Из книги: Eugene Onegin
Chapter Eight
Fare thee well, and if for ever Still for ever, fare thee well. Byron
I
In those days when in Lyceum gardens I serenely blossomed forth, Read Apuleius with pleasure, But Cicero I did not read, In those days in mysterious valleys, In spring, to calls of swans resounding, Near waters gleaming in the silence, The muse began appearing unto me. My student cell of a sudden Was illuminated: the muse therein Unveiled a feast of youthful fancies, She sang of childhood merriments, And glory of our olden days, And tremulous dreams of the heart.
II
And society met her with a smile; Our first success gave us wings; Old Derzhavin took notice of us And, descending to the grave, blessed us. ……………………………………
III
And I, making it my law To follow passion's sole caprice, Sharing feelings with the crowd, I brought my playful muse To the noise of feasts and turbulent disputes, To raids of midnight sentries; And to their frenzied revels She brought her gifts And frolicked like a bacchante, Sang at the banquet for the guests, And the youth of bygone days Pursued her boisterously, While I took pride among my friends In my flighty companion.
IV
But I withdrew from their alliance And fled afar... She followed me. How often the affectionate muse Sweetened my silent path With magic of a secret tale! How often on the rocks of Caucasus She, like Lenore, by moonlight, Galloped with me on horseback! How often on the shores of Tauris She led me in the gloom of night To listen to the ocean's roar, The Nereid's ceaseless whisper, The deep, eternal chorus of the waves, The hymn of praise to the father of worlds.
V
And, forgetting the distant capital And its glitter and noisy feasts, In the wilds of sorrowful Moldavia She visited the humble tents Of wandering tribes, And among them grew wild, And forgot the language of the gods For meager, strange tongues, For songs of the steppe she loved... Suddenly everything around changed, And lo, in my garden She appeared as a provincial young lady, With sad thought in her eyes, With a French book in her hands.
VI
And now for the first time I bring My muse to a social rout; At her rustic charms I gaze with jealous timidity. Through the dense row of aristocrats, Military dandies, diplomats And proud ladies she glides; She sits down quietly and gazes, Admiring the noisy throng, The flashing of dresses and speeches, The slow appearance of guests Before the young hostess, And the dark frame of men Around the ladies, as around paintings.
VII
She likes the orderly structure Of oligarchic conversations, And the coldness of calm pride, And this mixture of ranks and ages. But who is this in the chosen crowd Standing silent and obscure? To all he seems a stranger. Faces flash before him Like a row of tedious phantoms. What is it, spleen or suffering vanity In his face? Why is he here? Who is he? Could it be Eugene? Could it be he?.. Yes, it is he indeed. — How long has he been among us?
VIII
Is he still the same or has he grown tame? Or does he still play the eccentric? Tell me, in what guise has he returned? What will he present to us for now? In what form will he now appear? As Melmoth, A cosmopolitan, a patriot, Harold, a Quaker, a sanctimonious prig, Or will he sport some other mask, Or simply be a good fellow, Like you and I, like all the world? At least my advice is this: Stop following outdated fashion. He has fooled society long enough... — Do you know him? — Yes and no.
IX
— Why then do you speak So unfavorably of him? Is it because we tirelessly Bustle about, judge everything, That the imprudence of ardent souls Either offends or amuses Vain insignificance, That the mind, loving space, constrains it, That too often we are ready To take talk for deeds, That stupidity is fickle and malicious, That trifles matter to important people, And that mediocrity alone Is within our reach and not strange to us?
X
Blessed is he who in youth was young, Blessed is he who matured in time, Who gradually life's coldness With the years learned to endure; Who did not surrender to strange dreams, Who did not shun the worldly rabble, Who at twenty was a fop or rake, And at thirty profitably married; Who at fifty freed himself From private and other debts, Who calmly in due order acquired Fame, money, and ranks, About whom they said all their life: N. N. is a splendid man.
XI
But it is sad to think that in vain Our youth was given to us, That we betrayed it constantly, That it deceived us; That our best desires, That our fresh dreams Decayed in rapid succession, Like autumn leaves gone rotten. It is unbearable to see before oneself One long row of dinners, To look at life as at a ritual And following the decorous crowd To go, sharing with them Neither common opinions nor passions.
XII
Having become the subject of noisy judgments, It is unbearable (you will agree) Among sensible people To pass for an affected eccentric, Or a melancholy crank, Or a satanic freak, Or even as my demon. Onegin (I'll occupy myself with him again), Having killed his friend in a duel, Having lived without purpose, without labors To the age of twenty-six years, Languishing in the idleness of leisure Without service, without a wife, without affairs, Could not occupy himself with anything.
XIII
Restlessness seized him, A passion for change of place (A most tormenting quality, The voluntary cross of few). He left his village, The solitude of forests and fields, Where a bloodied shade Appeared to him every day, And began wanderings without purpose, Accessible to one feeling alone; And travel to him, Like everything in the world, became tedious; He returned and arrived, Like Chatsky, from ship to ball.
XIV
But now the crowd stirred, A whisper ran through the hall... A lady approached the hostess, Behind her an imposing general. She was unhurried, Not cold, not talkative, Without an insolent gaze for all, Without pretensions to success, Without those little affectations, Without imitative tricks... Everything was quiet, simple in her, She seemed a faithful copy Du comme il faut... (Shishkov, forgive me: I don't know how to translate it.)
XV
The ladies moved closer to her; Old women smiled at her; Men bowed lower, Caught the glance of her eyes; Young girls passed more quietly Before her through the hall; and higher than all Both nose and shoulders raised The general who entered with her. No one could call her beautiful; But from head to foot No one could find in her That which autocratic fashion In high London circles Calls vulgar. (I cannot...
XVI
I love this word very much, But I cannot translate it; It is still new with us, And hardly likely to be in favor. It would suit an epigram...) But I return to our lady. With careless charm she was lovely, She sat at the table With brilliant Nina Voronskaya, That Cleopatra of the Neva; And surely you would agree That Nina with her marble beauty Could not eclipse her neighbor, Though she was dazzling.
XVII
"Can it be," thinks Eugene, "Can it be she? But truly... No... What! from the depths of country villages..." And the persistent lorgnette He turns every moment To her whose appearance vaguely recalled To him forgotten features. "Tell me, Prince, do you not know Who is there in the crimson beret Speaking with the Spanish ambassador?" The Prince looks at Onegin. "Aha! You haven't been in society for a long time. Wait, I'll introduce you." — "But who is she?" — "My wife."
XVIII
"So you're married! I didn't know before! Since when?" — "About two years." — "To whom?" — "To Larina." — "Tatyana!" "You know her?" — "I am their neighbor." — "Oh, then let's go." The Prince approaches His wife and brings to her His kinsman and friend. The Princess looks at him... And whatever disturbed her soul, However strongly she was Surprised, struck, Nothing betrayed her: She maintained the same tone, Her bow was just as quiet.
XIX
Indeed! It was not that she shuddered Or suddenly turned pale, or red... Not even her brow moved; She did not even compress her lips. Though he looked most intently, Yet not even traces of the former Tatyana Could Onegin discover. He wanted to begin a conversation With her and — and could not. She asked How long he had been here, whence he came And whether not from their parts? Then to her husband turned A weary glance; slipped away... And he remained motionless.
XX
Is it really that same Tatyana To whom he in private, At the beginning of our novel, In a remote, distant region, In the good fervor of moralizing Once read instructions, She from whom he keeps A letter where the heart speaks, Where all is open, all is free, That girl... or is this a dream?.. That girl whom he Scorned in her humble lot, Could she just now have been With him so indifferent, so bold?
XXI
He leaves the crowded rout, Rides home pensively; With dreams now sad, now charming His late sleep is troubled. He awakens; they bring him A letter: Prince N humbly requests Him for the evening. "God! To her!.. Oh, I'll go, I'll go!" and quickly He scribbles a polite reply. What is wrong with him? In what strange dream! What stirred in the depths Of his cold and lazy soul? Vexation? vanity? or again The care of youth — love?
XXII
Onegin again counts the hours, Again cannot wait for the day to end. But ten strikes; he departs, He flies, he is at the porch, He enters the Princess's with trepidation; Tatyana he finds alone, And together for several minutes They sit. Words will not come From Onegin's lips. Morose, Awkward, he barely Answers her. His head Is full of stubborn thought. Stubbornly he looks: she Sits calm and free.
XXIII
The husband comes. He interrupts This unpleasant tête-à-tête; With Onegin he recalls Pranks, jokes of former years. They laugh. Guests enter. Now with the coarse salt of worldly malice The conversation became animated; Before the hostess light nonsense Sparkled without stupid affectation, And interrupted it meanwhile Sensible talk without vulgar themes, Without eternal truths, without pedantry, And did not frighten anyone's ears With its free vivacity.
XXIV
Here was, however, the flower of the capital, And the nobility, and models of fashion, Faces met everywhere, Necessary fools; Here were elderly ladies In caps and roses, with malicious looks; Here were several young girls With unsmiling faces; Here was an envoy who spoke Of state affairs; Here was in fragrant gray hair An old man who joked in the old way: Exceptionally subtly and cleverly, Which now is somewhat ridiculous.
XXV
Here was one prone to epigrams, Angry at everything, a gentleman: At the host's too-sweet tea, At the ladies' dullness, at the men's tone, At talk about a misty novel, At a monogram given to two sisters, At the lies of journals, at the war, At the snow and at his own wife. ……………………………………
XXVI
Here was Prolasov, who earned Fame by baseness of soul, Who in all albums has blunted, St.-Priest, your pencils; In the doorway another ballroom dictator Stood like a magazine picture, Ruddy as a Palm Sunday cherub, Tightly laced, mute and motionless, And a chance traveler, An over-starched insolent fellow, In company aroused a smile With his affected bearing, And silently exchanged glances Were his general verdict.
XXVII
But my Onegin the whole evening Was occupied with Tatyana alone, Not with that timid girl, In love, poor and simple, But with the indifferent Princess, But with the inaccessible goddess Of the luxurious, regal Neva. O people! You are all like Your ancestress Eve: What is given to you does not attract you; Constantly the serpent calls you To itself, to the mysterious tree; You demand the forbidden fruit, And without it paradise is not paradise for you.
XXVIII
How Tatyana has changed! How firmly she entered into her role! How quickly she adopted The manners of her constraining rank! Who would dare seek the tender girl In this majestic, in this negligent Legislatress of halls? And he once stirred her heart! About him in the darkness of night, Until Morpheus would arrive, She used to grieve virginally, Raised languid eyes to the moon, Dreaming with him someday To complete life's humble path!
XXIX
All ages are submissive to love; But to young, virgin hearts Its impulses are beneficial, As spring storms to fields: In the rain of passions they grow fresh, And are renewed, and ripen — And mighty life gives Both luxuriant bloom and sweet fruit. But in late and barren age, At the turning of our years, Sad is the trace of dead passion: Thus autumn's cold storms Turn a meadow into swamp And bare the forest all around.
XXX
There is no doubt: alas! Eugene Is in love with Tatyana like a child; In the anguish of amorous thoughts He spends both day and night. Paying no heed to reason's stern reproaches, To her porch, her glass vestibule He drives up every day; He pursues her like a shadow; He is happy if he throws A fluffy boa on her shoulder, Or touches hotly Her hand, or parts Before her the motley regiment of liveried servants, Or picks up her handkerchief.
XXXI
She does not notice him, However he struggles, though he die. Freely she receives at home, In company speaks three words to him, Sometimes meets him with a single bow, Sometimes does not notice him at all; There is not a drop of coquetry in her — High society does not tolerate it. Onegin begins to grow pale: Either she does not see, or does not care; Onegin wastes away, and hardly Is he not suffering from consumption. All send Onegin to doctors, They in chorus send him to the waters.
XXXII
But he does not go; beforehand He is ready to write to his forefathers About a speedy meeting; and Tatyana Does not care (their sex is such); But he is stubborn, will not desist, Still hopes, still bustles; Bolder than a healthy man, the sick one To the Princess with a weak hand Writes a passionate epistle. Though in general he saw little sense In letters, and not in vain; But, you see, heartache Has finally become unbearable for him. Here is his letter verbatim.
Onegin's Letter to Tatyana I foresee all: you will be offended By the explanation of a sad secret. What bitter contempt Your proud gaze will express! What do I want? with what purpose Do I open my soul to you? To what malicious merriment, Perhaps, do I give occasion!
Having once chanced to meet you, Having noticed in you a spark of tenderness, I did not dare believe it: I did not give the dear habit rein; My hateful freedom I did not wish to lose. One more thing divided us... Lensky fell an unhappy victim... From everything dear to my heart I then tore my heart away; A stranger to all, bound by nothing, I thought: freedom and peace Are substitutes for happiness. My God! How I erred, how I am punished...
No, to see you every moment, To follow you everywhere, The smile of your lips, the movement of your eyes To catch with enamored eyes, To listen to you long, to understand With my soul all your perfection, To faint in torments before you, To grow pale and fade... that is bliss!
And I am deprived of that: for you I drag myself everywhere at random; Each day is precious to me, each hour: Yet I spend in vain anguish The days allotted by fate. And they are already so burdensome. I know: my span is already measured; But that my life may be prolonged, I must be certain in the morning That I shall see you during the day...
I fear lest in my humble plea Your stern gaze will see The designs of contemptible cunning — And I hear your angry reproach. If you but knew how terrible it is To languish with the thirst of love, To burn — and constantly with reason To subdue the agitation in one's blood; To wish to embrace your knees And, sobbing, at your feet Pour out entreaties, confessions, reproaches, All, all that I could express, And meanwhile with feigned coldness To arm both speech and gaze, To conduct a calm conversation, To look at you with a cheerful gaze!.. But so be it: I am no longer able To resist myself; All is decided: I am in your power, And I surrender to my fate.
XXXIII
No answer. He again sends a letter: To a second, a third letter There is no answer. To one gathering He goes; as soon as he entered... to him She comes to meet him. How stern! She does not see him, not a word to him; Oh! how she is now surrounded By Epiphany coldness! How her stubborn lips want To restrain indignation! Onegin fixed a keen gaze: Where, where is confusion, compassion? Where are the traces of tears?.. They are not, they are not! On this face only a trace of anger...
XXXIV
Yes, and perhaps secret fear Lest husband or society guess The prank, the accidental weakness... All that my Onegin knew... There is no hope! He departs, Curses his madness — And, deeply immersed in it, From society again renounced. And in his silent study He recalled the time When cruel spleen Pursued him in noisy society, Caught him, seized him by the collar And locked him in a dark corner.
XXXV
He began again to read without discrimination. He read Gibbon, Rousseau, Manzoni, Herder, Chamfort, Madame de Staël, Bichat, Tissot, Read the skeptical Bayle, Read the works of Fontenelle, Read some of ours, Rejecting nothing: Both almanacs and journals Where they preach lessons to us, Where now they scold me so, And where such madrigals I sometimes encountered: E sempre bene, gentlemen.
XXXVI
And what then? His eyes read, But his thoughts were far away; Dreams, desires, sorrows Crowded deep into his soul. Between the printed lines He read with spiritual eyes Other lines. In them He was completely absorbed. They were secret traditions Of the heart's dark antiquity, Dreams connected with nothing, Threats, rumors, predictions, Or the lively nonsense of a long tale, Or a young maiden's letter.
XXXVII
And gradually into slumber Of feelings and thoughts he falls, And before him imagination Casts its motley faro. Now he sees: on melting snow, As if sleeping for the night, A youth lies motionless, And he hears a voice: well? he's killed. Now he sees forgotten enemies, Slanderers and evil cowards, And a swarm of young traitresses, And a circle of despicable comrades, Now a country house — and at the window She sits... and always she!..
XXXVIII
He so became accustomed to losing himself in this That he almost went mad Or became a poet. Admit it: that would have been kind! And truly: by the magnetic force Of the mechanism of Russian verses My muddled pupil almost Comprehended at that time. How he resembled a poet When he sat alone in a corner, And before him blazed the fireplace, And he hummed: Benedetta Or Idol mio and dropped Into the fire now a slipper, now a journal.
XXXIX
Days rushed by: in the heated air Winter was already resolving itself; And he did not become a poet, Did not die, did not go mad. Spring revives him: for the first time His locked chambers Where he wintered like a marmot, Double windows, fireplace On a clear morning he leaves, Rushes along the Neva in a sleigh. On the blue, carved ice The sun plays; the broken snow On the streets thaws muddily. Whither along it his swift course
XL
Does Onegin direct? You beforehand Have already guessed; exactly so: He rushed to her, to his Tatyana, My incorrigible eccentric. He walks, like a dead man. There is not a single soul in the hallway. To the drawing room; further: no one. He opened a door. What Strikes him with such force? The Princess is before him, alone, Sits, unadorned, pale, Reading some letter And quietly shedding tears in a stream, Leaning her cheek on her hand.
XLI
Oh, who would not have read her mute sufferings In that swift moment! Who in the former Tanya, poor Tanya, Would not now recognize the Princess! In the anguish of mad regrets Eugene fell at her feet; She shuddered and is silent And looks at Onegin Without surprise, without anger... His sick, fading gaze, Imploring look, mute reproach, To her all is clear. The simple maiden, With dreams, with the heart of former days, Now again has revived in her.
XLII
She does not raise him And, not taking her eyes from him, Does not take away from his avid lips Her insensible hand... Of what now is her dreaming? A long silence passes, And quietly at last she: "Enough; rise. I must Explain myself to you frankly. Onegin, do you remember that hour When in the garden, in the alley Fate brought us together, and so humbly I listened to your lesson? Today it is my turn.
XLIII
"Onegin, I was then younger, I was better, it seems, And I loved you; and what then? What did I find in your heart? What answer? Severity alone. Is it not true? To you was not new A humble girl's love? And now — God! — my blood freezes As soon as I recall the cold glance And that sermon... But I do not blame you: In that terrible hour You acted nobly, You were right before me. I am grateful with all my soul...
XLIV
"Then — is it not true? — in the wilderness, Far from vain rumor, I did not please you... Why now Do you pursue me? Why am I in your sights? Is it not because in high society I must now appear; Because I am rich and noble, Because my husband is maimed in battles, Because the court caresses us for that? Is it not because my shame Would now be noticed by all And could bring you in society Seductive honor?
XLV
"I weep... if your Tanya You have not forgotten until now, Then know: the sharpness of your rebuke, The cold, stern conversation, If it were only in my power, I would prefer to the offensive passion And these letters and tears. For my childish dreams Then you had at least pity, At least respect for my years... And now! — what brought you to my feet? What triviality! How can you with your heart and mind Be a slave to petty feeling?
XLVI
"And to me, Onegin, all this splendor, The tinsel of hateful life, My successes in the whirl of society, My fashionable house and evenings, What are they? Right now I would gladly give All this trash of masquerade, All this glitter, and noise, and fumes For a shelf of books, for a wild garden, For our poor dwelling, For those places where for the first time, Onegin, I saw you, Yes, for the humble cemetery Where now a cross and shade of branches Are over my poor nurse...
XLVII
"And happiness was so possible, So close!.. But my fate Is already decided. Imprudently, Perhaps, I acted: My mother with tears of entreaties Begged me; for poor Tanya All lots were equal... I married. You must, I beg you, leave me; I know: in your heart there is Both pride and true honor. I love you (why dissemble?), But I am given to another; I shall be faithful to him forever."
XLVIII
She left. Eugene stands, As if struck by thunder. In what storm of feelings Is his heart now plunged! But the sudden clink of spurs resounded, And Tatyana's husband appeared, And here our hero, At a moment evil for him, Reader, we now leave, For long... forever. Following him Long enough we have on one path Wandered through the world. Let us congratulate Each other on reaching shore. Hurrah! It has long been time (has it not?).
XLIX
Whoever you may be, O my reader, Friend, foe, I want with you To part now as a friend. Farewell. Whatever you here Sought in these careless stanzas, Whether rebellious memories, Or rest from labors, Lively pictures, or sharp words, Or grammatical errors, God grant that in this book you For diversion, for dreams, For the heart, for journal skirmishes Could find at least a grain. With that let us part, farewell!
L
Farewell then also, my strange companion, And you, my faithful ideal, And you, living and constant, Though small labor. I have known with you All that is enviable for a poet: Oblivion of life in the storms of society, Sweet conversation of friends. Many, many days have rushed by Since young Tatyana And with her Onegin in a dim dream First appeared to me — And the distance of the free novel Through the magic crystal I still did not clearly distinguish.
LI
But those to whom in friendly meeting I read the first stanzas... Some are no more, and others are far away, As Saadi once said. Without them Onegin is finished. And she from whom was formed Tatyana's dear ideal... Oh, much, much fate has taken! Blessed is he who left life's feast early, Not having drunk to the bottom The cup full of wine, Who did not read its novel through And suddenly knew how to part with it, As I with my Onegin.
The End
Excerpts from Onegin's Journey
The last chapter of "Eugene Onegin" was published separately with the following preface: "The omitted stanzas have repeatedly given rise to censure and mockery (however, quite just and witty). The author candidly admits that he omitted from his novel an entire chapter in which Onegin's journey through Russia was described. It was up to him to mark this omitted chapter with dots or a numeral; but to avoid temptation he decided it was better to place the eighth numeral instead of the ninth over the last chapter of Eugene Onegin and sacrifice one of the final stanzas:
It is time: the pen asks for rest; I have written nine cantos; To the joyful shore brings My boat the ninth wave — Hail to you, nine Muses, etc."
P. A. Katenin (whose fine poetic talent does not prevent him from being also a subtle critic) remarked to us that this exclusion, perhaps advantageous for readers, harms, however, the plan of the whole work; for thereby the transition from Tatyana, a provincial young lady, to Tatyana, a society lady, becomes too unexpected and unexplained. — A remark revealing an experienced artist. The author himself felt the justice of this, but decided to omit this chapter for reasons important to him, but not to the public. Some excerpts were printed; we place them here, adding to them a few more stanzas. E. Onegin travels from Moscow to Nizhny Novgorod:
......... before him Makaryev bustles busily, Seethes with its abundance. Here the Indian brought pearls, The European counterfeit wines, A herd of rejected horses The breeder drove from the steppes, The gambler brought his decks And a handful of serviceable dice, The landowner — ripe daughters, And the daughters — last year's fashions. Everyone bustles, lies for two, And everywhere the mercantile spirit.
* * *
Anguish!.. Onegin goes to Astrakhan and thence to the Caucasus.
He sees: the willful Terek Erodes the steep banks; Before him soars the sovereign eagle, A deer stands, bending its horns; A camel lies in the shadow of a cliff, In the meadows rushes a Circassian horse, And around the nomadic tents Graze the sheep of Kalmyks, In the distance — Caucasian mountains: The path to them is open. War broke through Beyond their natural boundary, Through their dangerous barriers; The shores of Aragva and Kura Saw Russian tents.
* * *
Already the eternal sentinel of the deserts, Hemmed in by hills all around, Stands sharp-peaked Beshtu And verdant Mashuk, Mashuk, giver of healing streams; Around its magical springs Crowds a pale throng of the sick; Some victim of martial honor, Some of gout, some of Cypris; The sufferer thinks to strengthen Life's thread in the miraculous waters, The coquette to leave at the bottom The injuries of evil years, And the old man to grow young — if only for a moment.
* * *
Nourishing bitter reflections, Among their sad family, Onegin with a gaze of regret Looks at the smoky streams And thinks, clouded by sadness: Why was I not wounded by a bullet in the chest? Why am I not a feeble old man Like this poor tax-farmer? Why, like the Tula assessor, Do I not lie in paralysis? Why do I not feel in my shoulder At least rheumatism? — ah, Creator! I am young, life in me is strong; What am I to wait for? Anguish, anguish!..
Onegin then visits Tauris:
A land sacred to imagination: There Pylades disputed with Atrides, There Mithridates stabbed himself, There sang inspired Mickiewicz And, amid the coastal cliffs, Recalled his Lithuania.
* * *
Beautiful are you, shores of Tauris, When one sees you from a ship By the light of morning Cypris, As I first saw you; You appeared to me in bridal brilliance: Against the blue and transparent sky Shone the masses of your mountains, The pattern of valleys, trees, villages Was spread out before me. And there, among Tatar huts... What ardor awakened in me! With what magical anguish My flaming breast was constricted! But, muse! forget the past.
* * *
Whatever feelings were concealed In me then — now they are gone: They have passed or changed... Peace to you, anxieties of past years! In that time it seemed to me I needed Deserts, the pearly edges of waves, And the sound of the sea, and piles of rocks, And the ideal of a proud maiden, And nameless sufferings... Other days, other dreams; They have subsided, the high-flown Dreams of my spring, And into the poetic cup I have mixed much water.
* * *
Other pictures I need: I love a sandy hillside, Before a hut two rowans, A gate, a broken fence, Gray little clouds in the sky, Before the threshing floor piles of straw And a pond under the shade of thick willows, The freedom of young ducks; Now dear to me is the balalaika And the drunken stamping of trepak Before the threshold of a tavern. My ideal now is a housewife, My desires — peace, And a pot of cabbage soup, and myself the master.
* * *
The other day in rainy weather I, turning into the cattle yard... Fie! prosaic ravings, The motley trash of the Flemish school! Was I such when blossoming? Tell me, fountain of Bakhchisaray! Such thoughts did your endless murmur Bring to my mind When silently before you I imagined Zarema Among the magnificent, deserted halls... Three years later, following me, Wandering in the same region, Onegin remembered me.
* * *
I then lived in dusty Odessa... There long are the skies clear, There busily abundant trade Raises its sails; There everything breathes, wafts of Europe, Everything gleams with the south and is colorful With living variety. The golden tongue of Italy Sounds along the cheerful street Where walks the proud Slav, Frenchman, Spaniard, Armenian, And Greek, and heavy Moldavian, And son of Egyptian land, The retired corsair, Morali.
* * *
Odessa in sonorous verses Our friend Tumansky described, But he with partial eyes At that time looked upon it. Having arrived, he as a true poet Went to wander with his lorgnette Alone by the sea — and then With an enchanting pen Glorified the gardens of Odessa. All is well, but the fact is That bare steppe is all around; Here and there recent labor has forced Young branches on a sultry day To give forced shade.
* * *
And where, by the way, is my disconnected tale? In dusty Odessa, I said. I could say: in muddy Odessa — And here, truly, I would not lie. Five-six weeks a year Odessa, By the will of stormy Zeus, Is flooded, dammed up, Plunged in thick mud. All houses are muddied an arshin deep, Only on stilts does a pedestrian Dare to wade through the street; Carriages, people drown, get stuck, And in a droshky an ox, bending its horns, Replaces the feeble horse.
* * *
But already the hammer smashes stones, And soon with a ringing pavement The saved city will be covered, As if with forged armor. However, in this humid Odessa There is still an important deficiency; What do you think? — water. Heavy labors are needed... What then? This is no great grief, Especially when wine Is brought in without duty. But the southern sun, but the sea... What more do you want, friends? Blessed lands!
* * *
Formerly, when the dawn cannon Would barely fire from a ship, Running down from the steep shore, I would already set off to the sea. Then with a heated pipe, Revived by the salt wave, Like a Muslim in his paradise, I drink coffee with eastern grounds. I go for a walk. Already the favorable Casino is open; the clink of cups Resounds there; onto the balcony The marker comes out half-asleep With a broom in his hands, and at the porch Two merchants have already come together.
* * *
You look — and the square has become colorful. All has come alive; here and there They run on business and without business, However more on business. A child of calculation and daring, The merchant goes to look at the flags, To find out whether the heavens send Him familiar sails. What new goods Have entered quarantine today? Have the casks of awaited wines arrived? And what of the plague? and where are fires? And is there no famine, war Or similar novelty?
* * *
But we, lads without care, Among the preoccupied merchants, We only awaited oysters From the shores of Tsargrad. What, oysters? They've arrived! Oh joy! Gluttonous youth flies To swallow from sea shells Fat and living recluses, Slightly sprinkled with lemon. Noise, disputes — light wine From the cellars is brought To the table by obliging Auton; Hours fly, and the dread bill Meanwhile invisibly grows.
* * *
But already the evening darkens blue, It's time for us to the opera quickly: There the delightful Rossini, Europe's darling — Orpheus. Not heeding stern criticism, He is eternally the same, eternally new, He pours out sounds — they boil, They flow, they burn, Like young kisses, All in bliss, in the flame of love, Like the stream and golden spray Of fizzing champagne... But, gentlemen, is it permissible To equate wine with do-re-mi-sol?
* * *
But are there only enchantments there? But the searching lorgnette? But backstage meetings? But the prima donna? but the ballet? But the box where, shining with beauty, A young merchant's wife, Vain and languid, Is surrounded by a crowd of slaves? She both listens and does not listen To both the cavatina and entreaties, And jokes half with flattery... And her husband — in the corner behind her dozes, Half-awake will shout "bravo," Will yawn and — again will snore.
* * *
The finale thunders; the hall empties; Noisily, the departure hurries; The crowd ran to the square In the brilliance of lanterns and stars, The sons of happy Ausonia Lightly sing a playful motif, Having involuntarily memorized it, And we bellow the recitative. But it's late. Quietly sleeps Odessa; And breathless and warm Is the mute night. The moon has risen, A transparent-light veil Envelops the sky. All is silent; Only the Black Sea murmurs...
* * *
So, I lived then in Odessa...