Eugene Onegin, Alexander Pushkin [best books to read for teens TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexander Pushkin
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Which rushed in eager dense array
Enamoured at her feet to fall.
How like the billow I desired
To kiss the feet which I admired!
No, never in the early blaze
Of fiery youth’s untutored days
So ardently did I desire
A young Armida’s lips to press,
Her cheek of rosy loveliness
Or bosom full of languid fire—
A gust of passion never tore
My spirit with such pangs before. XXXI
Another time, so willed it Fate,
Immersed in secret thought I stand
And grasp a stirrup fortunate—
Her foot was in my other hand.
Again imagination blazed,
The contact of the foot I raised
Rekindled in my withered heart
The fires of passion and its smart—
Away! and cease to ring their praise
For ever with thy tattling lyre,
The proud ones are not worth the fire
Of passion they so often raise.
The words and looks of charmers sweet
Are oft deceptive—like their feet.
Where is Onegin? Half asleep,
Straight from the ball to bed he goes,
Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep
The drum already doth arouse.
The shopman and the pedlar rise
And to the Bourse the cabman plies;
The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,19
Crunching the morning snow she treads;
Morning awakes with joyous sound;
The shutters open; to the skies
In column blue the smoke doth rise;
The German baker looks around
His shop, a nightcap on his head,
And pauses oft to serve out bread.
But turning morning into night,
Tired by the ball’s incessant noise,
The votary of vain delight
Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,
Late in the afternoon to rise,
When the same life before him lies
Till morn—life uniform but gay,
To-morrow just like yesterday.
But was our friend Eugene content,
Free, in the blossom of his spring,
Amidst successes flattering
And pleasure’s daily blandishment,
Or vainly ’mid luxurious fare
Was he in health and void of care?—
Even so! His passions soon abated,
Hateful the hollow world became,
Nor long his mind was agitated
By love’s inevitable flame.
For treachery had done its worst;
Friendship and friends he likewise curst,
Because he could not gourmandise
Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies
And irrigate them with champagne;
Nor slander viciously could spread
Whene’er he had an aching head;
And, though a plucky scatterbrain,
He finally lost all delight
In bullets, sabres, and in fight.
His malady, whose cause I ween
It now to investigate is time,
Was nothing but the British spleen
Transported to our Russian clime.
It gradually possessed his mind;
Though, God be praised! he ne’er designed
To slay himself with blade or ball,
Indifferent he became to all,
And like Childe Harold gloomily
He to the festival repairs,
Nor boston nor the world’s affairs
Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh
Impressed him in the least degree—
Callous to all he seemed to be.
Ye miracles of courtly grace,
He left you first, and I must own
The manners of the highest class
Have latterly vexatious grown;
And though perchance a lady may
Discourse of Bentham or of Say,
Yet as a rule their talk I call
Harmless, but quite nonsensical.
Then they’re so innocent of vice,
So full of piety, correct,
So prudent, and so circumspect
Stately, devoid of prejudice,
So inaccessible to men,
Their looks alone produce the spleen.20
And you, my youthful damsels fair,
Whom latterly one often meets
Urging your droshkies swift as air
Along Saint Petersburg’s paved streets,
From you too Eugene took to flight,
Abandoning insane delight,
And isolated from all men,
Yawning betook him to a pen.
He thought to write, but labour long
Inspired him with disgust and so
Nought from his pen did ever flow,
And thus he never fell among
That vicious set whom I don’t blame—
Because a member I became.
Once more to idleness consigned,
He felt the laudable desire
From mere vacuity of mind
The wit of others to acquire.
A case of books he doth obtain—
He reads at random, reads in vain.
This nonsense, that dishonest seems,
This wicked, that absurd he deems,
All are constrained and fetters bear,
Antiquity no pleasure gave,
The moderns of the ancients rave—
Books he abandoned like the fair,
His book-shelf instantly doth drape
With taffety instead of crape.
Having abjured the haunts of men,
Like him renouncing vanity,
His friendship I acquired just then;
His character attracted me.
An innate love of meditation,
Original imagination,
And cool sagacious mind he had:
I was incensed and he was sad.
Both were of passion satiate
And both of dull existence tired,
Extinct the flame which once had fired;
Both were expectant of the hate
With which blind Fortune oft betrays
The very morning of our days.
He who hath lived and living, thinks,
Must e’en despise his kind at last;
He who hath suffered ofttimes shrinks
From shades of the relentless past.
No fond illusions live to soothe,
But memory like a serpent’s tooth
With late repentance gnaws and stings.
All this in many cases brings
A charm with it in conversation.
Onegin’s speeches I abhorred
At first, but soon became inured
To the sarcastic observation,
To witticisms and taunts half-vicious
And gloomy epigrams malicious.
How oft, when on a summer night
Transparent o’er the Neva beamed
The firmament in mellow light,
And when the watery mirror gleamed
No more with pale Diana’s rays,21
We called to mind our youthful days—
The days of love and of romance!
Then would we muse as in a trance,
Impressionable for an hour,
And breathe the balmy breath of night;
And like the prisoner’s our delight
Who for the greenwood quits his tower,
As on the rapid wings of thought
The early days of life we sought.
Absorbed in melancholy mood
And o’er the granite coping bent,
Onegin meditative stood,
E’en as the poet says he leant.22
’Tis silent all! Alone the cries
Of the night sentinels arise
And from the Millionaya afar23
The sudden rattling of a car.
Lo! on the sleeping river borne,
A boat with splashing oar floats by,
And now we hear delightedly
A jolly song and distant horn;
But sweeter in a midnight dream
Torquato Tasso’s strains I deem.
Ye billows of blue Hadria’s sea,
O Brenta, once more we shall meet
And, inspiration firing me,
Your magic voices I shall greet,
Whose tones Apollo’s sons inspire,
And after Albion’s proud lyre24
Possess my love and sympathy.
The nights of golden Italy
I’ll pass beneath the firmament,
Hid in the gondola’s dark shade,
Alone with my Venetian maid,
Now talkative, now reticent;
From her my lips shall learn the tongue
Of love which whilom Petrarch sung.
When will my hour of freedom come!
Time, I invoke
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