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. I love to fix
The hour by “dinner”, say, or “teatime”,
Or “supper”. Yes, we rustics see time
As something simple. We obey
Our stomachs rather than Bréguet.
And I should mention in parenthesis
That on the pages of my works
I deal with feasts, and food, and corks,
Treating them all with no less emphasis
Than you, dear Homer. (This man is
Our god of thirty centuries.)
[37, 38] 39
But tea is served, and with decorum
The girls are sipping from their cups,
When with a boom outside the ballroom
The loud bassoons and flutes strike up.
Fired by the music as it thunders,
Leaving his rum-laced tea, up wanders
(Local Lothario) Petushkóv,
Who comes to Olga—and they’re off;
Lensky takes Tanya; Kharlikóva,
An old maid whom the years have marred,
Is taken by my Tambov bard;
Buyánov sweeps off Pustyakóva…
Into the ballroom they spill, all
Attracted by the glittering ball.
40
When starting on my novel’s journey
(See Chapter One), I felt the urge
To picture, rather like Albani,
A ballroom in St Petersburg,
But in a dreamy intermission
I gave myself to reminiscing
About small feet that I once knew.
O tiny tracks, I followed you,
But, little feet, I’ll roam no further.
Deluded by false youth, I plan
To be a more discerning man
In words and deeds more and more certain.
As to digressions, I shall strive
To purge them from my Chapter Five.
41
Frenzied and furious and blurry,
Whirling like young life, and as fast,
The waltz is in a swirling hurry,
And it sends couples flashing past.
Nearing the moment of his vengeance,
Onegin smirks with dark intentions
And comes to Olga. There’s no rest;
He whirls her round before the guests,
Then brings her back and sees her seated,
Treating her to a little chat,
And then two minutes after that
The waltz between them is repeated.
People look on in great surprise,
And Lensky can’t believe his eyes.
42
Now the mazurka, once delivered
To booming bangs and thunderous peals
In a great hall where all things shivered
And the floor shuddered under heels,
The windows rattling like Hades.
It’s not like that now. No, like ladies,
We sweep the lacquered floor and glide.
Yet small towns in the countryside
Have kept alive the real mazurka
With all its old-world charm and dash.
The heels, the wild leaps, the moustache,
They’re all still there, solid and certain,
Unchanged by fashion’s cruel sway,
The bane of Russians in our day.
[43] 44
Buyánov, my hot-blooded cousin,
Brings to Onegin both the girls,
Tanya and Olga; deftly choosing
The latter, Olga, off he whirls.
He leads her, nonchalantly gliding,
Bending to whisper and confiding
In vulgar tones and fancy terms,
Squeezing her hand until she burns,
The pink of her contented features
Turning bright red. My Lensky stares,
Distraught; his indignation flares
In jealous rage against these creatures.
Is the dance over? Yes, it is—
Now the cotillion must be his.
45
It isn’t. Why not? What’s the matter?
Olga has promised: she will dance
With him, Onegin. Heavens! Drat her!
What does he hear? Where does she stand?…
How can this be? Our recent baby,
Now a wild child and flirting lady,
Is well schooled in the art of guile;
Betrayal she can do with style.
It’s too much. Lensky cannot bear it.
The tricks of women! Hear him curse!
He walks out, calling for his horse,
And rides off. Pistols now will square it;
Two bullets and a single shot
Will suddenly decide his lot.
Là sotto i giorni nubilosi i brevi Nasce una gente a cui ’l morir non dole.*
PETRARCH
1
Abandoned by the missing Lensky,
Once more Onegin languished, bored.
Olga was near, and he fell pensive,
Revenged, and happy at the thought.
But she was yawning too, now keener
To search the room and find Vladimir.
Meanwhile, the oft-repeated dance
Has sent her into a deep trance.
At last it’s over. Supper beckons.
Beds are made up for one and all,
Extending from the entrance hall
To the maids’ room. Everyone reckons
On sound sleep. But Onegin’s gone,
Off to his bed, driving alone.
2
Peace reigns within the parlour shortly.
Here snores the portly Pustyakóv
Next to his partner, no less portly.
Gvozdín, Buyánov, Petushkóv
And Flyánov (indisposed as ever)
Rest on hard dining chairs together.
Triquet lies on the floor; he’ll nap
In his bright shirt and old-style cap.
The young girls rooming with Tatyana
And Olga are all fast asleep,
Though, at the pane, in sadness deep,
Lonely, illumined by Diana,
Unsleeping Tanya sits, eyes wide,
Scanning the night-black countryside.
3
That brusque arrival, unexpected,
That momentary tender glance,
The strange way Olga was directed—
All this struck Tanya like a lance
Piercing the soul. He is a person
She cannot fathom, which is worsened
By jealous anguish deep inside
That hurts like a cold hand applied
To squeeze her heart, as if black, hellish
Torrents were roaring far below.
“I’ll perish,” Tanya said. “Although,
For him, it will feel good to perish.
Can I complain?… No… I confess—
He couldn’t bring me happiness.”
4
Enough’s enough. On with my story!
Another character is planned.
Some three miles on from Krasnogórye,
Where Lensky lives, there dwells a man
Who used to thrive, and thrives at present
In this philosophical desert:
Zaretsky, once inclined to rob
As hetman of a gambling mob.
A wastrel, now a pub persona,
Straightforward and most kind is he.
Unmarried, though père de famille,
A true friend, now a staid landowner.
He stands for honesty and health.
Thus does an age correct itself!
5
Society, full of flattering faces,
Approved his wild tricks quite a lot.
True, he could, at a dozen paces,
Hit aces with a pistol shot.
And once, out on the field, at random
He swung about with such abandon
That he fell off his Kalmyk horse
Into the mud (pie-eyed, of course),
And to the French he lost his liberty.
Some prize! They let him go—no fuss—
This honourable Regulus,
Though he’d have welcomed new captivity
To spend his mornings chez Véry,
In Paris, downing bottles three.
6
Once he had been a clever joker,
Foxing the fools by playing pranks
And fooling the non-mediocre
Openly or behind their backs,
Though even he suffered some sessions,
Which ended with him learning lessons.
There were times when he would collapse,
A booby caught in booby traps.
His tone when arguing was cheery,
He brought forth answers sharp and dumb,
And he could knowingly keep mum
Or knowingly refute some theory,
And he was good at goading friends
To duelling—and sticky ends—
7
Or he’d arrange a truce, and by it
A breakfast feast laid out for three,
And then malign them on the quiet
With jokes and fibs, amusingly.
But time is change. High jinks are jolly,
But like love’s dream (another folly),
They fade with every passing year.
Zaretsky, as I’ve said, lives here.
Under acacia and wild cherry,
Sheltered at last from nature’s rage,
This true philosopher and sage
Plants cabbages like Horace (very),
Breeding ducks, geese and, yes, indeed,
Small children, teaching them to read.
8
He was no fool. While always shrinking
From this man’s inner sentiments,
Yevgeny liked his way of thinking
And, in all things, his common sense.
It had been nice enough whenever
The two of them had come together,
So, next day, he felt no surprise
When this man came before his eyes.
Zaretsky said hello, though gently
Declined to pass the time of day,
Cast a sly look Onegin’s way
And handed him a note from Lensky.
He walked up to the window shelf
And read it through there to himself.
9
The note was dignified and civil,
A cartel (challenge), brief, polite,
All clear and cold and on the level.
Called out by his friend, he must fight.
Onegin turned to him on impulse,
The bearer of a note so simple,
And spoke without a wasted word.
“Ready as always,” the man heard.
Zaretsky rose, without explaining,
Not keen to linger there alone,
And having much to do at home,
He left at once, leaving Yevgeny
Communing singly with his soul,
Feeling dissatisfied, not whole.
10
And so he should. Searching, relentless,
His secret inner court will hear
Him charged with multiple offences…
Charge One: He had been wrong to jeer
At timid, tender love so easily
And so off-handedly that evening.
Charge Two: The poet might have been
An ass, but this, at just eighteen,
Could be excused. Judge whose fault this is:
Yevgeny deeply loved the youth,
And should have proved to be, in truth,
No mere plaything of prejudices,
No fiery, strapping lad, but an
Honourable and thinking man.
11
He could have spoken out (so easy!)
Instead of bristling like a beast.
He should have set about appeasing
That young heart, at the very least.
It’s too late now. Things have developed.
“Besides,” he thought, “we have that fellow,
The expert duellist, in touch.
He’s a bad man who talks too much…
Contempt, of course, from the beginning,
Should have condemned the way he spoke.
But whispers… sniggers… stupid folk…”
We’re talking of Public Opinion!
Our idol’s base and honour’s ground—
This is what makes the world go round!
12
Seething with rage and hatred, Lensky
Waits. A reply is what he wants.
The windbag now returns; Zaretsky
Comes solemnly with the response
That brings joy to a jealous party!
He had been worried that this smarty
Might find some way out with a jest,
Some ruse designed to save his breast
By turning down the pistols, scorning.
But doubts are banished now; they will
Drive out and meet beside the mill
At break of day tomorrow morning,
Cock weapons, and aim low or high
At one another’s brow or thigh.
13
Set to detest a flirt so cruel,
Still seething, Lensky meant to shun
His Olga and await the duel…
He watched the clock, and watched the sun…
Then he gave in, and off he sallied,
Soon to be found outside the Larins’,
Hoping to catch her unawares
And shake her just by being there.
But no such thing… For, just as earlier,
She met poor Lensky from his horse
By skipping down from off the porch
Like giddy hope (but even girlier).
Youthful, exuberant, carefree,
Exactly as before was she.
14
“Why did you leave the ball so early?”
Olga immediately said,
Sending his feelings hurly-burly.
Silent, Vladimir hung his head,
His rage and envy now bedevilled
By the bright glance that Olga levelled,
By her ingenuous, gentle hold,
By all that sprightliness of soul!…
He looks at her—sweet warmth is with him—
Seeing she loves him still (of course),
And, overcome with deep remorse,
He almost asks her to forgive him.
Shaking, he cannot say a word.
He’s happy, very nearly cured. …
[15, 16] 17
Cast down again, once more the dreamer,
With dear, sweet Olga facing him,
There is no strength left in Vladimir
To hark back—it would be too grim.
His thoughts are: “I shall be her saviour.
I won’t allow his vile behaviour
To tempt her young heart in this wise
With passion, flattery and sighs.
Disgusting worms shall not go gnawing
Beneath the lily’s tender stem.
Plants will not last two days and then
Lose their fresh flowerlets half-showing.
Which means, of course, that in the end
I have to shoot out with my friend.”
18
If only he had known the drama
Of Tanya’s burning heartache there,
If only news had reached Tatyana,
If only she had been aware
That next day Lensky and Yevgeny
Would duel to the death, then maybe
Her love might just have brought the men
Into a partnership again.
But, no, the story of her anguish
Was, as it happened, left unheard.
Onegin never said a word,
While secretly Tatyana languished.
The nurse may well have known all right,
But she, alas, was not too bright.
19
All evening Lensky was distracted,
Silent and jovial by turns.
But men for whom the muse is active
Are always like that.
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