Assailed by doubts, she grew dejected:
'Should I go on, turn back, or what?
He isn't here, I'm not expected. . . .
I'll glance at house and garden plot.'
And so, scarce breathing, down she hastened
And looked about, perplexed and chastened
To find herself at his estate. .. .
She entered the deserted gate.
A pack of barking dogs chased round her;
And at her frightened cry a troop
Of household urchins with a whoop
Came rushing quickly to surround her.
They made the barking hounds obey,
Then led the lady, safe, away.
17
'May I just see the house, I wonder?'
Asked Tanya .. . and the children leapt
To find Anisya and to plunder
The household keys she always kept.
Anisya came in just a second,
And soon the open doorway beckoned.
She stepped inside the empty shell
Where once our hero used to dwell.
She found a cue left unattended
Upon the table after play,
And on a rumpled sofa lay
His riding crop. And on she wended.
'And here's the hearth,' spoke up the crone,
'Where master used to sit alone.
18
'Our neighbour Lensky, lately buried,
Would dine with him in winter here.
Come this way, please . . . but don't feel hurried.
And here's the master's study, dear;
He slept, took coffee in these quarters,
Would hear the bailiff, give his orders,
And mornings read some book right through. . . .
My former master lived here too;
On Sundays at his window station,
His glasses on, he'd deign to play
Some cards with me to pass the day.
God grant his mortal soul salvation,
And may his dear old bones be blest
In Mother Earth where he's at rest.'
19
Tatyana looks in melting pleasure
At everything around the room;
She finds it all a priceless treasure,
A painful joy that lifts her gloom
And leaves her languid soul ignited:
The desk, the lamp that stands unlighted,
The heap of books, the carpet spread
Before the window on the bed,
That semi-light, so pale and solemn,
The view outdoorsthe lunar pall,
Lord Byron's portrait on the wall,
The iron bust* upon its column
w
ith clouded brow beneath a hat,
The arms compressed and folded flat.
20
And long she stood, bewitched and glowing,
Inside that modish bachelor cell.
But now it's late. The winds are blowing,
It's cold and dark within the dell.
The grove's asleep above the river,
Behind the hill the moon's a sliver;
And now it's time, indeed long past,
That our young pilgrim leave at last.
Concealing her wrought-up condition,
Though not without a heartfelt sigh,
Tatyana turns to say goodbye,
But, taking leave, requests permission
To see the vacant house alone
And read the books he'd called his own.
21
Outside the gate Tatyana parted
From old Anisya. Next day then,
She rose at dawn and off she started
To see the empty house again;
And once inside that silent study,
Sealed off at last from everybody,
The world for just a time forgot,
Tatyana wept and mourned her lot. . .
Then turned to see the books he'd favoured.
At first she didn't wish to read,
The choice of books seemed strange indeed;
But soon her thirsting spirit savoured
The mystery that those pages told
And watched a different world unfold.
22
Although Onegin's inclination
For books had vanished, as we know,
He did exempt from condemnation
Some works and authors even so:
The bard of Juan and the Giaour,*
And some few novels done with power,
In which our age is well displayed
And modern man himself portrayed
With something of his true complexion
With his immoral soul disclosed,
His arid vanity exposed,
His endless bent for deep reflection,
His cold, embittered mind that seems
To waste itself in empty schemes.
23
Some pages still preserved the traces
Where fingernails had sharply pressed;
The girl's attentive eye embraces
These lines more quickly than the rest.
And Tanya sees with trepidation
The kind of thought or observation
To which Eugene paid special heed,
Or where he'd tacitly agreed.
And in the margins she inspected
His pencil marks with special care;
And on those pages everywhere
She found Onegin's soul reflected
In crosses or a jotted note,
Or in the question mark he wrote.
24
And so, in slow but growing fashion
My Tanya starts to understand
More clearly nowthank Godher passion
And him for whom, by fate's command,
She'd been condemned to feel desire:
That dangerous and sad pariah,
That work of heaven or of hell,
That angel. . . and proud fiend as well.
What was he then? An imitation?
An empty phantom or a joke,
A Muscovite in Harold's cloak,
Compendium of affectation,
A lexicon of words in vogue . . .
Mere parody and just a rogue?
25
Can she have solved the riddle's power?
Can she have found the final clue?
She hardly notes how late the hour,
And back at home she's overdue
Where two old friends in conversation
Speak out on Tanya's situation:
'What can I do? Tatyana's grown,'
Dame Larin muttered with a moan.
'Her younger sister married neatly;
It's time that she were settled too,
I swear I don't know what to do;
She turns all offers down completely,
Just says: "I can't", then broods away,
And wanders through those woods all day.'
26
'Is she in love?''With whom, I wonder?
Buynov tried: she turned him down.
And Petushkv as well went under.
Pykhtin the lancer came from town
To stay with us and seemed transported;
My word, that little devil courted!
I thought she might accept him then;
But no! the deal fell through again.'
'Why, my dear lady, what's the bother?
To Moscow and the marriage mart!
They've vacancies galore . . . take heart!'
'But I've so little income, father.'
'Sufficient for one winter's stay;
Or borrow thenfrom me, let's say.'
27
The good old lady was delighted
To hear such sensible advice;
She checked her funds and then decided,
A Moscow winter would be nice.
Tatyana heard the news morosely
The haughty world would watch her closely
And judge her harshly from the start:
Her simple, open country heart
And country dress would find no mercy;
And antiquated turns of phrase
Were sure to bring a mocking gaze
From every Moscow fop and Circe!
O horrors! No, she'd better stay
Safe in her woods and never stray.
28
With dawn's first rays Tatyana races
Out to the open fields to sigh;
And gazing softly, she embraces
The world she loves and says goodbye:
'Farewell, my peaceful vales and fountains!
Farewell, you too, familiar mountains
And woods where once I used to roam!
Farewell, celestial beauty's home,
Farewell, fond nature, where I flourished!
I leave your world of quiet joys
For empty glitter, fuss, and noise!
Farewell, my freedom, deeply cherished!
Oh, where and why do I now flee?
And what does Fate prepare for me?'
29
And all that final summer season
Her walks were long; a brook or knoll
Would stop her now for no good reason
Except to charm her thirsting soul.
As with old friends, she keeps returning
To all her groves and meadows, yearning
To talk once more and say goodbye.
But quickly summer seems to fly,
The golden autumn now arriving.
Now nature, tremulous, turns pale
A victim draped in lavish veil. . . .
The North now howls, the winds are driving
The clouds before them far and near:
That sorceress the winter's here!
30
She's spread herself through field and fountain,
And hung the limbs of oaks with white;
She lies atop the farthest mountain
In wavy carpets glistening bright;
She's levelled with a fluffy blanket
Both river and the shores that flank it.
The frost has gleamed, and we give thanks
For Mother Winter's happy pranks.
But Tanya's heart is far from captured:
She doesn't greet the winter's glow,
Inhale the frostdust, gather snow
From bathhouse roof to wash, enraptured,
Her shoulders, face, and breast. With dread
She views the winter path ahead.
31
Departure day was long expected;
The final hours come at last.
The covered sleigh, for years neglected,
Is checked, relined, and soon made fast.
The usual three-cart train will carry
What household goods are necessary:
The mattresses, the trunks and chairs,
Some jars of jam and kitchen wares,
The featherbeds and coops of chickens,
Some pots and basins, and the rest
Well, almost all that they possessed.
The servants fussed and raised the dickens
About the stable, many cried;
Then eighteen nags were led outside.
32
They're harnessed to the coach and steadied;
The cooks make lunch for one and all;
The heaped-up wagons now are readied;
The wenches and the drivers brawl.
Atop a lean and shaggy trotter
The bearded postboy sits as spotter.
Retainers crowd the gate pell-mell
To bid their mistresses farewell.
They're all aboard and, slowly gliding,
The ancient coach creeps out the gate.
'Farewell, my peaceful home and fate!
Farewell, secluded place of hiding!
Shall I return?' And Tanya sighs,
As tears well up to dim her eyes.
33
When we have broadened education,
The time will come without a doubt
(By scientific computation,
Within five hundred years about),
When our old roads' decayed condition
Will change beyond all recognition.
Paved highways, linking every side,
Will cross our Russia far and wide;
Above our waters iron bridges
Will stride in broadly arching sweep;
We'll dig bold tunnels 'neath the deep
And even part whole mountain ridges;
And Christendom will institute
An inn at every stage en route.
34
But roads are bad now in our nation;
Neglected bridges rot and fall;
Bedbugs and fleas at every station
Won't let the traveller sleep at all.
No inns exist. At posting stages
They hang pretentious menu pages,
But just for show, as if to spite
The traveller's futile appetite;
While some rude Cyclops at his fire
Treats Europe's dainty artefacts
With mighty Russian hammer whacks,
And thanks the Lord for ruts and mire
And all the ditches that abound
Throughout our native Russian ground.
35
And yet a trip in winter season
Is often easy, even nice.
Like modish verse devoid of reason,
The winter road is smooth as ice.
Our bold Autmedons* stay cheery,
Our Russian troikas never weary;
And mileposts soothe the idle eye
As fencelike they go flashing by.
Unluckily, Dame Larin wasted
No funds on renting fresher horse,
Which meant a longer trip of course;
And so our maiden fully tasted
Her share of travel's dull delights:
They rode for seven days and nights.
36
But now they're near. Before them, gleaming,
Lies Moscow with its stones of white,
Its ancient domes and spires streaming
With golden crosses, ember-bright.
Ah, friends, I too have been delighted
When all at once far-off I've sighted
That splendid view of distant domes,
Of churches, belfries, stately homes!
How oft. . . forlorn and separated
Eugene Onegin Page 18