God, I plead!

Just tell me, dearest, what you need.

I’ll sprinkle you with holy water,

You’re burning up!’—’Oh, do be still,

I’m … you know, nurse … in love, not ill.’

’The Lord be with you now, my daughter!’

And with her wrinkled hand the nurse

Then crossed the girl and mumbled verse.

20

’Oh, I’m in love,’ again she pleaded

With her old friend. ‘My little dove,

You’re just not well, you’re overheated.’

’Oh, let me be now … I’m in love.’

And all the while the moon was shining

And with its murky light defining

Tatyana’s charms and pallid air,

Her long, unloosened braids of hair,

And drops of tears … while on a hassock,

Beside the tender maiden’s bed,

A kerchief on her grizzled head,

Sat nanny in her quilted cassock;

And all the world in silence lay

Beneath the moon’s seductive ray.

21

Far off Tatyana ranged in dreaming,

Bewitched by moonlight’s magic curse…

And then a sudden thought came gleaming:

’I’d be alone now … leave me, nurse.

But give me first a pen and paper;

I won’t be long … just leave the taper.

Good night.’ She’s now alone. All’s still.

The moonlight shines upon her sill.

And propped upon an elbow, writing,

Tatyana pictures her Eugene,

And in a letter, rash and green,

Pours forth a maiden’s blameless plighting.

The letter’s ready—all but sent…

For whom, Tatyana, is it meant?

22

I’ve known great beauties proudly distant,

As cold and chaste as winter snow;

Implacable, to all resistant,

Impossible for mind to know;

I’ve marvelled at their haughty manner,

Their natural virtue’s flaunted banner;

And I confess, from them I fled,

As if in terror I had read

Above their brows the sign of Hades:

Abandon Hope, Who Enter Here!

Their joy is striking men with fear,

For love offends these charming ladies.

Perhaps along the Neva’s shore

You too have known such belles before.

23

Why I’ve seen ladies so complacent

Before their loyal subjects’ gaze,

That they would even grow impatient

With sighs of passion and with praise.

But what did I, amazed, discover?

On scaring off some timid lover

With stern behaviour’s grim attack,

These creatures then would lure him back!-

By joining him at least in grieving,

By seeming in their words at least

More tender to the wounded beast;

And blind as ever, still believing,

The youthful lover with his yen

Would chase sweet vanity again.

24

So why is Tanya, then, more tainted?

Is it because her simple heart

Believes the chosen dream she’s painted

And in deceit will take no part?

Because she heeds the call of passion

In such an honest, artless fashion?

Because she’s trusting more than proud,

And by the Heavens was endowed

With such a rashness in surrender,

With such a lively mind and will,

And with a spirit never still,

And with a heart that’s warm and tender?

But can’t you, friends, forgive her, pray,

The giddiness of passion’s sway?

25

The flirt will always reason coldly;

Tatyana’s love is deep and true:

She yields without conditions, boldly—

As sweet and trusting children do.

She does not say: ‘Let’s wait till later

To make love’s value all the greater

And bind him tighter with our rope;

Let’s prick vainglory first with hope,

And then with doubt in fullest measure

We’ll whip his heart, and when it’s tame …

Revive it with a jealous flame;

For otherwise, grown bored with pleasure,

The cunning captive any day

Might break his chains and slip away.’

26

I face another complication:

My country’s honour will demand

Without a doubt a full translation

Of Tanya’s letter from my hand.

She knew the Russian language badly,

Ignored our journals all too gladly,

And in her native tongue, I fear,

Could barely make her meaning clear;

And so she turned for love’s discussion

To French…. There’s nothing I can do!

A lady’s love, I say to you,

Has never been expressed in Russian;

Our mighty tongue, God only knows,

Has still not mastered postal prose.

27

Some would that ladies be required

To read in Russian. Dread command!

Why, I can picture them—inspired,

The Good Samaritan* in hand!

I ask you now to tell me truly,

You poets who have sinned unduly:

Have not those creatures you adore,

Those objects of your verse … and more,

Been weak at Russian conversation?

And have they not, the charming fools,

Distorted sweetly all the rules

Of usage and pronunciation;

While yet a foreign language slips

With native glibness from their lips?

28

God spare me from the apparition,

On leaving some delightful ball,

Of bonneted Academician

Or scholar in a yellow shawl!

I find a faultless Russian style

Like crimson lips without a smile,

Mistakes in grammar charm the mind.

Perhaps (if fate should prove unkind!)

This generation’s younger beauties,

Responding to our journals’ call,

With grammar may delight us all,

And verses will be common duties.

But what care I for all they do?

To former ways I’ll still be true.

29

A careless drawl, a tiny stutter,

Some imprecision of the tongue—

Can still produce a lovely flutter

Within this breast no longer young;

I lack the strength for true repentance,

And Gallicisms in a sentence

Seem sweet as youthful sins remote,

Or verse that Bogdanóvich* wrote.

But that will do. My beauty’s letter

Must occupy my pen for now;

I gave my word, but, Lord, I vow,

Retracting it would suit me better.

I know that gentle Parny’s* lays

Are out of fashion nowadays.

30

Bard of The Feasts* and languid sorrow,

If you were with me still, my friend,

Immodestly I’d seek to borrow

Your genius for a worthy end:

I’d have you with your art refashion

A maiden’s foreign words of passion

And make them magic songs anew.

Where are you? Come! I bow to you

And yield my rights to love’s translation….

But there beneath the Finnish sky,

Amid those mournful crags on high,

His heart grown deaf to commendation—

Alone upon his way he goes

And does not heed my present woes.

31

Tatyana’s letter lies beside me,

And reverently I guard it still;

I read it with an ache inside me

And cannot ever read my fill.

Who taught her then this soft surrender,

This careless gift for waxing tender,

This touching whimsy free of art,

This raving discourse of the heart—

Enchanting, yet so fraught with trouble?

I’ll never know. But none the less,

I give it here in feeble dress:

A living picture’s pallid double,

Or Freischütz* played with timid skill

By fingers that are learning still.

Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin

I’m writing you this declaration—

What more can I in candour say?

It may be now your inclination

To scorn me and to turn away;

But if my hapless situation

Evokes some pity for my woe,

You won’t abandon me, I know.

I first tried silence and evasion;

Believe me, you‘d have never learned

My secret shame, had I discerned

The slightest hope that on occasion—

But once a week—I’d see your face,

Behold you at our country place,

Might hear you speak a friendly greeting,

Could say a word to you; and then,

Could dream both day and night again

Of but one thing, till our next meeting.

They say you like to be alone

And find the country unappealing;

We lack, I know, a worldly tone,

But still, we welcome you with feeling.

Why did you ever come to call?

In this forgotten country dwelling

I’d not have known you then at all,

Nor known this bitter heartache’s swelling.

Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling

The girlish hopes on which I fed,

I might have found (who knows?) another

And been a faithful wife and mother,

Contented with the life I led.

Another! No! In all creation

There’s no one else whom I’d adore;

The heavens chose my destination

And made me thine for evermore!

My life till now has been a token

In pledge of meeting you, my friend;

And in your coming, God has spoken,

You‘ll be my guardian till the end….

You filled my dreams and sweetest trances;

As yet unseen, and yet so dear,

You stirred me with your wondrous glances,

Your voice within my soul rang clear….

And then the dream came true for me!

When you came in, I seemed to waken,

I turned to flame, I felt all shaken,

And in my heart I cried: It’s he!

And was it you I heard replying

Amid the stillness of the night,

Or when I helped the poor and dying,

Or turned to heaven, softly crying,

And said a prayer to soothe my plight?

And even now, my dearest vision,

Did I not see your apparition

Flit softly through this lucent night?

Was it not you who seemed to hover

Above my bed, a gentle lover,

To whisper hope and sweet delight?

Are you my angel of salvation

Or hell’s own demon of temptation?

Be kind and send my doubts away;

For this may all be mere illusion,

The things a simple girl would say,

While Fate intends no grand conclusion….

So be it then! Henceforth I place

My faith in you and your affection;

I plead with tears upon my face

And beg you for your kind protection.

You cannot know: I’m so alone,

There’s no one here to whom I’ve spoken,

My mind and will are almost broken,

And I must die without a moan.

I wait for you … and your decision:

Revive my hopes with but a sign,

Or halt this heavy dream of mine—

Alas, with well-deserved derision!

I close. I dare not now reread….

I shrink with shame and fear. But surely,

Your honour’s all the pledge I need,

And I submit to it securely.

32

The letter trembles in her fingers;

By turns Tatyana groans and sighs.

The rosy sealing wafer lingers

Upon her fevered tongue and dries.

Her head is bowed, as if she’s dozing;

Her light chemise has slipped, exposing

Her lovely shoulder to the night.

But now the moonbeams’ glowing light

Begins to fade. The vale emerges

Above the mist. And now the stream

In silver curves begins to gleam.

The shepherd’s pipe resounds and urges

The villager to rise. It’s morn!

My Tanya, though, is so forlorn.

33

She takes no note of dawn’s procession,

Just sits with lowered head, remote;

Nor does she put her seal’s impression

Upon the letter that she wrote.

But now her door is softly swinging:

It’s grey Filátievna, who’s bringing

Her morning tea upon a tray.

’It’s time, my sweet, to greet the day;

Why, pretty one, you’re up already!

You’re still my little early bird!

Last night you scared me, ’pon my word!

But thank the Lord, you seem more steady;

No trace at all of last night’s fret,

Your cheeks are poppies now, my pet.’

34

‘Oh, nurse, a favour, please… and hurry!’

’Why, sweetheart, anything you choose.’

’You mustn’t think … and please don’t worry …

But see … Oh, nanny, don’t refuse!’

’As God’s my witness, dear, I promise.’

’Then send your grandson, little Thomas,

To take this note of mine to O———,

Our neighbour, nurse, the one… you know!

And tell him that he’s not to mention

My name, or breathe a single word….’

’But who’s it for, my little bird?

I’m trying hard to pay attention;

But we have lots of neighbours call,

I couldn’t even count them all.’

35

’Oh nurse, your wits are all befuddled!’

’But, sweetheart, I’ve grown old … I mean…

I’m old; my mind … it does get muddled.

There was a time when I was keen,

When just the master’s least suggestion….’

’Oh, nanny, please, that’s not the question,

It’s not your mind I’m talking of,

I’m thinking of Onegin, love;

This note’s to him.’—’Now don’t get riled,

You know these days I’m not so clear,

I’ll take the letter, never fear.

But you’ve gone pale again, my child!’

’It’s nothing, nanny, be at ease,

Just send your grandson, will you please.’

36

The day wore on, no word came flying.

Another fruitless day went by.

All dressed since dawn, dead-pale and sighing,

Tatyana waits: will he reply?

Then Olga’s suitor came a-wooing.

’But tell me, what’s your friend been doing?’

Asked Tanya’s mother, full of cheer;

’He’s quite forgotten us, I fear.’

Tatyana blushed and trembled gently.

’He promised he would come today,’

Said Lensky in his friendly way,

’The mail has kept him evidently.’

Tatyana bowed her head in shame,

As if they all thought her to blame.

37

’Twas dusk; and on the table, gleaming,

The evening samovar grew hot;

It hissed and sent its vapour steaming

In swirls about the china pot.

And soon the fragrant tea was flowing

As Olga poured it, dark and glowing,

In all the cups; without a sound

A serving boy took cream around.

Tatyana by the window lingers

And breathes upon the chilly glass;

All lost in thought, the gentle lass

Begins to trace with lovely fingers

Across the misted panes a row

Of hallowed letters: E and 0.

38

And all the while her soul was aching,

Her brimming eyes could hardly see.

Then sudden hoofbeats! … Now she’s quaking….

They’re closer … coming here … it’s he!

Onegin! ‘Oh!’—And light as air,

She’s out the backway, down the stair

From porch to yard, to garden straight;

She runs, she flies; she dare not wait

To glance behind her; on she pushes—

Past garden plots, small bridges, lawn,

The lakeway path, the wood; and on

She flies and breaks through lilac bushes,

Past seedbeds to the brook—so fast

That, panting, on a bench at last

39

She falls ….

’He’s here! But all those faces!

O God, what must he think of me!’

But still her anguished heart embraces

A misty dream of what might be.

She trembles, burns, and waits … so near him!

But will he come? … She doesn’t hear him.

Some serf girls in the orchard there,

While picking berries, filled the air

With choral song—as they’d been bidden

(An edict that was meant, you see,

To keep sly mouths from feeling free

To eat the master’s fruit when hidden,

By filling them with song instead—

For rural cunning isn’t dead!):

The Girls’ Song

’Lovely maidens, pretty ones,

Dearest hearts and darling friends,

Romp away, sweet lassies, now,

Have your fling, my dear ones, do!

Strike you up a rousing song,

Sing our secret ditty now,

Lure some likely lusty lad

To the circle of our dance.

When we lure the fellow on,

When we see him from afar,

Darlings, then, let’s scamper off,

Pelting him with cherries then,

Cherries, yes, and raspberries,

Ripe red currants let us throw!

Never come to listen in

When we sing our secret songs,

Never come to spy on us

When we play our maiden games!’

40

Tatyana listens, scarcely hearing

The vibrant voices, sits apart,

And waits impatient in her clearing

To calm the tremor in her heart

And halt the constant surge of blushes;

But still her heart in panic rushes,

Her cheeks retain their blazing glow

And ever brighter, brighter grow.

Just so a butterfly both quivers

And beats an iridescent wing

When captured by some boy in spring;

Just so a hare in winter shivers,

When suddenly far off it sees

The hunter hiding in the trees.

41

But finally she rose, forsaken,

And, sighing, started home for bed;

But hardly had she turned and taken

The garden lane, when straight ahead,

His eyes ablaze, Eugene stood waiting—

Like some grim shade of night’s creating;

And she, as if by fire seared,

Drew back and stopped when he appeared.…

Just now though, friends, I feel too tired

To tell you how this meeting went

And what ensued from that event;

I’ve talked so long that I’ve required

A little walk, some rest and play;

I’ll finish up another day.

Chapter 4

La morale est dans la nature des choses*

Necker

(1–6)7

The less we love her when we woo her,

The more we draw a woman in,

And thus more surely we undo her

Within the witching webs we spin.

Time was, when cold debauch was lauded

As love’s high art… and was applauded

For trumpeting its happy lot

In taking joy while loving not.

But that pretentious game is dated,

But fit for apes, who once held sway

Amid our forbears’ vaunted day;

The fame of Lovelaces has faded—

Along with fashions long since dead:

Majestic wigs and heels of red.

8

Who doesn’t find dissembling dreary;

Or trying gravely to convince

(Recasting platitudes till weary)—

When all agree and have long since;

How dull to hear the same objections,

To overcome those predilections

That no young girl thirteen, I vow,

Has ever had and hasn’t now!

Who wouldn’t grow fatigued with rages,

Entreaties, vows, pretended fears,

Betrayals, gossip, rings, and tears,

With notes that run to seven pages,

With watchful mothers, aunts who stare,

And friendly husbands hard to bear!

9

Well, this was my Eugene’s conclusion.

In early youth he’d been the prey

Of every raging mad delusion,

And uncurbed passions ruled the day.

Quite pampered by a life of leisure,

Enchanted with each passing pleasure,

But disenchanted just as quick,

Of all desire at length grown sick,

And irked by fleet success soon after,

He’d hear mid hum and hush alike

His grumbling soul the hours strike,

And smothered yawns with brittle laughter:

And so he killed eight years of youth

And lost life’s very bloom, in truth.

10

He ceased to know infatuation,

Pursuing belles with little zest;

Refused, he found quick consolation;

Betrayed, was always glad to rest.

He sought them out with no elation

And left them too without vexation,

Scarce mindful of their love or spite.

Just so a casual guest at night

Drops in for whist and joins routinely;

And then upon the end of play,

Just takes his leave and drives away

To fall asleep at home serenely;

And in the morning he won’t know

What evening holds or where he’ll go.

11

But having read Tatyana’s letter,

Onegin was profoundly stirred:

Her maiden dreams had helped unfetter

A swarm of thoughts with every word;

And he recalled Tatyana’s pallor,

Her mournful air, her touching valour—

And then he soared, his soul alight

With sinless dreams of sweet delight.

Perhaps an ancient glow of passion

Possessed him for a moment’s sway …

But never would he lead astray

A trusting soul in callous fashion.

And so let’s hasten to the walk

Where he and Tanya had their talk.

12

Some moments passed in utter quiet,

And then Eugene approached and spoke:

’You wrote to me. Do not deny it.

I’ve read your words and they evoke

My deep respect for your emotion,

Your trusting soul… and sweet devotion.

Your candour has a great appeal

And stirs in me, I won’t conceal,

Long dormant feelings, scarce remembered.

But I’ve no wish to praise you now;

Let me repay you with a vow

As artless as the one you tendered;

Hear my confession too, I plead,

And judge me both by word and deed.

13

’Had I in any way desired

To bind with family ties my life;

Or had a happy fate required

That I turn father, take a wife;

Had pictures of domestication

For but one moment held temptation-

Then, surely, none but you alone

Would be the bride I’d make my own.

I’ll say without wrought-up insistence

That, finding my ideal in you,

I would have asked you—yes, it’s true—

To share my baneful, sad existence,

In pledge of beauty and of good,

And been as happy … as I could!

14

’But I’m not made for exaltation:

My soul’s a stranger to its call;

Your virtues are a vain temptation,

For I’m not worthy of them all.

Believe me (conscience be your token):

In wedlock we would both be broken.

However much I loved you, dear,

Once used to you … I’d cease, I fear;

You’d start to weep, but all your crying

Would fail to touch my heart at all,

Your tears in fact would only gall.

So judge yourself what we’d be buying,

What roses Hymen means to send—

Quite possibly for years on end!

15

’In all this world what’s more perverted

Than homes in which the wretched wife

Bemoans her worthless mate, deserted—

Alone both day and night through life;

Or where the husband, knowing truly

Her worth (yet cursing fate unduly)

Is always angry, sullen, mute—

A coldly jealous, selfish brute!

Well, thus am I. And was it merely

For this your ardent spirit pined

When you, with so much strength of mind,

Unsealed your heart to me so clearly?

Can Fate indeed be so unkind?

Is this the lot you’ve been assigned?

16

’For dreams and youth there’s no returning;

I cannot resurrect my soul.

I love you with a tender yearning,

But mine must be a brother’s role.

So hear me through without vexation:

Young maidens find quick consolation—

From dream to dream a passage brief;

Just so a sapling sheds its leaf

To bud anew each vernal season.

Thus heaven wills the world to turn.

You’ll fall in love again; but learn …

To exercise restraint and reason,

For few will understand you so,

And innocence can lead to woe.’

17

Thus spake Eugene his admonition.

Scarce breathing and bereft of speech,

Gone blind with tears, in full submission,

Tatyana listened to him preach.

He offered her his arm. Despairing,

She took it and with languid bearing

(’Mechanically’, as people say),

She bowed her head and moved away….

They passed the garden’s dark recesses,

Arriving home together thus—

Where no one raised the slightest fuss:

For country freedom too possesses

Its happy rights … as grand as those

That high and mighty Moscow knows.

18

I know that you’ll agree, my reader,

That our good friend was only kind

And showed poor Tanya when he freed her

A noble heart and upright mind.

Again he’d done his moral duty,

But spiteful people saw no beauty

And quickly blamed him, heaven knows!

Good friends no less than ardent foes

(But aren’t they one, if they offend us?)

Abused him roundly, used the knife.

Now every man has foes in life,

But from our friends, dear God, defend us!

Ah, friends, those friends! I greatly fear,

I find their friendship much too dear.

19

What’s that? Just that. Mere conversation

To lull black empty thoughts awhile;

In passing, though, one observation:

There’s not a calumny too vile—

That any garret babbler hatches,

And all the social rabble snatches;

There’s no absurdity or worse,

Nor any vulgar gutter verse,

That your good friend won’t find delightful,

Repeating it a hundred ways

To decent folk for days and days,

While never meaning to be spiteful;

He’s yours, he’ll say, through thick and thin:

He loves you so! … Why, you’re like kin!

20

Hm, hm, dear reader, feeling mellow?

And are your kinfolk well today?

Perhaps you’d like, you gentle fellow,

To hear what I’m prepared to say

On ‘kinfolk’ and their implications?

Well, here’s my view of close relations:

They’re people whom we’re bound to prize,

To honour, love, and idolize,

And, following the old tradition,

To visit come the Christmas feast,

Or send a wish by mail at least;

All other days they’ve our permission

To quite forget us, if they please—

So grant them, God, long life and ease!

21

Of course the love of tender beauties

Is surer far than friends or kin:

Your claim upon its joyous duties

Survives when even tempests spin.

Of course it’s so. And yet be wary,

For fashions change, and views will vary,

And nature’s made of wayward stuff—

The charming sex is light as fluff.

What’s more, the husband’s frank opinion

Is bound by any righteous wife

To be respected in this life;

And so your mistress (faithful minion)

May in a trice be swept away:

For Satan treats all love as play.

22

But whom to love? To trust and treasure?

Who won’t betray us in the end?

And who’ll be kind enough to measure

Our words and deeds as we intend?

Who won’t sow slander all about us?

Who’ll coddle us and never doubt us?

To whom will all our faults be few?

Who’ll never bore us through and through?

You futile, searching phantom-breeder,

Why spend your efforts all in vain;

Just love yourself and ease the pain,

My most esteemed and honoured reader!

A worthy object! Never mind,

A truer love you’ll never find.

23

But what ensued from Tanya’s meeting?

Alas, it isn’t hard to guess!

Within her heart the frenzied beating

Coursed on and never ceased to press

Her gentle soul, athirst with aching;

Nay, ever more intensely quaking,

Poor Tanya burns in joyless throes;

Sleep shuns her bed, all sweetness goes,

The glow of life has vanished starkly;

Her health, her calm, the smile she wore—

Like empty sounds exist no more,

And Tanya’s youth now glimmers darkly:

Thus stormy shadows cloak with grey

The scarcely risen, newborn day.

24

Alas, Tatyana’s fading quickly;

She’s pale and wasted, doesn’t speak!

Her soul, unmoved, grows wan and sickly;

She finds all former pleasures bleak.

The neighbours shake their heads morosely

And whisper to each other closely:

’It’s time she married … awful waste….’

But that’s enough. I must make haste

To cheer the dark imagination

With pictures of a happy pair;

I can’t, though, readers, help but care

And feel a deep commiseration;

Forgive me, but it’s true, you know,

I love my dear Tatyana so!

25

Each passing hour more captivated

By Olga’s winning, youthful charms,

Vladimir gave his heart and waited

To serve sweet bondage with his arms.

He’s ever near. In gloomy weather

They sit in Olga’s room together;

Or arm in arm they make their rounds

Each morning through the park and grounds.

And so? Inebriated lover,

Confused with tender shame the while

(Encouraged, though, by Olga’s smile),

He sometimes even dares to cover

One loosened curl with soft caress

Or kiss the border of her dress.

26

At times he reads her works of fiction—

Some moralistic novel, say,

Whose author’s powers of depiction

Make Chateaubriand’s works seem grey;

But sometimes there are certain pages

(Outlandish things, mere foolish rages,

Unfit for maiden’s heart or head),

Which Lensky, blushing, leaves unread….

They steal away whenever able

And sit for hours seeing naught,

Above the chessboard deep in thought,

Their elbows propped upon the table;

Where Lensky with his pawn once took,

Bemused and muddled, his own rook.

27

When he drives home, she still engages

His poet’s soul, his artist’s mind;

He fills her album’s fleeting pages

With every tribute he can find:

He draws sweet views of rustic scenery,

A Venus temple, graves and greenery;

He pens a lyre … and then a dove,

Adds colour lightly and with love;

And on the leaves of recollection,

Beneath the lines from other hands,

He plants a tender verse that stands—

Mute monument to fond reflection:

A moment’s thought whose trace shall last

Unchanged when even years have passed.

28

I’m sure you’ve known provincial misses;

Their albums too you must have seen,

Where girlfriends scribble hopes and blisses—

From frontside, backside, in between.

With spellings awesome in abusage,

Unmetred lines of hallowed usage

Are entered by each would-be friend—

Diminished, lengthened, turned on end.

Upon the first page you’ll discover:

Qu ’écrirez-vous sur ces tablettes?

And ’neath it: toute à vous Annette;

While on the last one you’ll uncover:

‘Who loves you more than I must sign

And fill the page that follows mine.’

29

You’re sure to find there decorations:

Rosettes, a torch, a pair of hearts;

You’ll read, no doubt, fond protestations:

With all my love, till death us parts;

Some army scribbler will have written

A roguish rhyme to tease the smitten.

In just such albums, friends, I too

Am quite as glad to write as you,

For there, at heart, I feel persuaded

That any zealous vulgar phrase

Will earn me an indulgent gaze,

And won’t then be evaluated

With wicked grin or solemn eye

To judge the wit with which I lie.

30

But you, odd tomes of haughty ladies,

You gorgeous albums stamped with gilt,

You libraries of darkest Hades

And racks where modish rhymesters wilt,

You volumes nimbly ornamented

By Tolstoy’s* magic brush, and scented

By Baratynsky’s pen—I vow:

Let God’s own lightning strike you now!

Whenever dazzling ladies proffer

Their quartos to be signed by me,

I tremble with malicious glee;

My soul cries out and longs to offer

An epigram of cunning spite—

But madrigals they’ll have you write!

31

No madrigals of mere convention

Does Olga’s Lensky thus compose;

His pen breathes love, not pure invention

Or sparkling wit as cold as prose;

Whatever comes to his attention

Concerning Olga, that he’ll mention;

And filled with truth’s own vivid glows

A stream of elegies then flows.*

Thus you, Yazýkov,* with perfection,

With all the surgings of your heart,

Sing God knows whom in splendid art—

Sweet elegies, whose full collection

Will on some future day relate

The uncut story of your fate.

32

But hush! A strident critic rises

And bids us cast away the crown

Of elegy in all its guises

And to our rhyming guild calls down:

’Have done with all your lamentations,

Your endless croakings and gyrations

On “former days” and “times of yore”;

Enough now! Sing of something more!’

You’re right. And will you point with praises

To trumpet, mask, and dagger* too,

And bid us thuswise to renew

Our stock of dead ideas and phrases?

Is that it, friend?—’Far from it. Nay!

Write odes,* good sirs, write odes, I say …

33

’The way they did in former ages,

Those mighty years still rich in fame….’

Just solemn odes? … On all our pages?!

Oh come now, friend, it’s all the same.

Recall the satirist, good brother,

And his sly odist in The Other,*

Do you find him more pleasing, pray,

Than our glum rhymesters of today?….

’Your elegy lacks all perception,

Its want of purpose is a crime;

Whereas the ode has aims sublime.’

One might to this take sharp exception,

But I’ll be mute. I don’t propose

To bring two centuries to blows.

34

By thoughts of fame and freedom smitten,

Vladimir’s stormy soul grew wings;

What odes indeed he might have written,

But Olga didn’t read the things.

How oft have tearful poets chances

To read their works before the glances

Of those they love? Good sense declares

That no reward on earth compares.

How blest, shy lover, to be granted

To read to her for whom you long:

The very object of your song,

A beauty languid and enchanted!

Ah, blest indeed … although it’s true,

She may be dreaming not of you.

35

But I my fancy’s fruits and flowers

(Those dreams and harmonies I tend)

Am quite content to read for hours

To my old nurse, my childhood’s friend;

Or sometimes after dinners dreary,

When some good neighbour drops in weary—

I’ll corner him and catch his coat

And stuff him with the play I wrote;

Or else (and here I’m far from jesting),

When off beside my lake I climb—

Beset with yearning and with rhyme—

I scare a flock of ducks from resting;

And hearing my sweet stanzas soar,

They flap their wings and fly from shore.

36*

And as I watch them disappearing,

A hunter hidden in the brush

Damns poetry for interfering

And, whistling, fires with a rush.

Each has his own preoccupation,

His favourite sport or avocation:

One aims a gun at ducks on high;

One is entranced by rhyme as I;

One swats at flies in mindless folly;

One dreams of ruling multitudes;

One craves the scent that war exudes;

One likes to bask in melancholy;

One occupies himself with wine:

And good and bad all intertwine.

37

But what of our Eugene this while?

Have patience, friends, I beg you, pray;

I’ll tell it all in detailed style

And show you how he spent each day.

Onegin lived in his own heaven:

In summer he’d get up by seven

And, lightly clad, would take a stroll

Down to the stream below the knoll.

Gulnare’s proud singer* his example,

He’d swim across this Hellespont;

Then afterwards, as was his wont,

He’d drink his coffee, sometimes sample

The pages of some dull review,

And then he’d dress….

(38) 39

Long rambles, reading, slumber’s blisses,

The burbling brook, the wooded shade,

At times the fresh and youthful kisses

Of white-skinned, dark-eyed country maid;

A horse of spirit fit to bridle,

A dinner fanciful and idle,

A bottle of some sparkling wine,

Seclusion, quiet—these, in fine,

Were my Onegin’s saintly pleasures,

To which he yielded one by one,

Unmoved to count beneath the sun

Fair summer’s days and careless treasures,

Unmindful too of town or friends

And their dull means to festive ends.

40

Our northern summers, though, are versions

Of southern winters, this is clear;

And though we’re loath to cast aspersions,

They seem to go before they’re here!

The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled;

The friendly sun less often sparkled;

The days grew short and as they sped,

The wood with mournful murmur shed

Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered;

The fields all lay in misty peace;

The caravan of cackling geese

Turned south; and all around there hovered

The sombre season near at hand;

November marched across the land.

41

The dawn arises cold and cheerless;

The empty fields in silence wait;

And on the road … grown lean and fearless,

The wolf appears with hungry mate;

Catching the scent, the road horse quivers

And snorts in fear, the traveller shivers

And flies uphill with all his speed;

No more at dawn does shepherd need

To drive the cows outside with ringing;

Nor does his horn at midday sound

The call that brings them gathering round.

Inside her hut a girl is singing,

And by the matchwood’s crackling light

She spins away the wintry night.

42

The frost already cracks and crunches;

The fields are silver where they froze …

(And you, good reader, with your hunches,

Expect the rhyme, so take it—Rose!)

No fine parquet could hope to muster

The ice-clad river’s glassy lustre;

The joyous tribe of boys berates

And cuts the ice with ringing skates;

A waddling red-foot goose now scurries

To swim upon the water’s breast;

He treads the ice with care to test …

And down he goes! The first snow flurries

Come flitting, flicking, swirling round

To fall like stars upon the ground.

43

But how is one, in this dull season,

To help the rural day go by?

Take walks? The views give little reason,

When only bareness greets the eye.

Go ride the steppe’s harsh open spaces?

Your mount, if put to try his paces

On treacherous ice in blunted shoe,

Is sure to fall … and so will you.

So stay beneath your roof… try reading:

Here’s Pradt* or, better, Walter Scott!

Or check accounts. You’d rather not?

Then rage or drink…. Somehow proceeding,

This night will pass (the next one too),

And grandly you’ll see winter through!

44

Childe Harold-like, Onegin ponders,

Adrift in idle, slothful ways;

From bed to icy bath he wanders,

And then at home all day he stays,

Alone, and sunk in calculation,

His only form of recreation—

The game of billiards, all day through,

With just two balls and blunted cue.

But as the rural dusk encroaches,

The cue’s forgot, the billiards fade;

Before the hearth the table’s laid.

He waits. … At last his guest approaches:

It’s Lensky’s troika, three fine roans;

‘Come on, let’s dine, my stomach groans!’

45

Moët, that wine most blest and heady,

Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class,

Is brought in bottle chilled and ready

And set beside the poet’s glass.

Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly,

It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly

(A simile in many ways);

It charmed me too, in other days:

For its sake once, I squandered gladly

My last poor pence … remember, friend?

Its magic stream brought forth no end

Of acting foolish, raving madly,

And, oh, how many jests and rhymes,

And arguments, and happy times!

46

But all that foamy, frothy wheezing

Just plays my stomach false, I fear;

And nowadays I find more pleasing

Sedate Bordeaux’s good quiet cheer.

Aï* I find is much too risky,

Aï is like a mistress—frisky,

Vivacious, brilliant… and too light.

But you, Bordeaux, I find just right;

You’re like a comrade, ever steady,

Prepared in trials or in grief

To render service, give relief;

And when we wish it, always ready

To share a quiet evening’s end.

Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!

47

The fire goes out; the coal, still gleaming,

Takes on a film of ash and pales;

The rising vapours, faintly streaming,

Curl out of sight; the hearth exhales

A breath of warmth. The pipe smoke passes

Up chimney flue. The sparkling glasses

Stand fizzing on the table yet;

With evening’s gloom, the day has set…

(I’m fond of friendly conversation

And of a friendly glass or two

At dusk or entre chien et loup*—

As people say without translation,

Though why they do, I hardly know).

But listen as our friends speak low:

48

‘And how are our dear neighbours faring?

Tatyana and your Olga, pray? …’

‘Just half a glass, old boy, be sparing …

The family’s well, I think I’d say;

They send you greetings and affection….

Oh, God, my friend, what sheer perfection

In Olga’s breast! What shoulders too!

And what a soul! … Come visit, do!

You ought to, really … they’ll be flattered;

Or judge yourself how it must look—

You dropped in twice and closed the book;

Since then, it seems, they’ve hardly mattered.

In fact … Good Lord, my wits are bleak!

You’ve been invited there next week!’

49

‘Tatyana’s name-day celebration

Is Saturday. Her mother’s sent

(And Olga too!) an invitation;

Now don’t refuse, it’s time you went.’

‘There’ll be a crush and lots of babble

And all that crowd of local rabble.’

‘Why not at all, they just intend

To have the family, that’s all, friend;

Come on, let’s go, do me the favour!’

‘Alright, I’ll go.’ ‘Well done, first class!’

And with these words he drained his glass

In toast to his attractive neighbour …

And then waxed voluble once more

In talk of Olga. Love’s a bore!

50

So Lensky soared as he awaited

His wedding day two weeks ahead;

With joy his heart anticipated

The mysteries of the marriage bed

And love’s sweet crown of jubilations.

But Hymen’s cares and tribulations,

The frigid, yawning days to be,

He never pictured once, not he.

While we, the foes of Hymen’s banner,

Perceive full well that home life means

But one long string of dreary scenes—

In Lafontaine’s* insipid manner.

But my poor Lensky, deep at heart,

Was born to play this very part.

51

Yes, he was loved … beyond deceiving …

Or so at least with joy he thought.

Oh, blest is he who lives believing,

Who takes cold intellect for naught,

Who rests within the heart’s sweet places

As does a drunk in sleep’s embraces,

Or as, more tenderly I’d say,

A butterfly in blooms of May;

But wretched he who’s too far-sighted,

Whose head is never fancy-stirred,

Who hates all gestures, each warm word,

As sentiments to be derided,

Whose heart… experience has cooled

And barred from being loved … or fooled!

Chapter 5

Oh, never know these frightful dreams, My dear Svetlana!

Zhukovsky

1

The fall that year was in no hurry,

And nature seemed to wait and wait

For winter. Then, in January,

The second night, the snow fell late.

Next day as dawn was just advancing,

Tatyana woke and, idly glancing,

Beheld outdoors a wondrous sight:

The roofs, the yard, the fence—all white;

Each pane a fragile pattern showing;

The trees in winter silver dyed,

Gay magpies on the lawn outside,

And all the hilltops soft and glowing

With winter’s brilliant rug of snow—

The world all fresh and white below.

2

Ah, wintertime! … The peasant, cheerful,

Creates a passage with his sleigh;

Aware of snow, his nag is fearful,

But shambles somehow down the way.

A bold kibitka skips and burrows

And ploughs a trail of fluffy furrows;

The driver sits behind the dash

In sheepskin coat and scarlet sash.

And here’s a household boy gone sleighing—

His Blackie seated on the sled,

While he plays horse and runs ahead;

The rascal froze his fingers, playing,

And laughs out loud between his howls,

While through the glass his mother scowls.

3

But you, perhaps, are not attracted

By pictures of this simple kind,

Where lowly nature is enacted

And nothing grand or more refined.

Warmed by the god of inspiration,

Another bard in exaltation

Has painted us the snow new-laid

And winter’s joys in every shade.*

I’m sure you’ll find him most engaging

When he, in flaming verse, portrays

Clandestine rides in dashing sleighs;

But I have no intent of waging

A contest for his crown … or thine,

Thou bard of Finland’s maid divine!*

4

Tatyana (with a Russian duty

That held her heart, she knew not why)

Profoundly loved, in its cold beauty,

The Russian winter passing by:

Crisp days when sunlit hoarfrost glimmers,

The sleighs, and rosy snow that shimmers

In sunset’s glow, the murky light

That wraps about the Yuletide night.

Those twelfthtide eves, by old tradition,

Were marked at home on their estate:

The servant maids would guess the fate

Of both young girls with superstition;

Each year they promised, as before,

Two soldier husbands and a war.

5

Tatyana heeded with conviction

All ancient folklore night and noon,

Believed in dreams and card prediction,

And read the future by the moon.

All signs and portents quite alarmed her,

All objects either scared or charmed her

With secret meanings they’d impart;

Forebodings filled and pressed her heart.

If her prim tomcat sat protected

Atop the stove to wash and purr,

Then this was certain sign to her

That guests were soon to be expected;

Or if upon her left she’d spy

A waxing crescent moon on high,

6

Her face would pale, her teeth would chatter.

Or when a shooting star flew by

To light the sombre sky and shatter

In fiery dust before her eye,

She’d hurry and, in agitation,

Before the star’s disintegration,

Would whisper it her secret prayer.

Or if she happened anywhere

To meet a black-robed monk by error,

Or if amid the fields one day

A fleeing hare would cross her way,

She’d be quite overcome with terror,

As dark forebodings filled her mind

Of some misfortune ill defined.

7

Yet even in these same afflictions

She found a secret charm in part:

For nature—fond of contradictions—

Has so designed the human heart.

The holy days are here.