Eugene Onegin

  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,