Petersburg for the purpose of ransoming him; but Peter would not surrender his godson who died at the age of ninety-two, having attained the rank of general in the Russian service.] XLV Eugene designed with me to start And visit many a foreign clime, But Fortune cast our lots apart For a protracted space of time. Just at that time his father died, And soon Oneguine's door beside Of creditors a hungry rout Their claims and explanations shout. But Eugene, hating litigation And with his lot in life content, To a surrender gave consent, Seeing in this no deprivation, Or counting on his uncle's death And what the old man might bequeath. XLVI And in reality one day The steward sent a note to tell How sick to death his uncle lay And wished to say to him farewell. Having this mournful document Perused, Eugene in postchaise went And hastened to his uncle's side, But in his heart dissatisfied, Having for money's sake alone Sorrow to counterfeit and wail— Thus we began our little tale— But, to his uncle's mansion flown, He found him on the table laid, A due which must to earth be paid. XLVII The courtyard full of serfs he sees, And from the country all around Had come both friends and enemies— Funeral amateurs abound! The body they consigned to rest, And then made merry pope and guest, With serious air then went away As men who much had done that day. Lo! my Oneguine rural lord! Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes, He now a full possession takes, He who economy abhorred, Delighted much his former ways To vary for a few brief days. XLVIII For two whole days it seemed a change To wander through the meadows still, The cool dark oaken grove to range, To listen to the rippling rill. But on the third of grove and mead He took no more the slightest heed; They made him feel inclined to doze; And the conviction soon arose, Ennui can in the country dwell Though without palaces and streets, Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fetes; On him spleen mounted sentinel And like his shadow dogged his life, Or better—like a faithful wife. XLIX I was for calm existence made, For rural solitude and dreams, My lyre sings sweeter in the shade And more imagination teems. On innocent delights I dote, Upon my lake I love to float, For law I
far niente take And every morning I awake The child of sloth and liberty. I slumber much, a little read, Of fleeting glory take no heed. In former years thus did not I In idleness and tranquil joy The happiest days of life employ? L Love, flowers, the country, idleness And fields my joys have ever been; I like the difference to express Between myself and my Eugene, Lest the malicious reader or Some one or other editor Of keen sarcastic intellect Herein my portrait should detect, And impiously should declare, To sketch myself that I have tried Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride, As if impossible it were To write of any other elf Than one's own fascinating self. LI Here I remark all poets are Love to idealize inclined; I have dreamed many a vision fair And the recesses of my mind Retained the image, though short-lived, Which afterwards the muse revived. Thus carelessly I once portrayed Mine own ideal, the mountain maid, The captives of the Salguir's shore.(22) But now a question in this wise Oft upon friendly lips doth rise: Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore? To whom amongst the jealous throng Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song? [Note 22: Refers to two of the most interesting productions of the poet. The former line indicates the
Prisoner of the Caucasus, the latter,
The Fountain of Baktchiserai. The Salguir is a river of the Crimea.] LII Whose glance reflecting inspiration With tenderness hath recognized Thy meditative incantation— Whom hath thy strain immortalized? None, be my witness Heaven above! The malady of hopeless love I have endured without respite. Happy who thereto can unite Poetic transport. They impart A double force unto their song Who following Petrarch move along And ease the tortures of the heart— Perchance they laurels also cull— But I, in love, was mute and dull. LIII The Muse appeared, when love passed by And my dark soul to light was brought; Free, I renewed the idolatry Of harmony enshrining thought. I write, and anguish flies away, Nor doth my absent pen portray Around my stanzas incomplete Young ladies' faces and their feet. Extinguished ashes do not blaze— I mourn, but tears I cannot shed— Soon, of the tempest which hath fled Time will the ravages efface— When that time comes, a poem I'll strive To write in cantos twenty-five. LIV I've thought well o'er the general plan, The hero's name too in advance, Meantime I'll finish whilst I can Canto the First of this romance. I've scanned it with a jealous eye, Discovered much absurdity, But will not modify a tittle— I owe the censorship a little. For journalistic deglutition I yield the fruit of work severe. Go, on the Neva's bank appear, My very latest composition! Enjoy the meed which Fame bestows— Misunderstanding, words and blows.
