Eugene Onegin Read Online

Amphoux (London, 1974).

VICKERY, W., Pushkin: Death of a Poet (Bloomington, Ind., 1968).

———Alexander Pushkin (New York, 1970; rev. edn. New York, 1992).

WOLFF, T., Pushkin on Literature (London, 1971).

A CHRONOLOGY OF ALEXANDER SERGEEVICH PUSHKIN

(all dates are old style)

1799	Born 26 May in Moscow. On his father’s side Pushkin was descended from a somewhat impoverished but ancient aristocratic family. The poet’s maternal great-grandfather, Abram Hannibal, was an African princeling (perhaps Abyssinian) who had been taken hostage as a boy by the Turkish sultan. Brought eventually to Russia and adopted by Peter the Great, he became a favourite of the emperor and under subsequent rulers enjoyed a distinguished career in the Russian military service. All his life Pushkin retained great pride in his lineage on both sides of the family.
1800–11	Entrusted in childhood to the care of governesses and French tutors, Pushkin was largely ignored by his parents. He did, however, avail himself of his father’s extensive library and read widely in French literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. His mastery of contemporary Russian speech owes much to his early contact with household serfs, especially with his nurse, Arina Rodionovna.
1811–17	Attends Lycée at Tsarskoe Selo near St Petersburg, an academy newly established by Emperor Alexander I for the education of young noblemen and their preparation for government service. During these school years he writes his earliest surviving verse. Pushkin’s poetic talent was recognized early and admired by prominent Russian writers, including the poets Derzhavin and Zhukovsky and the historian Karamzin.
1817–20	Appointed to a sinecure in the Department of Foreign Affairs, he leads a dissipated life in St Petersburg. Writes satirical epigrams and circulates in manuscript form mildly seditious verse that incurs the displeasure of Emperor Alexander I. His first narrative poem, the mock epic Ruslan and Lyudmila, is published in 1820 and enjoys great success.
1820–4	Arrested for his liberal writings and exiled to service in the south of Russia (Ekaterinoslav, Kishinev, Odessa), he travels in the Caucasus, Crimea, Bessarabia. During this ‘Byronic period’ he composes his ‘southern poems’, including The Prisoner of the Caucasus and The Fountain of Bakhchisarai.
1823	Begins Eugene Onegin on 9 May (first chapter published in 1825).
1824	Writes narrative poem The Gypsies. After further conflict with the authorities he is dismissed from the service.
1824–6	Lives in exile for two more years at family estate of Mikhailovskoe.
1825	Writes verse drama Boris Godunov. Decembrist Revolt, in which several of the poet’s friends participated, takes place while Pushkin is still absent from the capital.
1826–31	Pardoned by new Czar Nicholas I (September 1826) and allowed to return to Moscow, he resumes dissipated living. Continuing problems with censorship and growing dissatisfaction with the court and autocracy.
1827	Begins prose novel The Moor of Peter the Great (never completed), an account of the life and career of his ancestor Abram Hannibal.
1828	Writes narrative poem Poltava celebrating the victory of Peter the Great over Charles XII of Sweden.
1830	While stranded by a cholera epidemic at his country estate of Boldino he enjoys an especially productive autumn: effectively completes Eugene Onegin; writes The Tales of Belkin (prose stories); finishes ‘Little Tragedies’: The Covetous Knight, Mozart and Salieri, The Stone Guest, Feast in Time of Plague.
1831	Marries Natalya Goncharova on 18 February; settles in St Petersburg; appointed official historiographer. Finally abandons work on Eugene Onegin, which has occupied him for more than eight years.
1831–7	Increasing personal and professional difficulties: financial troubles, unhappy married life, dismissal as a literary force by younger generation.
1833	Second ‘Boldino autumn’. Writes short story The Queen of Spades, narrative poem The Bronze Horseman; works on A History of the Pugachev Rebellion
1836	Completes historical romance The Captain’s Daughter.
1837	Incensed by the attentions paid to his wife by Baron Georges d’Antès, a French adventurer in the Russian service, Pushkin challenges him to a duel and on 27 February is mortally wounded; he dies two days later and his coffin is taken at night to Svyatogorsky Monastery near Mikhailovskoe for burial.

EUGENE ONEGIN

Pétri de vanité il avait encore plus

de cette espèce d’orgueil qui fait

avouer avec la même indifférence les

bonnes comme les mauvaises actions,

suite d’un sentiment de supériorité,

peut-être imaginaire.

Tiré d’une lettre particulière*

Dedication*

Not thinking of the proud world’s pleasure,

But cherishing your friendship’s claim,

I would have wished a finer treasure

To pledge my token to your name—

One worthy of your soul’s perfection,

The sacred dreams that fill your gaze,

Your verse’s limpid, live complexion,

Your noble thoughts and simple ways.

But let it be. Take this collection

Of sundry chapters as my suit:

Half humorous, half pessimistic,

Blending the plain and idealistic—

Amusement’s yield, the careless fruit

Of sleepless nights, light inspirations,

Born of my green and withered years …

The intellect’s cold observations,

The heart’s reflections, writ in tears.

Chapter 1

To live he hurries and to feel makes haste.

Prince Vjazemsky

1

‘My uncle, man of firm convictions* …

By falling gravely ill, he’s won

A due respect for his afflictions—

The only clever thing he’s done.

May his example profit others;

But God, what deadly boredom, brothers,

To tend a sick man night and day,

Not daring once to steal away!

And, oh, how base to pamper grossly

And entertain the nearly dead,

To fluff the pillows for his head,

And pass him medicines morosely—

While thinking under every sigh:

The devil take you, Uncle. Die!’

2

Just so a youthful rake reflected,

As through the dust by post he flew,

By mighty Zeus’s will elected

Sole heir to all the kin he knew.

Ludmíla’s and Ruslán’s adherents!*

Without a foreword’s interference,

May I present, as we set sail,

The hero of my current tale:

Onégin, my good friend and brother,

Was born beside the Neva’s span,

Where maybe, reader, you began,

Or sparkled in one way or other.

I too there used to saunter forth,

But found it noxious in the north.*

3

An honest man who’d served sincerely,

His father ran up debts galore;

He gave a ball some three times yearly,

Until he had no means for more.

Fate watched Eugene in his dependence;

At first Madame was in attendance;

And then Monsieur took on the child,

A charming lad, though somewhat wild.

Monsieur l’Abbé, a needy fellow,

To spare his charge excessive pain,

Kept lessons light and rather plain;

His views on morals ever mellow,

He seldom punished any lark,

And walked the boy in Letny Park.*

4

But when the age of restless turnings

Became in time our young man’s fate,

The age of hopes and tender yearnings,

Monsieur l’Abbé was shown the gate.

And here’s Onegin—liberated,

To fad and fashion newly mated:

A London dandy, hair all curled,

At last he’s ready for the world!

In French he could and did acutely

Express himself and even write;

In dancing too his step was light,

And bows he’d mastered absolutely.

Who’d ask for more? The world could tell

That he had wit and charm as well.

5

We’ve all received an education

In something somehow, have we not?

So thank the Lord that in this nation

A little learning means a lot.

Onegin was, so some decided

(Strict judges, not to be derided),

A learned, if pedantic, sort.

He did possess the happy forte

Of free and easy conversation,

Or in a grave dispute he’d wear

The solemn expert’s learned air

And keep to silent meditation;

And how the ladies’ eyes he lit

With flashes of his sudden wit!

6

The Latin vogue today is waning,

And yet I’ll say on his behalf,

He had sufficient Latin training

To gloss a common epigraph,

Cite Juvenal in conversation,

Put vale in a salutation;

And he recalled, at least in part,

A line or two of Virgil’s art.

He lacked, it’s true, all predilection

For rooting in the ancient dust

Of history’s annals full of must,

But knew by heart a fine collection

Of anecdotes of ages past:

From Romulus to Tuesday last.

7

Lacking the fervent dedication

That sees in sounds life’s highest quest,

He never knew, to our frustration,

A dactyl from an anapest.

Theocritus and Homer bored him,

But reading Adam Smith restored him,

And economics he knew well;

Which is to say that he could tell

The ways in which a state progresses—

The actual things that make it thrive,

And why for gold it need not strive,

When basic products it possesses.

His father never understood

And mortgaged all the land he could.

8

I have no leisure for retailing

The sum of all our hero’s parts,

But where his genius proved unfailing,

The thing he’d learned above all arts,

What from his prime had been his pleasure,

His only torment, toil, and treasure,

What occupied, the livelong day,

His languid spirit’s fretful play

Was love itself, the art of ardour,

Which Ovid sang in ages past,

And for which song he paid at last

By ending his proud days a martyr—

In dim Moldavia’s vacant waste,

Far from the Rome his heart embraced.

(9)* 10

How early on he could dissemble,

Conceal his hopes, play jealous swain,

Compel belief, or make her tremble,

Seem cast in gloom or mute with pain,

Appear so proud or so forbearing,

At times attentive, then uncaring!

What languor when his lips were sealed,

What fiery art his speech revealed!

What casual letters he would send her!

He lived, he breathed one single dream,

How self-oblivious he could seem!

How keen his glance, how bold and tender;

And when he wished, he’d make appear

The quickly summoned, glistening tear!

11

How shrewdly he could be inventive

And playfully astound the young,

Use flattery as warm incentive,

Or frighten with despairing tongue.

And how he’d seize a moment’s weakness

To conquer youthful virtue’s meekness

Through force of passion and of sense,

And then await sweet recompense.

At first he’d beg a declaration,

And listen for the heart’s first beat,

Then stalk love faster—and entreat

A lover’s secret assignation …

And then in private he’d prepare

In silence to instruct the fair!

12

How early he could stir or worry

The hearts of even skilled coquettes!

And when he found it necessary

To crush a rival—oh, what nets,

What clever traps he’d set before him!

And how his wicked tongue would gore him!

But you, you men in wedded bliss,

You stayed his friends despite all this:

The crafty husband fawned and chuckled

(Faublas’* disciple and his tool),

As did the skeptical old fool,

And the majestic, antlered cuckold—

So pleased with all he had in life:

Himself, his dinner, and his wife.

(13–14) 15

Some mornings still abed he drowses,

Until his valet brings his tray.

What? Invitations? Yes, three houses

Have asked him to a grand soirée.

There’ll be a ball, a children’s party;

Where will he dash to, my good hearty?

Where will he make the night’s first call?

Oh, never mind—he’ll make them all.

But meanwhile, dressed for morning pleasure,

Bedecked in broad-brimmed Bolivar*

He drives to Nevsky Boulevard,

To stroll about at total leisure,

Until Bréguet’s* unsleeping chime

Reminds him that it’s dinner time.

16

He calls a sleigh as daylight’s dimming;

The cry resounds: ‘Make way! Let’s go!’

His collar with its beaver trimming

Is silver bright with frosted snow.

He’s off to Talon’s,* late, and racing,

Quite sure he’ll find Kavérin* pacing;

He enters—cork and bottle spout!

The comet wine* comes gushing out,

A bloody roastbeef’s on the table,

And truffles, youth’s delight so keen,

The very flower of French cuisine,

And Strasbourg pie,* that deathless fable;

While next to Limburg’s lively mould

Sits ananás in splendid gold.

17

Another round would hardly hurt them,

To wash those sizzling cutlets down;

But now the chime and watch alert them:

The brand new ballet’s on in town!

He’s off!—this critic most exacting

Of all that touches art or acting,

This fickel swain of every star,

And honoured patron of the barre—

To join the crowd, where each is ready

To greet an entrechat with cheers,

Or Cleopatra with his jeers,

To hiss at Phèdre—so unsteady,

Recall Moïna* … and rejoice

That everyone has heard his voice.

18

Enchanted land! There for a season,

That friend of freedom ruled the scene,

The daring satirist Fonvízin,

As did derivative Knyazhnín;

There Ózerov received the nation’s

Unbidden tears and its ovations,

Which young Semyónova did share;

And our Katénin gave us there

Corneille’s full genius resurrected;

And there the caustic Shakhovskóy

Refreshed the stage with comic joy,

Didelot his crown of fame perfected.*

There too, beneath the theatre’s tent,

My fleeting, youthful days were spent.

19

My goddesses! You vanished faces!

Oh, hearken to my woeful call:

Have other maidens gained your places,

Yet not replaced you after all?

Shall once again I hear your chants?

Or see the Russian muse of dance

Perform her soaring, soulful flight?

Or shall my mournful gaze alight

On unknown faces on the stages?

And when across this world I pass

A disenchanted opera glass,

Shall I grow bored with mirth and rages,

And shall I then in silence yawn

And recollect a time that’s gone?

20

The theatre’s full, the boxes glitter;

The restless gallery claps and roars;

The stalls and pit are all ajitter;

The curtain rustles as it soars.

And there … ethereal… resplendent,

Poised to the magic bow attendant,

A throng of nymphs her guardian band,

Istómina* takes up her stand.

One foot upon the ground she places,

And then the other slowly twirls,

And now she leaps! And now she whirls!

Like down from Eol’s lips she races;

Then spins and twists and stops to beat

Her rapid, dazzling, dancing feet.

21

As all applaud, Onegin enters—

And treads on toes to reach his seat;

His double glass he calmly centres

On ladies he has yet to meet.

He takes a single glance to measure

These clothes and faces with displeasure;

Then trading bows on every side

With men he knew or friends he spied,

He turned at last and vaguely fluttered

His eyes toward the stage and play—

Then yawned and turned his head away:

’It‘s time for something new,’ he muttered,

’I‘ve suffered ballets long enough,

But now Didelot is boring stuff.’

22

While all those cupids, devils, serpents

Upon the stage still romp and roar,

And while the weary band of servants

Still sleeps on furs at carriage door;

And while the people still are tapping,

Still sniffling, coughing, hissing, clapping;

And while the lamps both in and out

Still glitter grandly all about;

And while the horses, bored at tether,

Still fidget, freezing, in the snow,

And coachmen by the fire’s glow

Curse masters and beat palms together;

Onegin now has left the scene

And driven home to change and preen.

23

Shall I abandon every scruple

And picture truly with my pen

The room where fashion’s model pupil

Is dressed, undressed, and dressed again?

Whatever clever London offers

To those with lavish whims and coffers,

And ships to us by Baltic seas

In trade for tallow and for trees;

Whatever Paris, seeking treasure,

Devises to attract the sight,

Or manufactures for delight,

For luxury, for modish pleasure—

All this adorned his dressing room,

Our sage of eighteen summers’ bloom.

24

Imported pipes of Turkish amber,

Fine china, bronzes—all displayed;

And purely to delight and pamper,

Perfumes in crystal jars arrayed;

Steel files and combs in many guises,

Straight scissors, curved ones, thirty sizes

Of brushes for the modern male—

For hair and teeth and fingernail.

Rousseau (permit me this digression)

Could not conceive how solemn Grimm*

Dared clean his nails in front of him,

The brilliant madcap of confession.

In this case, though, one has to say

That Freedom’s Champion went astray.

25

For one may be a man of reason

And mind the beauty of his nails.

Why argue vainly with the season?—

For custom’s rule o’er man prevails.

Now my Eugene, Chadáyev’s* double,

From jealous critics fearing trouble,

Was quite the pedant in his dress

And what we called a fop, no less.

At least three hours he peruses

His figure in the looking-glass;

Then through his dressing room he’ll pass

Like flighty Venus when she chooses

In man’s attire to pay a call

At masquerade or midnight ball.

26

Your interest piqued and doubtless growing

In current fashions of toilette,

I might describe in terms more knowing

His clothing for the learned set.

This might well seem an indiscretion,

Description, though, is my profession;

But pantaloons, gilet, and frock—

These words are hardly Russian stock;

And I confess (in public sorrow)

That as it is my diction groans

With far too many foreign loans;

But if indeed I overborrow,

I have of old relied upon

Our Academic Lexicon.

27

But let’s abandon idle chatter

And hasten rather to forestall

Our hero’s headlong, dashing clatter

In hired coach towards the ball.

Before the fronts of darkened houses,

Along a street that gently drowses,

The double carriage lamps in rows

Pour forth their warm and cheerful glows

And on the snow make rainbows glitter.

One splendid house is all alight,

Its countless lampions burning bright;

While past its glassed-in windows flitter

In quick succession silhouettes

Of ladies and their modish pets.

28

But look, Onegin’s at the gateway;

He’s past the porter, up the stair,

Through marble entry rushes straightway,

Then runs his fingers through his hair,

And steps inside. The crush increases,

The droning music never ceases;

A bold mazurka grips the crowd,

The press intense, the hubbub loud;

The guardsman clinks his spurs and dances,

The charming ladies twirl their feet—

Enchanting creatures that entreat

A hot pursuit of flaming glances;

While muffled by the violin

The wives their jealous gossip spin.

29

In days of dreams and dissipations

On balls I madly used to dote:

No surer place for declarations,

Or for the passing of a note.

And so I offer, worthy spouses,

My services to save your houses:

I pray you, heed my sound advice,

A word of warning should suffice.

You too, you mamas, I commend you

To keep your daughters well in sight;

Don’t lower your lorgnettes at night!

Or else … or else … may God defend you!

All this I now can let you know,

Since I dropped sinning long ago.

30

So much of life have I neglected

In following where pleasure calls!

Yet were not morals ill affected

I even now would worship balls.

I love youth’s wanton, fevered madness,

The crush, the glitter, and the gladness,

The ladies’ gowns so well designed;

I love their feet—although you’ll find

That all of Russia scarcely numbers

Three pairs of shapely feet… And yet,

How long it took me to forget

Two special feet. And in my slumbers

They still assail a soul grown cold

And on my heart retain their hold.

31

In what grim desert, madman, banished,

Will you at last cut memory’s thread?

Ah, dearest feet, where have you vanished?

What vernal flowers do you tread?

Brought up in Oriental splendour,

You left no prints, no pressings tender,

Upon our mournful northern snow.

You loved instead to come and go

On yielding rugs in rich profusion;

While I—so long ago it seems!—

For your sake smothered all my dreams

Of glory, country, proud seclusion.

All gone are youth’s bright years of grace,

As from the meadow your light trace.

32

Diana’s breast is charming, brothers,

And Flora’s cheek, I quite agree;

But I prefer above these others

The foot of sweet Terpsichore.

It hints to probing, ardent glances

Of rich rewards and peerless trances;

Its token beauty stokes the fires,

The wilful swarm of hot desires.

My dear Elvina, I adore it—

Beneath the table barely seen,

In springtime on the meadow’s green,

In winter with the hearth before it,

Upon the ballroom’s mirrored floor,

Or perched on granite by the shore.

33

I recollect the ocean rumbling:

O how I envied then the waves—

Those rushing tides in tumult tumbling

To fall about her feet like slaves!

I longed to join the waves in pressing

Upon those feet these lips … caressing.

No, never midst the fiercest blaze

Of wildest youth’s most fervent days

Was I so racked with yearning’s anguish:

No maiden’s lips were equal bliss,

No rosy cheek that I might kiss,

Or sultry breast on which to languish.

No, never once did passion’s flood

So rend my soul, so flame my blood.

34

Another memory finds me ready:

In cherished dreams I sometimes stand

And hold the lucky stirrup steady,

Then feel her foot within my hand!

Once more imagination surges,

Once more that touch ignites and urges

The blood within this withered heart:

Once more the love … once more the dart!

But stop … Enough! My babbling lyre

Has overpraised these haughty things:

They’re hardly worth the songs one sings

Or all the passions they inspire;

Their charming words and glances sweet

Are quite as faithless as their feet.

35

But what of my Eugene? Half drowsing,

He drives to bed from last night’s ball,

While Petersburg, already rousing,

Answers the drumbeat’s duty call.

The merchant’s up, the pedlar scurries,

With jug in hand the milkmaid hurries,

Crackling the freshly fallen snow;

The cabby plods to hackney row.

In pleasant hubbub morn’s awaking!

The shutters open, smoke ascends

In pale blue shafts from chimney ends.

The German baker’s up and baking,

And more than once, in cotton cap,

Has opened up his window-trap.

36

But wearied by the ballroom’s clamour,

He sleeps in blissful, sheer delight—

This child of comfort and of glamour,

Who turns each morning into night.

By afternoon he’ll finally waken,

The day ahead all planned and taken:

The endless round, the varied game;

Tomorrow too will be the same.

But was he happy in the flower—

The very springtime of his days,

Amid his pleasures and their blaze,

Amid his conquests of the hour?

Or was he profligate and hale

Amid his feasts to no avail?

37

Yes, soon he lost all warmth of feeling:

The social buzz became a bore,

And all those beauties, once appealing,

Were objects of his thought no more.

Inconstancy grew too fatiguing;

And friends and friendship less intriguing;

For after all he couldn’t drain

An endless bottle of champagne

To help those pies and beefsteaks settle,

Or go on dropping words of wit

With throbbing head about to split:

And so, for all his fiery mettle,

He did at last give up his love

Of pistol, sword, and ready glove.

38

We still, alas, cannot forestall it—

This dreadful ailment’s heavy toll;

The spleen is what the English call it,

We call it simply Russian soul.

‘Twas this our hero had contracted;

And though, thank God, he never acted

To put a bullet through his head,

His former love of life was dead.

Like Byron’s Harold, lost in trances,

Through drawing rooms he’d pass and stare;

But neither whist, nor gossip there,

Nor wanton sighs, nor tender glances—

No, nothing touched his sombre heart,

He noticed nothing, took no part.

(39–41) 42

Capricious belles of lofty station!

You were the first that he forswore;

For nowadays in our great nation,

The manner grand can only bore.

I wouldn’t say that ladies never

Discuss a Say or Bentham*—ever;

But generally, you’ll have to grant,

Their talk’s absurd, if harmless, cant.

On top of which, they’re so unerring,

So dignified, so awfully smart,

So pious and so chaste of heart,

So circumspect, so strict in bearing,

So inaccessibly serene,

Mere sight of them brings on the spleen.*

43

You too, young mistresses of leisure,

Who late at night are whisked away

In racing droshkies bound for pleasure

Along the Petersburg chaussée—

He dropped you too in sudden fashion.

Apostate from the storms of passion,

He locked himself within his den

And, with a yawn, took up his pen

And tried to write. But art’s exaction

Of steady labour made him ill,

And nothing issued from his quill;

So thus he failed to join the faction

Of writers—whom I won’t condemn

Since, after all, I’m one of them.

44

Once more an idler, now he smothers

The emptiness that plagues his soul

By making his the thoughts of others—

A laudable and worthy goal.

He crammed his bookshelf overflowing,

Then read and read—frustration growing:

Some raved or lied, and some were dense;

Some lacked all conscience; some, all sense;

Each with a different dogma girded;

The old was dated through and through,

While nothing new was in the new;

So books, like women, he deserted,

And over all that dusty crowd

He draped a linen mourning shroud.

45

I too had parted with convention,

With vain pursuit of worldly ends;

And when Eugene drew my attention,

I liked his ways and we made friends.

I liked his natural bent for dreaming,

His strangeness that was more than seeming,

The cold sharp mind that he possessed;

I was embittered, he depressed;

With passion’s game we both were sated;

The fire in both our hearts was pale;

Our lives were weary, flat, and stale;

And for us both, ahead there waited—

While life was still but in its morn—

Blind fortune’s malice and men’s scorn.

46

He who has lived as thinking being

Within his soul must hold men small;

He who can feel is always fleeing

The ghost of days beyond recall;

For him enchantment’s deep infection

Is gone; the snake of recollection

And grim repentance gnaws his heart.

All this, of course, can help impart

Great charm to private conversation;

And though the language of my friend

At first disturbed me, in the end

I liked his caustic disputation—

His blend of banter and of bile,

His sombre wit and biting style.

47

How often in the summer quarter,

When midnight sky is limpid-light

Above the Neva’s placid water—

The river gay and sparkling bright,

Yet in its mirror not reflecting

Diana’s visage—recollecting

The loves and intrigues of the past,

Alive once more and free at last,

We drank in silent contemplation

The balmy fragrance of the night!

Like convicts sent in dreaming flight

To forest green and liberation,

So we in fancy then were borne

Back to our springtime’s golden morn.

48

Filled with his heart’s regrets, and leaning

Against the rampart’s granite shelf,

Eugene stood lost in pensive dreaming

(As once some poet drew himself*).

The night grew still… with silence falling;

Only the sound of sentries calling,

Or suddenly from Million Street

Some distant droshky’s rumbling beat;

Or floating on the drowsy river,

A lonely boat would sail along,

While far away some rousing song

Or plaintive horn would make us shiver.

But sweeter still, amid such nights,

Are Tasso’s octaves’ soaring flights.

49

O Adriatic! Grand Creation!

O Brenta!* I shall yet rejoice,

When, filled once more with inspiration,

I hear at last your magic voice!

It’s sacred to Apollo’s choir;

Through Albion’s great and haughty lyre*

It speaks to me in words I know.

On soft Italian nights I’ll go

In search of pleasure’s sweet profusion;

A fair Venetian at my side,

Now chatting, now a silent guide,

I’ll float in gondola’s seclusion;

And she my willing lips will teach

Both love’s and Petrarch’s ardent speech.

50

Will freedom come—and cut my tether?

It’s time, it’s time! I bid her hail;

I roam the shore,* await fair weather,

And beckon to each passing sail.

O when, my soul, with waves contesting,

And caped in storms, shall I go questing

Upon the crossroads of the sea?

It’s time to quit this dreary lee

And land of harsh, forbidding places;

And there, where southern waves break high,

Beneath my Africa’s warm sky,*

To sigh for sombre Russia’s spaces,

Where first I loved, where first I wept,

And where my buried heart is kept.

51

Eugene and I had both decided

To make the foreign tour we’d planned;

But all too soon our paths divided,

For fate took matters into hand.

His father died—quite unexpected,

And round Eugene there soon collected

The greedy horde demanding pay.

Each to his own, or so they say.

Eugene, detesting litigation

And quite contented with his fate,

Released to them the whole estate …

With no great sense of deprivation;

Perhaps he also dimly knew

His aged uncle’s time was due.

52

And sure enough a note came flying;

The bailiff wrote as if on cue:

Onegin’s uncle, sick and dying,

Would like to bid his heir adieu.

He gave the message one quick reading,

And then by post Eugene was speeding,

Already bored, to uncle’s bed,

While thoughts of money filled his head.

He was prepared—like any craven—

To sigh, deceive, and play his part

(With which my novel took its start);

But when he reached his uncle’s haven,

A laid-out corpse was what he found,

Prepared as tribute for the ground.

53

He found the manor fairly bustling

With those who’d known the now deceased;

Both friends and foes had come ahustling,

True lovers of a funeral feast.

They laid to rest the dear departed;

Then, wined and dined and heavy-hearted,

But pleased to have their duty done,

The priests and guests left one by one.

And here’s Onegin—lord and master

Of woods and mills and streams and lands;

A country squire, there he stands,

That former wastrel and disaster;

And rather glad he was, it’s true,

That he’d found something else to do.

54

For two full days he was enchanted

By lonely fields and burbling brook,

By sylvan shade that lay implanted

Within a cool and leafy nook.

But by the third he couldn’t stick it:

The grove, the hill, the field, the thicket-

Quite ceased to tempt him any more

And, presently, induced a snore;

And then he saw that country byways—

With no great palaces, no streets,

No cards, no balls, no poets’ feats—

Were just as dull as city highways;

And spleen, he saw, would dog his life,

Like shadow or a faithful wife.

55

But I was born for peaceful roaming,

For country calm and lack of strife;

My lyre sings! And in the gloaming

My fertile fancies spring to life.

I give myself to harmless pleasures

And far niente rules my leisures:

Each morning early I’m awake

To wander by the lonely lake

Or seek some other sweet employment:

I read a little, often sleep,

For fleeting fame I do not weep.

And was it not in past enjoyment

Of shaded, idle times like this,

I spent my days of deepest bliss?

56

The country, love, green fields and flowers,

Sweet idleness! You have my heart.

With what delight I praise those hours

That set Eugene and me apart.

For otherwise some mocking reader

Or, God forbid, some wretched breeder

Of twisted slanders might combine

My hero’s features here with mine

And then maintain the shameless fiction

That, like proud Byron, I have penned

A mere self-portrait in the end;

As if today, through some restriction,

We’re now no longer fit to write

On any theme but our own plight.

57

All poets, I need hardly mention,

Have drawn from love abundant themes;

I too have gazed in rapt attention

When cherished beings filled my dreams.

My soul preserved their secret features;

The Muse then made them living creatures:

Just so in carefree song I paid

My tribute to the mountain maid,

And sang the Salghir captives’ praises.*

And now, my friends, I hear once more

That question you have put before:

‘For whom these sighs your lyre raises?

To whom amid the jealous throng

Do you today devote your song?

58

’Whose gaze, evoking inspiration,

Rewards you with a soft caress?

Whose form, in pensive adoration,

Do you now clothe in sacred dress?’

Why no one, friends, as God’s my witness,

For I have known too well the witless

And maddened pangs of love’s refrain.

Oh, blest is he who joins his pain

To fevered rhyme: for thus he doubles

The sacred ecstasy of art;

Like Petrarch then, he calms the heart,

Subduing passion’s host of troubles,

And captures worldly fame to boot!—

But I, in love, was dense and mute.

59

The Muse appeared as love was ending

And cleared the darkened mind she found.

Once free, I seek again the blending

Of feeling, thought, and magic sound.

I write … and want no more embraces;

My straying pen no longer traces,

Beneath a verse left incomplete,

The shapes of ladies’ heads and feet.

Extinguished ashes won’t rekindle,

And though I grieve, I weep no more;

And soon, quite soon, the tempest’s core

Within my soul will fade and dwindle:

And then I’ll write this world a song

That’s five and twenty cantos long!

60

I’ve drawn a plan and know what’s needed,

The hero’s named, the plotting’s done;

And meantime I’ve just now completed

My present novel’s Chapter One.

I’ve looked it over most severely;

It has its contradictions, clearly,

But I’ve no wish to change a line;

I’ll grant the censor’s right to shine

And send these fruits of inspiration

To feed the critics’ hungry pen.

Fly to the Neva’s water then,

My spirit’s own newborn creation!

And earn me tribute paid to fame:

Distorted readings, noise, and blame!

Chapter 2

O rus!

Horace

O Rus’!*

1

The place Eugene found so confining

Was quite a lovely country nest,

Where one who favoured soft reclining

Would thank his stars to be so blest.

The manor house, in proud seclusion,

Screened by a hill from wind’s intrusion,

Stood by a river. Far away

Green meads and golden cornfields lay,

Lit by the sun as it paraded;

Small hamlets too the eye could see

And cattle wand’ring o’er the lea;

While near at hand, all dense and shaded,

A vast neglected garden made

A nook where pensive dryads played.

2

The ancient manse had been erected

For placid comfort—and to last;

And all its solid form reflected

The sense and taste of ages past.

Throughout the house the ceilings towered,

From walls ancestral portraits glowered;

The drawing room had rich brocades

And stoves of tile in many shades.

All this today seems antiquated—

I don’t know why; but in the end

It hardly mattered to my friend,

For he’d become so fully jaded,

He yawned alike where’er he sat,

In ancient hall or modern flat.

3

He settled where the former squire

For forty years had heaved his sighs,

Had cursed the cook in useless ire,

Stared out the window, and squashed flies.

The furnishings were plain but stable:

A couch, two cupboards, and a table,

No spot of ink on oaken floors.

Onegin opened cupboard doors

And found in one a list of wages,

Some fruit liqueurs and applejack,

And in the next an almanac

From eighteen-eight with tattered pages;

The busy master never took

A glance in any other book.

4

Alone amid his new possessions,

And merely as an idle scheme,

Eugene devised a few concessions

And introduced a new regime.

A backwoods genius, he commuted

The old corvée and substituted

A quitrent at a modest rate;*

His peasants thanked their lucky fate,

But thrifty neighbours waxed indignant

And in their dens bewailed as one

The dreadful harm of what he’d done.

Still others sneered or turned malignant,

And everyone who chose to speak

Called him a menace and a freak.

5

At first the neighbours’ calls were steady;

But when they learned that in the rear

Onegin kept his stallion ready

So he could quickly disappear

The moment one of them was sighted

Or heard approaching uninvited,

They took offence and, one and all,

They dropped him cold and ceased to call.

’The man’s a boor, he‘s off his rocker.’

‘Must be a Mason;* drinks, they say …

Red wine, by tumbler, night and day!’

‘Won’t kiss a lady’s hand, the mocker.’

‘Won’t call me “sir” the way he should.’

The general verdict wasn’t good.

6

Another squire chose this season

To reappear at his estate

And gave the neighbours equal reason

For scrutiny no less irate.

Vladimir Lénsky, just returning

From Göttingen with soulful yearning,

Was in his prime—a handsome youth

And poet filled with Kantian truth.

From misty Germany our squire

Had carried back the fruits of art:

A freedom-loving, noble heart,

A spirit strange but full of fire,

An always bold, impassioned speech,

And raven locks of shoulder reach.

7

As yet unmarked by disillusion

Or chill corruption’s deadly grasp,

His soul still knew the warm effusion

Of maiden’s touch and friendship’s clasp.

A charming fool at love’s vocation,

He fed on hope’s eternal ration;

The world’s fresh glitter and its call

Still held his youthful mind in thrall;

He entertained with fond illusions

The doubts that plagued his heart and will;

The goal of life, he found, was still

A tempting riddle of confusions;

He racked his brains and rather thought

That miracles could still be wrought.

8

He knew a kindred soul was fated

To join her life to his career,

That even now she pined and waited,

Expecting he would soon appear.

And he believed that men would tender

Their freedom for his honour’s splendour;

That friendly hands would surely rise

To shatter slander’s cup of lies;

That there exists a holy cluster

Of chosen ones whom men should heed,

A happy and immortal breed,

Whose potent light in all its lustre

Would one day shine upon our race

And grant the world redeeming grace.*

9

Compassion, noble indignation,

A perfect love of righteous ways,

And fame’s delicious agitation

Had stirred his soul since early days.

He roamed the world with singing lyre

And found the source of lyric fire

Beneath the skies of distant lands,

From Goethe’s and from Schiller’s hands.

He never shamed, the happy creature,

The lofty Muses of his art;

He proudly sang with open heart

Sublime emotion’s every feature,

The charm of gravely simple things,

And youthful hopes on youthful wings.

10

He sang of love, by love commanded,

A simple and affecting tune,

As clear as maiden thoughts, as candid

As infant slumber, as the moon

In heaven’s peaceful desert flying,

That queen of secrets and of sighing.

He sang of parting and of pain,

Of something vague, of mists and rain;

He sang the rose, romantic flower,

And distant lands where once he’d shed

His living tears upon the bed

Of silence at a lonely hour;

He sang life’s bloom gone pale and sere—

He’d almost reached his eighteenth year.

11

Throughout that barren, dim dominion

Eugene alone could see his worth;

And Lensky formed a low opinion

Of neighbours’ feasts and rounds of mirth;

He fled their noisy congregations

And found their solemn conversations—

Of liquor, and of hay brought in,

Of kennels, and of distant kin,

Devoid of any spark of feeling

Or hint of inner lyric grace;

Both wit and brains were out of place,

As were the arts of social dealing;

But then their charming wives he found

At talk were even less profound.

12

Well-off… and handsome in addition,

Young Lensky seemed the perfect catch;

And so, by countryside tradition,

They asked him round and sought to match

Their daughters with this semi-Russian.

He’d call—and right away discussion

Would touch obliquely on the point

That bachelors’ lives were out of joint;

And then the guest would be invited

To take some tea while Dunya poured;

They whisper: ‘Dunya, don’t look bored!’—

Then bring in her guitar, excited …

And then, good God, she starts to bawl:

‘Come to my golden chamberhall!’

13

But Lensky, having no desire

For marriage bonds or wedding bell,

Had cordial hopes that he’d acquire

The chance to know Onegin well.

And so they met—like wave with mountain,

Like verse with prose, like flame with fountain:

Their natures distant and apart.

At first their differences of heart

Made meetings dull at one another’s;

But then their friendship grew, and soon

They’d meet on horse each afternoon,

And in the end were close as brothers.

Thus people—so it seems to me—

Become good friends from sheer ennui.

14

But even friendships like our heroes’

Exist no more; for we’ve outgrown

All sentiments and deem men zeros—

Except of course ourselves alone.

We all take on Napoleon’s features,

And millions of our fellow creatures

Are nothing more to us than tools …

Since feelings are for freaks and fools.

Eugene, of course, had keen perceptions

And on the whole despised mankind,

Yet wasn’t, like so many, blind;

And since each rule permits exceptions,

He did respect a noble few,

And, cold himself, gave warmth its due.

15

He smiled at Lensky’s conversation.

Indeed the poet’s fervent speech,

His gaze of constant inspiration,

His mind, still vacillant in reach—

All these were new and unexpected,

And so, for once, Eugene elected

To keep his wicked tongue in check,

And thought: What foolishness to wreck

The young man’s blissful, brief infection;

Its time will pass without my knife,

So let him meanwhile live his life

Believing in the world’s perfection;

Let’s grant to fevered youthful days

Their youthful ravings and their blaze.

16

The two found everything a basis

For argument or food for thought:

The covenants of bygone races,

The fruits that learned science brought,

The prejudice that haunts all history,

The grave’s eternal, fateful mystery,

And Good and Evil, Life and Fate—

On each in turn they’d ruminate.

The poet, lost in hot contention,

Would oft recite, his eyes ablaze,

Brief passages from Nordic lays;

Eugene, with friendly condescension,

Would listen with a look intense,

Although he seldom saw their sense.

17

More often, though, my two recluses

Would muse on passions* and their flights.

Eugene, who’d fled their wild abuses,

Regretted still his past delights

And sighed, recalling their interment.

Oh, happy he who’s known the ferment

Of passions and escaped their lot;

More happy he who knew them not,

Who cooled off love with separation

And enmity with harsh contempt;

Who yawned with wife and friends, exempt

From pangs of jealous agitation;

Who never risked his sound estate

Upon a deuce, that cunning bait.

18

When we at last turn into sages

And flock to tranquil wisdom’s crest;

When passion’s flame no longer rages,

And all the yearnings in our breast,

The wayward fits, the final surges,

Have all become mere comic urges,

And pain has made us humble men—

We sometimes like to listen then

As others tell of passions swelling;

They stir our hearts and fan the flame.

Just so a soldier, old and lame,

Forgotten in his wretched dwelling,

Will strain to hear with bated breath

The youngbloods’ yarns of courting death.

19

But flaming youth in all its madness

Keeps nothing of its heart concealed:

Its loves and hates, its joy and sadness,

Are babbled out and soon revealed.

Onegin, who was widely taken

As one whom love had left forsaken,

Would listen gravely to the end

When self-expression gripped his friend;

The poet, feasting on confession,

Naively poured his secrets out;

And so Eugene learned all about

The course of youthful love’s progression-

A story rich in feelings too,

Although to us they’re hardly new.

20

Ah yes, he loved in such a fashion

As men today no longer do;

As only poets, mad with passion,

Still love … because they’re fated to.

He knew one constant source of dreaming,

One constant wish forever gleaming,

One ever-present cause for pain!

And neither distance, nor the chain

Of endless years of separation,

Nor pleasure’s rounds, nor learning’s well,

Nor foreign beauties’ magic spell,

Nor yet the Muse, his true vocation,

Could alter Lensky’s deep desire,

His soul aflame with virgin fire.

21

When scarce a boy and not yet knowing

The torment of a heart in flames,

He’d been entranced by Olga growing

And fondly watched her girlhood games;

Beneath a shady park’s protection

He’d shared her frolics with affection.

Their fathers, who were friends, had plans

To read one day their marriage banns.

And deep within her rustic bower,

Beneath her parents’ loving gaze,

She blossomed in a maiden’s ways—

A valley-lily come to flower

Off where the grass grows dense and high,

Unseen by bee or butterfly.

22

She gave the poet intimations

Of youthful ecstasies unknown,

And, filling all his meditations,

Drew forth his flute’s first ardent moan.

Farewell, O golden games’ illusion!

He fell in love with dark seclusion,

With stillness, stars, the lonely night,

And with the moon’s celestial light—

That lamp to which we’ve consecrated

A thousand walks in evening’s calm

And countless tears—the gentle balm

Of secret torments unabated ….

Today, though, all we see in her

Is just another lantern’s blur.

23

Forever modest, meek in bearing,

As gay as morning’s rosy dress,

Like any poet—open, caring,

As sweet as love’s own soft caress;

Her sky-blue eyes, devoid of guile,

Her flaxen curls, her lovely smile,

Her voice, her form, her graceful stance,

Oh, Olga’s every trait…. But glance

In any novel—you’ll discover

Her portrait there; it’s charming, true;

I liked it once no less than you,

But round it boredom seems to hover;

And so, dear reader, grant me pause

To plead her elder sister’s cause.

24

Her sister bore the name Tatyana.

And we now press our wilful claim

To be the first who thus shall honour

A tender novel with that name.*

Why not? I like its intonation;

It has, I know, association

With olden days beyond recall,

With humble roots and servants’ hall;

But we must grant, though it offend us:

Our taste in names is less than weak

(Of verses I won’t even speak);

Enlightenment has failed to mend us,

And all we’ve learned from its great store

Is affectation—nothing more.

25

So she was called Tatyana, reader.

She lacked that fresh and rosy tone

That made her sister’s beauty sweeter

And drew all eyes to her alone.

A wild creature, sad and pensive,

Shy as a doe and apprehensive,

Tatyana seemed among her kin

A stranger who had wandered in.

She never learned to show affection,

To hug her parents—either one;

A child herself, for children’s fun

She lacked the slightest predilection,

And oftentimes she’d sit all day

In silence at the window bay.

26

But pensiveness, her friend and treasure

Through all her years since cradle days,

Adorned the course of rural leisure

By bringing dreams before her gaze.

She never touched a fragile finger

To thread a needle, wouldn’t linger

Above a tambour to enrich

A linen cloth with silken stitch.

Mark how the world compels submission:

The little girl with docile doll

Prepares in play for protocol,

For every social admonition;

And to her doll, without demur,

Repeats what mama taught to her.

27

But dolls were never Tanya’s passion,

When she was small she didn’t choose

To talk to them of clothes or fashion

Or tell them all the city news.

And she was not the sort who glories

In girlish pranks; but grisly stories

Quite charmed her heart when they were told

On winter nights all dark and cold.

Whenever nanny brought together

Young Olga’s friends to spend the day,

Tatyana never joined their play

Or games of tag upon the heather;

For she was bored by all their noise,

Their laughing shouts and giddy joys.

28

Upon her balcony appearing,

She loved to greet Aurora’s show,

When dancing stars are disappearing

Against the heavens’ pallid glow,

When earth’s horizon softly blushes,

And wind, the morning’s herald, rushes,

And slowly day begins its flight.

In winter, when the shade of night

Still longer half the globe encumbers,

And ’neath the misty moon on high

An idle stillness rules the sky,

And late the lazy East still slumbers—

Awakened early none the less,

By candlelight she’d rise and dress.

29

From early youth she read romances,

And novels set her heart aglow;

She loved the fictions and the fancies

Of Richardson and of Rousseau.

Her father was a kindly fellow—

Lost in a past he found more mellow;

But still, in books he saw no harm,

And, though immune to reading’s charm,

Deemed it a minor peccadillo;

Nor did he care what secret tome

His daughter read or kept at home

Asleep till morn beneath her pillow;

His wife herself, we ought to add,

For Richardson was simply mad.

30

It wasn’t that she’d read him, really,

Nor was it that she much preferred

To Lovelace Grandison, but merely

That long ago she’d often heard

Her Moscow cousin, Princess Laura,

Go on about their special aura.

Her husband at the time was still

Her fiancé—against her will!

For she, in spite of family feeling,

Had someone else for whom she pined—

A man whose heart and soul and mind

She found a great deal more appealing;

This Grandison was fashion’s pet,

A gambler and a guards cadet.

31

About her clothes one couldn’t fault her;

Like him, she dressed as taste decreed.

But then they led her to the altar

And never asked if she agreed.

The clever husband chose correctly

To take his grieving bride directly

To his estate, where first she cried

(With God knows whom on every side),

Then tossed about and seemed demented;

And almost even left her spouse;

But then she took to keeping house

And settled down and grew contented.

Thus heaven’s gift to us is this:

That habit takes the place of bliss.

32

’Twas only habit then that taught her

The way to master rampant grief;

And soon a great discovery brought her

A final and complete relief.

Betwixt her chores and idle hours

She learned to use her woman’s powers

To rule the house as autocrat,

And life went smoothly after that.

She’d drive around to check the workers,

She pickled mushrooms for the fall,

She made her weekly bathhouse call,

She kept the books, she shaved the shirkers,*

She beat the maids when she was cross—

And left her husband at a loss.

33

She used to write, with blood, quotations

In maidens’ albums, thought it keen

To speak in singsong intonations,

Would call Praskóvya ‘chère Pauline’.

She laced her corset very tightly,

Pronounced a Russian n as slightly

As n in French … and through the nose;

But soon she dropped her city pose:

The corset, albums, chic relations,

The sentimental verses too,

Were quite forgot; she bid adieu

To all her foreign affectations,

And took at last to coming down

In just her cap and quilted gown.

34

And yet her husband loved her dearly;

In all her schemes he’d never probe;

He trusted all she did sincerely

And ate and drank in just his robe.

His life flowed on—quite calm and pleasant—

With kindly neighbours sometimes present

For hearty talk at evenfall,

Just casual friends who’d often call

To shake their heads, to prate and prattle,

To laugh a bit at something new;

And time would pass, till Olga’d brew

Some tea to whet their tittle-tattle;

Then supper came, then time for bed,

And off the guests would drive, well fed.

35

Amid this peaceful life they cherished,

They held all ancient customs dear;

At Shrovetide feasts their table flourished

With Russian pancakes, Russian cheer;

Twice yearly too they did their fasting;

Were fond of songs for fortune-casting,

Of choral dances, garden swings.

At Trinity, when service brings

The people, yawning, in for prayer,

They’d shed a tender tear or two

Upon their buttercups of rue.

They needed kvas no less than air,

And at their table guests were served

By rank in turn as each deserved.*

36

And thus they aged, as do all mortals.

Until at last the husband found

That death had opened wide its portals,

Through which he entered, newly crowned.

He died at midday’s break from labour,

Lamented much by friend and neighbour,

By children and by faithful wife—

Far more than some who part this life.

He was a kind and simple barin,

And there where now his ashes lie

A tombstone tells the passer-by:

The humble sinner Dmitry Larin

A slave of God and Brigadier

Beneath this stone now resteth here.

37

Restored to home and its safekeeping,

Young Lensky came to cast an eye

Upon his neighbour’s place of sleeping,

And mourned his ashes with a sigh.

And long he stood in sorrow aching;

‘Poor Yorick!’ then he murmured, shaking,

‘How oft within his arms I lay,

How oft in childhood days I’d play

With his Ochákov decoration!*

He destined Olga for my wife

And used to say: “Oh grant me, life,

To see the day!”’ … In lamentation,

Right then and there Vladimir penned

A funeral verse for his old friend.

38

And then with verse of quickened sadness

He honoured too, in tears and pain,

His parents’ dust… their memory’s gladness …

Alas! Upon life’s furrowed plain—

A harvest brief, each generation,

By fate’s mysterious dispensation,

Arises, ripens, and must fall;

Then others too must heed the call.

For thus our giddy race gains power:

It waxes, stirs, turns seething wave,

Then crowds its forebears toward the grave.

And we as well shall face that hour

When one fine day our grandsons true

Straight out of life will crowd us too!

39

So meanwhile, friends, enjoy your blessing:

This fragile life that hurries so!

Its worthlessness needs no professing,

And I’m not loathe to let it go;

I’ve closed my eyes to phantoms gleaming,

Yet distant hopes within me dreaming

Still stir my heart at times to flight:

I’d grieve to quit this world’s dim light

And leave no trace, however slender.

I live, I write—not seeking fame;

And yet, I think, I’d wish to claim

For my sad lot its share of splendour—

At least one note to linger long,

Recalling, like some friend, my song.

40

And it may touch some heart with fire;

And thus preserved by fate’s decree,

The stanza fashioned by my lyre

May yet not drown in Lethe’s sea;

Perhaps (a flattering hope’s illusion!)

Some future dunce with warm effusion

Will point my portrait out and plead:

‘This was a poet, yes indeed!’

Accept my thanks and admiration,

You lover of the Muse’s art,

O you whose mind shall know by heart

The fleeting works of my creation,

Whose cordial hand shall then be led

To pat the old man’s laurelled head!

Chapter 3

Elle était fille, elle était

amoureuse.*

Malfilâtre

1

‘Ah me, these poets … such a hurry!’

‘Goodbye, Onegin … time I went.’

‘Well, I won’t keep you, have no worry,

But where are all your evenings spent?’

‘The Larin place.’—‘What reckless daring!

Good God, man, don’t you find it wearing

Just killing time that way each night?’

‘Why not at all.’—‘Well, serves you right;

I’ve got the scene in mind so clearly:

For starters (tell me if I’m wrong),

A simple Russian family throng;

The guests all treated so sincerely;

With lots of jam and talk to spare.

On rain and flax and cattle care….’

2

‘Well, where’s the harm … the evening passes.’

‘The boredom, brother, there’s the harm.’

‘Well, I despise your upper classes

And like the family circle’s charm;

It’s where I find …’—’More pastoral singing!

Enough, old boy, my ears are ringing!

And so you’re off… forgive me then.

But tell me Lensky, how and when

I’ll see this Phyllis so provoking—

Who haunts your thoughts and writer’s quill,

Your tears and rhymes and what-you-will?

Present me, do.’—’You must be joking!’

’I’m not.’—’Well then, why not tonight?

They’ll welcome us with great delight.’

3

’Let’s go.’

And so the friends departed—

And on arrival duly meet

That sometimes heavy, but good-hearted,

Old-fashioned Russian welcome treat.

The social ritual never changes:

The hostess artfully arranges

On little dishes her preserves,

And on her covered table serves

A drink of lingonberry flavour.

With folded arms, along the hall,

The maids have gathered, one and all,

To glimpse the Larins’ brand new neighbour;

While in the yard their men reproach

Onegin’s taste in horse and coach.*

4

Now home’s our heroes’ destination,

As down the shortest road they fly;

Let’s listen to their conversation

And use a furtive ear to spy.

’Why all these yawns, Onegin? Really!’

’Mere habit, Lensky.’—’But you’re clearly

More bored than usual.’—’No, the same.

The fields are dark now, what a shame.

Come on, Andryúshka, faster, matey!

These stupid woods and fields and streams!

Oh, by the way, Dame Larin seems

A simple but a nice old lady;

I fear that lingonberry brew

May do me in before it’s through.’

5

’But tell me, which one was Tatyana?’

’Why, she who with a wistful air—

All sad and silent like Svetlana*—

Came in and took the window chair.’

’And really you prefer the other?’

’Why not?’—’Were I the poet, brother,

I’d choose the elder one instead—

Your Olga’s look is cold and dead,

As in some dull, Van Dyck madonna;

So round and fair of face is she,

She’s like that stupid moon you see,

Up in that stupid sky you honour.’

Vladimir gave a curt reply

And let the conversation die.

6

Meanwhile … Onegin’s presentation

At Madame Larin’s country seat

Produced at large a great sensation

And gave the neighbours quite a treat.

They all began to gossip slyly,

To joke and comment (rather wryly);

And soon the general verdict ran,

That Tanya’d finally found a man;

Some even knowingly conceded

That wedding plans had long been set,

And then postponed till they could get

The stylish rings the couple needed.

As far as Lensky’s wedding stood,

They knew they’d settled that for good.

7

Tatyana listened with vexation

To all this gossip; but it’s true

That with a secret exultation,

Despite herself she wondered too;

And in her heart the thought was planted…

Until at last her fate was granted:

She fell in love. For thus indeed

Does spring awake the buried seed.

Long since her keen imagination,

With tenderness and pain imbued,

Had hungered for the fatal food;

Long since her heart’s sweet agitation

Had choked her maiden breast too much:

Her soul awaited … someone’s touch.

8

And now at last the wait has ended;

Her eyes have opened … seen his face!

And now, alas! … she lives attended—

All day, all night, in sleep’s embrace—

By dreams of him; each passing hour

The world itself with magic power

But speaks of him. She cannot bear

The way the watchful servants stare,

Or stand the sound of friendly chatter.

Immersed in gloom beyond recall,

She pays no heed to guests at all,

And damns their idle ways and patter,

Their tendency to just drop in—

And talk all day once they begin.

9

And now with what great concentration

To tender novels she retreats,

With what a vivid fascination

Takes in their ravishing deceits!

Those figures fancy has created

Her happy dreams have animated:

The lover of Julie Wolmár,*

Malék-Adhél* and de Linár,*

And Werther, that rebellious martyr,

And Grandison, the noble lord

(With whom today we’re rather bored)—

All these our dreamy maiden’s ardour

Has pictured with a single grace,

And seen in all … Onegin’s face.

10

And then her warm imagination

Perceives herself as heroïne—

Some favourite author’s fond creation:

Clarissa,* Julia,* or Delphine.*

She wanders with her borrowed lovers

Through silent woods and so discovers

Within a book her heart’s extremes,

Her secret passions, and her dreams.

She sighs … and in her soul possessing

Another’s joy, another’s pain,

She whispers in a soft refrain

The letter she would send caressing

Her hero … who was none the less

No Grandison in Russian dress.

11

Time was, with grave and measured diction,

A fervent author used to show

The hero in his work of fiction

Endowed with bright perfection’s glow.

He’d furnish his beloved child—

Forever hounded and reviled—

With tender soul and manly grace,

Intelligence and handsome face.

And nursing noble passion’s rages,

The ever dauntless hero stood

Prepared to die for love of good;

And in the novel’s final pages,

Deceitful vice was made to pay

And honest virtue won the day.

12

But now our minds have grown inactive,

We’re put to sleep by talk of ‘sin’;

Our novels too make vice attractive,

And even there it seems to win.

It’s now the British Muse’s fables

That lie on maidens’ bedside tables

And haunt their dreams. They worship now

The Vampire with his pensive brow,

Or gloomy Melmoth, lost and pleading,

The Corsair, or the Wandering Jew,

And enigmatic Sbogar* too.

Lord Byron, his caprice succeeding,

Cloaked even hopeless egotism

In saturnine romanticism.

13

But what’s the point? I’d like to know it.

Perhaps, my friends, by fate’s decree,

I’ll cease one day to be a poet—

When some new demon seizes me;

And scorning then Apollo’s ire

To humble prose I’ll bend my lyre:

A novel in the older vein

Will claim what happy days remain.

No secret crimes or passions gory

Shall I in grim detail portray,

But simply tell as best I may

A Russian family’s age-old story,

A tale of lovers and their lot,

Of ancient customs unforgot.

14

I’ll give a father’s simple greetings,

An aged uncle’s—in my book;

I’ll show the children’s secret meetings

By ancient lindens near the brook,

Their jealous torments, separation,

Their tears of reconciliation;

I’ll make them quarrel yet again,

But lead them to the altar then.

I’ll think up speeches tenderhearted,

Recall the words of passion’s heat,

Those words with which—before the feet

Of some fair mistress long departed—

My heart and tongue once used to soar,

But which today I use no more.

15

Tatyana, O my dear Tatyana!

I shed with you sweet tears too late;

Relying on a tyrant’s honour,

You’ve now resigned to him your fate.

My dear one, you are doomed to perish;

But first in dazzling hope you nourish

And summon forth a sombre bliss,

You learn life’s sweetness … feel its kiss,

And drink the draught of love’s temptations,

As phantom daydreams haunt your mind:

On every side you seem to find

Retreats for happy assignations;

While everywhere before your eyes

Your fateful tempter’s figure lies.

16

The ache of love pursues Tatyana;

She takes a garden path and sighs,

A sudden faintness comes upon her,

She can’t go on, she shuts her eyes;

Her bosom heaves, her cheeks are burning,

Scarce-breathing lips grow still with yearning,

Her ears resound with ringing cries,

And sparkles dance before her eyes.

Night falls; the moon begins parading

The distant vault of heaven’s hood;

The nightingale in darkest wood

Breaks out in mournful serenading.

Tatyana tosses through the night

And wakes her nurse to share her plight.

17

’I couldn’t sleep … O nurse, it’s stifling!

Put up the window … sit by me.’

’What ails you, Tanya?’—’Life’s so trifling,

Come tell me how it used to be.’

’Well, what about it? Lord, it’s ages …

I must have known a thousand pages

Of ancient facts and fables too

’Bout evil ghosts and girls like you;

But nowadays I’m not so canny,

I can’t remember much of late.

Oh, Tanya, it’s a sorry state;

I get confused …’—‘But tell me, nanny,

About the olden days … you know,

Were you in love then, long ago?’

18

’Oh, come! Our world was quite another!

We’d never heard of love, you see.

Why, my good husband’s sainted mother

Would just have been the death of me!’

’Then how’d you come to marry, nanny?’

’The will of God, I guess …. My Danny

Was younger still than me, my dear,

And I was just thirteen that year.

The marriage maker kept on calling

For two whole weeks to see my kin,

Till father blessed me and gave in.

I got so scared … my tears kept falling;

And weeping, they undid my plait,

Then sang me to the churchyard gate.

19

’And so they took me off to strangers …

But you’re not even listening, pet.’

’Oh, nanny, life’s so full of dangers,

I’m sick at heart and all upset,

I’m on the verge of tears and wailing!’

’My goodness, girl, you must be ailing;

Dear Lord have mercy.