
A malady, whose explanation
Is overdue, and similar
To English spleen – the Russian version,
In short, is what we call khandra –51
Possessed him bit by bit; not tempted,
Thank God, to shoot himself, but, emptied
Of all attachment to this life,
He, like Childe Harold,52 would arrive
In drawing rooms, dejected, languid;
Neither the worldly gossiping,
Nor game of boston,53 then in swing,
Immodest sighs or glances candid,
Naught touched Onegin to the core
He noticed nothing any more.
[39, 40, 41]
42
Capricious ladies of society!
You were the first ones he forswore,
And, in our years, bon ton,54 propriety
Have, it is true, become a bore;
While you may find a dame among them,
Elucidating Say and Bentham,55
Their conversation, all in all,
While harmless, is nonsensical;
On top of that, they are so gracious,
Majestic and intelligent,
So full of pious sentiment,
So circumspect, precise and precious,
So inaccessible to men,
The sight of them brings on the spleen.56
43
And even you, young beauties, gracing
The droshkies that career away,
Over the city’s pavements racing
From late at night to break of day,
You, too, he left in equal measure.
An apostate from stormy pleasure,
He locked himself inside his den,
Yawning, he reached out for a pen,
He wished to write – but could not manage
The pain of persevering toil,
Nothing proceeded from his quill,
Nor did he join that cocky parish
Or guild of which I’ll speak no wrong,
Since it’s among them I belong.
44
And once more given to inaction,
Empty in spirit and alone,
He settled down – to the distraction
Of making other minds his own;
Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful,
Read, read, not even one was helpful:
Here, there was dullness, there pretence;
This one lacked conscience, that one sense;
All were by different shackles fettered;
And, past times having lost their hold,
The new still raved about the old.
Like women, books he now deserted,
And mourning taffeta he drew
Across the bookshelf’s dusty crew.
45
Disburdened of the world’s opinions,
Like him, disdaining vanity,
At that time we became companions.
I liked his personality,
The dreams to which he was addicted,
The oddness not to be depicted,
The sharp, chilled mind and gloomy bent
That rivalled my embitterment.
We both had known the play of passions,
By life we both had been oppressed;
In each the heart had lost its zest;
Each waited for the machinations
Of men, and blind Fortuna’s gaze,
Blighting the morning of our days.
46
He who has lived and thought can never
Help in his soul despising men,
He who has felt will be forever
Haunted by days he can’t regain.
For him there are no more enchantments,
Him does the serpent of remembrance,
Him does repentance always gnaw.
All this will frequently afford
A great delight to conversations.
Initially, I was confused
By Eugene’s speech, but I grew used
To his abrasive disputations,
His humour halfway mixed with bile
And epigrams in sombre style.
47
How often did the summer court us,
When skies at night are limpid, bright57
And when the cheerful, glass-like waters
Do not reflect Diana’s light;
Recalling former years’ romances,
Recalling love that time enhances,
With tenderness, with not a care,
Alive, at liberty once more,
The breath of the indulgent night!
Just as a sleepy convict might
Be carried from incarceration
Into a greenwood, so were we
Borne to our youth by reverie.
48
Leaning upon a ledge of granite,
His soul full of regrets and woes,
Eugene stood pensively (the Poet58
Himself appears in such a pose).
All round was silent, save a sentry
Hailing another, or the entry,
With sudden clip-clop from afar,
Of droshkies in Millionaya.59
Upon the sleeping river, gliding,
Sailed one lone boat with waving oars,
Bold song and horn from distant shores
Charmed us… but what is more delighting
Than on a merry night to hear
Toquato’s octaves drawing near!
49
O Adriatic waves, o Brenta!60
Nay, I shall see you and rejoice,
With inspiration new I’ll enter
And hearken to your magic voice!
To grandsons of Apollo sacred,
I know it well, to me it’s kindred
From Albion’s proud poetry.61
The nights of golden Italy
I’ll spend with a Venetian daughter,
Now talkative, now mute; with her
In a mysterious gondola
Voluptuously through the water
My lips will study how to move
In Petrarch’s62 tongue, the tongue of love.
50
My hour of freedom, is it coming?
I call to it: it’s time, it’s time!
Above the sea, forever roaming,63
I beckon every sail and clime.
Mantled by storms, with waves contending,
Upon the sea’s free crossway wending,
When shall I start my freedom’s flight?
Dull shore that gives me no delight,
It’s time to leave you for the ocean,
That swells beneath a Southern sky,
And
in my Africa64 to sigh
For sombre Russia, for the portion
Of love and suffering I incurred
And where I left my heart interred.
51
Onegin was prepared to travel
To foreign parts with me, but fate
Was soon to part us and unravel
Our plans until a future date.
His father died upon the instant.
Before Onegin an insistent
Brigade of creditors appeared,
Each wanting something different cleared:
Eugene, detesting litigation,
Contented with his lot, at once
Abandoned his inheritance,
In this perceiving no privation,
Or was it that he could foretell
His ageing uncle’s death as well?
52
Indeed, quite suddenly the steward
Reported uncle gravely ill
And on his deathbed, looking forward
To bidding Eugene a farewell.
No sooner had he finished reading
This woeful note than to this meeting
Upon a post-chaise Eugene sped,
And yawned, as he prepared ahead
For sighs and boredom and deception
For money’ sake (and it was here
My novel started its career);
But he, instead of this reception,
Found uncle on a table laid,
Earth’s tribute ready to be paid.
53
He found the grounds full of attendants;
Arriving from all sides to call,
Friends, enemies were in attendance,
All lovers of a funeral.
The dead man buried, feasting followed,
The priests and guests imbibed and swallowed,
And, gravely, afterwards dispersed
As if some business they’d rehearsed.
Now our Onegin, country dweller,
Of land, wood, water, factory
Is master (former enemy
Of order and a wasteful fellow),
And very glad to change his lot
For something new, no matter what.
54
For two whole days the lonely meadows,