So books, like women, he deserted,
And over all that dusty crowd
He draped a linen mourning shroud.
45
I too had parted with convention,
With vain pursuit of worldly ends;
And when Eugene drew my attention,
I liked his ways and we made friends.
I liked his natural bent for dreaming,
His strangeness that was more than seeming,
The cold sharp mind that he possessed;
I was embittered, he depressed;
With passion's game we both were sated;
The fire in both our hearts was pale;
Our lives were weary, flat, and stale;
And for us both, ahead there waited
While life was still but in its morn
Blind fortune's malice and men's scorn.
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.
47
How often in the summer quarter,
When midnight sky is limpid-light
Above the Neva's placid water
The river gay and sparkling bright,
Yet in its mirror not reflecting
Diana's visagerecollecting
The loves and intrigues of the past,
Alive once more and free at last,
We drank in silent contemplation
The balmy fragrance of the night!
Like convicts sent in dreaming flight
To forest green and liberation,
So we in fancy then were borne
Back to our springtime's golden morn.
48
Filled with his heart's regrets, and leaning
Against the rampart's granite shelf,
Eugene stood lost in pensive dreaming
(As once some poet drew himselP).
The night grew still. . . with silence falling;
Only the sound of sentries calling,
Or suddenly from Million Street
Some distant droshky's rumbling beat;
Or floating on the drowsy river,
A lonely boat would sail along,
While far away some rousing song
Or plaintive horn would make us shiver.
But sweeter still, amid such nights,
Are Tasso's octaves' soaring flights.
49
#62038; Adriatic! Grand Creation!
O Brenta!* I shall yet rejoice,
When, filled once more with inspiration,
I hear at last your magic voice!
It's sacred to Apollo's choir;
Through Albion's great and haughty lyre*
It speaks to me in words I know.
On soft Italian nights I'll go
In search of pleasure's sweet profusion;
A fair Venetian at my side,
Now chatting, now a silent guide,
I'll float in gondola's seclusion;
And she my willing lips will teach
Both love's and Petrarch's ardent speech.
50
Will freedom comeand cut my tether?
It's time, it's time! I bid her hail;
I roam the shore,* await fair weather,
And beckon to each passing sail.
#62038; when, my soul, with waves contesting,
And caped in storms, shall I go questing
Upon the crossroads of the sea?
It's time to quit this dreary lee
And land of harsh, forbidding places;
And there, where southern waves break high,
Beneath my Africa's warm sky,*
To sigh for sombre Russia's spaces,
Where first I loved, where first I wept,
And where my buried heart is kept.
51
Eugene and I had both decided
To make the foreign tour we'd planned;
But all too soon our paths divided,
For fate took matters into hand.
His father diedquite unexpected,
And round Eugene there soon collected
The greedy horde demanding pay.
Each to his own, or so they say.
Eugene, detesting litigation
And quite contented with his fate,
Released to them the whole estate . . .
With no great sense of deprivation;
Perhaps he also dimly knew
His aged uncle's time was due.
52
And sure enough a note came flying;
The bailiff wrote as if on cue:
Onegin's uncle, sick and dying,
Would like to bid his heir adieu.
He gave the message one quick reading,
And then by post Eugene was speeding,
Already bored, to uncle's bed,
While thoughts of money filled his head.
He was preparedlike any craven
To sigh, deceive, and play his part
(With which my novel took its start);
But when he reached his uncle's haven,
A laid-out corpse was what he found,
Prepared as tribute for the ground.
53
He found the manor fairly bustling
With those who'd known the now deceased;
Both friends and foes had come ahustling,
True lovers of a funeral feast.
They laid to rest the dear departed;
Then, wined and dined and heavy-hearted,
But pleased to have their duty done,
The priests and guests left one by one.