Eugene Onegin Read Online

What gladness! …

Bright youth divines, not knowing sadness,

With nothing that it must regret,

With all of life before it yet—

A distance luminous and boundless….

Old age divines with glasses on

And sees the grave before it yawn,

All thoughts of time returning—groundless;

No matter: childish hope appears

To murmur lies in aged ears.

8

Tatyana watches, fascinated,

The molten wax submerge and turn

To wondrous shapes which designated

Some wondrous thing that she would learn.

Then from a basin filled with water

Their rings are drawn in random order;

When Tanya’s ring turned up at last,

The song they sang was from the past:

‘The peasants there have hoards of treasure,

They spade up silver from a ditch!

The one we sing to will be rich

And famous!’’ But the plaintive measure

Foretells a death to come ere long,

And girls prefer ‘The Kitty’s Song.’*

9

A frosty night, the sky resplendent

As heaven’s galaxy shines down

And glides—so peaceful and transcendent….

Tatyana, in her low-cut gown,

Steps out of doors and trains a mirror

Upon the moon to bring it nearer;*

But all that shows in her dark glass

Is just the trembling moon, alas….

What’s that … the crunching snow … who’s coming?!

She flits on tiptoe with a sigh

And asks the stranger passing by,

Her voice more soft than reed pipe’s humming:

‘Oh, what’s your name?’ He hurries on,

Looks back and answers: ‘Agafon.’*

10

Tatyana, as her nurse suggested,

Prepared to conjure all night through,*

And so in secret she requested

The bathhouse table laid for two.

But then sheer terror seized Tatyana…

And I, recalling poor Svetlana,*

Feel frightened too—so let it go,

We’ll not have Tanya conjure so.

Instead, her silken sash untying,

She just undressed and went to bed.

Sweet Lei* now floats above her head,

While ’neath her downy pillow lying,

A maiden’s looking-glass she keeps.

Now all is hushed. Tatyana sleeps.

11

And what an awesome dream she’s dreaming:

She walks upon a snowy dale,

And all around her, dully gleaming,

Sad mist and murky gloom prevail;

Amid the drifting, snowbound spaces

A dark and seething torrent races,

A hoary frothing wave that strains

And tears asunder winter’s chains;

Two slender, icebound poles lie linking

The chasm’s banks atop the ridge:

A perilous and shaky bridge;

And full of doubt, her spirits sinking,

Tatyana stopped in sudden dread

Before the raging gulf ahead.

12

As at a vexing separation,

Tatyana murmured, at a loss;

She saw no friendly soul on station

To lend a hand to help her cross.

But suddenly a snowbank shifted,

And who emerged when it was lifted?

A huge and matted bear appeared!

Tatyana screamed! He growled and reared,

Then stretched a paw … sharp claws abhorrent,

To Tanya, who could barely stand;

She took it with a trembling hand

And worked her way across the torrent

With apprehensive step … then fled!

The bear just followed where she led.

13

She dare not look to see behind her,

And ever faster on she reels;

At every turn he seems to find her,

That shaggy footman at her heels! …

The grunting, loathesome bear still lumbers,

Before them now a forest slumbers;

The pines in all their beauty frown

And barely stir, all weighted down

By clumps of snow; and through the summits

Of naked linden, birch, and ash

The beams from heaven’s lanterns flash;

There is no path; the gorge that plummets,

The shrubs, the land … all lie asleep,

By snowy blizzards buried deep.

14

She’s reached the wood, the bear still tracking;

Soft snow, knee-deep, lies all about;

A jutting branch looms up, attacking,

And tears her golden earrings out;

And now another tries to trip her,

And from one charming foot her slipper,

All wet, comes off in crumbly snow;

And now she feels her kerchief go,

She lets it lie, she mustn’t linger,

Behind her back she hears the bear,

But shy and frightened, does not dare

To lift her skirt with trembling finger;

She runs … but he keeps crashing on …

Until at last her strength is gone.

15

She sinks in snow; the bear alertly

Just picks her up and rushes on;

She lies within his arms inertly;

Her breathing stops, all sense is gone.

Along a forest road he surges,

And then, mid trees, a hut emerges;

Dense brush abounds; on every hand

Forlorn and drifting snowbanks stand;

A tiny window glitters brightly,

And from the hut come cries and din;

The bear proclaims: ‘My gossip’s in.’

‘Come warm yourself,’ he adds politely,

Then pushes straightway through the door

And lays her down upon the floor.

16

On coming to, she looks around her:

She’s in a hall; no bear at least;

The clink of glasses, shouts … confound her,

As if it were some funeral feast;

She can’t make sense of what she’s hearing,

Creeps to the door and, softly peering,

Sees through a crack the strangest thing—

A horde of monsters in a ring:

Out of a dog-face horns are sprouting;

One has a rooster’s head on top;

A goateed witch is on a mop;

A haughty skeleton sits pouting

Beside a short-tailed dwarf… and that

Is half a crane and half a cat.

17

More wondrous still and still more fearful:

A crab upon a spider sat;

On goose’s neck a skull seemed cheerful,

While spinning round in bright red hat;

A windmill there was squat-jig dancing

And cracked and waved its sails while prancing;

Guffawing, barking, whistles, claps,

And human speech and hoofbeat taps!

But what was Tanya’s stunned reaction

When mid the guests she recognized

The one she feared, the one she prized—

The hero of our novel’s action!

Onegin sits amid the roar

And glances slyly through the door.

18

He gives a sign—the others hustle;

He drinks—all drink and all grow shrill;

He laughs—they all guffaw and bustle;

He frowns—and all of them grow still.

He’s master here, there’s no mistaking;

And Tanya, now no longer quaking,

Turns curious to see still more

And pushes slightly on the door….

The sudden gust of wind surprises

The band of goblins, putting out

The night-time lanterns all about;

His eyes aflame, Onegin rises

And strikes his chair against the floor;

All rise; he marches to the door.

19

And fear assails her; in a panic

She tries to flee … but feels too weak;

In anguished writhing, almost manic,

She wants to scream … but cannot speak;

Eugene throws wide the door, revealing

To monstrous looks and hellish squealing

Her slender form; fierce cackles sound

In savage glee; all eyes turn round,

All hooves and trunks—grotesque and curving,

And whiskers, tusks, and tufted tails,

Red bloody tongues and snouts and nails,

Huge horns and bony fingers swerving—

All point at her and all combine

To shout as one: ‘She’s mine! She’s mine!’

20

‘She’s mine!’ announced Eugene, commanding;

And all the monsters fled the room;

The maid alone was left there standing

With him amid the frosty gloom.

Onegin stares at her intently,

Then draws her to a corner gently

And lays her on a makeshift bed,

And on her shoulder rests his head….

Then Olga enters in confusion,

And Lensky too; a light shines out;

Onegin lifts an arm to rout

Unbidden guests for their intrusion;

He rants at them, his eyes turn dread;

Tatyana lies there nearly dead.

21

The heated words grow louder, quicken;

Onegin snatches up a knife,

And Lensky falls; the shadows thicken;

A rending cry amid the strife

Reverberates … the cabin quivers;

Gone numb with terror, Tanya shivers …

And wakes to find her room alight,

The frozen windows sparkling bright,

Where dawn’s vermilion rays are playing;

Then Olga pushes through the door,

More rosy than the dawn before

And lighter than a swallow, saying:

‘Oh, tell me, do, Tatyana love,

Who was it you were dreaming of?’

22

But she ignores her sister’s pleading,

Just lies in bed without a word,

Keeps leafing through some book she’s reading,

So wrapt in thought she hasn’t heard.

Although the book she read presented

No lines a poet had invented,

No sapient truths, no pretty scenes—

Yet neither Virgil’s, nor Racine’s,

Nor Seneca’s, nor Byron’s pages,

Nor even Fashion Plates Displayed

Had ever so engrossed a maid:

She read, my friends, that king of sages

Martýn Zadéck,* Chaldean seer

And analyst of dreams unclear.

23

This noble and profound creation

A roving pedlar one day brought

To show them in their isolation,

And finally left it when they bought

Malvina* for three roubles fifty

(A broken set, but he was thrifty);

And in exchange he also took

Two Petriads,* a grammar book,

Some fables he could sell tomorrow,

Plus Marmontel*—just volume three.

Martýn Zadéck soon came to be

Tatyana’s favourite. Now when sorrow

Assails her heart, he brings her light,

And sleeps beside her through the night.

24

Her dream disturbs her, and not knowing

What secret message she’d been sent,

Tatyana seeks some passage showing

Just what the dreadful vision meant.

She finds in alphabetic order

What clues the index can afford her:

There’s bear and blizzard, bridge, and crow,

Fir, forest, hedgehog, night, and snow,

And many more. But her confusion

Martýn Zadéck cannot dispel;

The frightful vision must foretell

Sad times to come and disillusion.

For several days she couldn’t find

A way to calm her troubled mind.

25

But lo! … with crimson hand Aurora

Leads forth from morning dales the sun*

And brings in merry mood before her

The name-day feast that’s just begun.

Since dawn Dame Larin’s near relations

Have filled the house; whole congregations

Of neighbour clans have come in drays,

Kibitkas, britzkas, coaches, sleighs.

The hall is full of crowds and bustle;

The drawing room explodes with noise,

With bark of pugs and maidens’ joys,

With laughter, kisses, din and hustle;

The guests all bow and scrape their feet,

Wet nurses shout and babies bleat.

26

Fat Pustyakóv, the local charmer,

Has come and brought his portly wife;

Gvozd ÿn as well, that model farmer,

Whose peasants lead a wretched life;

The two Skotiníns, grey as sages,

With children of all shapes and ages—

From two to thirty at the top;

Here’s Petushkóv, the district fop;

And my first cousin, good Buyánov,*

Lint-covered, in his visored cap

(As you, of course, well know the chap);

And former couns’lor, old man Flyánov,

A rogue and gossip night and noon,

A glutton, grafter, and buffoon.

27

The Harlikóvs were feeling mellow

And brought along Monsieur Triquet,

Late from Tambóv, a witty fellow

In russet wig and fine pince-nez.

True Gaul, Triquet in pocket carried

A verse to warn that Tanya tarried,

Set to a children’s melody:

Réveillez-vous, belle endormie*

The printed verse had lain neglected

In some old tattered almanac

Until Triquet, who had a knack

For rhyme, saw fit to resurrect it

And boldly put for ‘belle Niná’

The charming line: ‘belle Tatyaná.’*

28

And now from nearby quarters, brothers,

That idol whom ripe misses cheer,

The joy and hope of district mothers—

The company commander’s here!

He’s brought some news to set them cheering:

The regimental band’s appearing!

‘The colonel’s sending it tonight.’

There’ll be a ball! What sheer delight!

The girls all jump and grow excited.

But dinner’s served. And so by pairs,

And arm in arm, they seek their chairs:

The girls near Tanya; men delighted

To face them; and amid the din,

All cross themselves and dig right in.

29

Then for a moment chatter ceases

As mouths start chewing. All around

The clink of plates and forks increases,

The glasses jingle and resound.

But soon the guests are somewhat sated;

The hubbub grows more animated …

But no one hears his neighbour out;

All laugh and argue, squeal and shout.

The doors fly back; two figures enter—

It’s Lensky … with Eugene! ‘Oh dear!’

The hostess cries, ‘At last you’re here!’

The guests all squeeze toward the centre,

Each moves his setting, shifts his chair,

And in a trice they seat the pair.

30

Across from Tanya—there they place them;

And paler than the moon at dawn,

She cannot raise her eyes to face them

And trembles like a hunted fawn.

Inside her, stormy passion’s seething;

The wretched girl is scarcely breathing;

The two friends’ greetings pass unheard;

Her tears well up without a word

And almost fall; the poor thing’s ready

To faint; but deep within her, will

And strength of mind were working still,

And they prevailed. Her lips more steady,

She murmured something through her pain

And managed somehow to remain.

31

All tragico-hysteric moaning,

All girlish fainting-fits and tears,

Had long since set Eugene to groaning:

He’d borne enough in former years.

Already cross and irritated

By being at this feast he hated,

And noting how poor Tanya shook,

He barely hid his angry look

And fumed in sullen indignation;

He swore that he’d make Lensky pay

And be avenged that very day.

Exulting in anticipation,

He inwardly began to draw

Caricatures of those he saw.

32

Some others too might well have noted

Poor Tanya’s plight; but every eye

Was at the time in full devoted

To sizing up a lavish pie*

(Alas, too salty); now they’re bringing,

In bottle with the pitch still clinging,

Between the meat and blancmanger,

Tsimlyánsky wine … a whole array

Of long-stemmed glasses … (quite as slender

As your dear waist, my sweet Zizí,*

Fair crystal of my soul and key

To all my youthful verses tender,

Love’s luring phial, you who once

Made me a drunken, love-filled dunce!)

33

The bottle pops as cork goes flying;

The fizzing wine comes gushing fast;

And now with solemn mien, and dying

To have his couplet heard at last,

Triquet stands up; the congregation

Falls silent in anticipation.

Tatyana’s scarce alive; Triquet,

With verse in hand, looks Tanya’s way

And starts to sing, off-key. Loud cheering

And claps salute him. Tanya feels

Constrained to curtsey … almost reels.

The bard, whose modesty’s endearing,

Is first to toast her where he stands,

Then puts his couplet in her hands.

34

Now greetings come, congratulations;

Tatyana thanks them for the day;

But when Eugene’s felicitations

Came due in turn, the girl’s dismay,

Her weariness and helpless languor,

Evoked his pity more than anger:

He bowed to her in silence, grave …

But somehow just the look he gave

Was wondrous tender. If asserting

Some feeling for Tatyana’s lot,

Or if, unconsciously or not,

He’d only teased her with some flirting,

His look was still a tender dart:

It reawakened Tanya’s heart.

35

The chairs, pushed back, give out a clatter;

The crowd moves on to drawing room:

Thus bees from luscious hive will scatter,

A noisy swarm, to meadow bloom.

Their festive dinner all too pleasing,

The squires face each other wheezing;

The ladies to the hearth repair;

The maidens whisper by the stair;

At green-baize tables players settle,

As Boston, ombre (old men’s play),

And whist, which reigns supreme today,

Call out for men to try their mettle:

A family with a single creed,

All sons of boredom’s endless greed.

36

Whist’s heroes have by now completed

Eight rubbers; and eight times as well

They’ve shifted round and been reseated;

Now tea is brought. I like to tell

The time of day by teas and dinners,

By supper’s call. We country sinners

Can tell the time without great fuss:

The stomach serves as clock for us;

And apropos, I might make mention

In passing that I speak as much

Of feasts and foods and corks and such

In these odd lines of my invention—

As you, great Homer, you whose song

Has lasted thirty centuries long!

(37–8) 39

But tea is brought: the girls demurely

Have scarcely taken cups in hand,

When suddenly from ballroom doorway

Bassoon and flute announce the band.

Elated by the music’s bouncing,

His tea and rum at once renouncing,

That Paris of the local towns,

Good Petushkóv, to Olga bounds;

To Tanya, Lensky; Harlikóva,

A maiden somewhat ripe in glow,

My Tambov poet takes in tow;

Buyánov whirls off Pustyakóva;

Then all the crowd comes pouring in

To watch the brilliant ballroom spin.

40

At the beginning of my story

(In Chapter One, if you recall),

I wanted with Albani’s glory*

To paint a Petersburg grand ball;

But then, by empty dreams deflected,

I lost my way and recollected

The feet of ladies known before.

In your slim tracks I’ll stray no more,

O charming feet and mad affliction!

My youth betrayed, it’s time to show

More common sense if I’m to grow,

To mend my ways in deeds and diction,

And cleanse this Chapter Five at last

Of all digressions from the past.

41

Monotonous and mad procession,

Young life’s own whirlwind, full of sound,

Each pair a blur in quick succession,

The rousing waltz goes whirling round.

His moment of revenge beginning,

Eugene, with secret malice grinning,

Approaches Olga … idly jests,

Then spins her round before the guests;

He stays beside her when she’s seated,

Proceeds to talk of this and that;

Two minutes barely has she sat…

And then their waltzing is repeated!

The guests all stare in mute surprise;

Poor Lensky can’t believe his eyes.

42

Now the mazurka’s call is sounded.

Its thunder once could even rack

The greatest hall when it resounded,

And under heels parquet would crack;

The very windows shook like Hades.

But now it’s changed: we’re all like ladies;

And o’er the lacquered boards we glide.

But in small town and countryside

The old mazurka hasn’t faltered;

It still retains its pristine joys:

Moustaches, leaps, heel-pounding noise

Remain the same; they’ve not been altered

By tyrant-fashion’s high decrees,

The modern Russian’s new disease.

(43) 44

My bold Buyánov guides expertly

Tatyana to our hero’s side,

And Olga too; Eugene alertly

Makes off with Lensky’s future bride.

He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,

And bending, whispers her gallantly

Some common madrigal to please,

Then gives her hand a gentle squeeze;

She blushes in appreciation,

Her prim conceited face alight,

While Lensky rages at the sight.

Consumed with jealous indignation,

He waits till the mazurka’s through,

Then asks her for the dance he’s due.

45

But no, she can’t. What explanation? …

Well, she’s just promised his good friend

The next dance too. In God’s creation!

What’s this he hears? Could she intend? …

Can this be real? Scarce more than swaddler—

And turned coquette! A fickle toddler!

Already has she mastered guile,

Already learned to cheat and smile!

The blow has left poor Lensky shattered;

And cursing woman’s crooked course,

He leaves abruptly, calls for horse,

And gallops off. Now nothing mattered—

A brace of pistols and a shot

Shall instantly decide his lot.

Chapter 6

La sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,

Nasce una gente, a cui l’morir non dole.*

Petrarch

1

Though pleased with the revenge he’d taken,

Onegin, noting Lensky’d left,

Felt all his old ennui awaken,

Which made poor Olga feel bereft.

She too now yawns and, as she dances,

Seeks Lensky out with furtive glances;

The endless dance had come to seem

To Olga like some dreadful dream.

But now it’s over. Supper’s heeded.

Then beds are made; the guests are all

Assigned their rooms—from entrance hall

To servants’ quarters. Rest is needed

By everyone. Eugene has fled

And driven home alone to bed.

2

All’s quiet now. Inside the parlour,

The portly Mr. Pustyakóv

Lies snoring with his portly partner.

Gvozdín, Buyánov, Petushkóv—

And Flyánov, who’d been reeling badly—

On dining chairs have bedded gladly;

While on the floor Triquet’s at rest

In tattered nightcap and his vest.

The rooms of Olga and Tatyana

Are filled with girls in sleep’s embrace.

Alone, beside the windowcase,

Illumined sadly by Diana,

Poor Tanya, sleepless and in pain,

Sits gazing at the darkened plain.

3

His unexpected reappearance,

That momentary tender look,

The strangeness of his interference

With Olga—all confused and shook

Tatyana’s soul. His true intention

Remained beyond her comprehension,

And jealous anguish pierced her breast—

As if a chilling hand had pressed

Her heart; as if in awful fashion

A rumbling, black abyss did yawn….

‘I’ll die,’ she whispers to the dawn,

‘But death from him is sweet compassion.

Why murmur vainly? He can’t give

The happiness for which I live.’

4

But forward, forward, O my story!

A new persona has arrived:

Five versts or so from Krasnogory,

Our Lensky’s seat, there lived and thrived

In philosophical seclusion

(And does so still, have no illusion)

Zarétsky—once a rowdy clown,

Chief gambler and arch rake in town,

The tavern tribune and a liar—

But now a kind and simple soul

Who plays an unwed father’s role,

A faithful friend, a peaceful squire,

And man of honour, nothing less:

Thus does our age its sins redress!

5

Time was, when flunkies in high places

Would praise him for his nasty grit:

He could, it’s true, from twenty paces,

Shoot pistol at an ace and hit;

And once, when riding battle station,

He’d earned a certain reputation

When in a frenzied state indeed

He’d plunged in mud from Kalmuk steed,

Drunk as a pig, and suffered capture

(A prize to make the French feel proud!).

Like noble Regulus,* he bowed,

Accepting hostage bonds with rapture—

In hopes that he (on charge) might squeeze

Three bottles daily from Véry’s.*

6

He used to banter rather neatly,

Could gull a fool, and had an eye

For fooling clever men completely,

For all to see, or on the sly;

Of course not all his pranks succeeded

Or passed unpunished or unheeded,

And sometimes he himself got bled

And ended up the dunce instead.

He loved good merry disputations,

Could answer keenly, be obtuse,

Put silence cunningly to use,

Or cunningly start altercations;

Could get two friends prepared to fight,

Then lead them to the duelling site;

7

Or else he’d patch things up between them

So he might lunch with them as guest,

And later secretly demean them

With nasty gossip or a jest….

Sed alia temporal Such sporting

(With other capers such as courting)

Goes out of us when youth is dead—

And my Zaretsky, as I’ve said,

Neath flow’ring cherries and acacias,

Secure at last from tempest’s rage,

Lives out his life a proper sage,

Plants cabbages like old Horatius,

Breeds ducks and geese, and oversees

His children at their ABCs.

8

He was no fool; and consequently

(Although he thought him lacking heart),

Eugene would hear his views intently

And liked his common sense in part.

He’d spent some time with him with pleasure,

And so was not in any measure

Surprised next morning when he found,

Zaretsky had again called round;

The latter, hard upon first greeting,

And cutting off Eugene’s reply,

Presented him, with gloating eye,

The poet’s note about a ‘meeting’.

Onegin, taking it, withdrew

And by the window read it through.

9

The note was brief in its correctness,

A proper challenge or cartel:

Politely, but with cold directness,

It called him out and did it well.

Onegin, with his first reaction,

Quite curtly offered satisfaction

And bade the envoy, if he cared,

To say that he was quite prepared.

Avoiding further explanation,

Zaretsky, pleading much to do,

Arose … and instantly withdrew.

Eugene, once left to contemplation

And face to face with his own soul,

Felt far from happy with his role.

10

And rightly so: in inquisition,

With conscience as his judge of right,

He found much wrong in his position:

First off, he’d been at fault last night

To mock in such a casual fashion

At tender love’s still timid passion;

And why not let the poet rage!

A fool, at eighteen years of age,

Can be excused his rash intentions.

Eugene, who loved the youth at heart,

Might well have played a better part—

No plaything of the mob’s conventions

Or brawling boy to take offence,

But man of honour and of sense.

11

He could have shown some spark of feeling

Instead of bristling like a beast;

He should have spoken words of healing,

Disarmed youth’s heart… or tried at least.

‘Too late,’ he thought, ‘the moment’s wasted….

What’s more, that duelling fox has tasted

His chance to mix in this affair—

That wicked gossip with his flair

For jibes … and all his foul dominion.

He’s hardly worth contempt, I know,

But fools will whisper … grin … and crow! …’

So there it is—the mob’s opinion!

The spring with which our honour’s wound!

The god that makes this world go round!

12

At home the poet, seething, paces

And waits impatiently to hear.

Then in his babbling neighbour races,

The answer in his solemn leer.

The jealous poet’s mood turned festive!

He’d been, till now, uncertain … restive,

Afraid the scoundrel might refuse

Or laugh it off and, through some ruse,

Escape unscathed … the slippery devil!

But now at last his doubts were gone:

Next day, for sure, they’d drive at dawn

Out to the mill, where each would level

A pistol, cocked and lifted high,

To aim at temple or at thigh.

13

Convinced that Olga’s heart was cruel,

Vladimir vowed he wouldn’t run

To see that flirt before the duel.

He kept consulting watch and sun …

Then gave it up and finally ended

Outside the door of his intended.

He thought she’d blush with self-reproach,

Grow flustered when she saw his coach;

But not at all: as blithe as ever,

She bounded from the porch above

And rushed to greet her rhyming love

Like giddy hope—so gay and clever,

So frisky-carefree with her grin,

She seemed the same she’d always been.

14

’Why did you leave last night so early?’

Was all that Olga, smiling, said.

Poor Lensky’s muddled mind was swirling,

And silently he hung his head.

All jealousy and rage departed

Before that gaze so openhearted,

Before that soft and simple trust,

Before that soul so bright and just!

With misty eyes he looks on sweetly

And sees the truth: she loves him yet!

Tormented now by deep regret,

He craves her pardon so completely,

He trembles, hunts for words in vain:

He’s happy now, he’s almost sane….

(15–16) 17

Once more in solemn, rapt attention

Before his darling Olga’s face,

Vladimir hasn’t heart to mention

The night before and what took place;

‘It’s up to me,’ he thought, ‘to save her.

I’ll never let that foul depraver

Corrupt her youthful heart with lies,

With fiery praise … and heated sighs;

Nor see that noxious worm devour

My lovely lily, stalk and blade;

Nor watch this two-day blossom fade

When it has yet to fully flower.’

All this, dear readers, meant in fine:

I’m duelling with a friend of mine.

18

Had Lensky known the deep emotion

That seared my Tanya’s wounded heart!

Or had Tatyana had some notion

Of how these two had grown apart,

Or that by morn they’d be debating,

For which of them the grave lay waiting!—

Ah, then, perhaps, the love she bore

Might well have made them friends once more!

But no one knew her inclination

Or chanced upon the sad affair.

Eugene had kept his silent air;

Tatyana pined in isolation;

And only nanny might have guessed,

But her old wits were slow at best.

19

All evening Lensky was abstracted,

Remote one moment, gay the next;

But those on whom the Muse has acted

Are ever thus; with brow perplexed,

He’d sit at clavichord intently

And play but chords; or turning gently

To Olga, he would whisper low:

‘I’m happy, love … it’s true, you know.’

But now it’s late and time for leaving.

His heart, so full of pain, drew tight;

And as he bid the girl goodnight,

He felt it break with desperate grieving.

‘What’s wrong?’ She peered at him, intent.

‘It’s nothing.’ And away he went.

20

On coming home, the youth inspected

His pistols; then he put them back.

Undressed, by candle he selected

A book of Schiller’s from the rack;

But only one bright image holds him,

One thought within his heart enfolds him:

He sees before him, wondrous fair,

His incandescent Olga there.

He shuts the book and, with decision,

Takes up his pen…. His verses ring

With all the nonsense lovers sing;

And feverish with lyric vision,

He reads them out like one possessed,

Like drunken Delvig* at a fest!

2l

By chance those verses haven’t vanished;

I have them, and I quote them here:

‘Ah, whither, whither are ye banished,

My springtime’s golden days so dear?

What fate will morning bring my lyre?

In vain my searching eyes enquire,

For all lies veiled in misty dust.

No matter; fate’s decree is just;

And whether, pierced, I fall anointed,

Or arrow passes by—all’s right:

The hours of waking and of night

Come each in turn as they’re appointed;

And blest with all its cares the day,

And blest the dark that comes to stay!

22

‘The morning star will gleam tomorrow,

And brilliant day begin to bloom;

While I, perhaps, descend in sorrow

The secret refuge of the tomb….

Slow Lethe, then, with grim insistence,

Will drown my memory’s brief existence;

Of me the world shall soon grow dumb;

But thou, fair maiden, wilt thou come!

To shed a tear in desolation

And think at my untimely grave:

He loved me and for me he gave

His mournful life in consecration! …

Beloved friend, sweet friend, I wait,

Oh, come, Oh, come, I am thy mate!’

23

He wrote thus—limply and obscurely.

(We say ‘romantically’—although,

That’s not romanticism, surely;

And if it is, who wants to know?)

But then at last, as it was dawning,

With drooping head and frequent yawning,

Upon the modish word ‘ideal’

Vladimir gently dozed for real;

But sleep had hardly come to take him

Off to be charmed by dreams and cheered,

When in that silent room appeared

His neighbour, calling out to wake him:

‘It’s time to rise! Past six … come on!

I’ll bet Onegin woke at dawn.’

24

But he was wrong; that idle sinner

Was sleeping soundly even then.

But now the shades of night grow thinner,

The cock hails Vesper once again;

Yet still Onegin slumbers deeply.

But now the sun climbs heaven steeply,

And gusting snowflakes flash and spin,

But still Onegin lies within

And hasn’t stirred; still slumber hovers

Above his bed and holds him fast.

But now he slowly wakes at last,

Draws back the curtains and his covers,

Looks out—and sees with some dismay,

He’d better leave without delay.

25

He rings in haste and, with a racket,

His French valet, Guillot, runs in—

With slippers and a dressing jacket,

And fresh new linen from the bin.

Onegin, dressing in a flurry,

Instructs his man as well to hurry:

They’re leaving for the duelling place,

Guillot’s to fetch the pistol case.

The sleigh’s prepared; his pacing ceases;

He climbs aboard and off they go.

They reach the mill. He bids Guillot

To bring Lepage’s deadly pieces;*

Then has the horses, on command,

Removed to where two oaklings stand.

26

Impatient, but in no great panic,

Vladimir waited near the dam;

Meanwhile Zaretsky, born mechanic,

Was carping at the millstone’s cam.

Onegin, late, made explanation.

Zaretsky frowned in consternation:

‘Good God, man, where’s your second? Where?’

In duels a purist doctrinaire,

Zaretsky favoured stout reliance

On proper form; he’d not allow

Dispatching chaps just anyhow,

But called for strict and full compliance

With rules, traditions, ancient ways

(Which we, of course, in him should praise).

27

‘My second?’ said Eugene directly.

‘Why here he is: Monsieur Guillot,

A friend of mine, whom you …correctly!

Will be quite pleased to greet, I know;

Though he’s unknown and lives obscurely,

He’s still an honest chap, most surely.’

Zaretsky bit his lip, well vexed.

Onegin turned to Lensky next:

‘Shall we begin?’—‘At my insistence.’

Behind the mill, without a word.

And while the ‘honest chap’ conferred

With our Zaretsky at a distance

And sealed the solemn compact fast,

The foes stood by with eyes downcast.

28

The foes! How long has bloodlust parted

And so estranged these former friends?

How long ago did they, warmhearted,

Share meals and pastimes, thoughts and ends?

And now, malignant in intention,

Like ancient foes in mad dissension,

As in a dreadful senseless dream,

They glower coldly as they scheme

In silence to destroy each other….

Should they not laugh while yet there’s time,

Before their hands are stained with crime?

Should each not part once more as brother?…

But enmity among their class

Holds shame in savage dread, alas.

29

The gleaming pistols wake from drowsing.

Against the ramrods mallets pound.

The balls go in each bevelled housing.

The first sharp hammer clicks resound.

Now streams of greyish powder settle

Inside the pans. Screwed fast to metal,

The jagged flints are set to go.

Behind a nearby stump Guillot

Takes up his stand in indecision.

The duellists shed their cloaks and wait.

Zaretsky paces off their fate

At thirty steps with fine precision,

Then leads each man to where he’ll stand,

And each takes pistol into hand.

30

‘Approach at will!’ Advancing coldly,

With quiet, firm, and measured tread,

Not aiming yet, the foes took boldly

The first four steps that lay ahead—

Four fateful steps. The space decreasing,

Onegin then, while still not ceasing

His slow advance, was first to raise

His pistol with a level gaze.

Five paces more, while Lensky waited

To close one eye and, only then,

To take his aim…. And that was when

Onegin fired! The hour fated

Has struck at last: the poet stops

And silently his pistol drops.

31

He lays a hand, as in confusion,

On breast and falls. His misted eyes

Express not pain, but death’s intrusion.

Thus, slowly, down a sloping rise,

And sparkling in the sunlight’s shimmer,

A clump of snow will fall and glimmer.

Eugene, in sudden chill, despairs,

Runs to the stricken youth … and stares!

Calls out his name!—No earthly power

Can bring him back: the singer’s gone,

Cut down by fate at break of dawn!

The storm has blown; the lovely flower

Has withered with the rising sun;

The altar fire is out and done! …

32

He lay quite still and past all feeling;

His languid brow looked strange at rest.

The steaming blood poured forth, revealing

The gaping wound beneath his breast.

One moment back—a breath’s duration—

This heart still throbbed with inspiration;

Its hatreds, hopes, and loves still beat,

Its blood ran hot with life’s own heat.

But now, as in a house deserted,

Inside it—all is hushed and stark,

Gone silent and forever dark.

The window boards have been inserted,

The panes chalked white. The owner’s fled;

But where, God knows. All trace is dead.

33

With epigrams of spite and daring

It’s pleasant to provoke a foe;

It’s pleasant when you see him staring—

His stubborn, thrusting horns held low—

Unwillingly within the mirror,

Ashamed to see himself the clearer;

More pleasant yet, my friends, if he

Shrieks out in stupid shock: that’s me!

Still pleasanter is mute insistence

On granting him his resting place

By shooting at his pallid face

From some quite gentlemanly distance.

But once you’ve had your fatal fun,

You won’t be pleased to see it done.

34

And what would be your own reaction

If with your pistol you’d struck down

A youthful friend for some infraction:

A bold reply, too blunt a frown,

Some bagatelle when you’d been drinking;

Or what if he himself, not thinking,

Had called you out in fiery pride?

Well, tell me: what would you … inside

Be thinking of… or merely feeling,

Were your good friend before you now,

Stretched out with death upon his brow,

His blood by slow degrees congealing,

Too deaf and still to make reply

To your repeated, desperate cry?

35

In anguish, with his heart forsaken,

The pistol in his hand like lead,

Eugene stared down at Lensky, shaken.

His neighbour spoke: ‘Well then, he’s dead.’

The awful word, so lightly uttered,

Was like a blow. Onegin shuddered,

Then called his men and walked away.

Zaretsky, carefully, then lay

The frozen corpse on sleigh, preparing

To drive the body home once more.

Sensing the dreadful load they bore,

The horses neighed, their nostrils flaring,

And wet the metal bit with foam,

Then swift as arrows raced for home.

36

You mourn the poet, friends … and rightly:

Scarce out of infant clothes and killed!

Those joyous hopes that bloomed so brightly

Now doomed to wither unfulfilled!

Where now the ardent agitation,

The fine and noble aspiration

Of youthful feeling, youthful thought,

Exalted, tender, boldly wrought?

And where are stormy love’s desires,

The thirst for knowledge, work, and fame,

The dread of vice, the fear of shame?

And where are you, poetic fires,

You cherished dreams of sacred worth

And pledge of life beyond this earth!

37

It may be he was born to fire

The world with good, or earn at least

A gloried name; his silenced lyre

Might well have raised, before it ceased,

A call to ring throughout the ages.

Perhaps, upon the world’s great stages,

He might have scaled a lofty height.

His martyred shade, condemned to night,

Perhaps has carried off forever

Some sacred truth, a living word,

Now doomed by death to pass unheard;

And in the tomb his shade shall never

Receive our race’s hymns of praise,

Nor hear the ages bless his days.

(38) 39

Or maybe he was merely fated

To live amid the common tide;

And as his years of youth abated,

The flame within him would have died.

In time he might have changed profoundly,

Have quit the Muses, married soundly;

And in the country he’d have worn

A quilted gown and cuckold’s horn,

And happy, he’d have learned life truly;

At forty he’d have had the gout,

Have eaten, drunk, grown bored and stout,

And so decayed, until he duly

Passed on in bed … his children round,

While women wept and doctors frowned.

40

However, reader, we may wonder …

The youthful lover’s voice is stilled,

His dreams and songs all rent asunder;

And he, alas, by friend lies killed!

Not far from where the youth once flourished

There lies a spot the poet cherished:

Two pine trees grow there, roots entwined;

Beneath them quiet streamlets wind,

Meand’ring from the nearby valley.

And there the ploughman rests at will

And women reapers come to fill

Their pitchers in the stream and dally;

There too, within a shaded nook,

A simple stone adjoins the brook.

41

Sometimes a shepherd sits there waiting

(Till on the fields, spring rains have passed)

And sings of Volga fishers, plaiting

His simple, coloured shoes of bast;

Or some young girl from town who’s spending

Her summer in the country mending—

When headlong and alone on horse

She races down the meadow course,

Will draw her leather reins up tightly

To halt just there her panting steed;

And lifting up her veil, she’ll read

The plain inscription, skimming lightly;

And as she reads, a tear will rise

And softly dim her gentle eyes.

42

And at a walk she’ll ride, dejected,

Into the open field to gaze,

Her soul, despite herself, infected

By Lensky’s brief, ill-fated days.

She’ll wonder too: ‘Did Olga languish?

Her heart consumed with lasting anguish?

Or did the time of tears soon pass?

And where’s her sister now, poor lass?

And where that gloomy, strange betrayer,

The modish beauty’s modish foe,

That recluse from the world we know—

The youthful poet’s friend and slayer?’

In time, I promise, I’ll not fail

To tell you all in full detail.

43

But not today.