Eugene Onegin Part 16

Is that not so, friend?' 'Not a bit!

No, gentlemen, write odes, that's it,

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Like those that praised our mighty nation, Like those established long ago...'

'You mean an ode for each occasion?

Oh come, friend, does it matter so?

Remember in The Other Version9 The satirist's animadversion.

Or has that versifier's guile Replaced our rhymesters' gloomy style?'

'But elegies don't have a moral, They're aimless a that's what makes one weep a Whereas an ode's majestic sweep Is n.o.ble and...' 'Here's cause to quarrel, But I'll restrain myself before I make two ages go to war.'

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To fame and freedom dedicated, Vladimir, when his spirits flowed, Could turn out something elevated, But Olga would not read an ode.

When tearful poets have been suffered To read their work to a beloved And gaze into her eyes a they say There is no greater prize today.

But blest is he with modest pa.s.sion, Who reads to her for whom he longs, The object of his love and songs a A pleasant, languid belle in fas.h.i.+on!

Blest, too... though, maybe, while he reads, She's occupied with other needs.

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When I want somebody to read to, To match a dream with tuneful phrase, It is my nurse that I pay heed to, Companion of my youthful days, Or, following a boring dinner, A neighbour comes in, whom I corner, Catch at his coat tails suddenly And choke him with a tragedy, Or (here I am no longer jesting), Haunted by rhymes and yearning's ache, I roam beside my country lake And scare a flock of wild ducks resting: Hearing my strophes' sweet-toned chants, They fly off from the banks at once.

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But where's Onegin? By the way, Brothers! I must entreat your patience: I shall describe without delay His daily life and occupations.

A hermit underneath G.o.d's heaven In summer he was up by seven And, lightly clad, would set off till He reached the river by the hill; The singer of Gulnare11 repeating, Across this h.e.l.lespont he swam, Then drank his coffee, while through some Disreputable journal flitting, And dressed...12

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A book, sound sleep, a fine excursion, The purl of streams, the woodland shade, A fresh, young kiss for his diversion From dark-eyed, fair-complexioned maid, A fiery steed with trusty bridle, A fancy meal at which to idle, A bottle of resplendent wine, Seclusion, quiet a thus, in fine, The life Onegin lived was sainted; And to it he by slow degrees Surrendered, the fair summer days Never, in carefree languor, counted, Forgetting both the town and friends, The boring feasts and latest trends.

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But summer in our North is merely A Southern winter's counterfeit, It's glimpsed and gone: we know this, clearly, Although we won't acknowledge it.

The sky already breathed with autumn, The sun already shone more seldom.

The day was getting shorter now, And with a melancholy sough The forest lost its secret awning, Mist settled on the fields, the peace Was broken by the screech of geese Migrating south: already dawning, A dullish season lay in wait; November stood outside the gate.

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A chill, dark dawn presages winter; No labour's heard upon the fields; A wolf and hungry she-wolf enter The road to find out what it yields; Sensing the pair, a road horse, nearing, Snorts a and the traveller goes tearing Uphill, relieved to be alive; No longer does the herdsman drive His cows abroad while night is clinging, No more at noontime does he sound His horn to gather them around; A maiden in her small hut, singing, Spins by the crackling splintwood light, A friend to every winter's night.

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And crackling frost settles already And silvers midst the fields and leas, (You've guessed the rhyme to come is 'petals',13 So take it, reader, quickly, please!).

The ice-clad river sheds a l.u.s.tre That fas.h.i.+on's parquet cannot muster.

The merry sound of boys on skates, Cutting the ice, reverberates; A heavy goose steps out with caution, Plants its red feet upon the ice, And plans to swim, but in a trice, Slips and falls over in mid-motion; The first snow flickers gaily round, Falling in stars upon the ground.

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What pastime can you find that's pleasing Out in the backwoods? Walking? Try.

For all the countryside is freezing, The naked flatness tires the eye.

A gallop in the bitter prairie?

The very mount you ride is wary In case its blunted shoe should catch Against a sudden icy patch.

Under your lonely roof take cover, Let Pradt and Scott14 divert your mind Or check expenses, if inclined, Grumble or drink, somehow or other Evening will pa.s.s, the morrow too: With ease you'll see the winter through.

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Childe Harold to a T, Onegin Lapsed into pensive indolence: Enjoyed a bath with ice on waking, And then, alone in residence, Absorbed in household calculations, Armed with a blunted cue, he stations Himself at billiards, starts to play With just two b.a.l.l.s till close of day.

The evening comes, the game is ended, The cue's forgotten in the shade, Before the fire a table's laid, Onegin waits: here's Lensky, splendid!

A troika of roan horses wheel Into the yard a quick, start the meal!

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At once, a Veuve Cliquot or Moet, That most revered and blessed wine, Is brought to table for the poet, In a chilled bottle, as they dine.

Like Hippocrene it sparkles, flashes And pours in playful, frothy splashes (A simile for a please invent).

It once enraptured me: I spent My last poor penny on its solace.

Dear friends, do you remember that?

Its magical cascades begat No dearth of silliness and follies, Verses and jokes in endless streams And arguments and cheerful dreams.

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