And say a word to you, and then
For days and nights to wonder when
I could enjoy another meeting.
They say, though, you’re unsociable;
You treat our world with condescension,
And we’re… in no way fashionable,
But welcome you without pretension.
Why ever did you visit us?
Lost in the village where I languish
I never would have known you, thus
I never would have known this anguish;
Time would have taught me to extinguish
My naive longings (but who knows?);
I would have found a friend for life,
Would have become a faithful wife
And virtuous mother, if I chose.
Another!… No, I’d not have given
My heart to anyone on earth!
It has been foreordained in heaven…
I was marked out for you from birth;
My life has been a precondition
For our encounter – which I crave;
I know you’re sent by God’s provision,
And you’re my guardian till the grave…
You came in dreams that soon abounded,
Even unseen, I treasured you.
Your wondrous glances pierced me through,
Long in my soul your voice resounded…
No, this was not a dream for me!
I knew you on your first appearing;
All faint and numb, aflame and fearing,
I uttered inwardly: it’s he!
Wasn’t it you that I was hearing
When in the stillness I’d depart
To help the poor folk? Weren’t you nearing
Each time I prayed in hope of cheering
The anguish of my troubled heart?
And even at this very second,
Wasn’t it you, dear vision, beckoned
And slipped through night’s transparency,
Inclining gently at my bedhead,
You, who with joy and love persuaded
And whispered words of hope to me?
Who are you: guardian angel, mentor,
Or, if not, a perfidious tempter?
Resolve my doubts, my wavering,
Perhaps my feelings are misguided,
An artless soul’s imagining!
And something else has been decided…
But let that be! My fate is sealed,
I place it now in your safekeeping,
I beg of you, become my shield,
If you were here, you’d see me weeping…
Imagine what it’s like for me,
Alone, not understood and ailing,
I’m frightened that my reason’s failing,
That I shall die here silently.
I wait for you: you can inspirit
My hoping heart with just one glance
Or interrupt this heavy trance
With censure, which alas I merit!
I close! I dread to read this through…
I’m faint with shame and fear… However,
I boldly put my trust in you,
Whose honour is my pledge for ever.
32
By turns, Tatiana’s moaning, sighing,
The letter trembles in her hand,
Upon her fevered tongue lies drying
The rosy seal,25 a paper band.
Her head sinks downward to her shoulder,
Her light chemise that won’t enfold her
Slips to expose her shoulder’s charm…
But now the radiance of the calm
And moonlit sky grows dim. A valley
Is outlined through the mist of dawn,
Streams silver; and a shepherd’s horn
Wakes villagers to rise and rally.
It’s morn, all bustle here and there,
But my Tatiana does not care.
33
The rising dawn does not affect her;
Sitting with lowered head and still,
She does not set upon the letter
Her monogram and graven seal.
But now the door has opened quietly,
Grey-haired Filipyevna treads lightly,
Carrying tea upon a tray.
‘It’s time, my child, to greet the day.
But look, my pretty one, you’re ready!
Aren’t you my early little bird!
Oh, last night I was so afeard!
But thank the Lord, you’re well and steady!
There’s not a trace of last night’s fret,
Your face is now all poppy red.’
34
‘Oh nurse, I need a favour, listen.’
‘Of course, dear, I’m at your command.’
‘Don’t think.… who knows?… perhaps suspicion…
But don’t refuse, please understand.’
‘My dear, I vow by the Almighty.’
‘Well, send your grandson very quietly –
Give him this note for O… for that…
Our neighbour… Tell him not to chat
To anybody or to dawdle
And not to mention me by name…’
‘To whom, then?’asked the ancient dame.
‘Oh, nowadays my head’s a muddle.
Neighbours are many in this part,
I cannot think of where to start.’
35
‘Oh really, nurse, you are slow-witted!’
‘I’m old, I’m very old, my heart,
The mind grows dull, you must admit it,
But way back I was very smart,
And if the master once requested…’
‘Oh nurse, nurse, I’m not interested.
What you were like then I don’t care,
What matters is this letter here:
It’s for Onegin.’ ‘Oh the letter.
Do not be cross with me, my soul,
You know, I make no sense at all.
But you look pale again, not better.’
‘It’s nothing, nurse, but don’t delay,
Please send your grandson on his way.’
36
The day flowed by, there came no letter
Nor anything the following day.
Since morning dressed, pale as a spectre,
Tatiana waits for a reply.
Olga’s adorer drove up. ‘Tell us,
Where’s your companion?’ came the zealous
Inquiry from the châtelaine.
‘He has forgotten us, that’s plain.’
Tatiana trembled, flushed, uneasy.
‘He promised that today he’d come.’
Lensky replied to the old dame:
‘No doubt the post has kept him busy.’
Tatiana cast a downward look,
As though she’d heard a harsh rebuke.
37
It darkened: on the table, gleaming,
The evening samovar now hissed,
On it the Chinese teapot, warming;
Light vapour eddied under it.
Poured out by Olga’s hand, the steady,
Dark flow of fragrant tea already
Into the cups ran, in a stream;
A household boy served up the cream;
Tatiana, though, preferred to linger
Before the window, breathing on
The frosted panes; and, pensive one,
She wrote, with a beguiling finger,
In windowpane calligraphy,
A monogram: an O and E.
38
And, meanwhile, still her soul is aching,
And tears have filled her languid gaze.
A thud of hoofs!… Her blood is shaking.
Closer! Into the yard they race.
Eugene! Tatiana, lighter than a
Shadow, is leaping through the manor,
She flies, flies from the porch outside
Into the garden, mortified;
Without a backward look she scurries
Past borders,
little bridges, lawn,
The lake’s approach, the copse; has torn
Down lilac bushes as she hurries;
Through flowers to the brook she flies,
Where, halting, out of breath, she sighs
39
And falls upon a bench… exclaiming:
‘Here’s Eugene! God, how will I cope?
What will he think?’ With torment flaming,
Her heart retains a dream of hope.
She trembles, burns and looks behind her,
Wondering if he’ll come to find her;
Hears nothing. In the orchard, maids
Were picking berries in brigades
And singing by decree a merry,
Collective song (aimed to prevent
A cunning servant girl intent
On eating, secretly, a berry
Belonging to her lord – a ruse
Which landed folk are pleased to use!
Song of the Girls26
Come, you maidens beauteous,
Dear companions, near to us,
Frolic, if you’re timorous,
Have your fling, my darling ones.
Let us sing a song we know,
One that we all cherish so,
Let us lure a fine young lad
To our dance as round we go.
When we lure this fine young lad,
When we see him distantly,
Let us scatter, darling ones,
Pelt him with our cherries, dears,
Cherries bright and raspberries,
Currants red we’ll also throw,
Do not come and eavesdrop on
Songs we cherish secretly,
Do not come and spy upon
Games we girls play privately.
40
Tatiana hears with scant attention
Their ringing voices, while she waits
Impatiently until the tension
That agitates her heart abates,
Until her cheeks desist from burning.
But in her breast there’s still the yearning,
Nor do her cheeks give up their glow,
But ever brighter, brighter grow…
So a poor butterfly will flutter
And beat an iridescent wing,
Caught by a schoolboy, frolicking;
So a small winter hare will shudder
On seeing in the distant brush
A hunter crouched behind a bush.
41
Tatiana sighed and, though still yearning,
Rose from her bench in calmer state:
Set off, but just as she was turning
Into the avenue, there straight
Before her Eugene stood, eyes blazing,
Like some forbidding phantom gazing,
And she, as if by fire seared,
Stayed rooted to the spot, and feared.
But to detail the consequences
Of this unlooked-for tryst, dear friends,
I’ve no more strength. I’ll make amends;
Meantime, I need my recompenses
For so much talk – an interlude
Of strolls and rest, then I’ll conclude.
CHAPTER IV
La morale est dans la nature des choses.
Necker1
[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]
7
The less we love a woman, woo her,
The more disposed to us she gets,
And thus more surely we undo her
And catch her in our tempting nets.
Time was, when cool debauch was lauded
And as the art of love rewarded.
Blowing its trumpet far and wide,
It fed a loveless appetite.
But this grand game, once so paraded
In our forefathers’ vaunted day,
Is one for ancient apes to play:
The fame of Lovelaces has faded
As have their famed red heels affixed
And their majestic periwigs.
8
Who is the man not bored by feigning,
Repeating things in other ways,
In all solemnity maintaining
What people think in any case,
By hearing all the same objections,
By undermining predilections,
Such as a girl of mere thirteen
Is free from and has always been!
Who will not tire of the denials,
The threats, the vows, the put-on fear,
The notelets of six pages sheer,
The gossip, rings, the tears, betrayals,
Surveillances by mothers, aunts
And husbands with their friendly stance!
9
My Eugene drew the same conclusions.
In his first youth he’d fallen prey
To stormy errors and delusions
And passion’s unrestricted play.
Spoiled by the life he had been granted,
By one thing for a while enchanted,
Another disenchanting him,
Thwarted desire tormenting him,
Tormented, too, by quick successes,
Hearing amid the noise and lull
The timeless mutter of the soul,
A yawn with laughter he suppresses:
Precisely so, eight years he killed,
His prime thus passing, unfulfilled.
10
Beauties no longer claimed his passion,
He wooed them with insouciance;
Refusal was a consolation,
Betrayal a deliverance.
He sought them with no great affection
And left them, feeling no connection,
Barely recalled their love and spite.
Just so a casual guest one night
Will visit friends for some distraction;
Sits down to whist; concludes the game:
He sets off on the journey home,
Falling asleep with satisfaction,
And, in the morning, does not know
Himself that evening where he’ll go.
11
But, on receiving Tanya’s letter,
Onegin was profoundly stirred;
The girlish daydreams that beset her
Roused thoughts in him he’d long interred;
And he recalled the mournful manner
And pale complexion of Tatiana;
And plunged into a reverie,
A sweet and sinless fantasy.
Perhaps a glow of old emotion
Returned to him in his decline,
But he’d no wish to undermine
Her trustfulness, her pure devotion.
We’ll fly now to the garden where
Tatiana met him, in despair.
12
For two long minutes they were quiet,
Onegin then approached her, said:
‘You wrote to me, do not deny it.
The letter that you sent I’ve read.
I read a trusting soul’s confession,
A pure, effusive declaration;
Your openness appeals to me;
It roused into activity
A heart that long ago turned heartless;
But I’ve no wish to praise you; I
Shall recompense your candour by
My own confession, just as artless;
Listen to my avowal now;
And to your judgement I shall bow.
13
‘If I had wanted life restricted
To living in domestic bliss;
If I, by kindly fate conscripted,
Were destined to be father, spouse,
If I could ever without stricture
Be charmed by a familial picture,
I’d doubtless choose no other bride
Than you to cherish at my side.
I’d say, without poetic glitter,
That I had found my past ideal,
With you my destiny I’d seal
And cleave to you when times were bitter,
&n
bsp; A pledge of beauty and the good,
And would be happy… if I could!
14
‘But happiness I never aimed for,
It is a stranger to my soul;
Alas, the virtues you are famed for,
I do not merit them at all.
Upon my conscience: do believe me,
Wedlock would make you want to leave me.
Once used to you, I’d cease to love
The bride I could not love enough;
The tears that surely you’d be shedding
Would fail to touch my heart and would
Only infuriate my mood.
Judge, then, what roses for our wedding
Would Hymen pluck, how many more
To mark the days we have in store.
15
‘What in a family’s more depressing
Than when a poor wife wastes her tears
Over a spouse who keeps her guessing
And day and evening disappears;
Where this dull man, pleased with his treasure
(Yet cursing fate in equal measure),
Is always silent, angry, grim
And coldly jealous. I’m like him.
And is it this you were awaiting
With such impassioned innocence,
When you with such intelligence
And such simplicity were writing?
Is this the lot that you deserve,
That fate keeps for you in reserve?
16
‘Our dreams and years we can’t recover,
I shall not renovate my soul…
I love you like an elder brother
And, it may be, more gently still.
So, don’t be angry with me, listen:
A youthful maid will always hasten
From dream to dream, she no more grieves
Than when a sapling sheds its leaves,
Exchanging them each spring for fresh ones,
Heaven no doubt has ruled it so.
You’ll fall in love again, I know,
But… learn to govern your confessions;
Not all, like me, will understand,
Naiveté risks a dangerous end.’
17
Thus Eugene preached. Tatiana, crying,
Saw nothing through her tears, but she,
Scarce breathing and without replying,