Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

He usually left St. Petersburg about the middle of September and remained in the country till December. In this space of time it was his custom to develop and perfect the inspirations of the remaining portion of the year. He was of an impetuous yet affectionate nature and much beloved by a numerous circle of friends. An attractive feature in his character was his unalterable attachment to his aged nurse, a sentiment which we find reflected in the pages of Eugene Oneguine and elsewhere.

The preponderating influence which Byron exercised in the formation of his genius has already been noticed. It is indeed probable that we owe Oneguine to the combined impressions of Childe Harold and Don Juan upon his mind. Yet the Russian poem excels these masterpieces of Byron in a single particular—namely, in completeness of narrative, the plots of the latter being mere vehicles for the development of the poet's general reflections. There is ground for believing that Pushkin likewise made this poem the record of his own experience. This has doubtless been the practice of many distinguished authors of fiction whose names will readily occur to the reader. Indeed, as we are never cognizant of the real motives which actuate others, it follows that nowhere can the secret springs of human action be studied to such advantage as within our own breasts. Thus romance is sometimes but the reflection of the writer's own individuality, and he adopts the counsel of the American poet:

Look then into thine heart and write!

But a further consideration of this subject would here be out of place. Perhaps I cannot more suitably conclude this sketch than by quoting from his Ode to the Sea the poet's tribute of admiration to the genius of Napoleon and Byron, who of all contemporaries seem the most to have swayed his imagination.

     Farewell, thou pathway of the free,
     For the last time thy waves I view
     Before me roll disdainfully,
     Brilliantly beautiful and blue.

     Why vain regret? Wherever now
     My heedless course I may pursue
     One object on thy desert brow
     I everlastingly shall view—

     A rock, the sepulchre of Fame!
     The poor remains of greatness gone
     A cold remembrance there became,
     There perished great Napoleon.

     In torment dire to sleep he lay;
     Then, as a tempest echoing rolls,
     Another genius whirled away,
     Another sovereign of our souls.

     He perished. Freedom wept her child,
     He left the world his garland bright.
     Wail, Ocean, surge in tumult wild,
     To sing of thee was his delight.

     Impressed upon him was thy mark,
     His genius moulded was by thee;
     Like thee, he was unfathomed, dark
     And untamed in his majesty.

Note: It may interest some to know that Georges d'Anthes was tried by court-martial for his participation in the duel in which Pushkin fell, found guilty, and reduced to the ranks; but, not being a Russian subject, he was conducted by a gendarme across the frontier and then set at liberty.

Eugene Oneguine

Petri de vanite, il avait encore plus de cette espece d'orgueil, qui fait avouer avec la meme indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de superiorite, peut-etre imaginaire.— Tire d'une lettre particuliere.

CANTO THE FIRST 'The Spleen'

'He rushes at life and exhausts the passions.'

Prince Viazemski

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