“Of course, my dear. How does it go?”
“You won’t think… there’s a funny flavour?…
You see… It’s like this… Don’t say no.”
“I won’t, my dear, God be your ransom.”
“Well, on the quiet get your grandson
To take this note to O… that man,
Our neighbour… Ask him, if he can,
To tell him nothing, just keep quiet
And be sure not to give my name.”
“But who’s it for, though? Such a shame—
I’m muddled now, I won’t deny it.
There’s lots of neighbours hereabouts,
Too many, more than I can count.”
35
“Oh dear, you are slow-witted, Nanny.”
“I’m getting on, dear, getting on…
My mind is dull now, not so canny.
Once it was sharp, but now it’s gone.
Time was, with one word from the master…”
“Oh, Nanny, dear, try to move faster.
What has your mind to do with me?
It’s all about this letter. See,
It’s for Onegin.” “Such a business…
Darling, you mustn’t take offence.
You know me. I don’t make much sense…
You’ve gone all pale again. What is this?”
“It’s nothing, Nanny. Don’t delay.
Just send your grandson on his way.”
36
A day passed, and Tatyana tarried.
No answer—and next day, the same.
She got dressed early, looking pallid.
When would he write—what was his game?
Then Olga’s suitor came to see them.
“He’s your close friend—where can he be, then?”
The mistress asked him, curious.
“I’m sure he’s quite forgotten us.”
Tatyana, meanwhile, blushed and shivered.
“He said today he would come by,”
Lensky confided in reply.
“He’ll come—the post is being delivered.”
At which Tatyana dropped her eyes
Like someone suddenly chastised.
37
Dusk settles. On the table, seething,
The evening samovar now sings
And warms the Chinese teapot, wreathing
Its clouds of steam in rising rings.
Dispensed by Olga’s expert fingers,
The tea is poured, its odour lingers
In a dark aromatic stream,
And a young boy goes round with cream.
Tatyana, by the table brooding,
My sweet soul, breathes on the cold glass
And ponders as the moments pass,
Her gorgeous tiny finger doodling…
The pane is steamed, the message brief:
Y.O. She cherished the motif.
38
Sinking in spirit, she felt shattered;
Her languid eyes filled up with tears.
Hoof beats! Her heart froze as they clattered
Into the yard—and he appeared,
Yevgeny! Shadow-like, the lassie
Slips out into another passage…
Porch, yard and garden are attacked,
She flies and flies, not looking back,
Not daring to, as on she rushes
Past edges, bridges, onward drawn
Towards the lake, across the lawn,
Crashing her way through lilac bushes,
Past neat beds to the brook. The wench
Was breathless when, reaching a bench,
39
She flopped…
“It’s him! He’s here! Yevgeny!
Good gracious! What can he have thought?”
Her agonizing heart is straining,
With a dark dream of hope restored.
She shakes. Her temperature has risen.
She waits. Is this him?… No, it isn’t.
Out in the beds the maids, by chance,
Were picking berries from the plants,
And singing, as decreed, in chorus
(A rule intended to preclude
The master’s berries being chewed
By opportunist mouths—a flawless
Country device that substitutes
Singing aloud for scrumping fruits).
SONG OF THE GIRLS
Come, ye pretty maidens, come,
Little darlings, little friends,
Frolic, maidens, have your fun,
Dance and play and dance again.
Sing your song, oh, sing your song,
Secret and mysterious,
Lead your lad, bring him along,
Make him join the dance with us.
When you’ve seen him from afar,
When you’ve lured him into place,
Break and run, girls, where you are,
Throw your cherries in his face.
Cherries! Raspberries! Come near.
Berries round and berries red!
Do not try to overhear
Secrets sung and secrets said,
Do not try to watch the way
Maidens dance and maidens play.
40
She never thought—what was their song for?
The ringing voices passed her by.
Tatyana now could only long for
The tremor in her heart to die
And for her cheeks to cease their burning.
But in her breast the pain kept churning,
Warmth in her cheeks did not disperse,
Indeed it blazed up even worse.
Thus a poor butterfly will shimmer
And give one rainbow wing a flap
When caught in a rough schoolboy’s trap.
Thus, in the corn, a hare will quiver
When from afar he sees what’s what—
There in the bushes huntsmen squat.
41
But soon she gave a sigh of yearning
And stood up from the garden seat.
She walked away… The path, the turning,
The avenue… Whom should she meet
But him, with eyes ablaze—Yevgeny!—
A presence ominous and shady.
As if scorched by some fiery bolt,
She staggered slowly to a halt.
But… what came next, that subject matter
Lies at this time beyond my strength;
I cannot tell it now, my friends.
Having indulged in so much chatter,
I need to rest and have some fun.
I’ll finish this off later on.
* She was a girl, she was in love. (French.)
CHAPTER FOUR
La morale est dans la nature des choses.*
NECKER
[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6] 7
The less we prize and love a woman
The more she’ll like us, and perhaps
The more she’ll be inclined to come on,
Lured into our enticing traps.
It used to be that cold seduction
Counted as amorous instruction,
Vaunting itself, consisting of
Enjoyment not involving love,
But this game, once a major pastime
Was suited to the apes of old
Much praised in granddad’s days. Behold,
Lovelace was cast off for the last time
Along with red heels flashed in jigs
And all those splendid periwigs.
8
Who isn’t weary of pretending,
Repeating things that all men know,
Convincing people without ending
Of what convinced them long ago?
Attending to the same objections,
Rejecting age-old preconceptions,
Which are not, and have never been,
Believed by young girls of thirteen?
Who does not quail before dire warnings,
Entreaties, fleeting fears and oaths,
&nbs
p; Or seven pages filled with notes,
Deceit, rings, tears and gossips droning,
While mothers watch and aunts attend
And husbands wear you down as friends?
9
These very thoughts came to afflict him.
From early youth he’d always been
Stormy and wild, a willing victim
Of passions that he let run free.
Life spoilt him, yielding what he wanted.
With one thing for a while enchanted,
Then disenchanted with the next,
He let desire cool by neglect,
The more so when he waxed successful.
No noise nor silence could control
The incessant murmur of his soul.
Laughing through yawns had seemed less stressful,
But eight killed years had been, in truth,
The best bloom of his wasted youth.
10
When love of girls no longer reckoned
He sort of followed in their tracks:
Rejected, he came round in seconds;
Let down by them, he would relax.
He sought them out with no enthusing
And didn’t grieve much at their losing—
Love or rebuffs were quick to fade.
He, a bored guest who, having played,
An evening’s whist with everybody,
Sits there until the game is done,
Then sets off on his homeward run,
Soon settled and serenely nodding,
Though come the dawn he doesn’t know
Where in the evening he will go.
11
Her missive, though, had left him anguished.
Onegin felt moved and distraught,
For those dreams and the girlish language
Had raised in him a swarm of thoughts.
He well remembered dear Tatyana,
Her sad complexion and her pallor,
And suddenly his spirit seemed
Flooded with sweet and spotless dreams.
Was this his long-lost ardour? Will it
Take hold of him for a short time?
He had no wish to undermine
The trust of one so pure in spirit.
But let us to the garden skim,
Where our Tatyana met with him.
12
Some moments passed while they both listened,
Then he came up to her and said,
“Let’s talk about what you have written…
No, please don’t run away… I’ve read
Words from a trusting soul confessing
Pure innocence and love, expressing
Sincerity, which I admire
And which has somehow brought new fire
To feelings long since unawoken.
This is not praise in any sense,
But now I come without pretence,
Speaking to you by the same token.
Please, hear me out while I confess.
Then what I am—you can assess.
13
If my life’s purpose had been rather
To shrink in a domestic round,
If as a husband and a father
Kind destiny had set me down,
If the domestic hearth had beckoned
And caught my fancy for a second,
I could have chosen, it is true,
No bride more suitable than you.
I tell you with no frills and fancies:
Taking an ideal from the past,
I surely would have held you fast,
A soulmate facing life’s mischances,
A guarantee of all things good.
I’d have been happy—if I could!
14
But no. I was not born and nurtured
For bliss—my soul dismisses it.
I look in vain upon your virtues,
Unworthy of them and unfit.
Believe me—conscience grips like bedrock—
We’d have been agonized by wedlock.
I might have loved you once, and then
From habit unloved you again,
And you’d have wept, but my heart, frozen,
Would not let your tears to do their work;
In fact the tears would only irk.
Consider, then, what thorny roses
Hymen would scatter in our way,
Alas, perhaps for many a day.
15
Can there be anything more disheartening
Than households where the wretched wife
Is saddened by a useless partner
And daily leads a lonely life,
Where the dull spouse, who knows her value
(Though Fate’s unkind to him, he’ll tell you),
Sits there without a word and sulks?
Tetchy, cold, touchy—how he bulks!
That’s me. Do you seek such a person,
Deep in your pure and fervent soul?
Your letter was so clear and bold,
Intelligent… But are you certain
That this is how your life should be
Apportioned by harsh Destiny?
16
Dreams and lost years can’t be recovered.
My spirit cannot be restored…
I love you like a loving brother.
(Perhaps I love you rather more.)
Hear me. I ask you to be patient:
Young girls are prone to transformations
When airy dreams chase airy dreams
Like saplings changing all their leaves
Each year in springtime, all-refreshing
And moved, it seems, by Heaven’s will.
So, you will love again. But still…
Study the art of self-possession.
I understand you; some may not.
Unworldliness can hurt a lot.”
17
Thus, like a preacher, spoke Yevgeny.
Eyes blinded, as the salt tears choked,
Tatyana, breathless, uncomplaining,
Was listening to him as he spoke.
He gave his arm. Far from ecstatic,
With movements now called “automatic”,
She leant on him—nothing was said—
And languidly inclined her head.
They came back round the kitchen garden,
Strolling together. No one would
Have thought this anything but good,
For rural laxity can pardon
Most things, within its happy laws,
As condescending Moscow does.
18
Reader, you must be in agreement:
Poor Tanya was gently let down.
Nothing but good was all that he meant.
Yevgeny once again has shown
That his pure soul could not be deeper,
And yet the ill will of bad people
Has spared him nothing, though his foes
Along with so-called friends, yes those
(Friends, foes—the difference may be worthless),
Pay him some desultory respect.
Foes flourish, but, to be correct,
From friends, not foes, may God preserve us.
Friends, friends of mine—they give me pause.
I recollect them with good cause.
19
Why so? Well, it is my intention
To put some blank, black dreams to sleep,
And in parenthesis to mention
That there’s no jibe too low or cheap
Spawned by a gabbler in a garret
For high-born scum to hear and parrot,
No phrase too gross for any man,
No vulgar gutter epigram
That won’t be smilingly repeated
In front of nice folk by your friend
In error, for no wicked end,
Though endlessly acclaimed and greeted.
And he’s still friends through thick or thin
Because he loves you—you’re akin.
&n
bsp; 20
Ho-hum. I ask you, noble reader,
How are your people? Are they well?
Permit me to insist you need a
Pointer from me so you can tell
What is implied by family members.
Families have their own agendas;
We must indulge them, show them love,
Woo them in spirit like a dove,
And, following the common custom,
See them at Christmas and, at most,
Send them a greeting through the post,
And then we can relax and trust ’em
To disregard us through the year…
God grant them long life and good cheer.
21
But still, the love of gorgeous ladies
Outweighs the claims of friends and kin;
With this, through all the storms from Hades,
You’re in control, reigning things in.
That’s it. But still there’s whirling fashion,
And nature with her wayward passion,
And world opinion… All that stuff…
While the sweet sex is light as fluff.
Besides, a husband’s known opinions
Must be observed throughout her life
By any truly virtuous wife.
Thus one of your female companions
Can suddenly be swept away.
Satan loves love. Watch him at play.
22
Who shall be loved? Who can be trusted?
With whom do we risk no betrayal?
Who weighs our words and deeds, adjusted
Obligingly to our own scale?
Who never blackens us with slander?
Who’s there to coddle us and pander?
Who sees our sins as “not too bad”?
Who will not bore us, drive us mad?
Stop your vain search for lost illusions:
You’re wasting all your strength and health.
The one to love is you yourself.
You are, good reader, in conclusion,
A worthy subject, we insist,
For no one kindlier exists.
23
But what has followed the encounter?
Yevgeny Onegin (Pushkin Collection) Page 9