Her mood is manic,

She casts about, but cannot scream,

He flings the door wide. The effect is

That all these glaring hellish spectres

Turn upon her, and mocking cries

Ring out against her. All those eyes,

The clopping hooves, the muzzles curvy,

The tufty tails, the tusky prongs,

Moustaches and the bloody tongues,

The horns and bony fingers turning

To point at her, while voices whine,

Together crying, “Mine, she’s mine!”

20

“She’s mine!” announced Yevgeny starkly,

And suddenly the pack has gone,

Leaving behind them, cold and darkling,

Onegin, Tanya, all alone.

Onegin, though, has now withdrawn her,

Settling her gently in a corner

Upon a wobbly wooden seat.

He now inclines his head to meet

Her shoulder. But then Olga enters

With Lensky. Lights flash through the mist.

Onegin makes a threatening fist

And stares round fiercely, ill-contented,

Chiding the two intrusive guests,

While Tanya, scarcely breathing, rests.

21

They argue. Louder. Of a sudden

Yevgeny grabs a long knife. Oh,

Lensky’s struck down! Grim shadows huddle

Them close. A hideous cry of woe

Rings out… The wooden shack is shaken…

…In horror Tanya now awakens

And looks around. It’s light again,

As through the frozen windowpane

Dawn’s crimson rays send out an aura.

The door swings open. Olga flies

Across to Tanya swallow-wise,

Rosier than the north’s Aurora.

“Tanya,” she says, “Tell me, my love—

Who is it you’ve been dreaming of?”

22

Tatyana, though, ignores her sister

And lies there with a book in bed.

The pages turn—she hasn’t missed her—

And now she’s here nothing is said.

Not that this book, for those who know it,

Presents sweet fictions from a poet,

Or maxims, or delightful scenes,

Or texts from Virgil or Racine,

Scott, Byron, Seneca. No features,

Not even Ladies Fashion, could

So fascinate and stir the blood.

It was Martin Zadeck, dear readers,

A wise Chaldean sage, it seems,

And an interpreter of dreams.

23

This work of moment and profundity

Came from a travelling salesman, who

Called in one day, out in the country,

And haggled with her as they do.

For her three roubles fifty copecks

She got Malvina (not the whole text)

Plus extras, normal in such sales:

A bumper book of common tales,

A grammar and two Petrine epics,

And Marmontel’s Works (Volume Three).

Martin Zadeck soon came to be

Her favourite… So sympathetic

To her when sorrows made life grim,

And every night she sleeps with him.

24

Disturbed by what she had been dreaming,

She wondered what it had to show.

What was the ghastly vision’s meaning?

Tanya would dearly like to know.

Though short, the index was poetical.

She found, in order alphabetical:

Bear, black of night, blizzard and bridge,

Fir, forest, hedgehog, raven, witch,

And suchlike words. Her apprehensions,

Despite Zadeck, could not be stilled.

The nightmare showed her fate fulfilled

By most unhappy misadventures.

For several days she was distraught

With worry at this very thought.

25

But now the crimson day is dawning;

Here from the valleys soars the sun,

Ushering in for us this morning

A name day! Joy for everyone!

All day the Larins’ house was writhing

With guests, whole families arriving

Together in their various ways

In carts or carriages or sleighs.

The crowded hall is under pressure

With newcomers exchanging hugs

And kissing girls and yelping pugs,

And shouts and chuckles on the threshold,

And bows and bobs. Everyone chats

Through nursemaids’ calls and bawling brats.

26

With his well-fed wife in attendance

Here comes the portly Pustyakóv;

Gvozdín, who, as a host, shines splendid

(His peasants being not well off );

A grey-haired couple, the Skotínins,

With children of all ages (meaning

From two to thirty); Petushkóv,

The local district’s fancy toff;

And my first cousin, too, Buyánov,

Fluff-covered, wearing a peaked cap

(Already known to you, mayhap);

And the ex-councillor, old Flyánov,

A gossip, rascal and poltroon,

Bribe-taker, glutton and buffoon.

27

Here’s Panfíl Khárlikov’s horde; with ’em

They bring Monsieur Triquet, once big

In Tambov, known for wit and rhythm,

In spectacles and ginger wig.

A perfect Frenchman and a charmer,

He’s penned a ditty to Tatyana,

A children’s song in melody:

Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.

In an old tome of ancient music

This ditty had been stored away.

Ever resourceful, our Triquet

Had dug it from the dust, to use it

With one bold change: bel-le Niná

Became bel-le Ta-ti-a-ná.

28

Now from a nearby urban quarter

A company commander comes,

Idol of many a grown-up daughter

And the delight of local mums.

He’s here… with news to be applauded:

The regimental band’s been ordered.

The colonel has arranged it all.

What joy! There is to be a ball!

The prospect sets girls’ feet a-racing.

When called to table, pair by pair

And hand in hand they saunter there.

The girls crowd Tanya. Men sit facing.

All cross themselves, and at the sign

The murmuring crowd sits down to dine.

29

Then silence falls. Nobody chatters

Though mouths chew on, and everything

Is noisy—cutlery a-clatter

And glasses meeting with a clink.

But very soon again they’re at it,

Raising the roof with a great racket.

There are no listeners; they all speak,

They shout and laugh, bicker and shriek…

The door flies open… Lensky enters,

Onegin too. Tatyana’s mum

Cries, “Lord above, at last you’ve come!”

The guests squeeze up with the intention

Of freeing places. Chairs are found,

They call the friends and sit them down,

30

Facing Tatyana. Thus confronted,

Pale as the moon in morning skies,

She quivers like a doe when hunted

And will not raise her darkling eyes

Towards them. Surging passions quickly

Flood through her; she feels breathless, sickly.

The two friends greet her, but her ears

Hear nothing. She feels pricking tears

About to flow. Poor, wretched creature

She feels she is about to swoon,

But strength and reason rally soon

To win her round. Her teeth now gritted,

She mumbles something into space

And sits there rooted in her place.

31

Theatricalities and paddies,

Girls fainting, tears and all that stuff,

Yevgeny couldn’t stomach; that is,

Quite simply, he had had enough.

At this big feast he, the outsider,

Was furious. But when he spied her

Shaking, producing a dark frown,

In irritation he looked down

And sulked, feeling exasperated

With Lensky. He would rattle him;

Yevgeny’s vengeance would be grim.

He revelled in anticipation.

He mentally began to scrawl

Caricatures of one and all.

32

And other people saw those moments

When Tanya felt as if to die,

Though really all the looks and comments

Were centred on the rich meat pie

(Unfortunately oversalted),

Then on the tar-sealed bottles, faultless

Between the roast and the blancmange,

Where Russian-made champagne belongs,

And glasses lined up long and slender,

Just like your little waist, Zizí,

Pure crystal of the soul to me,

Sung in my verses, sweet and tender;

Love’s flute so exquisitely shrunk,

Thou hast so often got me drunk!

33

Free from its moistened cork, the flagon

Burst with a pop. The wine released

Fizzed forth. Triquet, with a suave swagger,

Long-tortured by his written piece,

Got up to face the crowd, admirers

Who welcomed him with a deep silence.

Tatyana scarcely breathed. Triquet

Showed her his text and sang away,

Putting on style. Their cheers and plaudits

Reward him, though she is nonplussed,

Bobbing a curtsy as she must,

While he, the poet, great but modest,

Offers a toast. His is the first,

And he presents her with his verse.

34

Congratulations came, and greetings,

And she thanked them with all good grace,

But when it came at last to treating

With him, Onegin, her sad face,

Her weariness and agitation

Drew from him sympathy and patience…

He faced her with a silent bow,

But in his eyes a look somehow

Shone wonderfully warm and kindly.

Had he been moved, cut to the quick,

Or was this a flirtatious trick?

Whether well meant or sent forth blindly,

His warm look was enough to start

A lifting of Tatyana’s heart.

35

And now the chairs are pulled back, scraping,

Into the parlour they all squeeze

Like bees from luscious hives escaping

In buzzing swarms to find the leas.

Pleased with the food and festive table,

They wheeze delight neighbour to neighbour.

Ladies sit by the fire, and—look—

The girls are whispering in their nook.

Now the baize tables are unfolded.

Come forth, ye players brave and bold:

Boston or ombre for the old,

Or whist, a favourite even older.

Monotonous, the kinsmen come,

All avid sons of tedium.

36

Eight rubbers have now been completed

By the whist heroes with their tricks,

And eight times they have been reseated.

Now tea is served.