I knew his worth,
And now he’s with damp Mother Earth.”
19
Tanya looked round with heartfelt pleasure,
Casting her eyes on every side.
It all seemed infinitely precious
And her sad spirits were revived.
Half-agonized and half-excited,
She scanned the desk, its lamp not lighted,
Book-piles, the window and the bed
With a rug cover for a spread,
The view outside, dark, moonlit, solemn,
The half-light cast upon it all,
Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall,
The cast-iron figure on his column,
His crowning hat, his scowling brow,
His arms crossed tightly—you know how.
20
Bewitched, she lingered in this prison,
This latter-day recluse’s room.
But it is late. Cold winds have risen.
The woods sleep in their darkened coomb.
Across the steaming, misty river,
The moon goes down the hillside thither.
Far has the young girl-pilgrim roamed,
And it is time she went back home.
She stifles her disturbed condition,
Though she can’t suppress a sigh,
And leaves for home now, not too shy
To ask permission to revisit
The lonely castle on her own
And read the books there all alone.
21
She took her leave of the housekeeper
Outside the gate, but came again,
First thing next day to go down deeper
Into his long-abandoned den,
And once inside his silent study,
Dead to all things and everybody,
She loitered there alone, inside,
And as time passed she cried and cried.
And as his books slipped through her fingers,
Quite unappealingly at first,
The choice of them seemed so perverse
And weird. But when she looked and lingered
Her eager spirit soon unfurled
An altogether different world.
22
We know Yevgeny had rejected
The reading business; all the same,
He did make one or two exceptions,
Exemptions from his hall of shame,
Such as the author of Don Juan,
And novels, even the odd new one
From our contemporary span
That represents the “modern man”,
Who is depicted most precisely
With his amoral attitude,
His arid soul, his selfish views,
His boundless taste for fantasizing,
His uselessly embittered mind
And actions of the futile kind.
23
And decorating many pages
Are thumbnail imprints deeply etched.
The girl’s sharp focus now engages
With these, her concentration stretched.
Her hands shake when she sees a passage
Containing some idea or message
That must have left Onegin moved
Or where he tacitly approved.
On many a page she found appended
Onegin’s marginalia.
At every corner there they are,
Hints of his spirit (unintended),
A short phrase here, a small cross there,
A query hanging in the air.
24
And my Tatyana comes by stages
To understand the very man
(Depicted clearly as outrageous?)
Destined for her by some weird plan,
Sent to unsettle and derange her,
A maverick oddball bringing danger,
A child of heaven, of hell perchance,
Devil and god of arrogance.
What is he? A copy of mischances,
A ghost of nothingness, a joke,
A Russian in Childe Harold’s cloak,
A ragbag of imported fancies,
A catchphrase-monger and a sham.
Is he more parody than man?
25
A parody? Does this expression
Give us the riddle’s final clue?
The hours fly by. She’s been forgetting
Her home, where she’s long overdue.
Two visitors are there, two locals,
And Tanya is their present focus.
“Tanya’s no child. This is no joke.
What can one do?” her mother croaks.
“Our Olga was the younger sister;
Now Tanya’s turn is overdue.
She must wed, but what can I do?
We speak, but she is so insistent:
Not marriage! Then she’ll mope and moan,
And go out in the woods alone.”
26
“She’s not in love, then?” “Who’d she fancy?
Buyánov made an offer—no!
Then Petushkóv, Iván—same answer.
Pykhtín the lancer stayed here—oh,
He fell for Tanya altogether,
All over her he was, young devil…
It looked good and I thought perhaps…
But, no. Again it all collapsed.”
“My dear friend, you should wait no longer.
Get you to Moscow—the brides’ fair—
Plenty of vacancies up there.”
“Pity my income isn’t stronger…”
“You could just see one winter through.
And I could lend you something too.”
27
Old Madame Larina, delighted
By such a wise and friendly tip,
Added things up and soon decided:
Come winter, they would make the trip.
Tatyana sees all this as tricky,
Moving to people who are picky—
Their modes and manners still alive
With primitive provincial life:
Their dull, unfashionable clothing,
Their dull, unfashionable speech,
The Moscow toffs and beauties, each
Observing them with fun and loathing!
God save her! Better if she could
Just stay there wandering in the woods.
28
Up with the early sun, Tatyana
Would fly down to the fields and stay
To scan the beauteous panorama
With melting eyes, as if to say,
“Farewell, you valleys all sequestered,
You hilltops where my eyes have rested,
You woodlands that I know and prize,
Farewell, you gorgeous heavenly skies,
Farewell to you, this happy Eden.
I trade my lovely, quiet world
For a noisy, glittering, empty swirl.
And I bid you farewell, my freedom!
Where am I going, and what for?
What does my future hold in store?”
29
The walks she takes are lasting longer;
Those hills and streams take her aback,
Working their wondrous charms upon her,
Stopping Tatyana in her tracks.
Treating them like long-lost companions,
Down to the woods and fields she scrambles
To greet them, chattering on and on…
But soon short summer’s day is gone,
And onward steals the golden autumn
To shiver the pale countryside,
Arraying it for sacrifice.
A north wind drives the storm clouds, awesome
In gusts and howls. Onto the scene
Comes winter like a fairy queen.
30
She came here, spreading wide, amassing
On every twig upon the oaks,
And carpeting the rolling grassland
Across the fields and down the slopes.
She levelled the still banks of rivers
In shrouds of dark mist densely driven.
Frost sparkled. We were all transfixed
By Mother Winter and her tricks.
And yet Tatyana felt unable
To celebrate; she did not care
To inhale the dusty, frosty air
Or use snow from the bathroom gable
To wash her shoulders, face and chest.
She feared the coming winter quest.
31
Departure times had been allotted,
Then come and gone. This was the last.
The old sleigh carriage, long forgotten,
Was reupholstered and made fast.
A caravan (three covered wagons)
Would haul the family household baggage;
Pans, chairs and trunks had all been crammed
With mattresses and jars and jams,
And feather beds, cockerels in cages,
Basins and pots, et cetera,
All their paraphernalia.
The servants’ uproar is outrageous.
Across the courtyard someone drags—
Through tears and farewells—eighteen nags.
32
They’re harnessed to the winter carriage,
The cooks get breakfast for them all,
The carts are mountains high with baggage,
The women and the drivers bawl.
Here’s a thin, shaggy hack whose rider,
A bearded man, is the team-driver.
The servants gather in a horde.
“Goodbye, my lady! All aboard!”
The venerable carriage trundles
Off, gliding through the gate. “Goodbye,
Sweet spaces!” comes the cry.
“Farewell, the sheltered nook! I wonder
If I’ll see you again.” And streaks
Of tears run down Tatyana’s cheeks.
33
When we’ve extended all the borders
Of our grand culture, gentlemen,
In time (our thinkers will reward us
With charts for calculating when—
Five hundred years hence?) our road system
Will have become completely different.
Then Russia’s highways will appear,
Conjoining and criss-crossing her.
Across our waters iron bridges
Will stride with an enormous span.
Mountains will move, and, where we can,
We’ll dig deep vaults beneath the rivers,
And at all Christian staging posts
We’ll open inns with Russian hosts.
34
Today, our highways are outrageous.
Neglected bridges rot in heaps
While bugs and fleas at all the stages
Never give us a minute’s sleep.
There are no inns. Ramshackle venues
Offer impressive-looking menus,
Showy but not to be believed,
Tempting but flattering to deceive,
And many a rural Russian Cyclops,
In smithies slow and clogged with ash,
With Russian tools will bang and bash
At Western workmanship, delighted
To bless their homegrown landscape, which
Is well supplied with rut and ditch.
35
But in the frozen winter it is
Much easier; it’s fun to ride.
Like the crass lines of modern ditties,
The winter road’s an easy slide.
The charioteers here do not loiter,
Untiring is the Russian troika!
You idly watch the mileposts hence
As they flash by in one long fence.
But, sad to say, the Larins laboured.
Post-horses were beyond her purse;
Her own were cheaper but much worse,
But Tanya actually savoured
The trek, however dull and bleak,
Which took them no less than a week.
36
But now they’re nearly there. Before them
Stands Moscow chiselled in white stone,
The buildings topped with fiery glory,
A golden cross on every dome.
Brothers, I’ve always been delighted
By churches passed, and belfries sighted
With many a palace near a park,
Appearing in a sudden arc!
With all my contacts sadly broken
And travelling forth my destiny,
Moscow, I’ve often thought of thee!
Moscow! The very word when spoken
Blends many things in Russian hearts!
What resonances it imparts!
37
Petróvsky Castle stands here dourly
In its own oak grove to proclaim
Its recently acquired glory;
Napoleon stood here in vain,
Full of his fame with all its promise,
Expecting Moscow to pay homage
By giving up its Kremlin keys.
But Moscow was not on her knees,
And would not come to supplicate him.
The hasty hero got short shrift:
Instead of holidays and gifts
She met him with a conflagration.
Here he stood, brooding as he gazed
Upon the unpropitious blaze.
38
Goodbye Petróvsky, you who swallowed
Our humbled pride. We’re on our way!
We rumble past white gates and columns
Down Tver Street in our trundling sleigh,
Where every rut and pothole rocks us,
Past peasant women, sentry boxes,
Boys, shops, lamp-posts along the street,
Convents, palaces, gardens neat,
Allotments, sleds, Bukhara traders,
Dealers and our poor people’s shacks,
Avenues, towers and Cossacks,
Chemist’s shops and boutiques for ladies,
Balconies, gates lion-embossed,
With jackdaws poised on every cross.
[39] 40
This torment of a journey lasted
For rather more than two hours straight,
But then in Kharitónov passage
The ponderous sleigh came to a gate
And stopped. Here lived an ageing auntie
Who’d fought for four years valiantly
Against consumption. They’d arrived,
And the front door was opened wide
By an old, grizzled Kalmyk servant
Wearing a loose coat, specs on nose,
Stocking in hand. A cry arose
From the princess, couch-bound but fervent.
The old girls swooned in tears and hugs,
Loud greetings pouring forth in floods.
41
“Princess, mon ange!” “Pachette!” “Alina!”
“Incredible!” “At last we meet!
Astonishing!” “Ma chère cousine!
Will you stay long? Do take a seat.
It’s like a novel… All this drama…”
“This is my daughter, dear Tatyana!”
“Oh. Tanya, come to me. This seems
Too much. It’s like the stuff of dreams.
Remember Grandison? You must do.”
“What Grandison? Oh, you mean him!
I do remember. Where’s he been?”
“He’s near St Simeon’s here in Moscow.
Dropped in to see me Christmas Eve.
Married his son off, I believe.
42
And he… But let’s save this till later,
Shall we? Tomorrow we must show
Tatyana off to her relations.
Sorry, I’m poorly. I can’t go.
My feeble legs will barely serve me…
But you’re exhausted from the journey.
Why don’t we have a little rest?
I’m feeble. Oh, my tired old chest…
Now, even pleasure is a burden,
And not just sadness. Oh, my dear,
I’m pretty useless now, I fear.
Old age is dreadful, that’s for certain.”
She was exhausted. That was it.
She wept and had a coughing fit.
43
The good cheer of her ailing auntie
Moves Tanya, although, truth to tell,
Her new rooms are not to her fancy
Compared with those she knew so well.
The drapes are of a silken sweetness,
But in her new bed she lies sleepless,
And then the early sound of bells,
Heralding morning work, propels
Her out of bed. Her chair is placed by
The window, where she now stays put.
The darkness thins, she looks out, but
Instead of her home fields she’s faced by
A yard she doesn’t know at all,
A stable, a kitchen and a wall.
44
To family dinner after dinner
Tanya is taken, to impress.
With grans and grandads she’s a winner,
For all her dreamy idleness.
As kinfolk, come from distant places,
They’re met with warmth and smiling faces,
With exclamations and nice meals.
“She’s grown!…” “But yesterday—it feels!—
I stood for you when you were christened.
I held you in my arms, my dear.
I used to tweak your little ear.
I gave you sweeties.” Tanya listens
To granny’s age group and their cries
Of “How the years have gone. Time flies!”
45
They haven’t changed. Depend upon it:
The old ways are their golden rule.
Thus Princess (Aunt) Yeléna’s bonnet
Is of unfashionable tulle,
Ivan Petróvich is no wiser,
Semyón, his brother’s still a miser,
Lukérya’s face is all white paint.
Is Lyubóv truthful? No, she ain’t.
You’ll find that Auntie Pelagéya
Still friends with Finemouche (gentilhomme),
Still has a husband, and a pom.
He’s still a clubman, a long-stayer,
Still henpecked, deaf and someone who
Still eats and drinks enough for two.
46
Their girls greet Tanya with embraces,
But, there being much they want to know,
Silently these young Moscow Graces
Examine her from top to toe.
They find her rather odd, provincial,
With mannerisms strangely mincing,
A little thin and pale withal—
Though otherwise not bad at all.
But nature will prevail—with passion
They make friends, entertain her, and
They kiss her often, squeezing hands,
Fluffing her curls in the new fashion.
With girlish giggles they impart
The secrets of their girlish hearts—
47
Details of conquests, theirs and others’,
Their hopes and schemes, daydreams and such,
Flowing in guileless chat that buzzes
With scandal (though not all that much).
Then in return for all this chatter
They lean on Tanya, getting at her
To tell the stories of her heart,
But dreamily she stands apart.
She hears things but forgets soon after,
For nothing heard makes any sense.
Her feelings, private and intense,
Her secret thoughts, her tears and laughter
She keeps unspoken, for herself
And shareable with no one else.
48
Tatyana is quite keen to listen
To what they’re saying, but, alas,
The room is swamped with the transmission
Of incoherent, vulgar trash.
It’s so banal and so insipid;
Even the scandal’s far from gripping.
In the dry desert of their views,
Their queries, slurs and bits of news,
Days pass with nothing thought-provoking,
No twist of fate or happenstance
To set the weary mind a-dance,
Nothing heart-lifting, nothing jokey,
No silly fun to be enjoyed
Anywhere in this social void.
49
Young men with sinecures look at her
In priggish, condescending ways,
Then walk off to discuss the matter
With nothing very nice to say.
Among them one pathetic jester
Found her “ideal” as he assessed her,
And now he leans against the door
To pen an ode. Guess who it’s for.
Once Vyázemsky sat down beside her
When she was at a boring aunt’s
And captivated her, by chance.
An old man, looking on, espied her,
And curiously began to dig,
While neatly straightening his wig.
50
But in the halls, where raging Tragedy
Is still performed in one long wail,
With spangled mantles wielded, waggling,
At the full house (to no avail),
Where Comedy lies gently napping
And sleeps through even friendly clapping,
Where the young public is entranced
By nothing but the Muse of Dance—
That’s how it was in former ages
When you and I were in our prime—
Tanya was cut dead all the time
By the lorgnettes of jealous ladies
And the eye-tubes of strutting beaux
In boxes or the lower rows.
51
She’s taken on to the Assembly,
With all its crowds, excitement, heat,
The blaring band, the candles trembling
As pairs sweep by with flashing feet.
The lovely girls arrayed in flimsy,
The galleries with their gaudy whimsy,
And nubile girls in one wide arc—
All this struck her and made its mark.
Made manifest by dazzling dandies,
Bravado gleams, and waistcoats too,
Eyeglasses spurned but kept in view,
Hussars on leave, fine and upstanding,
Leap to the fore, gallop and stamp,
Delight the eye, and then decamp.
52
The night has many stars, resplendent,
Moscow has lovely girls on view,
Yet of these friends the moon ascendant
Outshines them all in the deep blue.
And she… (I wouldn’t dare upset her;
To mute my lyre would be far better…)
Gives off her splendour, casting shade
On every mother, every maid.
With heavenly poise and proud composure
She deigns to tread the earth, and breathes
Profound bliss as her bosom heaves.
Her eyes shine, wondrously ambrosial.
But stop, stop. That’s enough from you.
To folly you have paid your due.
53
They shout, laugh, bow and charge through dances—
Mazurka, gallop, waltz—all night,
But Tanya stands there with two aunties
Behind a pillar out of sight.
She watches things, uncomprehending,
Repelled by this world and its frenzy.
She cannot breathe… And, starry-eyed,
She floats back to the countryside,
Back to the poor folk in their hovels,
To distant parts, secluded nooks
Busy with sparkling, babbling brooks,
Back to her flowers and her novels,
To lines of lime trees dark and grim,
Where she had once encountered him.
54
But as her thoughts depart, dispersing
Beyond the guests, the noisy ball,
She is the target of one person,
A most impressive general.
The aunts wink at each other, touching
Tatyana with their elbows, nudging
Her, both of them, and hissing low,
“Look to your left… Quick… There you go.”
“Where on my left? What’s all this bother?”
“Oh, never mind… Across there, that’s
The one, leading that group. Two chaps
In uniform… and he’s the other…
He’s off… He stood there, sideways on.”
“That tubby general who’s just gone?”
55
Congratulations on your victory,
Lovely Tatyana, dear young thing!…
But we must change direction quickly
And turn to him of whom I sing…
A subject that’s worth going into:
I sing an old friend, whom I cling to,
With all his idiosyncrasies.
Bless this, my work, long as it is,
O Muse, thou mother of the epic!
Entrust me with thy rod and staff,
And stand me steady on my path.
Enough.
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