And have they not, the charming fools,
Distorted sweetly all the rules
Of usage and pronunciation;
While yet a foreign language slips
With native glibness from their lips?
28
God spare me from the apparition,
On leaving some delightful ball,
Of bonneted Academician
Or scholar in a yellow shawl!
I find a faultless Russian style
Like crimson lips without a smile,
Mistakes in grammar charm the mind.
Perhaps (if fate should prove unkind!)
This generation's younger beauties,
Responding to our journals' call,
With grammar may delight us all,
And verses will be common duties.
But what care I for all they do?
To former ways I'll still be true.
29
A careless drawl, a tiny stutter,
Some imprecision of the tongue
Can still produce a lovely flutter
Within this breast no longer young;
I lack the strength for true repentance,
And Gallicisms in a sentence
Seem sweet as youthful sins remote,
Or verse that Bogdanvich* wrote.
But that will do. My beauty's letter
Must occupy my pen for now;
I gave my word, but, Lord,
I vow, Retracting it would suit me better.
I know that gentle Parny's* lays
Are out of fashion nowadays.
30
Bard of The Feasts* and languid sorrow,
If you were with me still, my friend,
Immodestly I'd seek to borrow
Your genius for a worthy end:
I'd have you with your art refashion
A maiden's foreign words of passion
And make them magic songs anew.
Where are you? Come! I bow to you
And yield my rights to love's translation. . . .
But there beneath the Finnish sky,
Amid those mournful crags on high,
His heart grown deaf to commendation
Alone upon his way he goes
And does not heed my present woes.
31
Tatyana's letter lies beside me,
And reverently I guard it still;
I read it with an ache inside me
And cannot ever read my fill.
Who taught her then this soft surrender,
This careless gift for waxing tender,
This touching whimsy free of art,
This raving discourse of the heart
Enchanting, yet so fraught with trouble?
I'll never know. But none the less,
I give it here in feeble dress:
A living picture's pallid double,
Or Freischutz* played with timid skill
By fingers that are learning still.
Tatyana's Letter to Onegin
I'm writing you this declaration
What more can I in candour say?
It may be now your inclination T
o scorn me and to turn away;
But if my hapless situation
Evokes some pity for my woe,
You won't abandon me, I know.
I first tried silence and evasion;
Believe me, you 'd have never learned
My secret shame, had I discerned
The slightest hope that on occasion
But once a weekI'd see your face,
Behold you at our country place,
Might hear you speak a friendly greeting,
Could say a word to you; and then,
Could dream both day and night again
Of but one thing, till our next meeting.
They say you like to be alone
And find the country unappealing;
We lack, I know, a worldly tone,
But still, we welcome you with feeling.
Why did you ever come to call?
In this forgotten country dwelling
I'd not have known you then at all,
Nor known this bitter heartache's swelling.
Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling
The girlish hopes on which I fed,
I might have found (who knows?) another
And been a faithful wife and mother,
Contented with the life I led.
Another! No! In all creation
There's no one else whom I'd adore;
The heavens chose my destination
And made me thine for evermore!
My life till now has been a token
In pledge of meeting you, my friend;
And in your coming, God has spoken,
You'll be my guardian till the end. . . .
You filled my dreams and sweetest trances;
As yet unseen, and yet so dear,
You stirred me with your wondrous glances,
Your voice within my soul rang clear. . . .
And then the dream came true for me!
When you came in, I seemed to waken,
I turned to flame, I felt all shaken,
And in my heart I cried: It's he!
And was it you I heard replying
Amid the stillness of the night,
Or when I helped the poor and dying,
Or turned to heaven, softly crying,
And said a prayer to soothe my plight?
And even now, my dearest vision,
Did I not see your apparition
Flit softly through this lucent night?
Was it not you who seemed to hover
Above my bed, a gentle lover,
To whisper hope and sweet delight?
Are you my angel of salvation
Or hell's own demon of temptation?
Be kind and send my doubts away;
For this may all be mere illusion,
The things a simple girl would say,
While Fate intends no grand conclusion. . . .
So be it then! Henceforth I place
My faith in you and your affection;
I plead with tears upon my face
And beg you for your kind protection.
You cannot know: I'm so alone,
There's no one here to whom I've spoken,
My mind and will are almost broken,
And I must die without a moan.
I wait for you . . . and your decision:
Revive my hopes with but a sign,
Or halt this heavy dream of mine
Alas, with well-deserved derision!
I close. I dare not now reread. . . .
I shrink with shame and fear.
But surely, Your honour's all the pledge
I need, And I submit to it securely.
32
The letter trembles in her fingers;
By turns Tatyana groans and sighs.
The rosy sealing wafer lingers
Upon her fevered tongue and dries.
Her head is bowed, as if she's dozing;
Her light chemise has slipped, exposing
Her lovely shoulder to the night.
But now the moonbeams' glowing light
Begins to fade. The vale emerges
Above the mist. And now the stream
In silver curves begins to gleam.
The shepherd's pipe resounds and urges
The villager to rise. It's morn!
My Tanya, though, is so forlorn.
33
She takes no note of dawn's procession,
Just sits with lowered head, remote;
Nor does she put her seal's impression
Upon the letter that she wrote.
But now her door is softly swinging:
It's grey Filtievna, who's bringing
Her morning tea upon a tray.
'It's time, my sweet, to greet the day;
Why, pretty one, you're up already!
/> You're still my little early bird!
Last night you scared me, 'pon my word!
But thank the Lord, you seem more steady;
No trace at all of last night's fret,
Your cheeks are poppies now, my pet.'
34
'Oh, nurse, a favour, please . . , and hurry!'
'Why, sweetheart, anything you choose.'
'You mustn't think . . . and please don't worry . . .
But see . . . Oh, nanny, don't refuse!'
'As God's my witness, dear, I promise.'
'Then send your grandson, little Thomas,
To take this note of mine to #62038;------,
Our neighbour, nurse, the one. . . you know!
And tell him that he's not to mention
My name, or breathe a single word. . . .
' 'But who's it for, my little bird?
I'm trying hard to pay attention;
But we have lots of neighbours call,
I couldn't even count them all.'
35
'Oh nurse, your wits are all befuddled!'
'But, sweetheart, I've grown old ... I mean . . .
I'm old; my mind ... it does get muddled.
There was a time when I was keen,
When just the master's least suggestion. . . .'
'Oh, nanny, please, that's not the question,
It's not your mind I'm talking of,
I'm thinking of Onegin, love;
This note's to him.''Now don't get riled,
You know these days I'm not so clear,
I'll take the letter, never fear.
But you've gone pale again, my child!'
'It's nothing, nanny, be at ease,
Just send your grandson, will you please.'
36
The day wore on, no word came flying.
Another fruitless day went by.
All dressed since dawn, dead-pale and sighing,
Tatyana waits: will he reply?
Then Olga's suitor came a-wooing.
'But tell me, what's your friend been doing?'
Asked Tanya's mother, full of cheer;
'He's quite forgotten us, I fear.'
Tatyana blushed and trembled gently.
'He promised he would come today,'
Said Lensky in his friendly way,
'The mail has kept him evidently.'
Tatyana bowed her head in shame,
As if they all thought her to blame.
37
'Twas dusk; and on the table, gleaming,
The evening samovar grew hot;
It hissed and sent its vapour steaming
In swirls about the china pot.
And soon the fragrant tea was flowing
As Olga poured it, dark and glowing,
In all the cups; without a sound
A serving boy took cream around.
Tatyana by the window lingers
And breathes upon the chilly glass;
All lost in thought, the gentle lass
Begins to trace with lovely fingers
Across the misted panes a row
Of hallowed letters: E and O.
38
And all the while her soul was aching,
Her brimming eyes could hardly see.
Then sudden hoofbeats! . . . Now she's quaking. . . .
They're closer . . . coming here . . . it's he!
Onegin! 'Oh!'And light as air,
She's out the backway, down the stair
From porch to yard, to garden straight;
She runs, she flies; she dare not wait
To glance behind her; on she pushes
Past garden plots, small bridges, lawn,
The lakeway path, the wood; and on
She flies and breaks through lilac bushes,
Past seedbeds to the brookso fast
That, panting, on a bench at last
39
She falls ....
'He's here! But all those faces!
#62038; God, what must he think of me!
' But still her anguished heart embraces
A misty dream of what might be.
She trembles, burns, and waits ... so near him!
But will he come? .. . She doesn't hear him.
Some serf girls in the orchard there,
While picking berries, filled the air
With choral songas they'd been bidden
(An edict that was meant, you see,
To keep sly mouths from feeling free
To eat the master's fruit when hidden,
By filling them with song instead
For rural cunning isn't dead!):
The Girls' Song
'Lovely maidens, pretty ones,
Dearest hearts and darling friends,
Romp away, sweet lassies, now,
Have your fling, my dear ones, do!
Strike you up a rousing song,
Sing our secret ditty now,
Lure some likely lusty lad
To the circle of our dance.
When we lure the fellow on,
When we see him from afar,
Darlings, then, let's scamper off,
Pelting him with cherries then,
Cherries, yes, and raspberries,
Ripe red currants let us throw!
Never come to listen in
When we sing our secret songs,
Never come to spy on us
When we play our maiden games!'
40
Tatyana listens, scarcely hearing
The vibrant voices, sits apart,
And waits impatient in her clearing
To calm the tremor in her heart
And halt the constant surge of blushes;
But still her heart in panic rushes,
Her cheeks retain their blazing glow
And ever brighter, brighter grow.
Just so a butterfly both quivers
And beats an iridescent wing
When captured by some boy in spring;
Just so a hare in winter shivers,
When suddenly far off it sees
The hunter hiding in the trees.
41
But finally she rose, forsaken,
And, sighing, started home for bed;
But hardly had she turned and taken
The garden lane, when straight ahead,
His eyes ablaze, Eugene stood waiting
Like some grim shade of night's creating;
Eugene Onegin Page 10