She, strict and sombre,

Ignores him. Not a word comes from her.

Oh dear, she has been crystallized

In January’s coldest ice.

As if to stifle indignation,

She stands with tightness in her lips.

Onegin gawps. His eyes are gripped—

Where is her sympathy, her patience?

Where are the tear stains? Not a trace.

Only annoyance on that face,

34

And possibly a secret worry

That her spouse, or the world, might guess

Her bygone lapse, her youthful folly,

All that Onegin knows… Oh, yes,

His hopes are dashed! He sets off, cursing

The dark, demented disconcertion

Which leaves him now so deeply hurt…

And, once again, he shuns the world.

Back in his silent study, brooding,

He called to mind how things had been

In those days when a kind of spleen

Had stalked the brash world and pursued him,

Collaring him, locking him in hell,

Abandoned in an unlit cell.

35

He now reads anything: not only

The works of Gibbon and Rousseau,

Herder and Chamfort and Manzoni,

Madame de Staël, Bichat, Tissot,

But also, keeping things eclectic,

Of Fontenelle and Bayle, the sceptic,

And Russians, specially perhaps,

Rejecting nothing by our chaps,

As well as almanacs and journals

All sermonizing, smart and slick,

In which today I get some stick

In bits and pieces, fancy-worded,

About me, published now and then.

E sempre bene, gentlemen.

36

So what? His eyes may have been reading,

But he was miles away in thought;

Daydreams, desires and hapless pleadings

Rendered him soul-destroyed, distraught.

He read between the lines as printed;

In spirit, though, his eyes were glimpsing

Some other lines; he was immersed

Deeply in these lines from the first.

These were the stuff of myth and legend

With age-old, well-loved, secret themes,

Of random, unconnected dreams,

And threats, tales, promises and pledges,

Or letters that had been conveyed

To his hands from a sweet young maid.

37

But gradually his thoughts and feelings

Were lulled to sleep, and from afar

Imagination came forth, dealing

Him images like playing cards.

First, melting snow… Then something odder,

A figure like a sleeping lodger,

A rigid youth resting his head.

And then a voice… “Let’s look… He’s dead.”

Now he sees enemies forgotten,

Vile gossips, even viler rats,

A swarm of women, faithless cats,

Companions altogether rotten,

And then the house, the window sill,

And always her… She stands there still.

38

Soon this was so familiar to him

He almost lost his mind. He seemed

Almost inclined to write some poems.

(Oh what a thrill that would have been!)

Yes, moved by forces called “galvanic”,

He’d gone through Russian verse mechanics

And almost mastered form and line—

A student (uninspired) of mine.

He looked a poet to the letter

When he sat in his corner seat

And, by the hearth in all the heat,

Hummed ‘Idol Mio’… ‘Benedetta’…

And in the fire he sometimes dropped

Slipper or journal with a plop.

39

The days raced by, and frozen winter

Found warmer air was to be had.

He wrote no poems for the printer,

He did not die, did not go mad.

Spring energized him. One clear morning

He left his closed rooms without warning,

Abandoning the places where

He’d hibernated like a bear.

Fleeing the hearth and double windows,

He speeds the Neva in a sleigh.

The sunlight aims its dancing rays

At blocks of blue ice, slabs and splinters,

At streets of dirty, churned-up snow.

But racing on, where will he go,

40

Onegin? Your guess, incidentally,

Is right—you see this as it is.

My unreformable eccentric

Rushed to Tatyana’s—she was his.

Once in (looking like a dead body),

He meets with no one in the lobby,

The hall, or further in—there’s not

A soul. On through the next door. What

Now stops him in his tracks? He’s met her—

Here is the princess, much distressed,

Sitting there, pallid and half-dressed,

Engrossed in what looks like a letter.

Tears tumble down her face in streaks,

And one hand underpins her cheek.

41

Who could have failed to see Tatyana

In that quick spell of mute distress,

The former girl in a new drama,

Poor Tanya, in the new princess?

Oozing regret, half-crazed and straining,

Before her feet he fell, Yevgeny.

She shuddered, speechless, but her eyes

Glared at Onegin, unsurprised

And not vindictively, not raging…

His eyes, so lifeless and careworn,

His pleading pose, his silent scorn—

She sees it all. The country maiden

Felt dreams and thoughts of yesteryear

Restored to life again in her.

42

Tatyana leaves Onegin kneeling.

She stares; her focus never slips,

Her hand is cold, devoid of feeling;

She leaves it on his hungry lips…

Where are her dreams? Are they inspiring?…

Time passes in the lonely silence.

And then she speaks in a low hiss.

“Enough. Stand up. Listen to this.

I need to speak to you directly.

Do you recall that garden walk

Destined for us to meet and talk,

Where I endured your moral lecture

Because I was so young and meek?

Well now it’s my turn. I shall speak.

43

Back then, Onegin, I was younger,

And no doubt better-looking too.

I loved you with a young girl’s hunger,

And what did I receive from you?

An answer grim and supercilious.

Isn’t that true? You were familiar

With love from shy girls none too old.

And still today my blood runs cold

When I recall that dreadful sermon

And your cold eyes… But I don’t say

You did me wrong that awful day.

No, you did well. You were determined

To treat me nicely from the start.

I thank you now with all my heart.

44

In those days, hidden in the country,

Far from cheap gossip, you felt cold

Towards me. Now you have the effrontery

To persecute me and make bold!

Why have you picked me for a target?

Am I now such a better bargain

At this new social level, which

Makes me well known as well as rich?

Is it my husband, a war hero

With court connections and some fame?

Or would you just enjoy my shame,

To make sure you got noticed, merely

To stand out in the world of style,

And bask in glory for a while?

45

Excuse these tears… Let me direct you

To memories within our reach…

I’d sooner bear your stinging lecture,

The chilling tenor of your speech

(If I had some choice in this matter,)

Than all of your impassioned patter,

Your longing letters and your tears.

I’d keep the dreams of my young years—

In those days you displayed some pity,

Consideration for my youth.

But now! What brings you here to stoop

Beneath my feet? What jot or tittle?

How could your heart and mind somehow

Become slaves to emotion now?

46

For me this world of pomp and glamour,

These trappings of a life I loathe,

Social success with all its clamour,

Fine house, the soirées that I hold—

What do they mean to me, Onegin?

I’d give up this mean masquerading,

The blare, the glitter and the fumes,

And go back to our humble rooms,

A shelf of books, the rambling garden,

Those country places that I knew,

Where for the first time I met you,

The graveyard of our dear departed…

Where there’s a cross, and branches shade

My poor beloved Nanny’s grave.

47

But happiness was standing next to us,

So very close! Now everything

Is fixed for me. I’ve been impetuous,

Or maybe that’s what people think.

My mother wept, begged and besought me,

I didn’t care what fortune brought me;

It made no difference, yes or no.

I married. Now, I beg you, go.

Please leave me. Do as you are bidden.

I know your heart will be your guide

With all its honour and its pride.

I do love you—that can’t be hidden—

But now that I’m another’s wife,

I shall stay faithful all my life.”

48

She left the room. Yevgeny, reeling,

Stands thunderstruck before the burst

Of tumult and tempestuous feeling

In which his heart is now immersed.

But what is this? Spurs jingling gently,

Tatyana’s husband makes his entry…

Acute embarrassment is nigh.

But here, dear reader, you and I

Shall leave him, and our separation

Will last… for ever. Far have we

Meandered in close company,

But that’s enough. Congratulations—

We’re home at last! Let’s shout, “Hooray!”

Not before time, I hear you say.

49

Dear reader, be you friend or foeman,

My feeling now is that we ought

To part in friendship and good odour.

Goodbye. Whatever you have sought

In reading through these trivial stanzas—

Memory’s wild extravaganzas,

A break from work, artistic strokes,

Or silly little witty jokes,

Or, it may be, mistakes of grammar—

God grant within this book you find

For love, fun or a dreaming mind,

Or for the journalistic hammer,

Some crumb at least. Now you and I

Must go our separate ways. Goodbye!

50

And you, my wayfaring companion,

Goodbye. Goodbye, the vision pure.

Goodbye, my small work of long standing.

Along with you I’ve kept secure

All things that could delight a poet.

Flight from the stormy world—I know it;

Good conversation—it is mine.

The days have flown… It’s a long time

Since Tanya, youthful and reflective,

With my Onegin next to her,

Came to me in a dreamy blur.

My novel had a free perspective;

Hard though I scanned my crystal ball,

I couldn’t make it out at all.

51

And what of those good friends who listened

To my first stanzas freshly made?

“Some are no more, and some are distant,”

As Sadi said. Without their aid

Onegin’s portrait has been painted.

What of the girl who first acquainted

Me with Tatyana, perfect, pure?…

Fate steals things from us, that’s for sure!…

Blest he who leaves a little early

Life’s banquet without eating up

Or seeing the bottom of his cup,

Who drops his novel prematurely,

Bidding it suddenly adieu,

As I Yevgeny Onegin do.

THE END

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Copyright

Pushkin Press
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First published as Yevgeny Onegin in Russia in 1823–31

English language translation © A.D.P. Briggs, 2016
Introduction and Translator’s Note © A.D.P. Briggs, 2016

First published by Pushkin Press in 2016

ISBN 978 1 782272 09 0

Published with the support of the Institute for Literary Translation, Russia.

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