But I, in love, was dense and dumb. 59
Love came and went. The muse, descending,
Cleared my dark mind, and I felt free.
I sought new magic in the blending
Of feelings, thoughts and euphony.
I write now, and my heart is easy,
My pen, now swift, now bright and breezy,
No longer makes half-lines complete
With female heads and female feet.
Dead ashes, they are dead and ashen.
I still feel sad, but shed no tear.
Soon the storm clouds will disappear
From my sad spirit. Then I’ll fashion
A narrative in verse, a gem
In cantos, twenty-five of them. 60
Already I’ve begun to plan it;
I’ve named the hero—that is done.
This novel’s grown since I began it,
And now I’ve finished Chapter One.
I’ve scrutinized my work of fiction,
And find it full of contradiction,
But these are faults I’ll not pursue,
Paying the censorship its due.
My toil is done. I now deliver
To journalistic scavengers
This newborn child, my tale in verse.
Go! Stroll along the Neva River.
Earn me the fame that will induce
Skewed comments shrilling with abuse.
CHAPTER TWO
O rus!… *
HORACE
O Russia!
1
The place Yevgeny found so boring
Was a delightful rural spot,
Where you, with pleasures newly dawning,
Would have blessed heaven for your lot.
His manor house stood all secluded,
With winds by yonder hill excluded,
Above a stream. The prospect yields
A motley view of luscious fields,
Pasture and corn, sunlit and golden,
Dotted with hamlets here and there,
With cattle wandering everywhere,
And dense, dark alleys to be strolled on
Through a vast garden, overgrown,
With wistful dryads set in stone.
2
His castle, far from being squalid,
Was built as castles should be built,
Convenient, sensible and solid,
Ancestral to the very hilt.
The chambers had high ceilings, they did,
The parlour walls were well brocaded,
Tsars’ portraits hung on every wall,
The stoves bore coloured tiles. It all
Looked rather down at heel and seedy—
I’m not quite sure why this was so.
In any case my friend had no
Concern for this. He wasn’t greedy,
And in all settings, fresh or worn,
Ancient or modern, he would yawn. 3
A certain room drew him in deeper;
Here the old chap had vilified
For forty years his castle-keeper
As he squashed flies and stared outside—
A simple room with oak-wood floorage,
A table, soft couch, decent storage,
And not an ink-stain anywhere.
Onegin scoured the cupboards; there
He found a book, some sort of ledger,
Home-made liqueurs in a long rack,
Apple juice, and an almanac
For eighteen-eight, a source of pleasure
For one who’d had no time to look
At any other kind of book. 4
Yevgeny cut a lonely figure
Amidst his lands. To pass the time
He thought of something: he would trigger
Some changes, and reform this clime.
These peasants, thought our wasteland prophet,
Don’t like unpaid work—take them off it!
Let them instead pay a small tax:
They will thank Heaven, and relax.
But this remission of serf labour
Displeased the man next door, who viewed
It as too risky. He was shrewd,
As was another smirking neighbour.
The locals shared one thought: “By God,
That fellow’s dangerously odd.” 5
At first they came in droves to visit,
But on the back porch he would pause
Usually, wondering, “Who is it?”
And seize the reins of his Don horse.
A family carriage on the highway
Would send him shooting down a byway.
Outraged by conduct of this kind,
They soon left friendliness behind.
“He’s crazy, he’s a boor, a mason.
Red wine is all he drinks. How crass!
And always in a drinking glass!
He won’t kiss ladies’ hands. Disgraceful!
It’s ‘yes’ and ‘no’, but never ‘sir’.”
And thus did all of them concur. 6
Into his village in that season
Came a new landowner, a man
Who gave the neighbourhood good reason
For no less scrupulous a scan.
This person was Vladímir Lénsky,
Describable as “Göttingen-sky”,
A handsome young chap in his prime,
A devotee of Kant and rhyme.
From misty Germany returning,
Ardent and slightly odd, it seems,
Replete with freedom-loving dreams
And all the latest fruits of learning,
He got excited, spoke with strength,
And wore his black curls shoulder-length. 7
Society’s chilling excesses
Had not yet shrivelled up his soul.
A friendly greeting, girls’ caresses
Still kept him feeling warm and whole.
With silliness his heart was nourished,
And false hope still within him flourished.
The glamour of the world, the din,
Seized his young mind and took it in.
Amusement, fancy, taradiddle
Relieved his heart of doubts and strife.
For him the meaning of this life
Remained a captivating riddle
To which he often turned his mind,
Suspecting wonders unconfined. 8
He knows there is a twin soul waiting
To be united with him. She
Repines with anguish, contemplating
Each waiting day with misery;
And friends, to whom he stands indebted,
Will save his name and end up fettered
Willingly, hesitating not
To smash the slanderer with his pot.
And some there are, guided by destiny,
Whose sacred bond will one day slip
Into immortal fellowship
That beams a mighty luminescence
Upon us (be assured of this),
And furnishes the world with bliss. 9
Hot rage, compassion, with a dormant
And spotless love for all things good,
And glory with its lovely torment
Obsessed him, stirring his young blood.
He roamed the earth, and sang where Goethe
And Schiller lived, striving to nurture
The poet’s eagerness—a goal
That captured and inflamed his soul.
The very muses, though exalted,
Were not disgraced by his young bliss
Nor his proud poetry, nor this
High sentiment that never faltered,
The surge of dreams unspoilt and calm,
Simplicity with its grave charm. 10
Love was what he, the lovelorn, played on,
Singing the sweetest, clearest notes,
Clear as the thoughts of a pure maiden,
A sleeping babe, a moon that floats
The night sky with its far-flung glories,
Goddess of sighs and secret stories.
He sang of partings and sad times,
“The days of yore” and “misty climes”
And roses—with romantic language.
He sang of many a distant place
Of quietude and restful space
Where he had wept salt tears in anguish.
He sang of fading life, as seen
By a young man not quite eighteen. 11
Yevgeny would be just the person
To say if he was any good.
His low opinion could not worsen
Of dining in the neighbourhood.
He shunned the locals’ noisy chatter,
However sensible its matter—
Haymaking, wine production, with
Much talk of kennels, kin and kith.
They prattled with no show of feeling,
No spark of poetry, no whit
Of brightness, intellect or wit,