Nor lengthy years of separation,
Nor hours devoted to the Muse,
Nor foreign beauties he could choose,
Nor merry noise, nor meditation
Had changed in him a soul whose fire
Was lit by virginal desire.
21
Mere boy, by Olga captivated,
Not knowing a tormented heart,
He witnessed, tenderly elated,
Her childish merriments and sport.
In leafy shade, by oaks protected,
He shared the games that she selected;
Their fathers – friends and neighbours, they –
Destined the children’s wedding day.
Beneath a backwoods porch the maiden,
In girlish innocence and grace,
Blossomed beneath her parents’ gaze,
A lily of the valley, hidden
In densest grass, unnoticed by
The passing bee or butterfly.
22
By her the poet first was given
His youthful dream of ecstasy,
And thoughts about her would enliven
His pipe’s first moan of melody.
Farewell to golden games, for ever!
He took instead to groveland cover,
Seclusion, stillness and the night,
The stars and heaven’s brightest light,
The moon amid her constellation,
The moon, to whom when evening nears,
We dedicated walks and tears,
Our secret sorrow’s consolation…
But now we only see in her
A substitute for lamplight’s blur.
23
Forever modest and submissive,
Forever merry as the day,
As charming as a lover’s kisses,
As artless as the poet’s way,
Her eyes as azure as the heaven,
Her flaxen curls, her smile so even,
Her voice, her slender waist and stance
These made up Olga… but just glance
At any novel at your leisure,
You’ll find her portrait there – it’s sweet,
Once I myself found it a treat,
But now it bores me beyond measure.
Reader, I shall, if you’ll allow,
Turn to the elder sister now.
24
Her elder sister was Tatiana…
This is the first time that we grace
A tender novel in this manner
With such a name, so out of place.
What of it? It is pleasing, resonant;
I know, of course, that it is redolent
Of memories of ancientness
Or maids’ rooms! We must all confess:
That even in the names we’re given
There’s very little taste on show
(We will not mention verses now);
Enlightenment we don’t believe in,
We’ve simply utilized it for
Mere affectation – nothing more.
25
And so then she was called Tatiana.
Lacking her sister’s beauty, poise,
Her rosy freshness, in no manner
Would she attract a person’s gaze.
A wayward, silent, sad young maiden,
Shy as a doe, in forest hidden,
She seemed inside her family
A stranger, an anomaly.
She could not snuggle up to father
Or mother; and herself a child,
By children’s games was not beguiled
To skip or play, but often, rather,
Would at a window silently
Sit on her own throughout the day.
26
Of contemplative disposition
Beginning with her cradle days,
She coloured with a dreamy vision
The idle flow of rural ways.
Her slender fingers knew not needles;
Embroidery seemed made of riddles;
With silken patterns she was loath
To animate a linen cloth.
A sign of the desire to govern,
The child with her obedient doll
Rehearses for the protocol
Of etiquette and worldly canon,
And to her doll with gravity
Imparts mamma’s morality.
27
But even in those years Tatiana
Possessed no doll nor made pretence
To tell it in an adult manner
About town fashions and events.
And childish escapades were foreign
To her: in winter, tales of horror,
Told in the darkness of the night,
Gave to her heart much more delight.
Whenever nurse, obeying Olga,
Brought all her little playmates down
To play upon the spacious lawn,
She found the games of catch too vulgar,
The ringing laughs and jollity
Were boring to her equally.
28
Upon her balcony, preceding
The rising of the dawn, she loved
To watch the dancing stars receding
That on the pale horizon moved,
When earth’s fine edge is softly glowing,
The wind that heralds morn is blowing,
And by degrees the day grows bright.
In winter when the shade of night
Possesses half the world much longer,
And longer, too, the lazy East,
In moonlight overcome by mist,
Continues to repose in languor,
Awakened at her usual time,
By candlelight from bed she’d climb.
29
Fond early on of reading novels,
For which all else she would forgo,
She grew enamoured of the marvels
Of Richardson5 and of Rousseau.
Her father was a decent fellow,
Of the preceding age and mellow,
Who saw no harm in books, which he,
Not having read at all, would see
As empty playthings, unengrossing,
And did not care what secret tome
Lay until morning, in his home,
Beneath his daughter’s pillow dozing.
As for his wife, she’d also gone
Quite crazy over Richardson.
30
Her love for him was not connected
With having read her Richardson,
Nor was it that she had rejected
A Lovelace for a Grandison.6
But in the past Princess Alina,
Her Moscow cousin, when she’d seen her,
Had talked about these gentlemen.
Her husband was her fiance then,
A bond to which she’d not consented;
She sighed after another one
Who, with his heart and mind, had won
Her liking more than her intended:
This Grandison was smart at cards,
A fop and Ensign in the Guards.
31
Like him, she dressed to match the fashion
In keeping with good taste, well bred;
But all at once without discussion
The girl was to the altar led.
And, to dispel her dreadful sorrow,
Her husband wisely left, the morrow,
Taking her to his country seat,
Where God knows whom she was to meet.
At first, she strained and sobbed and ranted,
All but divorced her husband, too,
Then turned to household matters, grew
Acclimatized, became contented.
Habit is heaven’s gift to us:
A substitute for happiness.
32
Habit allayed the grief she suffered,
That nothing else could remedy;
A thing of note she soon discovered
That gave her equanimity:
Between domestic work and leisure
She ascertained the perfect measure
For governing her husband’s life,
And then became a proper wife.
She drove out to inspect the farmers,
She pickled mushrooms, saved and spent,
She shaved the conscripts’ foreheads,7 went
On Saturdays to use the bathhouse,
Beat servant girls who got her cross –
She, not her husband, was the boss.
33
Time was, she would have written in a
Shy maiden’s album with her blood,
Praskov’ya she’d have called Polina
And made a song of every word.
She’d wear tight stays to suit convention,
A Russian N just like a French one
She’d learned to utter through her nose;
But all this soon came to a close:
Stays, album, the Princess Alina,
The sentimental verselets, all
She now forgot, began to call
‘Akul’ka’ formerly ‘Selina’,
And finally appeared becapped
Inside a quilted housecoat wrapped.
34
But heartily her husband loved her,
On her designs he did not frown,
In all, he cheerfully believed her,
While dining in his dressing-gown;
His life rolled on without a hazard;
At eventide, sometimes, there gathered
A group of kindly neighbours, who,
Informally, arrived to rue
And tittle-tattle, who confided
And chuckled over this and that.
Hours passed – time that the tea was set,
They summoned Olga to provide it.
Then supper came and close of day,
And so the guests would drive away.
35
Their peaceful lives went on, retaining
The customs of antiquity;
At Shrovetide they’d be entertaining
With Russian pancakes (or bliny);
They fasted twice a year for sinning,
They loved round swings that sent them spinning,
The choral dances, guessing songs.
On Trinity, among the throngs
Of yawning peasants at thanksgiving,
They touchingly shed tears, three drops
Upon a bunch of buttercups;8
They needed kvas9 like air for living;
And at their table guests were served
With dishes, as their rank deserved.
36
And thus the two of them grew older
Until the grave invited down
The husband, squire and erstwhile soldier,
And he received a second crown.10
He died an hour before his dinner,
Mourned by the neighbour of the manor,
By children and a faithful wife,
More candidly than many a life.
He was a simple, kindly barin,11
And there, above his last remains,
A solemn monument proclaims:
The humble sinner, Dmitry Larin,
Slave of the Lord and Brigadier
Beneath this stone reposeth here.
37
To his penates12 now returning,
Vladimir Lensky visited
His neighbour’s humble gravestone, mourning,
With sighs, the ashes of the dead;
Long was his heart with grief afflicted,
‘Poor Yorick,’ he declared, dejected,
‘He used to hold me in his arms.
How, in my childhood, oftentimes,
I played with his Ochakov medal!13
He destined Olga for my bride,
Shall I be here that day…? he said.’
True sadness put him on his mettle,
Vladimir straightway felt a call
To write a gravestone madrigal.
38
And there, in tears, he wrote another
To mark the patriarchal dust
Of both his father and his mother…
Alas! each generation must
By Providence’s dispensation
Rise, ripen, fall, in quick succession,
Upon life’s furrows; in its wake
Others the selfsame journey take.
So, our light-headed tribe, now roaming,
Grows up, gets animated, seethes,
Sees off its ancestors with wreaths.
But our time, too, is coming, coming,
And one fine day our grandsons will
Bundle us out with equal zeal!
39
Meanwhile, enjoy, friends, till it’s ended,
This light existence, every dram!
Its nullity I’ve comprehended
And little bound to it I am;
I’ve shut my eyelids now to phantoms;
But distant hopes appear and sometimes
Continue to disturb my heart.
I’d find it sad now to depart
The world without some recognition.
Not courting praise, I live and write,
But still, it seems, I should delight
In glorifying my sad mission,
In having just a single sound
Recall me, like a friend that’s found.
40
And someone’s heart it will awaken;
And this new strophe that I nurse
Will not in Lethe14 drown, forsaken,
If destiny preserves my verse.
Perhaps some future ignoramus
(A flattering hope!), when I am famous,
Will point to my illustrious portrait
And say: now that man was a poet!
I offer you, then, my oblations,
Admirer of Aonia’s maids,15
O you, whose memory never fades
And saves my volatile creations,
Whose hand, that favours my renown,
Will pat the old man’s laurel crown!16
CHAPTER III
Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse.
Malfilâtre1
I
‘Where now? How very like a poet!’
‘Onegin, I must go, goodbye.’
‘By all means, but (I’d like to know it),
Where do you spend your evenings?’ ‘Why,
I see the Láirins.’ ‘That’s amazing.
Mercy, does it not drive you crazy
To murder every evening thus?’
‘Not in the least.’ ‘I am nonplussed.
From here I picture the occasion:
First (listen, am I right?), I see
A simple, Russian family,
Concern for guests and their provision,
Jam, endless chatter with regard
To rain and flax and cattle-yard…’
2
‘I do not see why that’s so shocking.’
‘It’s boring, that is why, dear man.’
‘I hate your fashionable mocking;
I’m happy with a homely clan,
Where I…’ ‘An eclogue’s bound to follow!
For God’s sake, that will do, good fellow.
But now, you’re off; I’m sorry. Say,
Could you devise for me a way
Of seeing for myself your Phyllis,
The object of your thoughts from far,
Your tears, pen, rhymes, etcetera.
Present me.’ ‘But you’re joking.’ ‘Promise.’
‘I’ll gladly.’ ‘When?’ ‘Why, now’s all right.
They will receive us with delight.’
3
‘Let’s go, then.’ At their destination
They’re met with the formality,
The sometimes onerous ministration
Of old-world hospitality.
The order of the fare’s habitual:
Jam in small dishes2 starts the ritual,
Then lingonb
erry juice is brought
And set upon an oil-cloth board.3
………………………………………
………………………………………
………………………………………
………………………………………
………………………………………
………………………………………
4
Returning home, the two are flying
At high speed by the shortest way.
Now let us condescend to spying
On what our heroes have to say.
‘You yawn, Onegin, what’s the matter?’
‘A habit, Lensky – all that chatter.’
‘But you seem worse.’ ‘The same old thing.
But look, the light is vanishing.
Faster, Andryushka, hasten, hasten!
What silly places all these are!
Oh, by the way, your Larina
Is simple, but a dear old person;
I fear the lingonberry juice
May cause my stomach some abuse.
5
‘Please tell me which one was Tatiana.’
‘Oh, she’s the sister who appeared
All sad and silent like Svetlana,4
And by the window sat and stared.’
‘But surely you don’t love the younger?’
‘Why not?’ ‘Were I like you a singer,
I’d choose the other for my wife.
In Olga’s looks there’s no more life
Than Van Dyck has in his madonnas:
Her countenance is round and fair
Just like the daft moon shining there
Above the daft horizon on us.’
Vladimir answered icily
And all the way sat silently.
6
Meanwhile, Onegin’s visitation
Had made on all the Larin folk
A most significant impression
And given neighbours cause for talk.
Conjecture followed on conjecture,
All started furtively to lecture,
To joke, to judge, not without spite
Eugene Onegin Page 8