The early-nineteenth-century critic Belinsky remarked famously that Pushkin’s novel is ‘an encyclopedia of Russian life’. Although it is currently fashionable to disparage Belinsky’s ‘crudely sociological’ approach to literature, there is much to be said (especially if we remove the word ‘Russian’) for his observation. For all this work’s literary self-consciousness (it is an encyclopedia of literature, too), what a richly woven and glittering tapestry of life it contains, much of it supplied in apparently casual passing fashion, as was Pushkin’s way. He shows us the theatre, where on a public stage writers, actors, and audience all perform and where the wings become a setting for erotic adventure; he gives us dance in its many shapes and styles: the ballet, the society ball, the country shindig, the peasant stomp; other music and song: in opera, in a regimental band, in the singing of serf-girls; food and dining, in fashionable restaurants and at rustic feasts; the architectural environment in churches, palaces, city mansions, apartments, urban hovels, and country manors; the varying styles of clothing; the books; the protocols of duelling; the customs of matchmaking, courtship, and marriage; life as played out in passionate youth and in resigned middle-age; the relationships of parents and children; the ways of the contemporary city and the ancient traditions of the countryside; the horses and conveyances that people use (which are also metaphors for the Pushkinian rush to experience life’s variety, or at least to observe it from the window of a moving carriage)—all the activities, codes, customs, and conventions through which we live and which determine, whether we observe or defy them, who we are. And note as well the lively capsule biographies of some of the novel’s minor characters: Tatyana’s parents, Onegin’s father and uncle, the rake Zaretsky, and even the two alternative futures imagined for Lensky beyond the novel’s time-frame. Once again, in these mini-biographies, the author’s touch is light and fleeting, his method the sparing use of a few trivial and prosaic details, the more insignificant the more telling.
Let me close these brief introductory remarks on Pushkin’s masterwork with a few observations on some of its autobiographical implications. It presents, among its other texts, the writer’s report to himself at mid-career, recording his discoveries about life and art and his concerns for his creative future. Not only the novel’s narrator, it should be noted, but also the three other major characters are quite clearly expressions of Pushkin’s personality. Onegin, despite the author’s disclaimer to the contrary, bears some of Pushkin’s own human traits, and the two share a number of social masks; the essential and decisive difference between them, of course, is that Onegin has none of the poet in him. Lensky, on the other hand, who does possess a genuine if immature poetic sensibility, is not unlike the younger Pushkin, a persona the writer has outgrown and now regards with affectionate irony. The conflict in the novel between Onegin and Lensky, so perplexingly motivated in terms of the characters’ psychology, represents much more plausibly a conflict in the soul of the author, a struggle between his ‘prosaic’ and ‘poetic’ selves (recall the description when the two characters first meet: Lensky all poetry, Onegin all prose). If it seems that Pushkin takes the cynical Onegin rather seriously and merely mocks the naïve Lensky, this is something of a subterfuge, a device to conceal his own passionate commitment, even as he questions it, to poetry. Onegin, Pushkin’s ‘friend’, is at once his baser alter ego and a symbol of his new allegiance to the truths of prose. Tatyana, whom the narrator calls his ‘ideal’ and who by the novel’s end is identified with Pushkin’s Muse, seems on a symbolic plane to stand as the artist’s emblem for the native sources of his poetry, or as an avatar of his art itself. She is a figure who, though unhappy and unfree (like Pushkin himself), remains steadfast in her adherence to values beyond the gratifications of the self. There is an undeniable sadness in this sparkling novel, especially at its end. If it opened to the tune of a sprightly scherzo, it closes to the strains of a somewhat mournful adagio. Pain and disappointment have a prominent place in the world of Onegin, but so too does the celebration of life in all its enticing minutiae; and thus the novel gives us neither a conventionally happy nor a conventionally unhappy ending. It avoids, to be sure, any overt statement of tragedy, for the hero and heroine still live, are indeed still relatively young. Their stories, abruptly abandoned in typically Pushkinian fashion, remain incomplete, their ultimate fates still unresolved. In his final chapter does Pushkin even try to rescue his hapless hero from the shallowness of his egoism? Does he seek to make him worthy through his suffering of someone’s, if not Tatyana’s, love? Could the tale that unwinds beyond the pages of the book be resumed, could it take unexpected turns and move in new directions, are other outcomes possible? One suspects, despite the aesthetically pleasing roundedness of the poem, that the answers are yes, that other roads lie ahead for the heroes, that life still beckons. In his generosity of spirit the author gives to his characters, and thereby to himself, the possibility of renewal. The concluding chapters of Eugene Onegin are Pushkin’s farewell to his poetic youth. Henceforth, in his effort to reinvent himself, and as a sign of his commitment to become yet more fully engaged in the life of literature, he would devote his energies mainly to prose. For Pushkin, however, to cease completely to be a poet was to die, and in his ‘novel in verse’ he announces a continuing will to live. Life’s chalice, he tells us in its final stanza, never runs dry, life’s novel (which the artist both reads and writes) never comes to an end for the taker of risks.
NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION
If art holds a mirror up to nature, it frequently does so—as in this masterpiece of Pushkin’s—by first directing that mirror at other works of art. The world of Eugene Onegin derives perhaps as much from Western European literary antecedents and traditions as it does from its author’s Russia, and in doing so it provides a paradoxical picture of life mimicking art. The literary translator, in seeking to participate in this international colloquy, holds, as it were, yet another mirror up to these already doubled or tripled mirrors. It is a devilish and tricky business, this game in a house of mirrors, this effort to catch and reflect elusive reflections. There are occasions when the translator, however carefully he tries to grip his own mirror by its edges so as not to smudge the glass, will inadvertently allow his hands to enter the picture and thus obscure the view.
In attempting to reproduce poetry, the verbal art most closely tied to its native language and the most susceptible to distortion in the transfer to another, the translator faces particularly vexing difficulties. Verse, perhaps, can be translated; great poetry is something else. Russian and English poetry do not look, sound, or behave very much alike; and by choosing to work on Pushkin’s poem, in which the sheer beauty of sound is so vital a part of its effect and in which all the expressive resources of the Russian language are on masterful display, the translator may find himself casting an uneasy eye at Robert Frost’s cautionary definition of poetry as ‘what gets lost in translation’. All he can do, having begun, is keep to his task, reassuring himself that both Russian and English, after all, assemble consonants and vowels into sounds and words, into beauty and sense.
Pushkin’s long poem has had some seven English translations prior to this one (the more thorough Germans seem to have produced about twelve), and yet it has continued to be regarded by many as a classic instance of the untranslatable work. Vladimir Nabokov has argued that a literal rendering of Pushkin’s sentences is about the best that can be achieved or even honestly attempted; that any translation that retains the original’s metre and rhyme, since it cannot be faithful to the work’s exact meaning, will necessarily result in a mere paraphrase. In his own translation of the novel, which he proudly labelled a ‘pony’, he shunned, accordingly, both metre and rhyme and gave us a version at once marvellously accurate and rather peculiar, most of its poetry resident in the accompanying commentary rather than in the translation itself. Pushkin, one has to say, loses where Nabokov gains. And of course a ‘literal’ version is, in the end, no less unfait
hful to its model than a rhymed and metred one: in place of a work whose austere and harmonious shape is an essential part of its effect, it gives us something ill-proportioned and flaccid, a kind of ‘formal paraphrase’ that seems bland and inert where the original is expressive and alive. But the translator’s dilemma doesn’t lie, really, in choosing between faithfulness to form and faithfulness to meaning, for in fact neither of these goals, even separately, is attainable. In the transfer of a work from one language to another there are no exact correspondences to be found—neither in the meanings and histories of words nor in the intricacies and effects of forms. This very tendency of ours to divide a work of art into separate categories of form and content not only gives a false view of a work’s complex nature but also poses the problem of literary translation in a false light.
Confronted with an evident inability to render a work faithfully in either its absolute form or its total sense, the translator, it would seem, faces an impossible task and is condemned by the very nature of his enterprise to an act of compromise and betrayal. The only solution, it seems to me, is for the translator to try to view the work not as a hopeless dichotomy but as a unified whole and to try to be faithful, in some mysterious spirit, to this vision of wholeness. In the result, perhaps we can honour, if nothing else, the poor translator’s quixotic quest, a quest in some respects not unlike that of the artist he seeks to emulate.
The other translators who have put Pushkin’s novel into English have chosen, unlike Nabokov, to honour in most respects the ‘Onegin stanza’ and to retain the original’s metrical scheme and rhyme. Two of them in particular, Walter Arndt and Charles Johnston, have done so with some success and have demonstrated thereby that the task may be slightly less impossible than it seems. My own attempt to pursue the elusive Pushkin yet again has profited much by their example, following them in their virtues and avoiding, as far as possible, their defects. If the results presented here are no less provisional than their efforts or the efforts of others that have gone before, I have none the less greatly enjoyed my pursuit of Pushkin and have found the view, even from the lower altitudes, well worth the climb.
I, too, have elected, in my version, to preserve what I could of Pushkin’s form, taking the Onegin stanza as one of the novel’s most essential and characteristic features, the building-block with which the entire edifice is constructed. By retaining the stanza form that Pushkin uses as his poetic paragraph, the translator positions himself, in a sense, on the work’s home ground and imposes upon himself a useful discipline for his journey. Furthermore, he is thereby constrained, as was the poet himself, to seek solutions without self-indulgence, to find variety within oneness, and to earn freedom within the bondage of the form. The very rigidity of the stanzaic structure can bring at times a fruitful tension to the words with which the form is made manifest, and the economy of expression it enforces upon the translator will sometimes reward him with an unexpected gift.
In working, over quite a few years, on several visions and revisions of this translation, I have found myself searching for an ever more natural and unforced flow of language, for a more fluid and straightforward syntax, a lighter and more readily comprehensible style; I have tried to avoid as much as possible the sorts of inversions and verbal contortions that have marred in my view the earlier translations—all in an effort to capture what seemed to me the poem’s spontaneous and unlaboured effect in Pushkin’s Russian. I have also tried to adapt the rhythms of the poem to the rhythms of English speech—a speech that in my rendition sounds somewhat more American than British in its accent and somewhat more contemporary than period in its idiom. Ultimately, I have attempted to provide the English-speaking reader of today with a more accessible version of one of the great works of the Russian literary imagination, one that would speak in a familiar, not-too-distant English voice and that would convey not only something of the novel’s sense and shape, but some hints of its characteristic flavour as well: its verve and sparkle, its lyricism and wit, its succinctness and variety: the play of lights and shadows in an imperfect mirror.
A few words on the Onegin stanza. The main body of the novel consists in its final form (some stanzas having been discarded by Pushkin for a variety of reasons) of some 366 stanzas of a common design. The fourteen lines of this stanzaic form suggest, of course, the sonnet, but the rhyming pattern is unique (ababccddeffegg), as is the adherence to a fixed sequence of masculine and feminine rhymes (that is, rhymes in which the stresses fall on the final or the penultimate syllables, respectively): FMFMFFMMFMMFMM. The metre, iambic tetrameter, though it may seem somewhat terse for a long narrative poem in English, is hardly in itself alien to our tradition. Compositionally, the stanzas are organized in a variety of ways: as a single unit, as octave and sestet, or as three quatrains and a couplet. The second quatrain may function as two couplets (ccdd), and the sestet as two linked tercets (eff egg). The three quatrains, it will be noted, employ in sequence the three possible patterns for a binary rhyme scheme: alternating (abab), balanced (ccdd), and enclosed (effe). Pushkin uses his sonnet-paragraph with great virtuosity and flexibility. The opening quatrain and the closing couplet are usually the most clearly marked, while the middle sections are treated with great variety. The final masculine couplet, especially, tends to stand out as a tersely pointed and often ironic coda.
There are considerably more than 5,000 lines of verse in this work, and the sheer quantity of its rhyme, it must be admitted, sorely tests the translator’s inventiveness. I am also well aware that rhyme today is somewhat less common in serious English verse than it used to be and that its pervasiveness here may seem uncongenial to the modern ear. I rely, therefore, on the reader’s tolerance for traditions beyond the borders of current taste and on the hope that something archaic may have grown so unfamiliar as to offer, perhaps, the pleasure of novelty. On some of the Russian names in the text and on a few other words I have placed an accent mark on the syllable that bears the stress; in general, however, the iambic metre should be a sufficient guide to the pronunciation of unfamiliar words. The Russian text used for this translation is essentially that used by Nabokov, the so-called ‘third’ edition, the last to be published during Pushkin’s lifetime.
Finally, let me express once again my indebtedness to the previous translators of Pushkin’s poem. Vladimir Nabokov’s work, in particular, was a constant challenge to strive for greater accuracy, and his extensive commentary on the novel was an endless source of both instruction and pleasure. I want also to express my gratitude to Oxford University Press for giving me, in this second edition of my translation, the opportunity to revise the text and to add to it the verse fragments on ‘Onegin’s Journey’ that Pushkin appended to his novel. I should like also to repeat my thanks to Professor Lauren Leighton of the University of Illinois at Chicago for his considerable support and encouragement and to my colleague John Osborne for patiently reading all those early drafts and for urging me, when my energy waned, to continue with a restless ingenuity. My wife, Eve, has been a sharp but always partial critic. To all those, including those unnamed, who have helped to improve this translation and to eliminate, at least in part, its lapses from sense and grace, many thanks.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
BARTA, P., and GOEBEL, U. (eds.), The Contexts of Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin (Lewiston, NY, 1988).
BAYLEY, J., Pushkin: A Comparative Commentary (Cambridge, 1971).
BETHEA, D. (ed.), Pushkin Today (Bloomington, Ind., 1993).
BLOOM, H., Alexander Pushkin (New York, 1987).
BRIGGS, A., Alexander Pushkin: A Critical Study (Totowa, NJ, 1983).
———Alexander Pushkin: Eugene Onegin (Cambridge, 1992).
CHIZHEVSKY, D., Evgenij Onegin (Cambridge, Mass., 1953).
CLAYTON, J., Ice and Flame: A. Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin (Toronto, 1985).
DEBRECZENY, P., The Other Pushkin: A Study of Pushkin’s Prose Fiction (Stanford, Ca., 1983).
DRIVER, S., Pushkin: Literature a
nd Social Ideas (New York, 1989).
FENNELL, J., Pushkin (Harmondsworth, 1964).
HOISINGTON, S., Russian Views of Pushkin’s ‘Eugene Onegin; (Bloomington, Ind., 1988).
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