[Note 20: The strong influence exercised by Byron’s genius on the imagination of Pushkin is well known. Shakespeare and other English dramatists had also their share in influencing his mind, which, at all events in its earlier developments, was of an essentially imitative type. As an example of his Shakespearian tastes, see his poem of “Angelo,” founded upon “Measure for Measure.”] XLIV When will my hour of freedom come! Time, I invoke thee! favouring gales Awaiting on the shore I roam And beckon to the passing sails. Upon the highway of the sea When shall I wing my passage free On waves by tempests curdled o’er! ’Tis time to quit this weary shore So uncongenial to my mind, To dream upon the sunny strand Of Africa, ancestral land,(21) Of dreary Russia left behind, Wherein I felt love’s fatal dart, Wherein I buried left my heart. [Note 21: The poet was, on his mother’s side, of African extraction, a circumstance which perhaps accounts for the southern fervour of his imagination. His great-grandfather, Abraham Petròvitch Hannibal, was seized on the coast of Africa when eight years of age by a corsair, and carried a slave to Constantinople. The Russian Ambassador bought and presented him to Peter the Great who caused him to be baptized at Vilnius. Subsequently one of Hannibal’s brothers made his way to Constantinople and thence to St. 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 Onéguine’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