Yevgeny Onegin (Pushkin Collection)

by Alexander Pushkin

  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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