Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse

By Alexander Pushkin

A powerful love story set in the class-conscious Tsarist Russia of the early 19th century. It embraces every level of that society – serf, provincial, aristocrat – in verse which is by turns beautiful, witty, wickedly perceptive and always readable.

It traces the lives of two young people from childhood to maturity. Yevgeny, the fashionably disillusioned young man who knows everything about love except the most important thing; Tatiana, whose only experience of love comes from romantic novels but who knows how to love till the end.

This is essential reading for anyone with a love of Russian literature, because this is where it all began. There is little pre-history to that golden age of 19th century novels. Lomonosov, a fisherman’s son turned scholar, took church Slavonic, peasant Russian, mixed in a few ‘Loan translations’ and gave a French-speaking aristocracy a literary language; Pushkin was the first truly great poet to use it; Eugene Onegin is his greatest work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthem Press
• Release date: Jun 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781783084593

Book preview

1

He hurries to live, he hastens to feel.

Prince Viazemskii

I

My uncle, honest fellow, seeing

That he was now a dying man,

Required my last respects, this being

His best, indeed, his only plan.

The plan may be worth imitating;

The boredom is excruciating.

Sit by a sick-bed night and day

And never move a step away.

With what low cunning one tries madly

To amuse a man who’s half alive,

Adjust his pillows, and contrive

To bring his medicine to him sadly,

Then sigh, while proffering the spoon,

‘Let’s hope the devil takes you soon.’

II

Thus thought the young rake, flying there

By dusty post-chaise, to the fate

Willed by the Most-High Zeus; sole heir

To all his family estate.

Friends of Liudmila, you who glory

In Ruslan, here’s another story.

Without delay, without excuse

Permit me, please, to introduce

Onegin, my good friend from Peter,

Conceived and born on Neva’s shore,

Where you, perhaps, were born too, or

Shone in the service, my dear reader.

I lived and loved there once, you see:

But our North is not good for me.

III

His father made a fine career

And lived in debt – as nobles can.

He always gave three balls a year

And was, at last, a ruined man.

Fate saved Evgenii in this drama.

First he was spoiled by his ‘Madame’,

Then by ‘Monsieur’. It would appear

The boy was lively, but a dear.

Poor lame Monsieur l’Abbé thought teaching

Should not torment a little child;

His style was humorous and mild,

Unburdened by stern moral preaching.

He’d gently scold, as gently pardon,

Then take him to the Summer Garden.

IV

But when the time came for the folly

Of youth’s rebellion, time to play

At hope and tender melancholy,

The good Monsieur was sent away.

So – here’s Onegin, full of passion,

His hair cut in the latest fashion,

Dressed like a London dandy. Free

To enter high society.

His French required no improvement;

Evgenii could converse and write.

He’d dance mazurkas half the night

And bow with easy grace of movement.

What more d’you want? – T’was seen at once

That he was charming – and no dunce.

V

We all acquire, in moderation,

Something, somehow – the general line,

So that, thank God, in education

It isn’t hard for us to shine.

And many thought Onegin clever.

(Some of the sternest judges ever)

But he’s a pedant, they would say.

He had a very happy way

Of touching on each subject lightly,

Without constraint, which made him seem

An expert. On a hard-fought theme

He’d stand in silence, most politely,

Then fire off epigrams in style,

A knack which made the ladies smile.

VI

We leave our Latin to the crammer:

To tell the truth, he knew enough

Of Latin verse and Latin grammar

To make sense of an epigraph,

Quote Juvenal – and to his betters –

Put ‘vale’ at the end of letters,

Recalled the Aenid, could recite

A couplet – sometimes got it right.

He would have thought it most unpleasant

To burrow in the dusty ground

Of dry chronology; but found

That stories of the past and present,

From Romulus to our own day,

He could remember and relay.

VII

His ear was a touch prosaic

For verse. He regularly failed

To tell iambic from trochaic

No matter how we poets railed.

Homer, Theocritus were slated,

But Adam Smith was highly rated.

Evgenii the economist

Interpreted the points we missed,

Knew how a nation could be wealthy

And why it had no need of gold;

The ‘simple product’, we were told,

Would keep the economy quite healthy.

His father failed to understand

And was obliged to mortgage land.

VIII

What else he knew – quite as ingenious –

I’ve not the leisure to recall.

But where he was in truth a genius,

The science that he knew best of all,

What constituted, from his boyhood,

His work, his pain, his source of joy, would

Absorb each hour of every day

Spent in his yearning, idle way,

Was that science of the tender passion

Sung by Ovid, who paid at last

For his rebellious, brilliant past,

Exiled by Rome in cruel fashion,

Deprived of land and liberty,

Far from his native Italy.

IX, X

How soon he learned to feign confusion,

To hide his hopes, show jealousy,

Inspire belief or disillusion,

Seem gloomy, pine and languish, be

Now fiercely proud and now obedient,

Attentive, cold – as was expedient.

What smouldering, sensuous silences,

What passionate eloquence were his.

In love letters how he took chances!

He breathed by, loved one thing alone;

To turn a head or lose his own.

How swift and tender were his glances,

How shy or bold. His eyes could fill

With tears, summoned up at will.

XI

How he assumed the latest air,

Made jokes that shocked young innocents,

Quite frightened them with his despair,

Amused them with his compliments,

Or seized the moment of emotion.

How he’d oppose each naïf notion

With passion and intelligence,

Expect unwilling sentiments,

Beseech – demand – a declaration,

Then, hearing how her heart beat fast,

Pursue his love, until at last

He’d win a secret assignation

And, quietly drawing her apart,

Give lessons in the gentle art.

XII

How soon he could disturb the heart of

The most inveterate coquette!

How he employed the wounding art of

Malicious words. What traps he set,

What cunning pitfalls he prepared

To see his hapless rivals snared.

But husbands, you most blest of men,

Remained his good friends, even then.

The crafty spouse received him kindly,

He’d learned from Faublas, as one can,

And the suspicious older man,

And he who wore his horns more blindly,

Pleased with himself, his way of life,

His own good dinner – and his wife.

XIII, XIV, XV

As usual, he will still be resting

When notes are brought with morning tea.

What? Invitations? Three – requesting

The pleasure of his company.

A ball, perhaps? A children’s soirée?

To which one will my scapegrace hurry?

Where should he start? It makes no odds.

Lord, punctuality’s for clods.

Meanwhile, dressed for a morning’s pleasure,

Wearing his broad-brimmed Bolivar,

Onegin strolls to the Boulevard,

And there he saunters at his leisure

Till, ever watchful, his Bréguet

Reminds him he must dine today.

XVI

It’s dark: he takes the sleigh. ‘Get going!

Giddyup!’ the cry rings out. Now just

His beaver collar, softly glowing,

Is silvered with a frosty dust.

Off to Talon: the night’s before him.

Kaverin will be waiting for him.

He enters. The champagne corks fly,

A stream of wine spurts comet-high.

Roast beef is served, à l9anglaise, rare,

With truffles, which for young men mean

The finest flower of French cuisine.

The eternal Strasburg pie is there,

The Limburg cheese, a touch mature,

The golden pineapple’s allure.

XVII

Their thirst requires a few more glasses

To cool hot cutlets, crisply done,

But Bréguet chimes, the hour passes,

The new ballet has just begun.

Malicious arbiter of drama

And faithless worshipper – a charmer

Of charming actresses, which means

An honoured guest behind the scenes,

Onegin flies to the theatre

Where all young freedom-loving men

Applaud an entrechat, and then

Hiss Phèdre, Cleopatre or, better,

Call for Moina (only so

That they’ll be heard by those who know).

XVIII

Enchanted spot! There, in the old days,

Fonvizin’s satire ruled the scene,

That friend of freedom, one whose bold ways

Were imitated by Kniazhnin.

There Ozerov would win the cheers,

The applause, the involuntary tears

With young Semënova; and there

Our own Katenin sought to share

The genius of Corneille. To shame us,

The sharp tongued Shakhovskoi gave his

Great noisy swarm of comedies.

There Didlo, too, was rightly famous,

And there, behind the scenes, in truth,

There in the wings I spent my youth.

XIX

My Goddesses, are you still there?

Heed my sad voice: have you not changed?

You took the place of those less fair,

Have you, in turn, not been exchanged?

Say, will I hear your song once more?

See how the Russian soul can soar,

Terpsichore in seeming flight?

Will my sad gaze no longer light

On friends, but find some tedious theatre

Where, disillusioned, my lorgnette

Meets only strangers on the set.

Will I, indifferent spectator

Of gaiety, yawn silently,

Remembering what used to be?

XX

The house is full; the boxes blazing;

The stalls and circle mill around.

The gods grow restless. Now they’re raising

The curtain with its creaking sound.

Radiant, half-air and all-obeying

The violin’s enchanted playing,

Surrounded by her nymphs, the fair

Istomina is standing there.

Poised on one foot, with lazy ease

The other circles, starts to rise,

And suddenly – a leap –she flies

Like down on some Aeolian breeze,

Spins and unspins, her figure flexed,

Beats one swift foot against the next.

XXI

General applause. Onegin passes

A row of legs to reach his seat;

Squints upwards through his opera-glasses –

No woman-friend whom he should greet.

He gazes round the other tiers,

But what he sees confirms his fears;

No face or fashion to his taste.

He bows without the slightest haste

To every side, then casts a mere

Perfunctory glance at the ballet

And, idly yawning, turns away.

‘It’s time we had some changes here.

I’ve borne these ballets long enough.

They’re tedious – even Didlo’s stuff.’

XXII

Snakes, cupids, devils are still leaping

Their noisy way to curtain fall.

The weary lackeys are still sleeping

On fur coats in the entrance hall.

The audience hasn’t ceased its cheering,

Its sneezing, coughing, hissing, jeering.

Inside and outside, everywhere,

A thousand flickering lamps still flare.

A restless horse kicks at the stands,

Half-frozen, harnessed up for hire,

And coachmen, huddled round the fire,

Curse masters, swing their stiff, numb hands.

Onegin leaves before the press;

He’s going home again to dress.

XXIII

Shall I give you a faithful picture

Of his secluded room? Explain

How, schooled in fashion’s every stricture,

He’s dressed, undressed, and dressed again?

All that punctilious London offers

Those with extensive whims – and

Reviews for Eugene Onegin

[jwhenderson_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a classic poem from the early romantic tradition in Russian literature. The romantic intrigue involved in the story of Tatyana, Lensky and Onegin has inspired readers and artists alike for more than a century. I found this verse translation very satisfying reading.

[asxz-2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Fan-bloody-tastic. A novel in verse with a translation that maintained the original rhyme scheme. So good on the truth of young love, so light and so funny. The duel is genuinely shocking and the ending abrupt and sad.

I hadn't realized that this would be a novel in sonnets. What a treat to find out that this translation was the inspiration for Vikram Seth's The Golden Gate which I read 20 years ago. I kinda feel that I should seek out Nabokov's non-rhymed translation for comparison.

[rezeda-10 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I've read it when I was 11, at school, and liked it. Re-read it as an adult and loved it. Re-read again. Absolutely admired it... It becomes better every time.

[bookomaniac-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Duidelijk romantisch geïnspireerd: gevoelens zijn sterker dan we denken. De structuur mangelt, vooral op het einde, de overgang van Tatjana komt niet helemaal geloofwaardig over. De korte versmaat werkt in het begin het lichtvoetige sterk in de hand (het zijn meer puntdichten). Opvallend is de bijna voortdurende commentaar van de auteur.

[hadriantheblind · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Lyrical, tragic, comical, romantic. Russian lit at its best.

[imshi_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Read it, didn't hate it, but for me the translation just didn't work. I think, though, that it's probably difficult to translate something like this in an all-around satisfactory way - I shall have to read the original now, I think.

[poetontheone · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Pushkin's verse novel shows him as the masterful powerhouse of language, weaving together an intricate web of characters to create an affecting story full of wit and beauty. A testament to love and the power of the Muse and of ennui. Falen's translation is musical and readable, making the experience of this novel in verse a highly pleasant one for the modern reader.