As to the greenwood from a prison 12 a slumbering clogged convict is transferred, so we'd be carried off in fancy to the beginning of young life.
118
Chapter One
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.
XLIX
Adrian waves, ? 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,. is swimming in a mysterious gondola; with her my lips will find the tongue of Petrarch and of love. up Eugene Onegin
L
Will the hour of my freedom come? 'Tis time, 'tis time! To it I call5
I roam above the sea,10 I wait for the right 4 I beckon to the sails of ships. [weather, 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 5 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.
120
Chapter One
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 5 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.
121
Eugene Onegin
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 although there were no streets, no palaces, [same, 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 andy^r 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?
122
Chapter One
Flowers, love, the country, idleness, ye fields! my soul is vowed to you. I'm always glad to mark the difference between Onegin and myself, lest a sarcastic reader or else some publisher of complicated calumny, collating here my traits, repeat thereafter shamelessly that I have scrawled my portrait like Byron, the poet of pride 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 I'd dream of, and my soul preserved their secret image; the Muse revived them later: thus I, carefree, would sing 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: 'For whom does your lyre sigh? To whom did you, among the throng of jealous maidens, dedicate its strain?
12)
Eugene Onegin
4'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 tracks5 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 5 I write, and the heart does not pine5 the pen draws not, lost in a trance, next to unfinished lines, 8 feminine feet or heads 5 extinguished ashes will not flare again 3 I still feel sad; but there are no more tears, and soon, soon the storm's trace 1 2 will hush completely in my souclass="underline" then I shall start to write a poem in twenty-five cantos or so.
124
Chapter One
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 finished5 all this I have looked over closely5 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!
I25
0 rus! Horace 0 Rus'!
CHAPTER TWO
Chapter Two
I
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 5 herds roamed the meadows; 12 and its dense coverts spread a huge neglected garden, the retreat of pensive dryads.