XLVIII
With soul full of regrets,
and leaning on the granite,
Eugene stood pensive — as himself
4 the Poet9 has described.
'Twas stillness all; only night sentries
to one another called,
and the far clip-clop of some droshky
8 resounded suddenly from Million Street;
only a boat, oars swinging,
swam on the dozing river,
and, in the distance, captivated us
12 a horn and a brave song.
But, 'mid the night's diversions, sweeter
is the strain of Torquato's octaves.
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 In the voluptuousness of golden
Italy's nights at liberty I'll revel,
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 dull shore of an element
inimical to me,
and sigh, 'mid the meridian swell, beneath the
sky of my Africa,11
12 for somber Russia, where
I suffered, where I loved,
where I buried my heart.
Onegin was prepared with me
to see strange 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,
abandoned 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 indeed
got from the steward
a report that his uncle was nigh death in bed
4 and would be glad to bid farewell to him.
Eugene, the sad epistle having read,
incontinently to the rendezvous
drove headlong, traveling post,
8 and yawned already in anticipation,
preparing, for the sake of money,
for sighs, boredom, and guile
(and 'tis with this that I began my novel);
12 but when he reached apace his uncle's manor,
he found him laid already on the table
as a prepared tribute to earth.
He found the grounds full of attendants;
to the dead man from every side
came driving foes and friends,
4 enthusiasts for funerals.
The dead man was interred,
the priests and guests ate, drank,
and solemnly dispersed thereafter,
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 he'd been
12 an enemy of order and a wastrel),
and very glad to have exchanged
his former course for something.
For two days new to him
seemed 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 engage 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.
I was born for the peaceful life,
for country 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,
volatile fame do not pursue.
12 Was it not thus in former years,
that in inaction, in the [shade],
I spent 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 a sarcastic 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
12 — as if we were no longer able
to write long poems
on any other subject than ourselves!
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 did you, among the throng
of jealous maidens, dedicate its strain?
Whose gaze, while stirring inspiration,
with a dewy caress rewarded
your pensive singing? Whom did your
4 verse idolize?”
Faith, nobody, my friends, I swear!
Love's mad anxiety
I cheerlessly went through.
8 Happy who blent with it the fever
of rhymes: thereby the sacred frenzy
of poetry he doubled,
striding in Petrarch's tracks;
12 as to the heart's pangs, he allayed them
and meanwhile fame he captured too —
but I, when loving, was stupid and mute.
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 pine;
the pen draws not, lost in a trance,
next to unfinished lines,
8 feminine feet or heads;
extinguished ashes will not flare again;
I still feel sad; 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.
I've thought already of a form of plan
and how 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 give away my labors' fruits
to the reviewers for devourment.
Be off, then, to the Neva's banks,
12 newborn work! And deserve for me
fame's tribute: false interpretations,
noise, and abuse!
The country place where Eugene
moped was a charming nook;
a friend of innocent delights
4 might have blessed heaven there.
The manor house, secluded,
screened from the winds by a hill, stood
above a river; in the distance,
8 before it, freaked and flowered, lay
meadows and golden grainfields;
one could glimpse hamlets here and there;
herds roamed the meadows;
12 and its dense coverts spread
a huge neglected garden, the retreat
of pensive dryads.
