It once enraptured me: I spent
My last poor penny on its solace.
Dear friends, do you remember that?
Its magical cascades begat
No dearth of silliness and follies,
Verses and jokes in endless streams
And arguments and cheerful dreams.
46
But now its noisy effervescence
Betrays my stomach, and instead
I much prefer Bordeaux’s quiescence
Which spares the stomach and the head.
Aї15 I can no longer savour;
Aї is like a woman’s favour,
Ravishing, gay, mercurial,
Impetuous and trivial…
If now Bordeaux is my addiction,
It’s as a friend who’s always there
To benefit us everywhere,
Partaking sorrow and affliction,
Sharing the leisure time we spend.
Long live Bordeaux, our precious friend!
47
The fire is out; ash barely covers
The golden coal; a tiny flow
Of vapour, just apparent, hovers;
The grate exhales the faintest glow.
And, up the chimney, pipe smoke rises.
Wine in the gleaming glass still fizzes
Among the empty dinner plates.
An evening gloom accumulates…
I like a friendly chat in quiet
Over a friendly bowl of wine,
Above all at that special time
‘Between the wolf and dog’16 (though why it
Should be so called, I’ve no idea).
But our two friends are talking here:
48
‘How are the Larin girls, I wonder,
Tatiana, sprightly Olga, tell?’
‘Pour me just half a glass or under…
Enough, dear chap… the family’s well
And all of them send salutations.
But Olga, ah, what transformations!
Dear fellow, Olga’s in her prime,
What shoulders, bosom, soul!… Some time,
Let’s visit them, they’ll be delighted;
Judge for yourself, my friend, it’s clear:
You drop in twice, then disappear
And never show a nose. They’re slighted.
But I’m a fool… for as I speak,
You are invited there next week.’
49
‘I?’ ‘Yes. The family’s celebrating
Tatiana’s nameday, Saturday.
Mother and Olen’ka are waiting:
You’ve no good reason to gainsay?’
‘But goodness knows what sort of rabble
I shall encounter, that’s the trouble…’
‘I’m sure nobody will be there,
It’s just a family affair.
So let us go, do me the favour!’
‘Well, yes; let’s hope I’m entertained.’
‘You’re kind,’ Vladimir said and drained
His glass, a toast to his fair neighbour,
Then started talking once again
Of Olga – such is love’s refrain!
50
Cheerful he was – about to marry.
In just a fortnight he’d be wed.
The crown sweet love gave him to carry,
The mystery of the nuptial bed
Awaited Lensky’s exaltations.
Hymen’s concerns and tribulations,
The chilling train of yawns in store
He neither dreamed of nor foresaw.
While we whom Hymen will not capture
Perceive in home life but a show
Of tedious pictures row on row,
A Lafontaine17 account of rapture…
Oh, my poor Lensky, he at heart
Was born to play this very part.
51
She loved him… or was she deceiving?
Why should a happy man suspect?
Blest he who’s given to believing,
Who sets aside cold intellect,
Whose heart, enjoying bliss delightful,
Rests like a traveller drunk at nightfall
Or (gentler) like a butterfly
That settles on a flower near by;
But sad is he who lacks illusion,
Whose head is steady, never stirred,
Who hates each impulse, every word,
Foreseeing always their conclusion;
Whose heart experience has chilled,
Whose urge to reverie is stilled.
CHAPTER V
Never know these fearful dreams,
You, O my Svetlana!
Zhukovsky1
I
Winter that year arrived belated,
The autumn weather not yet gone,
Impatient nature waited, waited,
Snow only fell in January, on
The third at night-time. Early waking,
Tatiana, from her window seeking,
Beheld at morn the whitened court,
The roof, the fence and flower plot,
Delicate patterns on the windows,
The trees in winter’s silver frond,
Gay magpies gathering beyond,
And distant hills that were by winter’s
Resplendent carpet softly bound.
The scene is bright and white all round.
2
Winter!… The peasant, celebrating,
Climbs on his sleigh and clears a spot;
Sniffing the snow and hesitating,
His nag then somehow starts to trot;
A daredevil kibitka2 hurries,
Ploughing up fluffy snow in furrows;
The driver hurtles with panache
In sheepskin coat and crimson sash.
An impish household lad who’s chosen
To seat a small dog on his sled,
And play the part of horse instead,
Already has a finger frozen.
He finds it fun, the pain he scorns,
His mother from her window warns…
3
But pictures with this kind of feature
Will not appeal to you, I fear,
They’re nothing more than lowly nature,
You won’t find much refinement here.
Warmed by the god of inspiration,
One poet,3 rich in stylization,
Has painted early snow for us
In every nuance sumptuous;
He’ll hold you fast, there’s no denying,
Depicting in his fiery lay
Secret excursions in a sleigh;
But, in the meantime, I’m not trying
To fight with either him or you,
Whose Finnish Maid4 I can’t outdo.
4
Tatiana, knowing not the reason,
But being Russian to the core,
Adored the Russian winter season,
The frosty beauty that it wore,
Rime in the sun when days were freezing,
The sleighs, and, at late dawn, the blazing
Resplendence of the rosy snows,
And Twelfth Night evenings dark and close.
And in her household these occasions
Were celebrated as of old,
Young ladies heard their fortunes told
In servant girls’ prognostications,
That promised them a husband from
The army with a march and drum.
5
Tatiana held to the convictions
Of ancient lore, believed in dreams,
In guessing cards and the predictions
Discernible in moonlight beams.
She was disturbed by every portent,
All objects held a secret content,
Proclaiming something to be guessed,
Presentiments constrained her breast.
The mincing tomcat, sitting, purring
Upon the stove would lift a paw
To wash its snout – in
this she saw
A certain sign that guests were nearing.
Seeing the young moon’s countenance
Two-horned, upon her left, at once
6
She’d turn quite pale, begin to tremble.
Or if a falling star should fly
Across the sombre sky and crumble,
Then Tanya hurried to be nigh,
To catch the star while still in motion
And, all her senses in commotion,
To whisper to it her desire.
If it should anywhere transpire
In her excursions from the manor
For her to meet a monk in black
Or see a swift hare cross her track,
All this so terrified Tatiana,
That she with sad presentiment
Expected some adverse event.
7
And yet – she found a secret pleasure
In very terror; surely we
Are creatures that you cannot measure,
We all are contradictory.
Yuletide is come with jubilation;
Immersed in blissful divination,
The young have nothing to regret,
Their life extends before them yet,
A radiant prospect, undiscovered;
Through spectacles old age divines
While to the gravestone it inclines
And nothing past can be recovered;
But does it matter? They’ll believe
Their hopeful prattle till they leave.
8
With curious gaze Tatiana ponders
The wax that, sinking, leaves behind
A labyrinthine web of wonders,
Enchanting wondrously her mind.
Up from a brimming dish of water
Rings surface in successive order;
And, when her little ring appears,
A song is sung of bygone years:
The peasants there have all the riches,
They heap up silver with their spades;
We promise those who hear us maids
Glory and good! The tune is piteous,
Portending losses and mischance;
Maidens prefer the tomcat chants.5
9
A frosty night; a sky transparent;
A starry choir from heaven flows
In so serene and quiet a current…
In low-cut frock Tatiana goes
Into the spacious courtyard, training
A mirror on the moon,6 complaining
That nothing in her darkened glass
Shows save the trembling moon, downcast…
But hark!… a crunch of snow… the maiden
Flies tiptoe to a passing man,
Her little voice more tender than
The sound of reed pipe gently played on:
‘What is your name?’ He looks; anon
He answers: it is Agafon.7
10
Instructed by her nurse, Tatiana
Arranged a séance all night through;
And in the bathhouse of the manor
Ordered a table laid for two.
But sudden fear assailed Tatiana…
And I – remembering Svetlana –
Felt fear as well8 – but that will do…
We won’t tell fortunes all night through.9
Her silken girdle she unknotted,10
Undressed and settled into bed,
Lel11 hovering above her head,
While underneath her pillow slotted
Lies a young maiden’s looking glass.
All’s hushed. Sleep overtakes the lass.
11
A wondrous dream she has: she’s taken
A path across a snow-filled glade.
Gloomy and dismal, sad, forsaken;
Snowdrifts rear up before the maid,
And through them runs a seething torrent,
A dark, untamed and age-old current,
With thundering, whirring, churning waves;
Glued by the ice, two flimsy staves
Are set above the rushing water –
A perilous and tiny bridge
That oscillates from edge to edge.
This and the roaring chasm thwart her;
Perplexed, not knowing what to think,
She halts there at the very brink.
12
As at a vexing separation,
Tatiana murmured at the tide,
Saw neither man nor habitation
To call to on the other side.
But soon a drift began to quiver
And who appeared beside the river?
A burly bear with ruffled fur;
Tatiana cried, he roared at her,
Stretched out a paw, sharp claws protruding;
She braced herself, with trembling hand
She leaned on it and scarce could stand;
They reached the bank, where she, concluding
That she was safe, walked on ahead,
Then… what was that?… a bear-like tread!
13
The shaggy footman is behind her,
She dares not look, strains every limb
In hope the creature will not find her,
But there is no escaping him.
The odious bear comes grunting, lumbering;
A wood’s before them; pines are slumbering
In frowning beauty, boughs hang low,
Weighed down with heavy flocks of snow;
And, seeping through the topmost summits
Of aspens, birches, lindens bare,
The starry rays invade the air.
The shrubs, the path and where it plummets
Are covered by the blizzard’s sweep
And in the snowfall buried deep.
14
Bear in pursuit, Tatiana dashes
Into the wood, up to her knee
In powdery snow; a long branch catches
Her by the neck, then forcefully
Wrenches away her golden earrings;
Tatiana, wholly without bearings,
Leaves in the snow a small, wet boot,
Pulled from her charming little foot;
She drops her handkerchief, foregoing
To pick it up, the bear is nigh,
Her hand is trembling, yet she’s shy
To raise the dress around her flowing;
She runs, and he pursues her still,
Then she abandons strength and will.
15
She falls into the snow; and nimbly
The bear retrieves and carries her;
She yields insensibly and limply,
She does not breathe, she does not stir;
Along a forest path he rushes,
And suddenly through trees and bushes
A hut appears; all’s wild around
And sad snow covers roof and ground,
A window sheds illumination
And noise and shouting blast the ear;
The bear declares: ‘My gaffer’s here:
It’s warm inside his habitation.’
And, quickly, opening the door,
He lays the maiden on the floor.
16
Tatiana, coming to, looks round her:
The bear has gone: beyond the hall
Shouting and tinkling glass astound her
As if there’s some big funeral;
Making no sense of this she quietly
Peers through a chink… the scene’s unsightly,
No fancy could imagine it:
Around a table monsters sit,
One with a dog’s face, horned, abnormal,
Another with a cockerel’s head,
A witch with bearded goat cross-bred,
A skeleton, august and formal,
A small-tailed dwarf, and what is that,
Apparently half-crane, half-cat?
17
More wondrous, more intimidating,
Astride a spider sits a crab,
Upon
a goose’s neck, rotating,
A skull is perched with scarlet cap,
And there a crouching windmill dances,
Waving its snapping vanes like lances;
Barks, laughter, whistles, song, applause,
Men’s talk and horses stamping floors!
What could Tatiana do but marvel
To see among this company
The man she loved so fearfully,
The hero of our present novel!
Onegin steals a quick look for
Whoever may be at the door.
18
He gives a sign – they spring to action,
He drinks – they shout and drink a round.
He laughs – they roar with satisfaction,
He knits his brow – there’s not a sound.
It’s obvious that he’s the master:
And Tanya no more fears disaster,
And curious to find out more
She opens gingerly the door…
A sudden gust of wind blows, lashing
The flaming lamps that light the night;
The goblins cower at the sight;
Onegin, from his chair, eyes flashing,
Rises with clatter; they all rise:
And swiftly to the door he flies.
19
A terrified Tatiana hastens
To flee Onegin and his team;
Not possible; and, in impatience,
She scurries round and wants to scream,
But Eugene pulls the door wide open
And she’s exposed to the misshapen
And hellish spectres; savage cries
Of laughter resonate; their eyes,
Their curved proboscises, moustaches,
Their hooves, horns, tusks and tufted tails,
Their bony fingers, sharp like nails,
Their bloody tongues – all these mismatches
At once towards the girl incline
And all cry out: ‘She’s mine! She’s mine!
20
‘She’s mine,’ Onegin spoke out grimly,
And suddenly the pack was gone;
In frosty darkness Tanya dimly
Confronted Eugene all alone.