Eugene Onegin Part 25

It's time: good idlers, I beseech you, Epicureans to the soul, You, fortune's favourites, I entreat you, You, fledglings of the Lyovs.h.i.+n2 school, You rural Priams3 in your manors, You, ladies blessed with gentle manners, Spring calls you to the country soil, Season of warmth, of flowers and toil, Season of blissful walks and wandering, Betokening seductive nights.

Quick, to the fields, the land invites Your coaches, ponderously trundling; By private horse or postal chaise, Forsake the city gates, make haste!

5.

You, too, my reader, ever gracious, Into your foreign carriage climb, Leave now the noisy city s.p.a.ces Where you caroused in winter time; On my capricious Muse depending, Let's hear the oak wood's sound ascending Above a river without name, Where my Eugene, the very same, Reclusive, idle and dejected, Spent winter only recently In Tanya's close proximity, My dreaming maid whom he rejected; But now, no longer at his place, He's left behind a dismal trace.

6.

Midst hills in semi-circle lying, Let us go thither where a brook, By way of a green meadow plying, Runs through a linden, forest nook.

The nightingale, through night's long hours, Sings to the spring; the dog rose flowers, And there is heard the source's sound a There, too, a tombstone can be found Beside two ancient pines umbrageous.

The inscription tells the pa.s.ser-by: 'Vladimir Lensky doth here lie, Who died a young man and courageous, Aged such and such, in such a year.

Young poet, rest and slumber here.'

7.

Upon a pine branch, low inclining, Time was, there hung a secret wreath, Rocked by the breeze of early morning Over that humble urn beneath.

Time was, two girls in evening leisure Would come to mourn this doleful treasure, And, on the grave, in moonlight glow, Embracing, they would weep... but now The monument's forgot by people.

The trail to it is overgrown, The wreath upon the bough is gone.

Alone, beside it, grey and feeble, The shepherd sings still as before, Plaiting his wretched shoes of yore.

[8,9].

10.

My poor, poor Lensky! Pining, aching, Not long did his beloved weep, Soon was the youthful bride forsaking A grief that went not very deep.

Another captured her attention, Another's flattering intervention Restored the sufferer to calm, A lancer wooed with practised charm, And, by this lancer overpowered, Already at the altar she Stands with becoming modesty Beneath the bridal crown, head lowered, And, as her fiery eyes she dips, A smile alights upon her lips.

11.

Alas, poor Lensky! In the kingdom Of distant, dark eternity, Was he perturbed by vows reneged on, Reports of infidelity, Or, on the Lethe, lulled to slumber, Where, blessedly, no thoughts enc.u.mber, The poet is no more perturbed, The earth is closed and no more heard?

Just so! An earth that will ignore us Awaits us all beyond the grave.

The voice of lover, friend or knave Breaks off. Alone, the angry chorus Of heirs to the estate is raised, Disputing in indecent haste.

12.

Soon Olya's voice no more resounded Inside her old environment, The lancer, as his lot demanded, Must take her to his regiment.

With tears of bitter sorrow flowing, The mother at her daughter's going Seemed almost ready now to die, But Tanya simply could not cry, Only a deathly pallor covered The maiden's melancholy face.

When all came out to view the chaise And, bustling, said goodbye and hovered, Still holding back the newly wed, Tatiana wished the pair G.o.d speed.

13.

And after them, outside the manor, Long did she gaze as through a mist...

Alone, alone now is Tatiana!

Alas, her sister, whom she missed, Companion of so many seasons, Her youthful little dove now hastens To somewhere far off, borne by fate, From her for ever separate; And, like a shade, she wanders, goalless, Glances into the garden bare...

She finds no comforts anywhere Nor anything to give her solace For all the tears she has suppressed, And torn asunder is her breast.

14.

And in her cruel isolation She feels more strongly pa.s.sion's sway, Her heart with greater perturbation Speaks of Onegin far away.

She will not see him, maybe never, She should abhor in him for ever The slayer of her brother. Woe, The poet's dead... already, though, He is forgot, his bride has given Herself already to be wed, The poet's memory has fled As smoke across an azure heaven, There are two hearts yet, I believe, That grieve for him... but wherefore grieve?

15.

Evening arrived. The sky has darkened.

The beetle whirrs. The waters flow.

Gone are the choirs to which we hearkened; Across the river, smoking, glow The fires of fishermen; and, dreaming Under the silver moonlight streaming, Out in the country, on her own, Tatiana walks, walks on and on, When suddenly, and with a quiver, Below her, from her hill, she sees A manor house, a village, trees, A garden by a limpid river.

She gazes a and the heart in her Starts beating fast and oftener.

16.

She pauses now as doubts beset her: Should she continue, does she dare?

He isn't here. They've never met her...

'Oh, just the house a and garden there.

I'll peep at them,' she says, advancing Downhill, scarce breathing, round her glancing, Bewildered as the house draws close...

And to the empty courtyard goes.

Dogs, barking, hurtle out toward her And, hearing her alarming cry, A noisy crowd of serf boys fly From different entrances to guard her, And, after fighting off each hound, They leave the lady safe and sound.

17.

'Please, can I see the house?' asked Tanya.

The children ran off speedily To find the keeper of the manor Who had with her the hallway key.

Anisya promptly came to meet her, To open up the house and greet her.

She entered the deserted pile, Our hero's recent domicile, She looked: inside the hall, unheeded, A cue lay on the billiard baize, A riding crop upon a chaise Dishevelled. She proceeded.

Here is the fireplace,' said the crone: 'Here master used to sit alone.