Chapter Eight 177

 

Dedication

To Peter Alexandrovich Pletnev

Indifferent to the world’s delight

Seeking the pleasure of my friends

I only wish the words I write

Might have been turned to better ends –

Reflecting you, your noble dreams,

Your spirit’s true simplicity

Lines more worthy of such themes,

Of your sublime clear poetry.

Such as they are, view these extremes

These varied chapters in your hand,

With fond indulgence; witty, tragic,

The casual, the idealistic,

The fruit of carefree hours, unplanned,

Insomnia, pale inspiration,

Unripe powers, or fading art,

The intellect’s cold observation,

The bitter record of the heart.

Chapter One

И жить торопится и чувствовать спешит.

Rushes to live, and makes haste to feel.

Prince Vyazemsky

1

‘My uncle, what a worthy man,

Falling ill like that, and dying;

It summons up respect, one can

Admire it, as if he were trying.

Let us all follow his example!

But, God, what tedium to sample

That sitting by the bed all day,

All night, barely a foot away!

And the hypocrisy, demeaning,

Of cosseting one who’s half alive;

Puffing the pillows, you contrive

To bring his medicine unsmiling,

Thinking with a mournful sigh,

“Why the devil can’t you die?”’

2.

Such our young dog’s meditation,

As his horses plough the dust,

Inheriting, as sole relation,

By the will of Zeus the Just.

Friends of Ruslan and Ludmila,

Here without an ounce of bother,

Meet my hero of romance,

Before you, let him now advance.

Eugene Onegin, born and raised

There beside the Neva’s shore,

Where you too were nourished or

Found your fame, perhaps amazed,

There I too strolled to and fro:

Though the North affects me so.

3.

His father had a fine career

And gladly lived a life of debt

Always gave three balls a year

And died with all he owed unmet.

But Fate took Eugene by the hand

First Madame, you understand,

Then Monsieur taught the child

A pleasant-natured lad but wild.

Monsieur L’Abbé, French and thin,

Spared the lad from weary lessons,

Ducked the moralizing sermons,

Taught him everything by whim,

A mild rebuke, a sharp remark,

Then off to ramble in the park.

4.

Now, when Eugene reached the age

Of restless youth’s tumultuous passion,

Those years of hope and tender rage,

Monsieur was packed off in brisk fashion,

And my Eugene was free at last,

A London dandy safely classed

His hair cut neatly a la mode,

Into society he rode.

French he spoke and wrote with ease,

Danced the mazurka deftly too,

Bowed to each acquaintance new,

Did all that was required to please.

What more is needed? All agreed

That here was wit and charm indeed.

5.

We’ve all acquired some education

A bit of this a bit of that,

God be thanked, some imitation,

And we can all display éclat,

Onegin, he was deemed by many

(Critics stern, acute as any)

As well-read, but opinionated,

For conversation’s art created.

He had the gift of easy chatter,

Touching lightly on each theme,

Then like a very sage could seem

When talk was of some graver matter,

Yet make the ladies smile, un-clam

With some ready epigram.

6.

Latin’s not in fashion now,

Truth to tell, his knowledge slight,

He knew enough I would allow

To read an epigraph, and might

Mention Juvenal by the way,

Or end a letter with vale,

And knew by heart, or thought he did,

Two whole lines of the Aeneid.

As for finding ancient treasure

He’d no desire to dig the dust

Of history all turned to rust,

But kept the juiciest stories ever

From Romulus to our own day,

In his memory tucked away.

7.

He lacked the passion and desire

To give his life for poetry,

Despite all efforts, or aspire

To tell iambic from trochee.

Bored by Theocritus and Homer,

Adam Smith was more his tome, where

Deep in all things economic

The wealth of nations was his topic;

On what the state relies, he told,

Of how it lives, the what and why

With staple products its supply,

No need to keep reserves of gold.

Left his father, stunned by theory,

Of mortgaging his land quite weary.

8.

The wealth of things my Yevgeny

Mastered I’ve no time to tell,

But as for genius, if any,

One thing alone he studied well,

His springtime occupation bright,

His labour, torment and delight,

That occupied each night and day,

And kept dull boredom far away –

The science of the tender passion

The one poor Ovid used to sing,

And, exiled for that very thing

Plus another hidden reason,

Ended on the Black Sea shore,

Far from Italy’s allure.

9/10.

From the first, he’d spread confusion,

Conceal his hopes, feign jealousy,

Gain trust, or cause pure disillusion,

Seem to pine, be sad or gloomy,

Sometimes proud, sometimes humble,

All attentive, or just mumble!

How languid was his reticence,

How passionate his eloquence,

How swift his letters from the heart!

Breathing one thing, loving one thing,

How utterly himself forgetting!

His glance now bold, with tender art,

Roguish, coy, or see appear,

Glistening, an obedient tear!

11.

How skilfully he’d feign the new,

And daze the eyes of innocence,

Or frighten with a glance or two

Of despair, burn flattery’s incense,

Catch the first flush of emotion,

Overcome with wit and passion,

Ingenuous naivety,

Await the touch, involuntary,

Beseech, elicit true confession,

Listen for the heart’s first cry,

Pursue love wholly, and thereby

Secure a secret assignation,

Then later, intimacies meeting,

Silently impart love’s teaching!

12.

Though young he learnt the way to stir

The heart of a confirmed coquette!

And when he wanted to refer

To his rivals, that whole set,

How poisonous the words he used!

What traps he set for those abused!

But you, the men in wedded bliss,

Were ever dearest friends of his,

The careful spouse as much his man,

Betrayed, a husband from a novel,

As some suspicious aged devil,

Or cuckold, foolish, of that clan

Content forever with their life,

Their dinner-table and their wife.

13-15.

So, often, while he’s still abed,

Three notes appear, on a tray.

What? Invitations? Swiftly read,

Three houses offer a soirée:

A birthday party, here a ball.

Where will my young idler call?

Which to visit first? No matter,

He’ll have time still for the latter.

Meanwhile in his morning dress

Complete with wide-brimmed Bolivar,

He saunters on the Boulevard,

Parading there with all the rest,

Until his Breguet’s sleepless chime

Tells him, now is dinner-time.

16.

As it grows dusk he takes a sleigh:

‘Clear the road!’ loud sings the cry,

His beaver-collar shines away,

Frost’s silver powders on it lie.

He’s off to Talon’s, calculating

His friend Kaverin will be waiting.

He arrives, the cork pops, heaven!

The Comet’s vintage, year eleven.

A roast-beef, rare, adorns the table,

And truffles, luxuries of youth,

The French cuisine’s finest proof,

And Strasbourg pies, renowned in fable;

Limburger cheese, soft and pungent,

The pineapple’s pure golden unguent.

17.

Glass on glass to drench the heat

Of that last cutlet’s fiery fat,

As his watch’s chimes repeat

The ballet’s beat he should be at.

This ruthless critic, legislator,

The artiste’s flatterer and traitor,

To all unfaithful by and by,

Denizen of the wings, he’ll fly

Onegin, to the theatre where

He breathes the air of freedom, at

An instant hails the entrechat,

Boos Cleopatra, hisses Phaedra,

Or shouts for his Moina, merely

In order to be heard more clearly.

18.

Land of bewitchment! In past times

Satire’s most audacious master,

Fonvizin shone there, Freedom’s lover,

And Knyazhnin’s imitative rhymes.

Ozerov’s tragedies for years

Won tributes of spontaneous tears,

Shared wild applause, with Semyonova,

And our Katenin moreover

Translated the sublime Corneille,

Shakhovskoy, so sardonically,

Produced his hive of comedy,

There Didelot too crowned his day,

Where, in the shadow of the wings,

My youth fled by, enchantment clings.

19.

My goddesses! Where? Where are you?

Listen now to my sad voice.

Are you as you were? Have new

Idols replaced you, a worse choice?

Do I hear once more your choir sing?

See a Russian Terpsichore wing

Her way again in soulful flight?

Or must my dull gaze fail to light

On any fond face on this stage,

Turning on the alien mass

My disenchanted opera-glass,

Tired of the laughter of the age,

Silently to yawn and sigh

For all those years long sped by?

20.

The theatre fills, the boxes glisten,

The orchestra, the stalls, they seethe,

The circle claps to make all happen,

The rustling curtain as we breathe

Soars, glistening half-ethereal,

To the magic bow in thrall,

A host of nymphs around her, so

Istomina stands, serious

One foot planted, pirouettes

Takes a leap and, like down, sets

Off as if blown by Aeolus,

Twists her waist one way, another,

Spins, beats one foot on the other.

21.

Vast applause. Onegin enters,

Threads the rows among the feet,

Askance his opera-glass now centres

On unknown faces, ranked, complete.

He notes the boxes, serried places,

Sees it all; the fashions, faces,

Fill him with dissatisfaction,

Bows to friends, then views the action,

Turns on the stage indifferent eyes,

Within its glow no interest dawns,

Then he turns away – and yawns,

‘They’re all past they’re best’ he sighs;

‘What do I haunt the ballet for?

Didelot too is quite the bore.’

22.

Then come Cupid, imp and snake,

Treading the boards interminably,

While weary servants half-awake,

Doze on the fur coats in the lobby,

The audience, their feet still tapping,

Sniffing, coughing, hissing, clapping.

While both indoors and outside

Lanterns glitter far and wide,

The carriage horses, chilly, wait,

Their harness chafing, restlessly,

The coachmen by the fire free

Their absent masters to berate.

But our Onegin’s off to roam,

Borne away to change at home.

23.

That dressing room, all solitary,

Shall I depict with faithful pen

Where fashion’s loyal devotee

Is dressed, undressed and dressed again?

All that, to sate boundless caprice,

Ingenious London without cease

Sends us through the Baltic trade,

For timber and tallow, quickly paid,

And everything Parisian taste,

The useful arts, can devise,

That fashion or luxury supplies,

For idleness and sense to waste –

All in our sage’s cell appears

Our philosopher of eighteen years.

24.

A pipe of amber from Istanbul,

China and bronzes fill the table,

And to delight the sensual

Perfumes in finely-crafted crystal;

Steel combs, files in various guises,

Brushes of thirty different sizes,

For teeth or nails, both are served,

Scissors with straight blades and curved.

Rousseau (I mention it by the way)

Could not conceive how haughty Grimm

Dared clean his nails in front of him,

Eccentric, eloquent, at bay!

Freedom’s champion, ever strong

In human rights, was here all wrong.

25.

No reason why a man of energy

Should disregard the subject of his nails;

Why quarrel with the age fruitlessly?

Custom is a tyrant, and prevails.

A second Chadayev, my Yevgeny,

Fearing all the barbs of envy,

Was a very dandy in his dress,

A pedant in the details, no less.

A full three hours at least he’d spend

Before the mirror, then would leave

His dressing room, I’ll not deceive,

Like Venus if she’d condescend

In masculine attire displayed

To enter on the masquerade.

26.

Garbed to the modern taste,

You’re curious for every detail,

And for you, knowledgeable race,

I might try to tell the whole tale,

But there’s a risk in such fiction,

Though I’m an adept at description,

No Russian terms exist, confess,

For trousers, dress-coat, or for vest;

As it is, I ask forgiveness,

My style is rendered quite absurd

Too often by a foreign word,

It’s peppered with them to excess,

Though I’ve consulted frequently

The Academic Dictionary.

27.

That’s not the business we’ve in hand,

Better to hurry to the ball,

Since with a cab hired from the stand,

Onegin has outpaced us all. 

Along the rows of darkened houses,

Down the streets where evening drowses,

The twin lights of the carriage throw

A rainbow glitter on the snow.

Oil-lamps bright on window sills,

The sumptuous mansion gleams,

While behind the window streams

A flow of silhouetted stills,

Heads, in profile, edges crop,

Of lovely woman, freakish fop.

28.

Past the doorman like an arrow,

Through the hall, our hero’s there,

Soaring up the marble stair now,

With a hand he smoothes his hair,

Enters. The room is gyring,

Orchestra already tiring,

A mazurka holds the crowd;

The crush intense, the noise is loud.

A Horse Guard’s spurs go jingling,

The light-footed girls sweep by,

As ardent glances swiftly fly

In pursuit, the dancers mingling;

While drowned by frantic violins

The jealous ladies whisper sins.

29.

In days of dream and ardour,

The dance-floor was my passion:

The safest place for a lover

To pass a note of assignation.

Oh you, esteemed husbands, now

My services to you I vow!

Pay attention now I beg you,

From my words take warning due,

You mothers, hear me too, I bid,

Guard your daughters most severely,

Raise your lorgnettes, watch them closely,

Or else…..or else, may God forbid!

I dare to write about it so,

For I stopped sinning long ago.

30.

Alas, on every stray amusement

I’ve wasted far too many hours,

Yet were they wholly innocent

I’d still wander those bright bowers.

I love youth’s frantic energy,

The crush, the lights, the gaiety,

The girls in fashionable dress,

I love their little feet, confess  

That, search all Russia though,

You’ll not find three lovely pair.

Ah, they made me long despair

Two slender feet…Now sad and cold

I still remember, and it seems

They yet can thrill me in my dreams.

31.

But where, in what deserted strand

Madman, could your heart forget?

Ah, little feet where do you stand?
On what spring flowers are you set?

Pampered in eastern luxury

On our northern snows, so gloomy,

You left no trace, but loved instead

The sensual touch, on rugs to tread

And carpeted voluptuousness.

The call of fame, praise, I forgot,

My country: exile was my lot,

Was it for you all that distress?

So youth’s happiness must pass,

Brief as your footprints on the grass.

32.

Diana’s breast or Flora’s cheek,

Are enchanting, friends, I find!

Yet Terpsichore’s foot I’d seek

Far more enchanting, to my mind.

Since, foretelling to my gaze

Pleasure in a thousand ways,

Its subtle beauty lights the fires

Of a swarm of sweet desires.

Such I adore, my dear Elvina,

Beneath the table’s damask gloss,

In the springtime on the moss,

In winter, resting on the fender,

Or on the ballroom’s gleaming floor,

Or the granite of the shore.

33.

Recall the sea before a storm,

How I envied the waves then,

Each falling there as they form

To lie at her feet, in peace again!

How I longed to be those seas

Kissing her dear feet as they please!

No, never in the fiercest fires

Of tortured youth and its desires

Did I so long with painful ardour

To kiss the young Armida’s lips,

The roses of her burning cheeks,

Or her breast, filled with languor;

No, passion took no greater toll,

Nor ever so consumed my soul!

34.

Another day I bring to mind!

Sometimes in my fondest dreams

I hold that stirrup, blessed by time,

The little foot I touch it seems;

Again imagination blazes,

Again, a simple touch amazes,

Stirs blood inside my weary heart,

Again the pain, again love’s art!

Enough of praise though for the proud,

Enough of my loquacious lyre,

They’re never worth the singer’s fire,

My songs inspired by that crowd.

Their words, their looks, both are sweet,

Yet prove as faithless….as their feet.

35.

And my Onegin? Half-asleep

He flees the ball, and finds his bed,

But Petersburg that restless heap

Its drum pounds fit to wake the dead.

The merchant and the beggar rise,

To his stand the cabman drives,

The milkmaids from Ochta go

Crunching over morning snow.

The city’s sounds swiftly wake her,

Shutters part, chimneys smoke,

Blue columns rising over folk,

The punctilious German baker,

More than once in white night-cap

Has opened up his serving flap.

36.

Worn out by the ballroom’s noise

And turning morning into night

Sleeps peacefully in blissful joy

The child of luxury and delight.

He wakes at noon, or even later,

His life till dawn the same as ever,

Monotonous and varied, say,

Tomorrow just like yesterday.

But was dear Yevgeny content

Free, and in the flower of youth,

Midst glittering victories, in truth,

Midst oft repeated amusement?

Was he as vigorous and carefree

As at the feast he seemed to be?

37.

No, for his early feelings faded,

Exhausted by society,

Not for long were lovely ladies

The object of his constancy;

Faithlessness was not amusing

Friends and friendship were confusing,

Since even he at times would sigh

At more beefsteak and Strasbourg pie

Endless bottles of sparkling wine

And fail to offer a word, to make

A bon mot, with a fierce headache,

And though a womaniser fine,

In the end he too grew bored

With duelling, pistols, and the sword.

 38.

The sickness, with which he was smitten,

The cause of which it’s time to seek,

That spleen (so Englishmen are bitten)

Or chondria, when we Russians speak,

Had gradually overwhelmed him,

Thank God no desire claimed him,

To blow his brains out, as we’re told,

Yet his life grew sad and cold.

Like Childe Harold, mournful, dour,

He’d wander through a drawing room,

No gossip could dispel his gloom,

Cards, or glance, or sweet sigh’s power,

Nothing touched his feelings there,

He noticed nothing, did not care.

39-42.

You were the first, capricious belles,

He would neglect and then abandon.

Today we know, truth to tell

The crushing boredom of bon ton.

Though it’s true some woman may

Talk of Bentham and of Say,

Generally their conversation

Though innocent tries one’s patience.

Besides they are so pure, so pious,

So clever, and so circumspect,

So blameless in their intellect,

So inflexible, so virtuous,

So unapproachable, serene,

Their very presence causes spleen.

43.

You too, sweet girls, who late at night,

When all of Petersburg’s abed,

The speeding cabs whirl out of sight

Over the darkened stones instead,

You too Yevgeny quite deserted.

From every pleasure he retreated,

Onegin, shut himself indoors,

Would join the literary bores,

Tried to write, it makes him ill

All serious effort – no words flow,

He yawned inordinately, and so

Failed to join the shameless guild,

Of Writers: whom I cannot blame

Since, I’m one too and just the same.

44.

As emptiness possessed his soul,

Once more resigned to being idle

He chose – a more than worthy goal,

The thoughts of other men to rifle;

Great shelves of books he read and read

But still found nothing in his head,

All’s tedium, madness, and pretence

Here no conscience, there no sense,

All chained to their pre-conception,

The old ones utterly out-dated,

The new ones simply antiquated,

Like women, books proved a deception,

Across the literary stack,

He drew a mourning veil of black.

45.

I too cast off the social burden,

At that time, and retired from view,

I made a friend of Eugene then.

I liked his face, his manner too,

Liked his dreamy tendency,

His unique eccentricity,

His mind, incisive, and chilly;

I was bitter, he was gloomy.

Both had known the play of passion

Both had wearied of the game,

In both our hearts a dying flame,

Both had known Fate’s passing fashion,

All mankind’s malicious ways

In the morning of our days.

46.

He who’s lived, he who’s thought

Cannot but despise it all,

He who feels, is quickly taught

The pain of time lost, past recall:

Enchantment fails such men as he,

Bitten by the snake, Memory,

Absorbed by remorse at things done

Though it adds to conversation,

Lends it charm, intense delight.

I thought Onegin’s talk disturbing

But later found it re-assuring,

His virulence, his scorn, alight

With witticisms forged with guile,

His epigrams topped up with bile.

47.

How often, on a summer’s night,

The sky aglow above the Neva,

With that pale diaphanous light,

Where no face showed of Diana

In the water’s smooth still glass,

Recalling romance of time past,

Recalling many a lost love there

Sentimental, free from care,

In silent joy, of night’s bounteous

Benediction we drank deep!

Like prisoners released in sleep,

To roam the forests green, so us,

Carried in dream to that land where

All life, before us, seemed so fair.

48.

His heart consumed with regret

Leaning, musing pensively,

On the granite parapet,

As Muraviev, our Yevgeny.

All is still, only the guards

Call to each other in the yards,

Or far sounds rise, as wheels meet

The cobbles of Milyona Street.

A single boat with outspread oars

Swims across the drowsy stream,

A horn rings out, enchanted dream,

A distant strand of singing soars;

Yet Tasso’s murmured octaves are

Sweeter, in night’s embrace, by far.

49.

Waves of the distant Adriatic,

Oh Brenta! No: yet I’ll rejoice

When inspired again, ecstatic,

I hear the magic of your voice!

Sacred to scions of Apollo,

Albion’s proud lyre I follow,

To know its beauty, be its friend.

Where Italy’s gold nights descend,

I’ll breathe free, take my ease

Float in a gondola’s embrace,

With some fair Venetian face,

Silent, chattering, as you please,

My lips from hers will softly prove

The tongue of Petrarch and of love.

50.

When shall I ever loose my tether?

Now! Now! With joy, I call aloud,

I pace the shore, wait for fair weather,

Signal each passing sail, each shroud.

When, storm-wrapped, shall I be free

To fight the waves, and scour the sea,

When will my wings begin to soar?

It’s time to leave this tedious shore,

This hostile climate where I wander,

And with southern oceans nigh

Roam beneath my African sky,

To mourn there for gloomy Russia,

Where I’ve loved, where I’ve suffered,

Where my heart has long been smothered.

51.

Onegin and I planned to travel,

To feast our eyes on foreign lands,

But soon we saw our plans unravel,

Our fates lay in Fortune’s hands.

Then his father passed away,

And creditors had him at bay,

Each man to his own ideas,

He with lawyers round his ears,

Hating all this litigation,

Content with life, took a stance,

Relinquished his inheritance,

Finding it small deprivation,

Or else, reviewing distantly,

His uncle’s frail mortality. 

52.

In fact he soon received a letter

From his uncle’s man, to say

His uncle lay at death’s door, better

Say farewell without delay.

Yevgeny read the gloomy note,

Then grasped the instant by the throat,

Took to the road, went post-haste,

Yawning the while as he raced,

Prepared, for the sake of gold,

For boredom, and hypocrisy,

(The place where we began, you see)

Yet he arrived, his uncle cold,

The corpse on a table laid,

Nature’s debt already paid.

53.

The house was filled with commotion,

Friends and enemies from afar

Had called to show their true devotion,

Or enjoy the funeral, as you are.

The dead man buried priest and guests

Did full justice to the rest,

Ate, drank, then left, solemnly

Pleased that they had done their duty.

Now our Eugene’s a countryman,

With vineyard, water, wood, and field,

He who had never once concealed

His wastefulness and lack of plan.

Glad now that his former ways

Were changing with the passing days.

54.

For two days it was all quite new,

The solitariness of the meadow,

The coolness of the dark glades too,

The babbling brook, the silent furrow,

By the third, field, wood, and hill,

No longer even stirred his will,

He even felt the urge to yawn,

He saw as clear as the dawn,

The country caused the same ennui

Despite the lack of streets and yards,

Of dances, poetry, and cards,

While disillusion dogged him constantly,

Pursued him endlessly through life,

Like a shadow, or a wife.

55.

I was born for quiet existence

For rural silence, where the lyre

Sounds more sweetly in the silence,

And spirit finds creative fire.

In ease and innocence I take

A walk beside the lonely lake,

And far niente is my law.

Every dawn produces more

Dear liberty and leisure.

I read a lot, I doze a little,

Careless of fame, the brittle.

Was it not, with such pure pleasure,

In happiness, in idle ways,

I once spent my sweetest days?

56.

Flowers, love, fields, and idleness,

O country life! I like you all,

Pleased as I always am to stress,

That Onegin is not me, recall

It, lest some sly, caustic reader,

Some tell-tale, or vile inventor

Of over-elaborate slander try

To pair Yevgeny and I,

And ignominiously repeat

That I have here daubed my portrait,

Like Byron, pride’s perfect poet,

As though we can never treat

Of someone other, never own

To any but ourselves alone.

57.

All poets, it seems to me,

Love in imagination,

To dream affection constantly

Was once my sole preoccupation.

My soul preserved its memory

The Muse gave it eternity,

And so in careless rapture I

Sang the maid on mountain high,

And captive girls by the Salgira,

But now my friends I often hear,

Your question ringing in my ear,

‘Whom does your sweet lyre hold dearer?

For whom among that jealous crowd,

Do you now voice your thoughts aloud?

58.

‘Whose glance, creating inspiration,

Rewards with its fond caress

Your pure, pensive incantation?

Who in your verse is your goddess?

No one, my friends, I tell you, truly!

Love’s madness, wild and unruly,

I suffered without hope or joy.

Happy is he who can employ

Fevered rhyme on such a theme

So he’ll double the intensity

Of the sacred flames of poesy,

Follow in Petrarch’s steps, seem

To ease heart’s suffering, find fame:

But I was mute, foolish in the game.

59.

Love faded then the Muse appeared,

My darkened mind grew clear again,

Now free, my verse no longer feared

Music’s magic, thought, and pain.

I write, my heart no longer suffers,

My pen I find no longer wanders,

Sketching women’s legs and feet,

Beside some lines still incomplete.

The cold ash hides no smouldering ember,

I’m grieving still, but free of tears,

The storm that shook my soul for years

Soon, soon my mind will not remember:

Then what an epic I’ll contrive,

A poem in cantos, twenty-five!

60.

I’ve sketched the underlying plan,

The hero’s name I’ve given too;

My rhyming novel’s well in hand,

I’m ready now for chapter two.

I’ve scanned the pages of my fiction,

And though they’re filled with contradiction,

It’s not my job to work them through.

The censors must have work to do.

To journalists for their consumption

I’ll feed the proceeds of my pen.

Go, little book: find Neva then,

My newborn work, my sweet creation,

Earn me the first fruits of fame,

Noise, incomprehension, blame!

Chapter Two

O rus!

Horace

O, the country! O, Russia!

1.

Our bored Yevgeny’s place of leisure

Was in fact a fine estate,

Where lovers of life’s simple pleasure

Would thank the heavens for their fate.

The manor house was quite secluded,

Screened by the hills when storms intruded,

Beside a river. On every side,

Stretched the pastures far and wide,

Golden cornfields, flowery meadows,

Here a village, there another,

Cattle grazing in the clover,

Parkland, overgrown, soft shadows

Deepening the garden’s shade,

Where the pensive dryads played.

2.

The stately pile was nobly planned

As such fine mansions ought to be,

Firmly founded on the land,

With all the taste we used to see.

Every salon high and handsome,

Damask in the drawing-room,

Ancestral portraits stretched for miles,

Stoves shone with ceramic tiles.

All this is out of fashion now,

Though why it is, who can say,

Yet none of it, the whole display

Moved our hero, I’ll allow,

An ancient house or one new-born

Both of them would make him yawn.

3.

In that room, where the aged fellow

For forty years had berated

His housekeeper, gazed out the window,

Killed the flies, and rusticated,

That simple stall, with oaken floors

Settee and table, chests of drawers,

And not the least ink-stain around,

Onegin searched the cupboards, found

In one a ledger taken hostage,

In another home-made brandy,

A stoneware jug of cider handy,

An Almanack, of year eight vintage:

The old man had no time to look

At any more demanding book.

4.

Alone amongst his new possessions,

Simply to pass the time away

Yevgeny took, in dreamy sessions,

To running things the modern way;

A prophet in the wilderness,

He scrapped the old corvée, no less,

And substituted light quit-rent,

The serfs applauded his intent.

His calculating neighbour though,

Was not enamoured, thought him mad

Saw nothing good, predicted bad,

While others sneered at the show,

But one and all, in truth, agree

He’s a menace in the first degree.

5.

At first the neighbours visited,

But as, at the back porch, was saddled

His stallion, a Don thoroughbred,

And he then rapidly skedaddled,

Once he heard, near his abode,

Their carriage wheels, briskly rode,

They took offence, and once offended

The brief acquaintances were ended.

‘The man’s a lunatic, a boor,

A mason, and forever drinking,

Wine by the bottle, never blinking,

Won’t kiss the ladies’ hands, what’s more

Says yes and no, but never sir

Or madam’ so they all concur.

6.

Meanwhile another landowner

Newly arrived on his estate,

His neighbour, caused an equal stir,

For reasons that I’ll indicate.

Vladimir Lensky, is the man

Handsome, young, a Kantian,

Whose soul was formed in Göttingen,

A friend of truth: a poet then.

From misty Germany he brought

The fruits of learning’s golden tree,

His fervent dreams of liberty,

Ardent and eccentric thought,

Eloquence to inspire the bolder,

And dark hair hanging to his shoulder.

7.

Un-blighted by the world’s cold malice,

His generous spirit still could bless

With warmth a comrade’s manly kiss,

Or a young girl’s shy caress. 

At heart a simple innocent,

To whom hope her brightness lent,

In life’s fresh glow, he still could find

Enchantment, with an unspoiled mind.

He sweetened with delightful dreams

The doubts that stirred in his soul

Life was a riddle, and its goal

A puzzle that seduced, it seems.

Over it he’d rack his brains,

Seeking miracles, for his pains.

8.

In kindred souls too he believed,

That somewhere there was another,

Who longing to unite them, grieved

For him alone, the eternal lover;

Trusted also his friends were there

Ready to save his honour, share

His prison, loyal, prepared to fly

To his defence should slander lie;

That there existed chosen vessels,

Holy friends of the human race

Immortals clasped in fate’s embrace,

Who with radiant light would wrestle,

One day, to illuminate and bless

A future world with their caress.

9.

Compassion, and indignation,

A pure devotion to the good

The bitter-sweet lure of ambition,

From the start, had fired his blood.

The world he wandered with his lyre,

Imbued with true poetic fire,

Under Goethe’s, Schiller’s skies,

They the masters, to his eyes.

Blessed with skill, the Muses’ art

He never managed to disgrace,

In his songs kept pride of place,

For the passions of the heart;

Moments of grave sublimity,

The charms of sweet simplicity.

10.

He sang of love, to love subjected,

Clear and serene his tune,

As a girl’s thoughts, unaffected,

A child’s slumber, or the moon,

Sailing the untroubled skies,

Queen of mysteries and sighs.

He sang of parting and of sorrows,

Misty climes, and vague tomorrows,

Of roses in some high romance;

Sang of all the far-off lands

Where on quiet desert strands,

His living tears obscured his glance;

At eighteen years he had the power,

To sing of life’s dry withered flower.

11.

In that rural wilderness, Yevgeny

Alone, to Lensky’s taste inclined.

The pleasures of the local gentry

Not such as to engage his mind.

The young man fled their noisy chatter,

Their solid grasp of every matter,

Concerning harvesting, or wine,

Their family, or the hounds, no shine

There of wit, true conversation,

The glow of the poetic flame,

No flavour of the social game,

No sentiment to temper reason,

While the babble of their wives,

Was dross enough for many lives.

12.

Lensky, wealthy and good-looking,

Was thought something of a catch;

Thus the country view of hooking

Any fish to make a match;

Marry their daughter, was the plan,

To this half-Russian gentleman.

The talk turns with quiet persistence

To a bachelor’s sad existence,

When he shows, with the samovar,

And Dunya sits to pour the tea,

Before, to prompt her minstrelsy,

They bring on the poor child’s guitar,

And then she squeaks (Oh Lord, above!)

‘Come to my golden chamber, love!’

13.

But Lensky, lacking the desire

To bear the marriage-yoke as yet,

Wished sincerely to acquire

Onegin’s friendship, so they met.

No two men were less the same

Like stone and water, ice and flame,

Prose and poetry, in intent.

At first they seemed indifferent

To each other, but liking grew,

They rode together every day,

Until, such good friends were they

They were one instead of two.

So people (I openly confess)

Make friends, from sheer idleness.

14.

Friendship like that’s to us unknown,

Our minds are full of prejudice,

We think the others noughts, alone

Ourselves the integer in this.

We all possess Napoleon’s features;

The millions of two-legged creatures

Are only instruments and tools;

Emotion’s only fit for fools.

Eugene more tolerant than most,

Though he knew the human race,

And as a rule despised each face,

Yet (as all rules exceptions boast)

Some he liked and placed apart,

Valued feelings, with empty heart.

15.

He heard our Lensky with a smile,

The poet’s bold impassioned speech,

His mind, still malleable the while,

His gaze inspired: how he could preach! –

All this fresh to Onegin, till

The sarcastic and the chill

Words upon his lips were still.

He thought: what folly to work ill

With such ephemeral happiness,

Its doomed despite my interdiction,

Let him but breathe the passing fiction,

Believe all things are for the best:

Youth is a fever, let’s forgive

Its madness and its rage to live.

16.

Between them every disputation

Sparked a deeper train of thought,

The histories of every nation,

Good and evil, what science taught,

The prejudices of the ages,

The secrets of the grave, the pages

Of life itself and destiny,

Were all their constant study.

The poet burning with opinion

Recited, as in reverie,

Bits of Northern poetry

Yevgeny heard with condescension,

Listening with tolerance,

Though they seemed devoid of sense.

17.

But most of all they talked of passions,

My two youthful hermits there;

Having escaped those stormy regions

Onegin spoke of them with care,

Dispassionately gave a sigh;

Happy the one who has passed by,

Happier he who never knew them,

Who has cooled love’s agitation

With parting, vengeance with a word,

He who yawns away his life

With his relations and his wife,

Finding all jealousy absurd –

Whose capital he’s proved able

To keep from the gambling table.

18.

When to the flag we have gathered

Of rationality and peace,

When passions’ flames have wavered,

When their unbridled stirrings cease,

Their violence seems ridiculous

And all their echoes false to us,

We still tremble, being sober,

To hear the tale told by another,

The history of the passing gale,

That even now can stir us so,

Just as at wars of long ago

The veteran is stirred, grows pale,

And in his hut, with a will,

Listens to the young bloods still.

19.

Besides, the enthusiasm of youth

Could never yet conceal a thing,

Love, or hate, it shouts the truth,

Of every joy and suffering.

Considering himself, so placed,

As a veteran, solemn faced,

Onegin heard the poet’s confession.

He gave heart and soul expression,

Ingenuous, trusting, earnestly

Telling the story of his ardour,

His youthful love, warm and tender,

Swiftly apprising Yevgeny

Of all that sentimental stew

That to us is nothing new.

20.

Oh, he had loved as in our age

One loves no longer; one alone

Possessed of the poet’s finer rage,

Is doomed to feel such love, and moan:

Always the one pure constant dream,

Ever desire’s habitual stream,

Ever habitual pain and grief,

That distance, quencher of belief,

Nor long years of separation,

Nor hours given to the Muse,

Nor foreign beauties, foreign views,

Nor study, nor loud celebration,

Could alter Lensky’s loyal soul,

His virgin fire a living coal.

21.

When but a boy his heart was captured,

Never having felt love’s blade,

By Olga, and as one enraptured

He watched her as she sang and played.

Under the oak-trees’ sheltering boughs,

They exchanged their childish vows,

Their fathers saw them marrying,

Considered it a certain thing.

Under her parent’s gaze she grew

Filled with grace and innocence,

Humbly living out existence,

A lily in the morning dew,

A flower in deepest grass, alone,

To bee and butterfly unknown.

22.

Olga was the first to stir

In him the poet’s exaltation,

His first pipings were of her,

Thoughts of her his inspiration.

Oh, farewell now, the golden days!

He sought the forest’s shadowy ways,

Solitude, silence, dark of night,

And the moon’s celestial light,

The moon, a lamp in the sky,

To which we dedicated then

Our wanderings and again

Our secret balm, a tear, a sigh…

Yet now we only see in her

A street-light, though inferior.

23.

Always humble, always truthful,

Always smiling as the dawn,

Like the poet’s life as simple,

Sweet as the kiss of love, that’s born

Of sky-blue eyes, a heavenly blue,

Flaxen hair, all gleaming, too,

Voice, manner, slender waist,

Such was Olga…you can paste

Her description here from any

Novel that you choose to read,

A charming portrait, yes, indeed,

One I adored, but now it bores me.

Reader, I’ll enhance the vista,

Let me describe her elder sister.

24.

Her sister’s name was…Tatyana,

Here’s the first use of it made

In romance, the first time ever

It’s been willingly displayed.

Why not? It has a pleasant sound,

Although inseparable I’ve found

From memories of long ago,

And the servants’ quarters! No,

It’s true we don’t possess good taste,

In the names that we rehearse

(To say nothing of our verse),

Enlightenment has been a waste

In our regard, has left us blessed

By affectation – not the rest.

25.

So, she is called Tatyana.

Not a beauty like her sister,

Lacking rosy cheeks, the manner,

To attract a passing lover.

Melancholy, wild, retiring,

Like a doe seen in a clearing,

Fleeing at the sign of danger,

To her family a stranger.

She never took to caressing

Her father, mother, not her way

To delight in childish play,

With the others, sweetly dancing.

But often to the window glued

She’d sit all day in solitude.

26.

Her dearest friend was reverie,

From the cradle, the slow stream

Of placid dull rusticity

Enriched by meditative dream.

Her tender fingers never held

A needle, never once excelled,

Her head above the silk inclined,

In working something she’d designed.

Early, the will to rule appears,

The child with her obedient doll,

Prepares herself for protocol,

For social worlds beyond her years,

Repeating to it solemnly

What mother preaches constantly.

27.

But even in her earliest days

Tatyana had no doll to nurse,

News from town, the latest craze,

She never chose to rehearse.

Childhood mischief, petty glories

Were not her forte; horror stories

Were what gave her most delight,

Told in winter, late at night.

And when nurse had collected

Olga’s little friends to play,

At tag in the meadows, say,

Tatyana such things rejected;

Their laughter noisy, tedious,

Their raucous games so frivolous.

28.

On her balcony, alone,

She loved to greet the break of day,

When the light has barely shown,

As the stars’ choir fades away,

And the edge of earth grows brightly,

While, herald of the morning, lightly

Stirs the breeze, brings on the morn,

As the half-light turns to dawn.

In winter when the shades of night

Still hold half the world in thrall,

And lost in misty moonlight all

The East is indolently white,

At the same hour’s sweet caress,

By candle-light she’d rise and dress.

29.

From the first she craved romances,

Her great delight, she loved them so,

Whatever chapter most entrances,

In Richardson or in Rousseau.

Her father saw no harm in reading,

A decent sort, though yet conceding

His taste was of a former age.

And since he never read a page,

He thought them quite innocuous,

And never bothered for a moment

About the volume’s true content,

That slept beneath her pillow thus.

His wife was quite another one,

Since she was mad for Richardson.

30.

Richardson she loved quite madly,

Though not indeed that she was one,

To read him, nor preferred really

To his Lovelace, Grandison,

But she had heard of them a dozen

Times from her dear Moscow cousin,

Long ago, Princess Alina,

When, betrothed, she had seen her,

Betrothed though against her will:

She was sighing for another,

Who pleased her very soul, a lover,

Of whom she could not get her fill,

Her Grandison, adept at cards,

A dandy, ensign in the Guards.

31.

Like him she wore the latest fashion,

Like him her dress was elegant.

But regardless of such passion,

They wed her, without her consent.

Her prudent husband, swiftly left

For his estate, where she, bereft,

(Though he thought that country life

Would soon settle his new wife)

With God knows who for neighbour,

Wept violently in her sorrow,

Looked for a divorce tomorrow,

Then plunged into domestic labour.

Habit brought her quiet content,

Habit joy’s surrogate, heaven sent.

32.

Habit soothed her agony,

Nothing else could end her grief,

Until a fresh discovery

Consoled her and brought relief.

In their hours of work and leisure

She quietly took her husband’s measure,

With that secret, gave her dictat,

And ruled him like an autocrat.

All went smoothly from that day,

Pickled mushrooms for the winter,

Kept the books, and shaved the hair

Of levied serfs, bathed Saturday,

Beat the servant girls and cursed,

And never asked her husband first.

33.

Time was when she would write, in blood,

In the album of some sweet friend,

Call Praskovya, Pauline, and would

Her sing-song voice in gossip blend,

Pinched her waist with tight laces,

Used the nasal ‘n’ in places

Where French sounds were de rigeur,

But in the end came to prefer

Life without albums, waists, Pauline,

Books of sentimental verse,

All forgotten, and rehearse

Names like Akulka, not Céline.

And wore, her last defences down,

A mob-cap and a quilted gown.

 34.

Yet her spouse loved her dearly,

Let her pursue her own sweet way,

Trusted her himself, quite clearly,

And dined with her déshabillé.

Peacefully their lives progress,

Sometimes they receive as guests,

Some decent neighbouring family

Plain, devoid of ceremony.

They’ll grumble, swap the latest gossip,

Laugh at whatever tickles them,

Hours roll on, and then, again,

Olga’s here with tea to sip,

Then supper, bedtime, by and by,

The hour when all must say goodbye.

35.

They held to, in their peaceful state,

Traditions of the ages past,

So on Shrove Tuesday always ate

Russian pancakes, and they’d fast

Twice a year, loved Christmas carols,

Folksongs, and the wedding chorals,

At Whitsuntide, their tears they’d shed

On the flowers, their eyes quite red,

When through the thanksgiving Mass,

The congregation sit and yawn,

Their sentiments were re-born.

Like fresh air they loved their kvass,

And at the table, dinner served,

Due rank and custom they observed.

36.

And so grew old, like all things mortal,

The husband was the first to pass

Through the grave’s gloomy portal,

Wore the funeral crown at last.

Now he rested from his labours,

And was wept for by his neighbours,

By his children and his wife.

He’d led a good and simple life,

And died just before his dinner.

Where his honoured dust now lies

His epitaph discreetly sighs:

Dimitry Larin, a poor sinner,

God’s servant and a brigadier,

Beneath this stone, rests quietly here.

37.

Returning to his home, young Lensky

Went to pay his fond respects,

At his neighbour’s grave, and truly

Paid tribute with a tear. ‘Who’s next?

Alas, poor Yorick!’ he lamented,

‘In his arms I played, contented,

When I was but a little boy,

Took his old medal for a toy!

He hoped Olga and I would wed,

Even now I hear him say,

‘Shall I live to see that day?’

And full of grief that he was dead,

Lensky, for a funeral

Elegy penned a madrigal.

38.

Then too, with fervent weeping,

He sat down and wrote another,

Honouring, where they lay sleeping,

Both his father and his mother…

Alas! From life’s dark furrows rise

The human harvest to our eyes,

Rise and ripen, briefly nourished,

Where they fall, others flourish…

So our heedless race today

Grows recklessly and fills the room,

Pushes its grandsires to the tomb.

We too, we too, the same old way;

Our grandchildren think it no crime

To crowd us out before our time!

39.

So, enjoy the fleeting hour

Of this fickle life, my friends!

I count myself free of its power,

Know its worth, and how it ends.

I’m blind to all its illusion,

Yet within my heart’s confusion,

Distant hopes will sometimes start:

It would be painful to depart

Leaving not a trace behind.

I live, I write but not for praise;

But only, it seems, from my days

To leave a name for fate to find,

That one line in the memory

May speak, like a fond friend, of me.

40.

My verse may touch someone’s heart,

Some stanza, preserved by fate,

Some fragment of my precious art,

Saved from Lethe’s darkened spate.

Perhaps too (oh, flattering hope!)

Some fool may yet achieve a trope,

Pronouncing: ‘He was a poet!’

Even though he cannot know it,

While pointing out my famous bust.

But you, disciple of the Muse,

Receive my thanks, and grateful dues,

Who keep my pyramid from rust,

Whose kind hand will smooth like down,

The ageing laurels of my crown!

Chapter Three

Elle étoit fille, elle étoit amoureuse.

Malfilâtre

She was a girl, she was amorous.

1.

‘You’re off again? Oh, these poets!’

Goodbye, Eugene, I must be leaving.’

‘I’ll not keep you, but where is it,

You fritter away your evenings?’

– ‘At the Larins.’ – ‘How very odd.

Aren’t you bored to death, dear God,

Killing the hours dozing there?’

– ‘Not at all.’ – ‘Well, I declare,

I can’t see it. Here’s what you’ll find

I imagine (say, if I’m right):

A simple Russian scene, by night,

Hospitable, a family grind,

Tea, and jam, and endless prattle,

About the weather, crops, and cattle…’

2.

‘I don’t see what’s so bad about it.’

‘Ah, boredom, that’s what’s bad, my friend.’

‘I hate the fashionable circuit,

All make for home in the end,

Where we can…’ ‘Oh, an elegy!

Dear Lord, enough, enough! Have pity!

You’re really going? And so swiftly?

But, listen, Lensky, when shall I see

This Phyllis, who’s so interesting,

This idol for your mind, and pen,

Your tears, verse, et cetera, when? ...

Introduce me.’ ‘Now, you’re jesting.’

‘No.’ – ‘With pleasure.’ – ‘When?’ – ‘Tonight.

They’d welcome you with great delight.’

3.

‘Let’s go.’ They leave without delay,

Arrive, and greeted heartily,

Are treated in the kindest way

With old-fashioned hospitality.

The polished table shines, I fear

Those dishes of preserves appear,

Jugs of cranberry juice, all that

Custom demands. They sat and sat,

And passed the time as people do,

Politely mentioning various topics,

Filling the silences with gossip:

Time dragged slowly or it flew,

Until (a wealth of thanks conceive),

They exit; Lenksy loth to leave.

4.

Homeward they go the shortest way,

Since it’s late, and travel quickly:

Reader, you’d know what they say?

Then listen now, in secret, with me.

‘My dear Onegin, you’re yawning.’

‘A habit Lensky.’ ‘You find life boring,

More than usual?’ ‘No, the same.

Too dark for driving some would claim,

Press on! Andryushka, quicker, quicker!

Oh, this stupid countryside!

So: Madame Larina, while we ride,

I found an honest plain old dear,

Though that cranberry juice may kill:

It’s bound at least to make me ill.’

5.

‘And tell me, which was Tatyana?’

‘The one who sat by the window,

Sad as Zhukovsky’s Svetlana,

As though she had a private sorrow’

‘Can you really love the younger?’

– Why not? – Well, I’d prefer her sister,

If I were a poet, as you are

Olga’s less alive by far,

Just like those Van Dyck Madonnas,

Pretty yes, with that round face,

As the foolish moon in space,

The foolish horizon honours.’

Vladimir thought him quite wrong,

Yet diplomatic, held his tongue.

6.

Meanwhile Onegin’s first session

At the Larins had produced

On one and all a strong impression,

All the neighbours were seduced.

There was no end of speculation,

Hosts of rumours in circulation,

Jokes and carping comments too,

Tatyana was betrothed: some knew!

Some claimed the marriage was agreed,

Stated it quite positively,

Delayed though, temporarily,

Fashionable rings they need.

As for Lensky’s fate, you know,

All that was settled long ago.

7.

Tatyana listened, with vexation,

To all this; yet, an innocent,

Felt inexpressible elation,

At the least unguarded moment.

A thought took root in her heart,

So a seed begins to start

Heated by the warmth of spring,

And time gives nurture to the thing.

Her dreams had long since set her yearning,

For that fatal sustenance,

Fired by longing, circumstance,

In solitude her heart was burning,

Crushed by adolescent gloom,

Her soul was waiting…but for whom?

8.

The one awaited….he is here;

Her eyes are opened, it is he!

Now night and day he will appear

In dreams, that fevered, solitary,

Speak of him, and endlessly

All things declare, and magically,

His presence: kindness is vexation,

The servant’s looks pure irritation.

Lost in her deep melancholy,

She pays no attention to their guests

Curses their hours of idleness,

Their visits an unwelcome folly,

Hates the tedium of their visit,

Their tendency to sit, and sit.

9.

Now with greater concentration,

She reads the sweet romances,

Finds a deeper fascination,

In those soft seductive glances!

Each figment of imagination,

Every writer’s fine creation,

Cottin’s Malek-Adhel, de Krudener’s de Linar,

The lover too of Rousseau’s Julie Womar,

Werther, born to be a martyr,

And the peerless Grandison,

Who sends me to sleep, all were as one;

A single image as it were:

The foolish dreamer sees them whole

In Onegin’s form, and soul. 

10.

And sees herself the heroine

Of all the authors she admires,

Clarissa, Julie, or Delphine;

Wanders among forest choirs

With some dangerous volume roams,

Through its pages swiftly combs,

To find her passion, and her dream,

Her overflowing heart, love’s gleam.

She sighs and in herself possesses

Another’s joy, another’s sorrow,

A little note then for her hero

In her mind she writes, addresses.

Yet ours, though he may be one,

Is certainly no Grandison.

11.

In the high style of the past,

An author of romantic fiction

Had to present his hero as

A paragon of pure perfection.

Always unjustly persecuted,

His character was executed

To show intelligence and grace,

A sensitive and handsome face.

His heart forever burned with rapture,

Pure devotion his desire,

Prepared for sacrificial fire:

And always, in the final chapter,

Vice was ruthlessly put down,

While virtue won a noble crown.

12.

But now our minds are somewhat cloudy,

Morals makes us nod, not sins;

Even in books, virtue’s dowdy,

And even there, at last, vice wins.

All the British Muse’s lumber

Now disturbs a young girl’s slumber,

Her idol, someone to admire,

Is the blood-sucking Vampire,

Melmoth, Maturin’s traveller,

The Corsair or the Wandering Jew,

Nodier’s Jean Sbogar too.

Lord Byron with a shrewd despair,

Displays a hopeless egotism

As saturnine romanticism.

13.

My friends, where’s the sense in it?

Perhaps by some divine decree,

A fresh demon will inhabit

Self, and end my poetry.

Defying then the dread Apollo,

The paths of humble prose I’ll follow

Write novels in established ways

To fill up my declining days.

No fear and menace in my tale,

No villain’s hidden agony,

A simple Russian family

With that my readers I’ll regale,

Love’s enchantments: and my verse

Our ancient customs shall rehearse.

14.

I’ll record the honest speech

Of an old uncle, or some father’s,

Then by the stream, beneath the beech

The breathless meeting of young lovers;

Fierce jealousy, sad separation,

Tears of reconciliation,

A second quarrel, then they sigh,

Then to the altar, by and by….

I’ll recall the words of longing,

Uttered in those days of bliss,

In a time far, far from this,

At my mistress’s feet lying,

Words that flowed from my tongue,

Lost now that power of being young.

15.

Tatyana, my dear Tatyana!

I share those tears that agitate:

To the hands of fashion’s monster,

You now consign your fate.

My dear one you’re doomed to perish,

But first what hopes you’ll cherish,

Blinded, dazed by sombre joys,

You’ll drink the poison love employs,

You’ll learn its bliss, its desires,

While such dreams pursue you,

Thinking every place you view

To shelter lovers’ trysts aspires;

While fated everywhere to find,

Your true seducer in your mind.

16.

Haunted by love’s pain, Tatyana,

Takes to the garden, walking

Eyes downcast, till her languor,

Prevents her from even moving.

Her breast heaves, her cheeks aflame,

Burning suddenly with shame,

The breath on her lips is glazed,

A roaring in her ears, eyes dazed…

Night falls, and the moon patrols

The vault of heaven. Near her room,

A nightingale, from woodland gloom

Its rich sonorous cadence rolls.

Tatyana, in the darkness lying,

To her nurse is softly sighing.

17.

‘I can’t sleep, Nurse; it’s stifling!

Open the window then sit by me.’

‘What is it Tanya, dear?’ ‘It’s trifling:

Nurse, I’m bored, tell me a story.’

‘A story, Tanya? In my time,

I knew scores and scores, in rhyme,

Old tales they were, fables laden

With Evil spirits, a lovely maiden;

Tanya, it’s gone, my memory,

All that I knew forgotten. Yes,

Time’s done it’s work, I must confess,

I’m muddled now!’… ‘But Nurse, tell me,

When you were young, long ago,

Were you in love? I must know!’

18.

‘Tanya! What a notion! In those days,

We’d never heard the word. One sigh

And my mother-in-law, bless her ways,

Would chase me about, fit to die.’

Then how did you come to wed?’ ‘Tanya,

It was God’s will now, my Vanya,

Was just a lad, if you could have seen

Us then, and I, I was just thirteen.

The matchmaker spent two weeks trying

To persuade my parents, no less,

Then father blessed me, and said yes.

Oh, you should have heard me crying,

Still wept as they unwound my hair,

And sang me to church. What a pair!’

19.

‘So I joined another family,

My husband’s folk…do you hear?’

‘Ah, Nurse, Nurse, I’m so unhappy,

It seems to me I’m ill, my dear,

I long to sob, I long to weep…!’

– ‘My little one, you need to sleep.

Oh Lord! What can I get you, daughter…

Let me sprinkle you, fetch holy water,

You’re in a fever…’ ‘No, I’m not ill:

I’m…Nurse, you see…I’m in love.’

– ‘Oh my child, Heavens above,

May the Good Lord preserve us still!’ –

The sign of the cross she made

Over the girl, and trembling prayed.

20.

‘I am in love’ Tatyana sighs,

In a soft whisper, gives a moan.

‘Dear, you can’t be well,’ replies,

The nurse. ‘It’s love. Leave me alone.’

Meanwhile, the sad moon dreams,

On the girl’s pale beauty gleams,

Shines above, its tranquil light

Silvering loosened hair, tears bright,

The bench beside her, where the nurse

In kerchief and quilted gown,

By our heroine sits, spell-bound.

And all the world lies still, below,

Bathed in the moon’s enchanted glow.

21.

Tanya watches the moon’s sphere,

Her soul in distant regions wanders,

And then, a sudden thought shines clear:

‘Nurse, go now.’ She swiftly ponders:

‘Bring me ink and paper, draw

That table nearer; I’ll be sure

To sleep later. Now goodnight.’

Alone, in silence. The moon sheds light.

Propped on her elbow, now she pens,

Thinking of Eugene, all the while,

A simple letter, free of guile,

That breathes a young girl’s innocence.

The letter’s done, is folded, sealed…

Tatyana! Whose name is revealed?

22.

I’ve known women, proud and cold,

As pure as winter’s ice, as rigid,

Unfathomable, even to the bold,

As stern, as distant, and as frigid.

I marvelled at their arrogance,

Iron virtue, chilly glance,

To keep well clear of them, I vow,

And that inscription on their brow,

The one on Hades’ Gate: Surrender

All hope, all you who enter here.’

What consoles them is our fear,

They abhor it when we’re tender.

Perhaps you’ve seen, on Neva’s shore,

The like of them, one or more.

23

And I’ve seen other beauties too

Ringed by loyal devotees,

Indifferent to me or you,

To sighs, or praise, or flatteries.

And yet I was amazed to find

Them often feign a change of mind,

Frightening a timid love away

Reviving it the following day:

At least a pretence of empathy,

At least their words seeming more,

Kind and tender than before.

So the gullible would blindly,

Young and fond, pursue again,

That fatal sweetness, though in vain.

24.

Why then consider Tanya guilty?

Because her simplicity, it seems,

Is ignorant of deceit, and still she

Believes completely in her dreams?

Or because her love lacks art,

Follows the promptings of her heart?

Because she’s trusting, and honest

And by Heaven has been blessed,

With profound imagination,

A fiery will, a lively mind,

A soul for passion’s fires designed,

A spirit tuned to all creation?

Surely, then, you can forgive,

A fierce desire to love and live?

25.

Tatyana is no cool coquette,

She loves in all seriousness,

Yields to it like a child, as yet

Full of innocence and sweetness.  

She’d never argue: Let’s delay

Increase love’s value, find a way

To mesh him deeper in our net.

First rouse his vanity and let

Him hope, deploy uncertainty,

Exhaust him, now, let him doubt,

Till the flame is dying out;

Then calmly stir his jealousy,

Lest tired of pleasure, freedom won,

He ends the struggle and has done.

26.

Now, I’m in some difficulty,

Since, to preserve my reputation,

I must give her letter, error-free,

In Russian, honouring our nation.

But Tanya wrote it all so badly,

Never read Russian papers, sadly,

Had never, even when young,

Been fluent in her native tongue.

And so she wrote in French of course …

What’s to be done? As we all know,

No lady’s ever deigned to show

Her love thus, since, despite its force,

Our great language, in its pride,

Has never with letters been allied.

27.

I know: they’d like to force our girls

To read in Russian. Ah, what horror!

Could you conceive those golden curls,

Izmailov’s Journal set before her!

Is it not true, my fellow poet,

Those dear creatures, oh, you know it,

For whom, to expiate our crimes,

We wrote all those secret rhymes,

To whom our hearts were consecrated,

Didn’t they mutilate our speech,

Our Russian language, and yet each

Fault was charming, though it grated?

A foreign tongue it is that slips,

Habitually, between their lips.

28.

May I never meet, at a ball,

By the entrance step, or on it,

A scholar, in a yellow shawl,

An Academician in a bonnet!

Like rose-red lips without a smile,

Russian without such faults is vile,

Lacks charm. The new generation,

Of beauties, with the press’s clamour,

May yet accustom us to grammar,

Make poetry their occupation;

As for me….they’re not my ways,

My heart is with the good old days.

29.

Their incorrect and careless chatter,

Their errors of pronunciation,

Still add emotion to the matter,

Stir the same old sweet sensation.

I’ve not the strength for repentance,

French still entrances in a sentence,

Like the sins that youth rehearses,

Or Bogdanóvich’s light verses.

Enough. It’s time for that letter,

Written by my pure young beauty,

I gave my word, and it’s my duty,

Though blank pages would be better;

We’ve no use for Parny’s rhymes

In these far less tender times.

30.

Singer of Feasts and melancholy,

Baratynsky, were you with me now,

I might commit a daring folly

And ask your Muse to take a bow,

Borrow your bewitching skill,

Translate my Tanya, with a will,

Into verse that would amaze us,

All those foreign words and phrases.

Where are you, now? It’s your right,

I cede my own in deference…..

But no, beneath Finland’s skies,

Far now from praise, he sighs,

Among sad cliffs for preference.

In spirit, he abandons me

To all my plaintive misery.

31.

Tayana’s letter’s here before me,

I treat it as a sacred treasure,

Read it secretively, sadly,

And never fully plumb its measure.

Who inspired such tenderness,

Surrender’s language, rare excess?

Who taught her this intense emotion,

This heartfelt speech, gave the notion,

So charming and so perilous?

I know not, yet here’s my translation,

Pale, incomplete, an imitation,

Of a living work, as dubious

As an air from Weber’s Freischütz played,

By nervous hands, mind half-obeyed.

TATYANA’S LETTER TO ONEGIN

‘I write – what more is there to say?

How shall I add to my confession?

I know it’s in your power today

To punish me with your derision.

Yet had compassion a part to play

In your thoughts, you would wait,

And not abandon me to fate.

At first I wished to stay quite silent,

Thus, you never would have heard

Of shame or misery, one word.
If I’d reserved a hope, content

To see you but once a week,

Be in your presence, hear you speak,

Utter a few words of greeting,

And then, while you were gone,

Have that to think, and think, upon,

Day and night, till our next meeting.

You’re unsociable, they say

That the country bores you, sadly;

And we….don’t shine in any way,

Although we welcome you, so gladly.

Why did you come, to disturb us?

Lost in our rural solitude?

I’d not have known you, and thus

Been spared this deep inquietude,

In time (who knows?) I might have viewed

My world with equanimity,

This fever born of youth once past,

Found another, served at last,

As wife and mother, faithfully.

Another? ....No, no there’s none

On earth but you my heart adores!

That was ordained by fate, alone…

It’s Heaven’s will: I am yours.

My life was but a pledge till now

Of our prophetic meeting: yes,

God sent you to me, I avow,

Till in the grave we shall rest…

You appeared to me in dreams,

My soul heard your voice ring clear,

As yet unknown, I held you dear,

Stirred by a stranger’s glance, it seems,

Long ago….It was no phantom!

You appeared, and instantly,

My hearts ablaze, I cried: ‘It’s he’,

In my thoughts, I was struck dumb.

Is it not true? I often heard you:

In quiet, did you not speak to me,

In works of charity, all through

The hours of anguished prayer I knew,

When my head ached so painfully?

And now, at this very moment,

Is it not you, this heaven-sent

Vision, standing by my bed,

Deep, in the translucent night

To bring, with love and solace bright,

Fresh hope on which my heart is fed?

Are you then my guardian angel,

Or my tempter, force of evil:

Dispel my doubts, I am blind,

Perhaps this is all vanity,

The fancies of a foolish mind,

Mine another destiny….

So be it! My fate now lies

In your hands, my direction,

The tears flow from my eyes,

I beseech your protection…

Conceive it. No one here to cherish

Me, or understand my moan,

My mind in torment, I’m alone:

Silently, I’m doomed to perish.

I await you: one look turned

Towards me, wake hope in my heart,

Or make this painful dream depart

Speak the reproach I have earned!

I tremble to re-read….must end!

My heart sinks now, in shame and terror…

On you alone I must depend

Boldly trusting in your honour…’

32.

Tatyana moans then gives a sigh,

The letter trembles in her hand;

The wafer meant to seal it’s dry,

Still quivering there on her tongue.

Her head sinks, the stars grow older,

Her night-dress slips from her shoulder,

Soon the dawn will bring new light,

The moon no longer shines as bright,

The radiance dies: there the vale

Shines with mist. Here a stream

Is turned to silver. From it’s dream,

A shepherd’s pipe wakes the dale.

Morning comes: the dark is done,

To my Tatyana, all is one.

33.

She barely notices the dawn,

Sits with head downcast, still holds

The seal with her monogram,

Poised above the letter’s folds.

The nurse, old Filipevna,

Enters softly and disturbs her,

Bringing breakfast on a tray,

‘It’s time to rise my child; it’s day:

Ah, now but you’re up already!

See, my early bird, my darling,

Save us, how well you’re looking!

Last night what a fright you gave me!

I see your fretting’s left no trace,

Red as a poppy, your bright face.’

34.

– ‘Oh, Nurse, you won’t refuse me.’ –

‘Of course not darling, only say…’

– ‘Don’t think…truly…don’t accuse me…

No suspicions… nurse, obey.’ –

My sweet child, as God is holy.’

– ‘Then send your grandson, and he

Must take this letter, secretly, to O…

To our neighbour… he, you know,

And never breathe a word of it,

And he must never mention me…’ –

‘To whom, my dear, who is this he?

I know I’m slow, and short of wit,

But we’ve so many neighbours, why

I can’t count them if I try.’

35.

– ‘Nurse, how slow you are to guess!’ –

‘My darling, well, I’m getting old;

Old, Tanya, and my mind…God bless,

Once master had no need to scold,

When I was young, a mere suggestion…’

– ‘Nurse, now, that’s not the question,

What has all that to do with me,

This letter here, don’t you see,

It’s for Onegin.’ – ‘Yes, indeed,

Don’t be cross with me, my sweet,

My mind….But you’re pale as a sheet:

Child, is there something you need?’

 – ‘Nurse, it’s nothing, I feel fine.

Go now, take this note of mine.’ –

36.

The day slips past, with no reply,

Another day, and still no sign,

Dressed at dawn, she gives a sigh,

A shadow, pale. Ah, for one line!

Then Olga’s suitor, Lensky’s here:

‘Tell me will your friend appear?’

Asks Larina, curious,

‘It seems he has forgotten us!’

Tanya was blushing, trembling.

‘He promised he’d come, today,

Perhaps the mail’s caused some delay,’

She heard our Lensky answering;

Tanya downcast, as if she heard,

A dark reproach in every word.

37.

Dusk falls, the samovar is gleaming

Adorns the table, boiling hot,

It glows and hisses, softly steaming,

Vapour wreathes the china pot.

Olga’s there, and quietly fills

The shining tea-cups, never spills

A drop of that dark fragrant stream;

A serving-lad hands round the cream.

Tatyana hovers at the window,

Breathing on the icy pane,

She’s lost in thought now, once again;

On the misted glass, a shadow,

Her little finger’s traced, I see,

The sacred letters, O and E.

38.

Her heartache feels like some disease,

Her eyes are clouded, filled with tears,

The sound of hooves! ...Sent to freeze

Her. Galloping, closer it appears.

‘Eugene! Ah!’ – Light as a wraith

Tatyana flies, as swift as faith,

From porch to yard, in a moment,

Not looking backward for an instant,

Past the flowers, down the lawn,

Past the bridge, and pond, she stops,

At nothing, pathway, lake, or copse,

Breaks the lilacs, hurrying on,

Through the borders, gains the stream,

And on the rustic bench’s gleam

39.

Sinks to rest…

                        ‘Here’s Yevgeny!

Oh God, what must he think of me?’

Her heart still, in it’s agony,

Still bears a hope, a dream darkly.

She trembles, burning, in fear:

Is this him, now? She cannot hear.

Far off a choir of girls sing

Picking berries in the evening,

(As their master told them to,

Not daring to stop, for then

It’s clear they’re not eating them,

By slyly thieving one or two;

A clever scheme of rural song,

Preventing them from doing wrong!)

THE GIRLS’ SONG

Come you maidens, pretty maidens,

Come away, my pretty ones,

Foot it sweetly, now and neatly,

Foot it sweetly, on the grass!

Sing a song, unbind your hair,

A song we love, a merry song,

And draw to us a handsome lad,

To our dance, to our choir.

When we see him, when he’s near us,

When we see our lad approach,

Let’s surround him, in a trice,

Pelt him, with ripe red cherries,

Raspberries, sweet redcurrants:

Eavesdropper, don’t you dare

Listen to our secret song,

Never spy on what we do,

What we sing’s not meant for you!

40.

Tatyana hears their distant choir,

But scarcely comprehends their art,

Waiting there, her cheeks on fire,

Tries to calm her beating heart,

But still the pounding in her ears,

Still the throbbing is fierce,

And the flame in her cheek.

So a poor butterfly will seek

To beat once more its rainbow wing,

Frantic and quivering, caught

By some careless lad for sport,

Or a hare trembles, hapless thing,

Glimpsing from the distant field

The huntsman by the hedge, concealed.

41.

At last she gave a sudden sigh,

And rose from the bench again,

Turned, and saw before her: ‘Why,

It is Yevgeny,’ sees him plain,

Standing there, his eyes ablaze,

As lightning in his visage plays.

She halts, as if scorched by flame,

Rooted to the ground, in shame.

But the end to this encounter,

So unlooked-for, I’ll not give it,

Lack the strength just now to live it,

After such unremitting labour,

A walk indeed would suit me best,

Before I meditate the rest.

Chapter Four

La morale est dans la nature des choses.

Necker

Morality is in the nature of things.

1-7.

The less we show our love to woman,