No more at dawn does shepherd need


To drive the cows outside with ringing;


Nor does his horn at midday sound


The call that brings them gathering round.


Inside her hut a girl is singing,


And by the matchwood's crackling light


She spins away the wintry night.


42


The frost already cracks and crunches;


The fields are silver where they froze . ..


(And you, good reader, with your hunches,


Expect the rhyme, so take itRose!)


No fine parquet could hope to muster


The ice-clad river's glassy lustre;


The joyous tribe of boys berates


And cuts the ice with ringing skates;


A waddling red-foot goose now scurries


To swim upon the water's breast;


He treads the ice with care to test. . .


And down he goes! The first snow flurries


Come flitting, flicking, swirling round


To fall like stars upon the ground.


43


But how is one, in this dull season,


To help the rural day go by?


Take walks? The views give little reason,


When only bareness greets the eye.


Go ride the steppe's harsh open spaces?


Your mount, if put to try his paces


On treacherous ice in blunted shoe,


Is sure to fall. . . and so will you.


So stay beneath your roof... try reading:


Here's Pradt* or, better, Walter Scott!


Or check accounts. You'd rather not?


Then rage or drink. . . . Somehow proceeding,


This night will pass (the next one too),


And grandly you'll see winter through!


44


Childe Harold-like, Onegin ponders,


Adrift in idle, slothful ways;


From bed to icy bath he wanders,


And then at home all day he stays,


Alone, and sunk in calculation,


His only form of recreation


The game of billiards, all day through,


With just two balls and blunted cue.


But as the rural dusk encroaches,


The cue's forgot, the billiards fade;


Before the hearth the table's laid.


He waits.... At last his guest approaches:


It's Lensky's troika, three fine roans;


'Come on, let's dine, my stomach groans!'


45


Mot, that wine most blest and heady,


Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class,


Is brought in bottle chilled and ready


And set beside the poet's glass.


Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly,


It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly


(A simile in many ways);


It charmed me too, in other days:


For its sake once, I squandered gladly


My last poor pence . . . remember, friend?


Its magic stream brought forth no end


Of acting foolish, raving madly,


And, oh, how many jests and rhymes,


And arguments, and happy times!


46


But all that foamy, frothy wheezing


Just plays my stomach false,


I fear; And nowadays I find more pleasing


Sedate Bordeaux's good quiet cheer.


Ai* I find is much too risky,


A is like a mistressfrisky,


Vivacious, brilliant. . . and too light.


But you, Bordeaux, I find just right;


You're like a comrade, ever steady,


Prepared in trials or in grief


To render service, give relief;


And when we wish it, always ready


To share a quiet evening's end.


Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!


47


The fire goes out; the coal, still gleaming,


Takes on a film of ash and pales;


The rising vapours, faintly streaming,


Curl out of sight; the hearth exhales


A breath of warmth. The pipe smoke passes


Up chimney flue. The sparkling glasses


Stand fizzing on the table yet;


With evening's gloom, the day has set. . .


(I'm fond of friendly conversation


And of a friendly glass or two


At dusk or entre chien et loup*


As people say without translation,


Though why they do, I hardly know).


But listen as our friends speak low:


48


'And how are our dear neighbours faring?


Tatyana and your Olga, pray? . . .


' 'Just half a glass, old boy, be sparing. . .


The family's well, I think I'd say;


They send you greetings and affection. . . .


Oh, God, my friend, what sheer perfection


In Olga's breast! What shoulders too!


And what a soul! . . . Come visit, do!


You ought to, really . . . they'll be flattered;


Or judge yourself how it must look


You dropped in twice and closed the book;


Since then, it seems, they've hardly mattered.


In fact. . . Good Lord, my wits are bleak!


You've been invited there next week!'


49


'Tatyana's name-day celebration


Is Saturday. Her mother's sent


(And Olga too!) an invitation;


Now don't refuse, it's time you went.'


'There'll be a crush and lots of babble


And all that crowd of local rabble.'


'Why not at all, they just intend


To have the family, that's all, friend;


Come on, let's go, do me the favour!'


'Alright, I'll go.' 'Well done, first class!'


And with these words he drained his glass


In toast to his attractive neighbour . . .


And then waxed voluble once more


In talk of Olga. Love's a bore!


50


So Lensky soared as he awaited


His wedding day two weeks ahead;


With joy his heart anticipated


The mysteries of the marriage bed


And love's sweet crown of jubilations.


But Hymen's cares and tribulations,


The frigid, yawning days to be,


He never pictured once, not he.


While we, the foes of Hymen's banner,


Perceive full well that home life means


But one long string of dreary scenes


In Lafontaine's* insipid manner.


But my poor Lensky, deep at heart,


Was born to play this very part.


51


Yes, he was loved .. . beyond deceiving . . .


Or so at least with joy he thought.


Oh, blest is he who lives believing,


Who takes cold intellect for naught,


Who rests within the heart's sweet places


As does a drunk in sleep's embraces,


Or as, more tenderly I'd say,


A butterfly in blooms of May;


But wretched he who's too far-sighted,


Whose head is never fancy-stirred,


Who hates all gestures, each warm word,


As sentiments to be derided,


Whose heart.. . experience has cooled


And barred from being loved ... or fooled!


Chapter 5


Oh, never know these frightful dreams, My dear Svetlana!


Zhukovsky


1


The fall that year was in no hurry,


And nature seemed to wait and wait


For winter. Then, in January,


The second night, the snow fell late.


Next day as dawn was just advancing,


Tatyana woke and, idly glancing,


Beheld outdoors a wondrous sight:


The roofs, the yard, the fenceall white;


Each pane a fragile pattern showing;


The trees in winter silver dyed,


Gay magpies on the lawn outside,


And all the hilltops soft and glowing


With winter's brilliant rug of snow


The world all fresh and white below.


2


Ah, wintertime! . . . The peasant, cheerful,


Creates a passage with his sleigh;


Aware of snow, his nag is fearful,


But shambles somehow down the way.


A bold kibitka skips and burrows


And ploughs a trail of fluffy furrows;


The driver sits behind the dash


In sheepskin coat and scarlet sash.


And here's a household boy gone sleighing


His Blackie seated on the sled,


While he plays horse and runs ahead;


The rascal froze his fingers, playing,


And laughs out loud between his howls,


While through the glass his mother scowls.


3


But you, perhaps, are not attracted


By pictures of this simple kind,


Where lowly nature is enacted


And nothing grand or more refined.


Warmed by the god of inspiration,


Another bard in exaltation


Has painted us the snow new-laid


And winter's joys in every shade.*


I'm sure you'll find him most engaging


When he, in flaming verse, portrays


Clandestine rides in dashing sleighs;


But I have no intent of waging


A contest for his crown ... or thine,


Thou bard of Finland's maid divine!*


4


Tatyana (with a Russian duty


That held her heart, she knew not why)


Profoundly loved, in its cold beauty,


The Russian winter passing by:


Crisp days when sunlit hoarfrost glimmers,


The sleighs, and rosy snow that shimmers


In sunset's glow, the murky light


That wraps about the Yuletide night.


Those twelfthtide eves, by old tradition,


Were marked at home on their estate:


The servant maids would guess the fate


Of both young girls with superstition;


Each year they promised, as before,


Two soldier husbands and a war.


5


Tatyana heeded with conviction


All ancient folklore night and noon,


Believed in dreams and card prediction,


And read the future by the moon.


All signs and portents quite alarmed her,


All objects either scared or charmed her


With secret meanings they'd impart;


Forebodings filled and pressed her heart.


If her prim tomcat sat protected


Atop the stove to wash and purr,


Then this was certain sign to her


That guests were soon to be expected;


Or if upon her left she'd spy


A waxing crescent moon on high,


6


Her face would pale, her teeth would chatter.


Or when a shooting star flew by


To light the sombre sky and shatter


In fiery dust before her eye,


She'd hurry and, in agitation,


Before the star's disintegration,


Would whisper it her secret prayer.


Or if she happened anywhere


To meet a black-robed monk by error,


Or if amid the fields one day


A fleeing hare would cross her way,


She'd be quite overcome with terror,


As dark forebodings filled her mind


Of some misfortune ill defined.


7


Yet even in these same afflictions


She found a secret charm in part:


For naturefond of contradictions


Has so designed the human heart.


The holy days are here. What gladness! .. .


Bright youth divines, not knowing sadness,


With nothing that it must regret,


With all of life before it yet


A distance luminous and boundless. . . .


Old age divines with glasses on


And sees the grave before it yawn,


All thoughts of time returninggroundless;


No matter: childish hope appears


To murmur lies in aged ears.


8


Tatyana watches, fascinated,


The molten wax submerge and turn


To wondrous shapes which designated


Some wondrous thing that she would learn.


Then from a basin filled with water


Their rings are drawn in random order;


When Tanya's ring turned up at last,


The song they sang was from the past:


''The peasants there have hoards of treasure,


They spade up silver from a ditch!


The one we sing to will be rich


And famous!' But the plaintive measure


Foretells a death to come ere long,


And girls prefer 'The Kitty's Song.'*


9


A frosty night, the sky resplendent


As heaven's galaxy shines down


And glidesso peaceful and transcendent. . . .


Tatyana, in her low-cut gown,


Steps out of doors and trains a mirror


Upon the moon to bring it nearer;*


But all that shows in her dark glass


Is just the trembling moon, alas. . . .


What's that... the crunching snow . . . who's coming?!


She flits on tiptoe with a sigh


And asks the stranger passing by,


Her voice more soft than reed pipe's humming:


'Oh, what's your name?' He hurries on,


Looks back and answers: 'Agafon.'*


10


Tatyana, as her nurse suggested,


Prepared to conjure all night through,*


And so in secret she requested


The bathhouse table laid for two.


But then sheer terror seized Tatyana ...


And I, recalling poor Svetlana,*


Feel frightened tooso let it go,


We'll not have Tanya conjure so.


Instead, her silken sash untying,


She just undressed and went to bed.


Sweet Lei* now floats above her head,


While 'neath her downy pillow lying,


A maiden's looking-glass she keeps.


Now all is hushed. Tatyana sleeps.


11


And what an awesome dream she's dreaming:


She walks upon a snowy dale,


And all around her, dully gleaming,


Sad mist and murky gloom prevail;


Amid the drifting, snowbound spaces


A dark and seething torrent races,


A hoary frothing wave that strains


And tears asunder winter's chains;


Two slender, icebound poles lie linking


The chasm's banks atop the ridge:


A perilous and shaky bridge;


And full of doubt, her spirits sinking,


Tatyana stopped in sudden dread


Before the raging gulf ahead.


12


As at a vexing separation,


Tatyana murmured, at a loss;


She saw no friendly soul on station


To lend a hand to help her cross.


But suddenly a snowbank shifted,


And who emerged when it was lifted?


A huge and matted bear appeared!


Tatyana screamed! He growled and reared,


Then stretched a paw . . . sharp claws abhorrent,


To Tanya, who could barely stand;


She took it with a trembling hand


And worked her way across the torrent


With apprehensive step . . . then fled!


The bear just followed where she led.


13


She dare not look to see behind her,


And ever faster on she reels;


At every turn he seems to find her,


That shaggy footman at her heels! . . .


The grunting, loathesome bear still lumbers,


Before them now a forest slumbers;


The pines in all their beauty frown


And barely stir, all weighted down


By clumps of snow; and through the summits


Of naked linden, birch, and ash


The beams from heaven's lanterns flash;


There is no path; the gorge that plummets,


The shrubs, the land ... all lie asleep,


By snowy blizzards buried deep.


14


She's reached the wood, the bear still tracking;


Soft snow, knee-deep, lies all about;


A jutting branch looms up, attacking,


And tears her golden earrings out;


And now another tries to trip her,


And from one charming foot her slipper,


All wet, comes off in crumbly snow;


And now she feels her kerchief go,


She lets it lie, she mustn't linger,


Behind her back she hears the bear,


But shy and frightened, does not dare


To lift her skirt with trembling finger;


She runs . .. but he keeps crashing on . . .


Until at last her strength is gone.


15


She sinks in snow; the bear alertly


Just picks her up and rushes on;


She lies within his arms inertly;


Her breathing stops, all sense is gone.


Along a forest road he surges,


And then, mid trees, a hut emerges;


Dense brush abounds; on every hand


Forlorn and drifting snowbanks stand;


A tiny window glitters brightly,


And from the hut come cries and din;


The bear proclaims: 'My gossip's in.'


'Come warm yourself,' he adds politely,


Then pushes straightway through the door


And lays her down upon the floor.


16


On coming to, she looks around her:


She's in a hall; no bear at least;


The clink of glasses, shouts . . . confound her,


As if it were some funeral feast;


She can't make sense of what she's hearing,


Creeps to the door and, softly peering,


Sees through a crack the strangest thing


A horde of monsters in a ring:


Out of a dog-face horns are sprouting;


One has a rooster's head on top;


A goateed witch is on a mop;


A haughty skeleton sits pouting


Beside a short-tailed dwarf. . . and that


Is half a crane and half a cat.


17


More wondrous still and still more fearful:


A crab upon a spider sat;


On goose's neck a skull seemed cheerful,


While spinning round in bright red hat;


A windmill there was squat-jig dancing


And cracked and waved its sails while prancing;


Guffawing, barking, whistles, claps,


And human speech and hoofbeat taps!


But what was Tanya's stunned reaction


When mid the guests she recognized


The one she feared, the one she prized


The hero of our novel's action!


Onegin sits amid the roar


And glances slyly through the door.


18


He gives a signthe others hustle;


He drinksall drink and all grow shrill;


He laughsthey all guffaw and bustle;


He frownsand all of them grow still.


He's master here, there's no mistaking;


And Tanya, now no longer quaking,


Turns curious to see still more


And pushes slightly on the door. . . .


The sudden gust of wind surprises


The band of goblins, putting out


The night-time lanterns all about;


His eyes aflame, Onegin rises


And strikes his chair against the floor;


All rise; he marches to the door.


19


And fear assails her; in a panic


She tries to flee . . . but feels too weak;


In anguished writhing, almost manic,


She wants to scream . . . but cannot speak;


Eugene throws wide the door, revealing


To monstrous looks and hellish squealing


Her slender form; fierce cackles sound


In savage glee; all eyes turn round,


All hooves and trunksgrotesque and curving,


And whiskers, tusks, and tufted tails,


Red bloody tongues and snouts and nails,


Huge horns and bony fingers swerving


All point at her and all combine


To shout as one: 'She's mine! She's mine!'


20


'She's mine!' announced Eugene, commanding;


And all the monsters fled the room;


The maid alone was left there standing


With him amid the frosty gloom.


Onegin stares at her intently,


Then draws her to a corner gently


And lays her on a makeshift bed,


And on her shoulder rests his head. . . .


Then Olga enters in confusion,


And Lensky too; a light shines out;


Onegin lifts an arm to rout


Unbidden guests for their intrusion;


He rants at them, his eyes turn dread;


Tatyana lies there nearly dead.


21


The heated words grow louder, quicken;


Onegin snatches up a knife,


And Lensky falls; the shadows thicken;


A rending cry amid the strife


Reverberates ... the cabin quivers;


Gone numb with terror, Tanya shivers . . .


And wakes to find her room alight,


The frozen windows sparkling bright,


Where dawn's vermilion rays are playing;


Then Olga pushes through the door,


More rosy than the dawn before


And lighter than a swallow, saying:


'Oh, tell me, do, Tatyana love,


Who was it you were dreaming of?'


22


But she ignores her sister's pleading,


Just lies in bed without a word,


Keeps leafing through some book she's reading,


So wrapt in thought she hasn't heard.


Although the book she read presented


No lines a poet had invented,


No sapient truths, no pretty scenes


Yet neither Virgil's, nor Racine's,


Nor Seneca's, nor Byron's pages,


Nor even Fashion Plates Displayed


Had ever so engrossed a maid:


She read, my friends, that king of sages


Martyn Zadck,* Chaldean seer


And analyst of dreams unclear.


23


This noble and profound creation


A roving pedlar one day brought


To show them in their isolation,


And finally left it when they bought


Malvina* for three roubles fifty


(A broken set, but he was thrifty);


And in exchange he also took


Two Petriads,* a grammar book,


Some fables he could sell tomorrow,


Plus Marmontel*just volume three.


Martyn Zadck soon came to be


Tatyana's favourite. Now when sorrow


Assails her heart, he brings her light,


And sleeps beside her through the night.


24


Her dream disturbs her, and not knowing


What secret message she'd been sent,


Tatyana seeks some passage showing


Just what the dreadful vision meant.


She finds in alphabetic order


What clues the index can afford her:


There's bear and blizzard, bridge, and crow,


Fir, forest, hedgehog, night, and snow,


And many more. But her confusion


Martyn Zadck cannot dispel;


The frightful vision must foretell


Sad times to come and disillusion.


For several days she couldn't find


A way to calm her troubled mind.


25


But lo! . . . with crimson hand


Aurora Leads forth from morning dales the sun*


And brings in merry mood before her


The name-day feast that's just begun.


Since dawn Dame Larin's near relations


Have filled the house; whole congregations


Of neighbour clans have come in drays,


Kibitkas, britzkas, coaches, sleighs.


The hall is full of crowds and bustle;


The drawing room explodes with noise,


With bark of pugs and maidens' joys,


With laughter, kisses, din and hustle;


The guests all bow and scrape their feet,


Wet nurses shout and babies bleat.


26


Fat Pustyakv, the local charmer,


Has come and brought his portly wife;


Gvozdin as well, that model farmer,


Whose peasants lead a wretched life;


The two Skotinins, grey as sages,


With children of all shapes and ages


From two to thirty at the top;


Here's Petushkv, the district fop;


And my first cousin, good Buynov,*


Lint-covered, in his visored cap


(As you, of course, well know the chap);


And former couns'lor, old man Flynov,


A rogue and gossip night and noon,


A glutton, grafter, and buffoon.


27


The Harlikvs were feeling mellow


And brought along Monsieur Triquet,


Late from Tambv, a witty fellow


In russet wig and fine pince-nez.


True Gaul, Triquet in pocket carried


A verse to warn that Tanya tarried,


Set to a children's melody:


Rveillez-vous, belle endormie*


The printed verse had lain neglected


In some old tattered almanac


Until Triquet, who had a knack


For rhyme, saw fit to resurrect it


And boldly put for 'belle Nina'


The charming line: 'belle Tatyan.'*


28


And now from nearby quarters, brothers,


That idol whom ripe misses cheer,


The joy and hope of district mothers


The company commander's here!


He's brought some news to set them cheering:


The regimental band's appearing!


'The colonel's sending it tonight.'


There'll be a ball! What sheer delight!


The girls all jump and grow excited.


But dinner's served. And so by pairs,


And arm in arm, they seek their chairs:


The girls near Tanya; men delighted


To face them; and amid the din,


All cross themselves and dig right in.


29


Then for a moment chatter ceases


As mouths start chewing.


All around


The clink of plates and forks increases,


The glasses jingle and resound.


But soon the guests are somewhat sated;


The hubbub grows more animated . . .


But no one hears his neighbour out;


All laugh and argue, squeal and shout.


The doors fly back; two figures enter


It's Lensky . . . with Eugene! 'Oh dear!'


The hostess cries, 'At last you're here!'


The guests all squeeze toward the centre,


Each moves his setting, shifts his chair,


And in a trice they seat the pair.


30


Across from Tanyathere they place them;


And paler than the moon at dawn,


She cannot raise her eyes to face them


And trembles like a hunted fawn.


Inside her, stormy passion's seething;


The wretched girl is scarcely breathing;


The two friends' greetings pass unheard;


Her tears well up without a word


And almost fall; the poor thing's ready


To faint; but deep within her, will


And strength of mind were working still,


And they prevailed. Her lips more steady,


She murmured something through her pain


And managed somehow to remain.


31


All tragico-hysteric moaning,


All girlish fainting-fits and tears,


Had long since set Eugene to groaning:


He'd borne enough in former years.


Already cross and irritated


By being at this feast he hated,


And noting how poor Tanya shook,


He barely hid his angry look


And fumed in sullen indignation;


He swore that he'd make Lensky pay


And be avenged that very day.


Exulting in anticipation,


He inwardly began to draw


Caricatures of those he saw.


32


Some others too might well have noted


Poor Tanya's plight; but every eye


Was at the time in full devoted


To sizing up a lavish pie*


(Alas, too salty); now they're bringing,


In bottle with the pitch still clinging,


Between the meat and blancmanger,


Tsimlynsky wine ... a whole array


Of long-stemmed glasses . . . (quite as slender


As your dear waist, my sweet Zizi,*


Fair crystal of my soul and key


To all my youthful verses tender,


Love's luring phial, you who once


Made me a drunken, love-filled dunce!)


33


The bottle pops as cork goes flying;


The fizzing wine comes gushing fast;


And now with solemn mien, and dying


To have his couplet heard at last,


Triquet stands up; the congregation


Falls silent in anticipation.


Tatyana's scarce alive; Triquet,


With verse in hand, looks Tanya's way


And starts to sing, off-key. Loud cheering


And claps salute him. Tanya feels


Constrained to curtsey . . . almost reels.


The bard, whose modesty's endearing,


Is first to toast her where he stands,


Then puts his couplet in her hands.


34


Now greetings come, congratulations;


Tatyana thanks them for the day;


But when Eugene's felicitations


Came due in turn, the girl's dismay,


Her weariness and helpless languor,


Evoked his pity more than anger:


He bowed to her in silence, grave . . .


But somehow just the look he gave


Was wondrous tender. If asserting


Some feeling for Tatyana's lot,


Or if, unconsciously or not,


He'd only teased her with some flirting,


His look was still a tender dart:


It reawakened Tanya's heart.


35


The chairs, pushed back, give out a clatter;


The crowd moves on to drawing room:


Thus bees from luscious hive will scatter,


A noisy swarm, to meadow bloom.


Their festive dinner all too pleasing,


The squires face each other wheezing;


The ladies to the hearth repair;


The maidens whisper by the stair;


At green-baize tables players settle,


As Boston, ombre (old men's play),


And whist, which reigns supreme today,


Call out for men to try their mettle:


A family with a single creed,


All sons of boredom's endless greed.


36


Whist's heroes have by now completed


Eight rubbers; and eight times as well


They've shifted round and been reseated;


Now tea is brought. I like to tell


The time of day by teas and dinners,


By supper's call. We country sinners


Can tell the time without great fuss:


The stomach serves as clock for us;


And apropos, I might make mention


In passing that I speak as much


Of feasts and foods and corks and such


In these odd lines of my invention


As you, great Homer, you whose song


Has lasted thirty centuries long!


(37-8) 39


But tea is brought: the girls demurely


Have scarcely taken cups in hand,


When suddenly from ballroom doorway


Bassoon and flute announce the band.


Elated by the music's bouncing,


His tea and rum at once renouncing,


That Paris of the local towns,


Good Petushkv, to Olga bounds;


To Tanya, Lensky; Harlikva,


A maiden somewhat ripe in glow,


My Tambov poet takes in tow;


Buynov whirls off Pustyakva;


Then all the crowd comes pouring in


To watch the brilliant ballroom spin.


40


At the beginning of my story


(In Chapter One, if you recall),


I wanted with Albani's glory*


To paint a Petersburg grand ball;


But then, by empty dreams deflected,


I lost my way and recollected


The feet of ladies known before.


In your slim tracks I'll stray no more,


#62038; charming feet and mad affliction!


My youth betrayed, it's time to show


More common sense if I'm to grow,


To mend my ways in deeds and diction,


And cleanse this Chapter Five at last


Of all digressions from the past.


41


Monotonous and mad procession,


Young life's own whirlwind, full of sound,


Each pair a blur in quick succession,


The rousing waltz goes whirling round.


His moment of revenge beginning,


Eugene, with secret malice grinning,


Approaches Olga . . . idly jests,


Then spins her round before the guests;


He stays beside her when she's seated,


Proceeds to talk of this and that;


Two minutes barely has she sat. . .


And then their waltzing is repeated!


The guests all stare in mute surprise;


Poor Lensky can't believe his eyes.


42


Now the mazurka's call is sounded.


Its thunder once could even rack


The greatest hall when it resounded,


And under heels parquet would crack;


The very windows shook like Hades.


But now it's changed: we're all like ladies;


And o'er the lacquered boards we glide.


But in small town and countryside


The old mazurka hasn't faltered;


It still retains its pristine joys:


Moustaches, leaps, heel-pounding noise


Remain the same; they've not been altered


By tyrant-fashion's high decrees,


The modern Russian's new disease.


(43) 44


My bold Buynov guides expertly


Tatyana to our hero's side,


And Olga too; Eugene alertly


Makes off with Lensky's future bride.


He steers her, gliding nonchalantly,


And bending, whispers her gallantly


Some common madrigal to please,


Then gives her hand a gentle squeeze;


She blushes in appreciation,


Her prim conceited face alight,


While Lensky rages at the sight.


Consumed with jealous indignation,


He waits till the mazurka's through,


Then asks her for the dance he's due.


45


But no, she can't. What explanation? . . .


Well, she's just promised his good friend


The next dance too. In God's creation!


What's this he hears? Could she intend? . . .


Can this be real? Scarce more than swaddler


And turned coquette! A fickle toddler!


Already has she mastered guile,


Already learned to cheat and smile!


The blow has left poor Lensky shattered;


And cursing woman's crooked course,


He leaves abruptly, calls for horse,


And gallops off. Now nothing mattered


A brace of pistols and a shot


Shall instantly decide his lot.


Chapter 6


La sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,


Nasce una gente, a cui l'morir non dole.*


Petrarch


1


Though pleased with the revenge he'd taken,


Onegin, noting Lensky'd left,


Felt all his old ennui awaken,


Which made poor Olga feel bereft.


She too now yawns and, as she dances,


Seeks Lensky out with furtive glances;


The endless dance had come to seem


To Olga like some dreadful dream.


But now it's over. Supper's heeded.


Then beds are made; the guests are all


Assigned their roomsfrom entrance hall


To servants' quarters. Rest is needed


By everyone. Eugene has fled


And driven home alone to bed.


2


All's quiet now. Inside the parlour,


The portly Mr. Pustyakv


Lies snoring with his portly partner.


Gvozdin, Buynov, Petushkv


And Flynov, who'd been reeling badly-


On dining chairs have bedded gladly;


While on the floor Triquet's at rest


In tattered nightcap and his vest.


The rooms of Olga and Tatyana


Are filled with girls in sleep's embrace.


Alone, beside the windowcase,


Illumined sadly by Diana,


Poor Tanya, sleepless and in pain,


Sits gazing at the darkened plain.


3


His unexpected reappearance,


That momentary tender look,


The strangeness of his interference


With Olgaall confused and shook


Tatyana's soul. His true intention


Remained beyond her comprehension,


And jealous anguish pierced her breast


As if a chilling hand had pressed


Her heart; as if in awful fashion


A rumbling, black abyss did yawn. . ..


'I'll die,' she whispers to the dawn,


'But death from him is sweet compassion.


Why murmur vainly? He can't give


The happiness for which I live.'


4


But forward, forward, #62038; my story!


A new persona has arrived:


Five versts or so from Krasnogory,


Our Lensky's seat, there lived and thrived


In philosophical seclusion


(And does so still, have no illusion)


Zartskyonce a rowdy clown,


Chief gambler and arch rake in town,


The tavern tribune and a liar


But now a kind and simple soul


Who plays an unwed father's role,


A faithful friend, a peaceful squire,


And man of honour, nothing less:


Thus does our age its sins redress!


5


Time was, when flunkies in high places


Would praise him for his nasty grit:


He could, it's true, from twenty paces,


Shoot pistol at an ace and hit;


And once, when riding battle station,


He'd earned a certain reputation


When in a frenzied state indeed


He'd plunged in mud from Kalmuk steed,


Drunk as a pig, and suffered capture


(A prize to make the French feel proud!).


Like noble Regulus,* he bowed,


Accepting hostage bonds with rapture


In hopes that he (on charge) might squeeze


Three bottles daily from Vry's.*


6


He used to banter rather neatly,


Could gull a fool, and had an eye


For fooling clever men completely,


For all to see, or on the sly;


Of course not all his pranks succeeded


Or passed unpunished or unheeded,


And sometimes he himself got bled


And ended up the dunce instead.


He loved good merry disputations,


Could answer keenly, be obtuse,


Put silence cunningly to use,


Or cunningly start altercations;


Could get two friends prepared to fight,


Then lead them to the duelling site;


7


Or else he'd patch things up between them


So he might lunch with them as guest,


And later secretly demean them


With nasty gossip or a jest. . . .


Sed alia temporal Such sporting


(With other capers such as courting)


Goes out of us when youth is dead


And my Zaretsky, as I've said,


Neath flow'ring cherries and acacias,


Secure at last from tempest's rage,


Lives out his life a proper sage,


Plants cabbages like old Horatius,


Breeds ducks and geese, and oversees


His children at their ABCs.


8


He was no fool; and consequently


(Although he thought him lacking heart),


Eugene would hear his views intently


And liked his common sense in part.


He'd spent some time with him with pleasure,


And so was not in any measure


Surprised next morning when he found,


Zaretsky had again called round;


The latter, hard upon first greeting,


And cutting off Eugene's reply,


Presented him, with gloating eye,


The poet's note about a 'meeting'.


Onegin, taking it, withdrew


And by the window read it through.


9


The note was brief in its correctness,


A proper challenge or cartel:


Politely, but with cold directness,


It called him out and did it well.


Onegin, with his first reaction,


Quite curtly offered satisfaction


And bade the envoy, if he cared,


To say that he was quite prepared.


Avoiding further explanation,


Zaretsky, pleading much to do,


Arose . . . and instantly withdrew.


Eugene, once left to contemplation


And face to face with his own soul,


Felt far from happy with his role.


10


And rightly so: in inquisition,


With conscience as his judge of right,


He found much wrong in his position:


First off, he'd been at fault last night


To mock in such a casual fashion


At tender love's still timid passion;


And why not let the poet rage!


A fool, at eighteen years of age,


Can be excused his rash intentions.


Eugene, who loved the youth at heart,


Might well have played a better part


No plaything of the mob's conventions


Or brawling boy to take offence,


But man of honour and of sense.


11


He could have shown some spark of feeling


Instead of bristling like a beast;


He should have spoken words of healing,


Disarmed youth's heart... or tried at least.


'Too late,' he thought, 'the moment's wasted. . . .


What's more, that duelling fox has tasted


His chance to mix in this affair


That wicked gossip with his flair


For jibes .. . and all his foul dominion.


He's hardly worth contempt, I know,


But fools will whisper . . . grin . . . and crow! . . .'


So there it isthe mob's opinion!


The spring with which our honour's wound!


The god that makes this world go round!


12


At home the poet, seething, paces


And waits impatiently to hear.


Then in his babbling neighbour races,


The answer in his solemn leer.


The jealous poet's mood turned festive!


He'd been, till now, uncertain. . . restive,


Afraid the scoundrel might refuse


Or laugh it off and, through some ruse,


Escape unscathed ... the slippery devil!


But now at last his doubts were gone:


Next day, for sure, they'd drive at dawn


Out to the mill, where each would level


A pistol, cocked and lifted high,


To aim at temple or at thigh.


13


Convinced that Olga's heart was cruel,


Vladimir vowed he wouldn't run


To see that flirt before the duel.


He kept consulting watch and sun . . .


Then gave it up and finally ended


Outside the door of his intended.


He thought she'd blush with self-reproach,


Grow flustered when she saw his coach;


But not at all: as blithe as ever,


She bounded from the porch above


And rushed to greet her rhyming love


Like giddy hopeso gay and clever,


So frisky-carefree with her grin,


She seemed the same she'd always been.


14


'Why did you leave last night so early?'


Was all that Olga, smiling, said.


P


oor Lensky's muddled mind was swirling,


And silently he hung his head.


All jealousy and rage departed


Before that gaze so openhearted,


Before that soft and simple trust,


Before that soul so bright and just!


With misty eyes he looks on sweetly


And sees the truth: she loves him yet!


Tormented now by deep regret,


He craves her pardon so completely,


He trembles, hunts for words in vain:


He's happy now, he's almost sane. . . .


(15-16) 17


Once more in solemn, rapt attention


Before his darling Olga's face,


Vladimir hasn't heart to mention


The night before and what took place;


'It's up to me,' he thought, 'to save her.


I'll never let that foul depraver


Corrupt her youthful heart with lies,


With fiery praise . . . and heated sighs;


Nor see that noxious worm devour


My lovely lily, stalk and blade;


Nor watch this two-day blossom fade


When it has yet to fully flower.'


All this, dear readers, meant in fine:


I'm duelling with a friend of mine.


18


Had Lensky known the deep emotion


That seared my Tanya's wounded heart!


Or had Tatyana had some notion


Of how these two had grown apart,


Or that by morn they'd be debating,


For which of them the grave lay waiting!


Ah, then, perhaps, the love she bore


Might well have made them friends once more!


But no one knew her inclination


Or chanced upon the sad affair.


Eugene had kept his silent air;


Tatyana pined in isolation;


And only nanny might have guessed,


But her old wits were slow at best.


19


All evening Lensky was abstracted,


Remote one moment, gay the next;


But those on whom the Muse has acted


Are ever thus; with brow perplexed,


He'd sit at clavichord intently


And play but chords; or turning gently


To Olga, he would whisper low:


'I'm happy, love . . . it's true, you know.'


But now it's late and time for leaving.


His heart, so full of pain, drew tight;


And as he bid the girl goodnight,


He felt it break with desperate grieving.


'What's wrong?' She peered at him, intent.


'It's nothing.' And away he went.


20


On coming home, the youth inspected


His pistols; then he put them back.


Undressed, by candle he selected


A book of Schiller's from the rack;


But only one bright image holds him,


One thought within his heart enfolds him:


He sees before him, wondrous fair,


His incandescent Olga there.


He shuts the book and, with decision,


Takes up his pen. . . . His verses ring


With all the nonsense lovers sing;


And feverish with lyric vision,


He reads them out like one possessed,


Like drunken Delvig* at a fest!


21


By chance those verses haven't vanished;


I have them, and I quote them here:


'Ah, whither, whither are ye banished,


My springtime's golden days so dear?


What fate will morning bring my lyre?


In vain my searching eyes enquire,


For all lies veiled in misty dust.


No matter; fate's decree is just;


And whether, pierced,


I fall anointed,


Or arrow passes byall's right:


The hours of waking and of night


Come each in turn as they're appointed;


And blest with all its cares the day,


And blest the dark that comes to stay!


22


'The morning star will gleam tomorrow,


And brilliant day begin to bloom;


While I, perhaps, descend in sorrow


The secret refuge of the tomb. . . .


Slow Lethe, then, with grim insistence,


Will drown my memory's brief existence;


Of me the world shall soon grow dumb;


But thou, fair maiden, wilt thou come!


To shed a tear in desolation


And think at my untimely grave:


He loved me and for me he gave


His mournful life in consecration! . . .


Beloved friend, sweet friend, I wait,


Oh, come, Oh, come, I am thy mate!'


23


He wrote thuslimply and obscurely.


(We say 'romantically'although,


That's not romanticism, surely;


And if it is, who wants to know?)


But then at last, as it was dawning,


With drooping head and frequent yawning,


Upon the modish word 'ideal'


Vladimir gently dozed for real;


But sleep had hardly come to take him


Off to be charmed by dreams and cheered,


When in that silent room appeared


His neighbour, calling out to wake him:


'It's time to rise! Past six . . . come on!


I'll bet Onegin woke at dawn.'


24


But he was wrong; that idle sinner


Was sleeping soundly even then.


But now the shades of night grow thinner,


The cock hails Vesper once again;


Yet still Onegin slumbers deeply.


But now the sun climbs heaven steeply,


And gusting snowflakes flash and spin,


But still Onegin lies within


And hasn't stirred; still slumber hovers


Above his bed and holds him fast.


But now he slowly wakes at last,


Draws back the curtains and his covers,


Looks outand sees with some dismay,


He'd better leave without delay.


25


He rings in haste and, with a racket,


His French valet, Guillot, runs in


With slippers and a dressing jacket,


And fresh new linen from the bin.


Onegin, dressing in a flurry,


Instructs his man as well to hurry:


They're leaving for the duelling place,


Guillot's to fetch the pistol case.


The sleigh's prepared; his pacing ceases;


He climbs aboard and off they go.


They reach the mill. He bids Guillot


To bring Lepage's deadly pieces;*


Then has the horses, on command,


Removed to where two oaklings stand.


26


Impatient, but in no great panic,


Vladimir waited near the dam;


Meanwhile Zaretsky, born mechanic,


Was carping at the millstone's cam.


Onegin, late, made explanation.


Zaretsky frowned in consternation:


'Good God, man, where's your second? Where?'


In duels a purist doctrinaire,


Zaretsky favoured stout reliance


On proper form; he'd not allow


Dispatching chaps just anyhow,


But called for strict and full compliance


With rules, traditions, ancient ways


(Which we, of course, in him should praise).


27


'My second?' said Eugene directly.


'Why here he is: Monsieur Guillot,


A friend of mine, whom you. . . correctly!


Will be quite pleased to greet, I know;


Though he's unknown and lives obscurely,


He's still an honest chap, most surely.


' Zaretsky bit his lip, well vexed.


Onegin turned to Lensky next: 'Shall we begin?'


'At my insistence.' Behind the mill, without a word.


And while the 'honest chap' conferred


With our Zaretsky at a distance


And sealed the solemn compact fast,


The foes stood by with eyes downcast.


28


The foes! How long has bloodlust parted


And so estranged these former friends?


How long ago did they, warmhearted,


Share meals and pastimes, thoughts and ends?


And now, malignant in intention,


Like ancient foes in mad dissension,


As in a dreadful senseless dream,


They glower coldly as they scheme


In silence to destroy each other. . . .


Should they not laugh while yet there's time,


Before their hands are stained with crime?


Should each not part once more as brother? . . .


But enmity among their class


Holds shame in savage dread, alas.


29


The gleaming pistols wake from drowsing.


Against the ramrods mallets pound.


The balls go in each bevelled housing.


The first sharp hammer clicks resound.


Now streams of greyish powder settle


Inside the pans. Screwed fast to metal,


The jagged flints are set to go.


Behind a nearby stump Guillot


Takes up his stand in indecision.


The duellists shed their cloaks and wait.


Zaretsky paces off their fate


At thirty steps with fine precision,


Then leads each man to where he'll stand,


And each takes pistol into hand.


30


'Approach at will!' Advancing coldly,


With quiet, firm, and measured tread,


Not aiming yet, the foes took boldly


The first four steps that lay ahead


Four fateful steps. The space decreasing,


Onegin then, while still not ceasing


His slow advance, was first to raise


His pistol with a level gaze.


Five paces more, while Lensky waited


To close one eye and, only then,


To take his aim. . . . And that was when


Onegin fired! The hour fated


Has struck at last: the poet stops


And silently his pistol drops.


31


He lays a hand, as in confusion,


On breast and falls. His misted eyes


Express not pain, but death's intrusion.


Thus, slowly, down a sloping rise,


And sparkling in the sunlight's shimmer,


A clump of snow will fall and glimmer.


Eugene, in sudden chill, despairs,


Runs to the stricken youth . . . and stares!


Calls out his name!No earthly power


Can bring him back: the singer's gone,


Cut down by fate at break of dawn!


The storm has blown; the lovely flower


Has withered with the rising sun;


The altar fire is out and done! . . .


32


He lay quite still and past all feeling;


His languid brow looked strange at rest.


The steaming blood poured forth, revealing


The gaping wound beneath his breast.


One moment backa breath's duration


This heart still throbbed with inspiration;


Its hatreds, hopes, and loves still beat,


Its blood ran hot with life's own heat.


But now, as in a house deserted,


Inside itall is hushed and stark,


Gone silent and forever dark.


The window boards have been inserted,


The panes chalked white. The owner's fled;


But where, God knows. All trace is dead.


33


With epigrams of spite and daring


It's pleasant to provoke a foe;


It's pleasant when you see him staring


His stubborn, thrusting horns held low


Unwillingly within the mirror,


Ashamed to see himself the clearer;


More pleasant yet, my friends, if he


Shrieks out in stupid shock: that's me!


Still pleasanter is mute insistence


On granting him his resting place


By shooting at his pallid face


From some quite gentlemanly distance.


But once you've had your fatal fun,


You won't be pleased to see it done.


34


And what would be your own reaction


If with your pistol you'd struck down


A youthful friend for some infraction:


A bold reply, too blunt a frown,


Some bagatelle when you'd been drinking;


Or what if he himself, not thinking,


Had called you out in fiery pride?


Well, tell me: what would you . . . inside


Be thinking of... or merely feeling,


Were your good friend before you now,


Stretched out with death upon his brow,


His blood by slow degrees congealing,


Too deaf and still to make reply


To your repeated, desperate cry?


35


In anguish, with his heart forsaken,


The pistol in his hand like lead,


Eugene stared down at Lensky, shaken.


His neighbour spoke: 'Well then, he's dead.'


The awful word, so lightly uttered,


Was like a blow. Onegin shuddered,


Then called his men and walked away.


Zaretsky, carefully, then lay


The frozen corpse on sleigh, preparing


To drive the body home once more.


Sensing the dreadful load they bore,


The horses neighed, their nostrils flaring,


And wet the metal bit with foam,


Then swift as arrows raced for home.


36


You mourn the poet, friends . . . and rightly:


Scarce out of infant clothes and killed!


Those joyous hopes that bloomed so brightly


Now doomed to wither unfulfilled!


Where now the ardent agitation,


The fine and noble aspiration


Of youthful feeling, youthful thought,


Exalted, tender, boldly wrought?


And where are stormy love's desires,


The thirst for knowledge, work, and fame,


The dread of vice, the fear of shame?


And where are you, poetic fires,


You cherished dreams of sacred worth


And pledge of life beyond this earth!


37


It may be he was born to fire


The world with good, or earn at least


A gloried name; his silenced lyre


Might well have raised, before it ceased,


A call to ring throughout the ages.


Perhaps, upon the world's great stages,


He might have scaled a lofty height.


His martyred shade, condemned to night,


Perhaps has carried off forever


Some sacred truth, a living word,


Now doomed by death to pass unheard;


And in the tomb his shade shall never


Receive our race's hymns of praise,


Nor hear the ages bless his days.


(38) 39


Or maybe he was merely fated


To live amid the common tide;


And as his years of youth abated,


The flame within him would have died.


In time he might have changed profoundly,


Have quit the Muses, married soundly;


And in the country he'd have worn


A quilted gown and cuckold's horn,


And happy, he'd have learned life truly;


At forty he'd have had the gout,


Have eaten, drunk, grown bored and stout,


And so decayed, until he duly


Passed on in bed ... his children round,


While women wept and doctors frowned.


40


However, reader, we may wonder . ..


The youthful lover's voice is stilled,


His dreams and songs all rent asunder;


And he, alas, by friend lies killed!


Not far from where the youth once flourished


There lies a spot the poet cherished:


Two pine trees grow there, roots entwined;


Beneath them quiet streamlets wind,


Meand'ring from the nearby valley.


And there the ploughman rests at will


And women reapers come to fill


Their pitchers in the stream and dally;


There too, within a shaded nook,


A simple stone adjoins the brook.


41


Sometimes a shepherd sits there waiting


(Till on the fields, spring rains have passed)


And sings of Volga fishers, plaiting


His simple, coloured shoes of bast;


Or some young girl from town who's spending


Her summer in the country mending


When headlong and alone on horse


She races down the meadow course,


Will draw her leather reins up tightly


To halt just there her panting steed;


And lifting up her veil, she'll read


The plain inscription, skimming lightly;


And as she reads, a tear will rise


And softly dim her gentle eyes.


42


And at a walk she'll ride, dejected,


Into the open field to gaze,


Her soul, despite herself, infected


By Lensky's brief, ill-fated days.


She'll wonder too: 'Did Olga languish?


Her heart consumed with lasting anguish?


Or did the time of tears soon pass?


And where's her sister now, poor lass?


And where that gloomy, strange betrayer,


The modish beauty's modish foe,


That recluse from the world we know


The youthful poet's friend and slayer?'


In time, I promise, I'll not fail


To tell you all in full detail.


43


But not today. Although I cherish


My hero and of course I vow


To see how he may wane or flourish,


I'm not quite in the mood just now.


The years to solemn prose incline me;


The years chase playful rhyme behind me,


And Ialas, I must confess


Pursue her now a good deal less.


My pen has lost its disposition


To mar the fleeting page with verse;


For other, colder dreams I nurse,


And sterner cares now seek admission;


And mid the hum and hush of life,


They haunt my soul with dreams of strife.


44


I've learned the voice of new desires


And come to know a new regret;


The first within me light no fires,


And I lament old sorrows yet.


O dreams! Where has your sweetness vanished?


And where has youth (glib rhyme) been banished?


Can it be true, its bloom has passed,


Has withered, withered now at last?


Can it be true, my heyday's ended


All elegiac play aside That now indeed my spring has died


(As I in jest so oft pretended)?


And is there no return of youth?


Shall I be thirty soon, in truth?


45


And so, life's afternoon has started,


As I must now admit, I see.


But let us then as friends be parted,


My sparkling youth, before you flee!


I thank you for your host of treasures,


For pain and grief as well as pleasures,


For storms and feasts and worldly noise,


For all your gifts and all your joys;


My thanks to you. With you I've tasted,


Amid the tumult and the still,


Life's essence . . . and enjoyed my fill.


Enough! Clear-souled and far from wasted,


I start upon an untrod way


To take my rest from yesterday.


46


But one glance back. Farewell, you bowers,


Sweet wilderness in which I spent


Impassioned days and idle hours,


And filled my soul with dreams, content.


And you, my youthful inspiration,


Come stir the bleak imagination,


Enrich the slumbering heart's dull load,


More often visit my abode;


Let not the poet's soul grow bitter


Or harden and congeal alone,


To turn at last to lifeless stone


Amid this world's deceptive glitter,


This swirling swamp in which we lie


And wallow, friends, both you and I!


Chapter 7


Moscow! Russia's favourite daughter!


Where is your equal to be found!


Dmitriev


Can one not love our native Moscow?


Baratynsky


'Speak ill of Moscow!


So this is what it means to see the world!


Where is it better, then?'


'Where we are not.'


Griboedov


1


Spring rays at last begin to muster


And chase from nearby hills the snow,


Whose turbid streams flow down and cluster


To inundate the fields below.


And drowsy nature, smiling lightly,


Now greets the dawning season brightly.


The heavens sparkle now with blue;


The still transparent woods renew


Their downy green and start to thicken.


The bee flies out from waxen cell


To claim its meed from field and dell.


The vales grow dry and colours quicken;


The cattle low; and by the moon


The nightingale pours forth its tune.


2


How sad I find your apparition,


O spring! ... #62038; time of love's unrest!


What sombre echoes of ambition


Then stir my blood and fill my breast!


What tender and oppressive yearning


Possesses me on spring's returning,


When in some quiet rural place


I feel her breath upon my face!


Or am I now inured to gladness;


And all that quickens and excites,


That sparkles, triumphs, and delights


Casts only spleen and languid sadness


On one whose heart has long been dead,


For whom but darkness lies ahead?


3


Or saddened by the re-emergence


Of leaves that perished in the fall,


We heed the rustling wood's resurgence,


As bitter losses we recall;


Or do we mark with lamentation


How nature's lively renovation


Compares with our own fading youth,


For which no spring will come, in truth?


Perhaps in thought we reassemble,


Within a dream to which we cling,


Some other and more ancient spring,


That sets the aching heart atremble


With visions of some distant place,


A magic night, the moon's embrace. . . .


4


Now is the time, you hibernators,


You epicures and sages, you;


You fortunate procrastinators,


You fledglings from our Lyvshin's crew,*


You rustic Priams from the cities,


And you, my sentimental pretties


Spring calls you to your country seat;


It's time for flowers, labours, heat,


Those heady walks for which you're thirsting,


And soft seductive nights as well.


Into the fields, my friends, pell-mell!


Load up your carriages to bursting,


Bring out your own or rent a horse,


And far from town now set your course!


5


You too, indulgent reader, hurry


In your imported coach, I pray,


To leave the city with its flurry,


Where you spent wintertime in play;


And with my wilful Muse let's hustle


To where the leafy woodlands rustle


A nameless river's placid scene,


The country place where my Eugene,


That idle and reclusive schemer,


But recently this winter stayed,


Not far from our unhappy maid,


Young Tanya, my enchanted dreamer;


But where he now no longer reigns . . .


Where only his sad trace remains.


6


Where hills half circle round a valley,


Let's trace a winding brooklet's flow


Through greening fields, and watch it dally


Beside a spot where lindens grow.


And there the nightingale, spring's lover,


Sings out till dawn; a crimson cover


Of briar blooms, and freshets sound.


There too a tombstone can be found


Beneath two pine trees, old for ages.


Its legend lets the stranger know:


'Vladimir Lensky lies below.


He died too soon ... his death courageous,


At such an age, in such a year.


Repose in peace, young poet, here!'


7


There was a time when breezes playing


Among the pines would gently turn


A secret wreath that hung there swaying


Upon a bough above that urn;


And sometimes in the evening hours


Two maidens used to come with flowers,


And by the moonlit grave they kept


Their vigil and, embracing, wept.


But now the monument stands dreary


And quite forgot. Its pathway now


All weeds. No wreath is on the bough;


Alone the shepherd, grey and weary,


Beneath it sings as in the past


and plaits his simple shoes of bast.


(8-9) 10


My poor, poor Lensky! Yes, she mourned him;


Although her tears were all too brief!


Alas! His fiance has scorned him


And proved unfaithful to her grief.


Another captured her affection,


Another with his love's perfection


Has lulled her wretchedness to sleep:


A lancer has enthralled her deep,


A lancer whom she loves with passion;


And at the altar by his side,


She stands beneath the crown a bride,


Her head bent down in modest fashion,


Her lowered eyes aflame the while,


And on her lips a slender smile.


11


Poor Lensky! In his place of resting,


In deaf eternity's grim shade,


Did he, sad bard, awake protesting


The fateful news, he'd been betrayed?


Or lulled by Lethe, has he slumbered,


His blissful spirit unencumbered


By feelings and perturbed no more,


His world a closed and silent door?


Just so! The tomb that lies before us


Holds but oblivion in the end.


The voice of lover, foe, and friend


Falls silent fast. Alone the chorus


Of angry heirs in hot debate


Contests obscenely our estate.


12


Soon Olga's happy voice and beauty


No longer cheered the family group.


A captive of his lot and duty,


Her lancer had to join his troop.


Dame Larin's eyes began to water


As she embraced her younger daughter


And, scarce alive, cried out goodbye.


But Tanya found she couldn't cry;


A deathly pallor merely covered


Her stricken face. When all came out


Onto the porch and fussed about


While taking leave, Tatyana hovered


Beside the couple's coach below,


Then sadly saw the lovers go.


13


And long she watched the road they'd taken,


As through a mist of stifled tears. . . .


Now Tanya is alone, forsaken!


Companion of so many years,


The darling sister whom she'd nourished,


The bosom friend she'd always cherished


Now carried off by fate, a bride,


Forever parted from her side.


She roams in aimless desolation,


Now gazes at the vacant park. ...


But all seems joyless, bleak and dark;


There's nothing offers consolation


Or brings her smothered tears relief;


Her heart is rent in two by grief.


14


And in the solitude her passion


Burns even stronger than before,


Her heart speaks out in urgent fashion


Of faraway Eugene the more.


She'll never see him . . . and be grateful,


She finds a brother's slayer hateful


And loathes the awful thing he's done.


The poet's gone . . . and hardly one


Remembers him; his bride's devotion


Has flown to someone else instead;


His very memory now has fled


Like smoke across an azure ocean.


Two hearts, perhaps, remain forlorn


And mourn him yet. . . . But wherefore mourn?


15


'Twas evening and the heavens darkled.


A beetle hummed. The peasant choirs


Were bound for home. Still waters sparkled.


Across the river, smoky fires


Of fishermen were dimly gleaming.


Tatyana walked, alone and dreaming,


Beneath the moonbeams' silver light


And climbed a gentle hill by night.


She walked and walked . .. till with a shiver


She spied a distant hamlet's glow,


A manor house and grove below,


A garden by the glinting river.


And as she gazed upon that place


Her pounding heart began to race.


16


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


When wayward fate has made me stray


I've dreamt of Moscow far away!


Ah, Moscow! How that sound is freighted


With meaning for our Russian hearts!


How many echoes it imparts!


37


And here's Petrvsky Castle,* hoary


Amid its park. In sombre dress


It wears with pride its recent glory:


Napoleon, drunk with fresh success,


Awaited here, in vain, surrender


For kneeling Moscow's hand to tender


The ancient Kremlin's hallowed keys.


But Moscow never bent her knees,


Nor bowed her head in subjugation;


No welcome feast did she prepare


The restless hero waiting there


But lit instead a conflagration.


From here he watched, immersed in thought,


The awesome blaze my Moscow wrought.


38


Farewell now, scene of fame unsteady,


Petrvsky Castle. Hey! Be fleet!


There gleam the city gates already!


And now along Tverskya Street


The sleigh glides over ruts and passes


By sentry booths and peasant lasses;


By gardens, mansions, fashion shops;


Past urchins, streetlamps, strolling fops,


Bokhrins, sleighs, apothecaries,


Muzhiks and merchants, Cossack guards;


Past towers, hovels, boulevards,


Great balconies and monasteries;


Past gateway lions' lifted paws,


And crosses dense with flocks of daws.


(39)40


This tiring trek through town extended


For two full hours; then, quite late


Nearby St Chariton's it ended


Before a mansion's double gate.


For now they'll seek accommodation


With Tanya's aunt, a kind relation


Four years consumptive, sad to note.


In glasses and a torn old coat,


A grizzled Kalmuk came to meet them;


With sock in hand he led the way


To where the prostrate princess lay;


She called from parlour couch to greet them.


The two old ladies hugged and cried,


With shouts of joy on either side.


41


'Princesse, mon ange!' 'Pachette!' 'Oh, Laura!'


'Who would have thought?' 'How long it's been!'


'I hope you'll stay?' 'Dear cousin Laura!'


'Sit down.. . . How strange! ... I can't begin . . .


I'd swear it's from some novel's pages!'


'And here's my Tanya.' 'Lord, it's ages!


Oh, Tanya sweet, come over here


I think I must be dreaming, dear. . . .


Oh, cousin, do you still remember


Your Grandison?' 'I never knew . . .


Oh, Grandison! ... of course I do!'


'He lives in Moscow. This December,


On Christmas eve, he paid a call:


He married off his son this fall.


42


'The other. . .. But we'll talk tomorrow;


And straightway too, to all her kin


We'll show your Tanya.


What a sorrow


That paying visits does me in;


I drag about like some poor laggard.


But here, your trip has left you haggard;


Let's all go have a nice long rest. .. .


I've got no strength . . . this weary breast


Finds even joy at times excessive,


Not only woe.. . . It's true, my dear,


I'm good for nothing now, I fear;


When one gets old, life turns oppressive.'


And all worn out, she wept a bit,


Then broke into a coughing fit.


43


The sick old lady's kindly smile


Left Tanya moved; but she felt sad


Within this strange new domicile


And missed the room she'd always had.


In bed, beneath her silken curtain,


She lies there sleepless and uncertain;


And early church bellswhen they chime,


Announcing dawn and working time


Rouse Tanya from her bed to listen.


She sits before the windowsill.


The darkness wanes, but Tanya still


Can't see her fields and valleys glisten:


She sees an unknown yard instead:


A stable, fence, and kitchen shed.


44


And now they trundle Tanya daily


To family dinners just to share


With grandams and granduncles gaily


Her languid and abstracted air.


Those kin who've come from distant places


Are always met with warm embraces,


With shouts of joy and welcome cheer.


'How Tanya's grown! It seems, my dear,


So short a time since I baptized you!' '


And since I dried your baby tears!'


'And since I pulled you by the ears!'


'And since my gingerbread surprised you!'


And with one voice the grannies cry:


'Good gracious, how the years do fly!'


45


In them, though, nothing ever alters;


The same old patterns still are met:


Old Aunt Elena never falters


And wears that same tulle bonnet yet;


Still powdered is Lukrya Lvvna;


A liar still, Lyubv Petrvna;


Ivn Petrvich ... no more bright;


Semyn Petrvich . . . just as tight;


And Anna Pvlovna, as ever,


Still has her friend, Monsieur Finemouch,


Her same old spouse, and same old pooch


Her husband, clubman come whatever,


Is just as meek and deaf, it's true,


And still consumes enough for two.


46


Their daughters, after brief embraces,


Look Tanya over good and slow;


In silence Moscow's youthful graces


Examine her from head to toe.


They find her stranger than expected,


A bit provincial and affected,


And somewhat pale, too thin and small,


But on the whole, not bad at all;


Then bowing to innate compassion,


They squeeze her hand and, in the end,


Take Tanya in and call her friend;


They fluff her curls in latest fashion,


And in their singsong tones impart


Their girlish secrets of the heart


47


Both others' and their own successes,


Their hopes, and pranks, and maiden dreams;


All innocence, their talk progresses .


Though now and then some gossip gleams.


And then they ask, in compensation


For their sweet flow of revelation,


For her confessions of romance.


But Tanya, in a kind of trance,


Attends their giddy conversation


Without response and takes no part;


And all the while she guards her heart


With silence and in meditation:


Her cherished trove of tears and bliss


She'll share with none, aloud like this.


48


Tatyana tries to pay attention


When in the parlour guests converse;


But all they ever seem to mention


Is incoherent rot, or worse;


They seem so pallid and so weary,


And even in their slander dreary.


In all the sterile words they use


In arid gossip, questions, news


Not once all day does thought but flicker,


Not even in some chance remark;


The languid mind will find no spark,


The heart no cause to beat the quicker;


And even simple-minded fun


This hollow world has learned to shun!


49


'Archival dandies'* in a cluster


Eye Tanya with a priggish frown,


And with their usual sort of bluster,


Among themselves they put her down.


One melancholy joker found her


His 'true ideal' and hovered round her


Then, leaning by the door, prepared


An elegy, to show he cared.


Once Vyzemsky* sat down beside her


(On meeting her at some dull aunt's)


And managed to dispel her trance;


And some old manwhen he espied her


Put straight his wig and asked around


About this unknown belle he'd found.


50


But where Melpomene still stages


Her stormy scenes and wails aloud


And in her gaudy mantle rages


Before the dull and frigid crowd;


Where sweet Thalia calmly dozes,


Indifferent to admirers' roses;


Where just Terpsichore enchants


The youthful lover of the dance


(As was the casefor nothing passes


In our day too, let's not forget),


No jealous lady trained lorgnette,


No modish connoisseur his glasses,


To spy on Tanya down below


From boxes rising row on row.


51


They take her to the Grand Assembly:*


And there the crush, the glare, the heat,


The music's roar, the ballroom trembling,


The whirling flash of pairs of feet,


The beauties in their filmy dresses,


The swarming gallery throng that presses,


The host of girls on marriage hunts


Assault the senses all at once.


Here practised dandies bow and slither


To show their gall. . . and waistcoats too,


With negligent lorgnettes in view.


Hussars on leave come racing hither


To strut their stuff and thunder by,


To dazzle, conquer . . . and to fly.


52


The night has countless stars to light her,


And Moscow countless beauties too;


And yet the regal moon shines brighter


Than all her friends in heaven's blue;


And she, whose beauty I admire


But dare not bother with my lyre


Just like the moon upon her throne,


Mid wives and maidens shines alone.


With what celestial pride she grazes


The earth she walks, in splendour dressed!


What languor fills her lovely breast!


How sensuous her wondrous gazes! . . .


But there, enough; have done at last:


You've paid your due to follies past.


53


Commotion, bows . . . the glad, the solemn . . .


Galop, mazurka, waltz. . . . And there,


Between two aunts, beside a column,


Observed by none, and near despair,


Tatyana looks with eyes unseeing


And loathes this world with all her being;


She's stifled here . . . and in her mind


Calls up the life she left behind


The countryside, poor village neighbours,


A distant and secluded nook


Beside a limpid flowing brook,


Her flowers, novels, daily labours ...


That dusky, linden-shaded walk


Where he and she once had their talk.


54


And so, far off in thought she wandered:


The monde, the noisy ball forgot;


But all the while, as Tanya pondered,


Some general stared her way a lot.


The aunts exchanged a wink and nodded,


And with an elbow each one prodded


Tatyana, whisp'ring in her ear:


'Look quickly to your left, my dear.'


'My left? But why? It seems like gawking.'


'Just never mind . . . now look up there . . .


That group in front; you see that pair . . .


In uniform? The one not talking . ..


He just moved off. . . . He's turning round.'


'That heavy general?' Tanya frowned.


55


But here let's honour with affection


My Tanya's conquest taking wing,


And steer for now a new direction,


Lest I forget of whom I sing


On which, herewith, these observations:


I sing strange whims and aberrations,


I sing a youthful friend of mine.


#62038; Muse of Epics, may you shine


On my long work as I grow older!


And armed with your good staff,


I pray, May I not roam too far astray.


Enough! The burden's off my shoulder!


To classicism I've been true:


The foreword's here, if overdue.


Chapter 8


Fare thee well, and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well.


Byron


1


In days when I still bloomed serenely


Inside our Lyce* garden wall


And read my Apuleius keenly,


But read no Cicero at all


Those springtime days in secret valleys,


Where swans call out and beauty dallies,


Near waters sparkling in the still,


The Muse first came to make me thrill.


My student cell turned incandescent;


And there the Muse spread out for me


A feast of youthful fancies free,


And sang of childhood effervescent,


The glory of our days of old,


The trembling dreams the heart can hold.


2


And with a smile the world caressed us;


What wings our first successes gave!


The old Derzhvin* sawand blessed us,


As he descended to the grave.


3


And I, who saw my single duty


As heeding passion's siren song


To share with all the world her beauty,


Would take my merry Muse along


To rowdy feasts and altercations


The bane of midnight sentry stations;


And to each mad and fevered rout


She brought her gifts . . . and danced about,


Bacchante-like, at all our revels,


And over wine she sang for guests;


And in those days when I was blest,


The young pursued my Muse like devils;


While I, mid friends, was drunk with pride


My flighty mistress at my side.


4


But from that band I soon departed


And fled afar . . . and she as well.


How often, on the course I charted,


My gentle Muse's magic spell


Would light the way with secret stories!


How oft, mid far Caucasia's glories,


Like fair Lenore,* on moonlit nights


She rode with me those craggy heights!


How often on the shores of Tauris,*


On misty eves, she led me down


To hear the sea's incessant sound,


The Nereids'* eternal chorus


That endless chant the waves unfurled


In praise of him who made the world.


5


Forgetting, then, the city's splendour,


Its noisy feasts and grand events,


In sad Moldavia she turned tender


And visited the humble tents


Of wandering tribes; and like a child,


She learned their ways and soon grew wild:


The language of the gods she shed


For strange and simple tongues instead


To sing the savage steppe,* elated;


But then her course abruptly veered,


And in my garden* she appeared


A country missinfatuated,


With mournful air and brooding glance,


And in her hands a French romance.


6


And now I seize the first occasion


To show my Muse a grand soire;


I watch with jealous trepidation


Her rustic charms on full display.


And lo! my beauty calmly passes


Through ranks of men from highborn classes,


Past diplomats and soldier-fops,


And haughty dames . . . then calmly stops


To sit and watch the grand procession


The gowns, the talk, the milling mass,


The slow parade of guests who pass


Before the hostess in succession,


The sombre men who form a frame


Around each painted belle and dame.


7


She likes the stately disposition


Of oligarchic colloquies,


Their chilly pride in high position,


The mix of years and ranks she sees.


But who is that among the chosen,


That figure standing mute and frozen,


That stranger no one seems to know?


Before him faces come and go


Like spectres in a bleak procession.


What is itmartyred pride, or spleen


That marks his face? ... Is that Eugene? !


That figure with the strange expression?


Can that be he? It is, I say.


'But when did fate cast him our way?


8


'Is he the same, or is he learning?


Or does he play the outcast still?


In what new guise is he returning?


What role does he intend to fill?


Childe Harold? Melmoth for a while?


Cosmopolite? A Slavophile?


A Quaker? Bigot?might one ask?


Or will he sport some other mask?


Or maybe he's just dedicated,


Like you and me, to being nice?


In any case, here's my advice:


Give up a role when it's outdated.


He's gulled the world . . . now let it go.'


'You know him then?' 'Well, yes and no.'


9


But why on earth does he inspire


So harsh and negative a view?


Is it because we never tire


Of censuring what others do?


Because an ardent spirit's daring


Appears absurd or overbearing


From where the smug and worthless sit?


Because the dull are cramped by wit?


Because we take mere talk for action,


And malice rules a petty mind?


Because in tripe the solemn find


A cause for solemn satisfaction,


And mediocrity alone


Is what we like and call our own?


10


Oh, blest who in his youth was tender;


And blest who ripened in his prime;


Who learned to bear, without surrender,


The chill of life with passing time;


Who never knew exotic visions,


Nor scorned the social mob's decisions;


Who was at twenty fop or swell,


And then at thirty, married well,


At fifty shed all obligation


For private and for other debts;


Who gained in turn, without regrets,


Great wealth and rank and reputation;


Of whom lifelong the verdict ran:


'Old X is quite a splendid man.'


11


How sad that youth, with all its power,


Was given us in vain, to burn;


That we betrayed it every hour,


And were deceived by it in turn;


That all our finest aspirations,


Our brightest dreams and inspirations,


Have withered with each passing day


Like leaves dank autumn rots away.


It's hard to face a long succession


Of dinners stretching out of sight,


To look at life as at a rite,


And trail the seemly crowd's procession


Indifferent to the views they hold,


And to their passions ever cold.


12


When one becomes the butt of rumour,


It's hard to bear (as you well know)


When men of reason and good humour


Perceive you as a freak on show,


Or as a sad and raving creature,


A monster of Satanic feature,


Or even Demon of my pen!*


Eugene (to speak of him again),


Who'd killed his friend for satisfaction,


Who in an aimless, idle fix


Had reached the age of twenty-six,


Annoyed with leisure and inaction,


Without position, work, or wife


Could find no purpose for his life.


13


He felt a restless, vague ambition,


A craving for a change of air


(A most unfortunate condition


A cross not many choose to bear).


He left his home in disillusion


And fled the woods' and fields' seclusion,


Where every day before his eyes


A bloody spectre seemed to rise;


He took up travel for distraction,


A single feeling in his breast;


But journeys too, like all the rest,


Soon proved a wearisome attraction.


So he returned one day to fall,


Like Chatsky,* straight from boat to ball.


14


But look, the crowd's astir and humming;


A murmur through the ballroom steals . . .


The hostess sees a lady coming,


A stately general at her heels.


She isn't hurried or obtrusive,


Is neither cold nor too effusive;


She casts no brazen glance around


And makes no effort to astound


Or use those sorts of affectation


And artifice that ladies share


But shows a simple, quiet air.


She seems the very illustration


Du comme il faut. . . (Shishkov,* be kind:


I can't translate this phrase, I find.)


15


The ladies flocked to stand beside her;


Old women beamed as she went by;


The men bowed lower when they spied her


And sought in vain to catch her eye;


Young maidens hushed in passing by her;


While none held head and shoulders higher


Than he who brought the lady there


The general with the prideful air.


One couldn't label her a beauty;


But neither did her form contain,


From head to toe, the slightest strain


Of what, with fashion's sense of duty,


The London social sets decry


As vulgar. (I won't even try


16


To find an adequate translation


For this delicious epithet;


With us the word's an innovation,


But though it's won no favour yet, '


Twould make an epigram of style.* .


. . But where's our lady all this while?)


With carefree charm and winsome air


She took a seat beside the chair


Of brilliant Nina Voronskya,*


That Cleopatra of the North;


But even Nina, shining forth


With all her marble beauty's fire


However dazzling to the sight


Could not eclipse her neighbour's light.


17


'Can it be true?' Eugene reflected.


'Can that be she? ... It seems . . . and yet. . .


From those backwoods!' And he directed


A curious and keen lorgnette


For several minutes in succession


Upon the lady whose expression


Called up a face from long ago.


'But tell me, Prince, you wouldn't know


Who's standing there in conversation


Beside the Spanish envoy, pray .. .


That lady in the red beret?'


'You have been out of circulation.


But I'll present you now with joy.'


'Who is she, though?' 'My wife, old boy.'


18


'You're married! Really?''On my honour.'


'To whom? How long?''Some two years since . . .


The Larin girl.''You mean Tatyana!'


'She knows you?''We were neighbours, Prince.'


'Well then, come on . . . we'll go and meet her.'


And so the prince led up to greet her


His kinsman and his friend Eugene.


The princess looked at himserene;


However much the situation


Disturbed her soul and caused her pain,


However great her shock or strain,


She gave no hint of agitation:


Her manner stayed the same outside,


Her bow was calm and dignified.


19


It's true! The lady didn't shiver,


Or blush, or suddenly turn white .. .


Or even let an eyebrow quiver,


Or press her lips together tight.


Although Eugene with care inspected


This placid lady, he detected


No trace of Tanya from the past.


And when he tried to speak at last,


He found he couldn't. She enquired


When he'd arrived, and if of late


he'd been back home at his estate


Then gave her spouse a look so tired,


He took her arm. She moved away . . .


And left Eugene in mute dismay.


20


Was this the Tanya he once scolded


In that forsaken, distant place


Where first our novel's plot unfolded?


The one to whom, when face to face,


In such a burst of moral fire,


He'd lectured gravely on desire?


The girl whose letter he still kept


In which a maiden heart had wept;


Where all was shown ... all unprotected?


Was this that girl... or did he dream?


That little girl whose warm esteem


And humble lot he'd once rejected? . . .


And could she now have been so bold,


So unconcerned with him ... so cold?


21


He left the rout in all its splendour


And drove back home, immersed in thought;


A swarm of dreams, both sad and tender,


Disturbed the slumber that he sought.


He woke to find, with some elation,


Prince N. had sent an invitation.


'Oh God! I'll see her. . . and today!


Oh yes, I'll go!'and straightaway


He scrawled a note: he 'd be delighted.


What's wrong with him? . . . He's in a daze.


What's stirring in that idle gaze,


What's made that frigid soul excited?


Vexation? Pride? Or youth's old yen


For all the cares of love again?


22


Once more he counts the hours, pacing;


Once more can't wait till day is past.


The clock strikes ten: and off he's racing,


And now he's at the porch at last;


He enters in some apprehension;


The princess, to his added tension,


Is quite alone. Some minutes there


They sit. Eugene can only stare,


He has no voice. Without a smile,


And ill at ease, he scarcely tries


To answer her. His mind supplies


But one persistent thought the while.


His eyes retain their stare; but she Sits


unconstrained, quite calm and free.


23


Her husband enters, thus arresting


This most unpleasant tte--tte;


Eugene and he recalled the jesting,


The pranks and fun when first they'd met.


They laughed. Then guests began arriving.


And on the spice of malice thriving,


The conversation sparkled bright;


The hostess kept the banter light


And quite devoid of affectations;


Good reasoned talk was also heard,


But not a trite or vulgar word,


No lasting truths or dissertations


And no one's ears were shocked a bit


By all the flow of lively wit.


24


The social cream had gathered gaily:


The nobly born and fashion's pets;


The faces one encounters daily,


The fools one never once forgets;


The aged ladies, decked in roses,


In bonnets and malignant poses;


And several maidens, far from gay


Unsmiling faces on display;


And here's an envoy speaking slyly


Of some most solemn state affair;


A greybeard too . . . with scented hair,


Who joked both cleverly and wryly


In quite a keen, old-fashioned way,


Which seems a touch absurd today!


25


And here's a chap whose words are biting,


Who's cross with everything about:


With tea too sweet to be inviting,


With banal ladies, men who shout,


That foggy book they're all debating,


The badge on those two maids-in-waiting,*


The falsehoods in reviews, the war,


The snow, his wife, and much, much more.


26


And here's Prolzov,* celebrated


For loathesomeness of soula clown,


As you, Saint-Priest,* have demonstrated


In album drawings all through town.


Another ballroom king on station


(Like fashion's very illustration)


Beside the door stood tightly laced,


Immobile, mute, and cherub-faced;


A traveller home from distant faring,


A brazen chap all starched and proud,


Provoked amusement in the crowd


By his pretentious, studied bearing:


A mere exchange of looks conveyed


The sorry sight the fellow made.


27


But my Eugene all evening heeded


Tatyana . . . only her alone:


But not the timid maid who'd pleaded,


That poor enamoured girl he'd known


But this cool princess so resplendent,


This distant goddess so transcendent,


Who ruled the queenly Neva's shore.


Alas! We humans all ignore


Our Mother Eve's disastrous history:


What's given to us ever palls,


Incessantly the serpent calls


And lures us to the tree of mystery:


We've got to have forbidden fruit,


Or Eden's joys for us are moot.


28


How changed Tatyana is!


How surely She's taken up the role she plays!


How quick she's mastered, how securely,


Her lordly rank's commanding ways!


Who'd dare to seek the tender maiden


In this serene and glory-laden


Grande Dame of lofty social spheres?


Yet once he'd moved her heart to tears!


Her virgin brooding once had cherished


Sweet thoughts of him in darkest night,


While Morpheus still roamed in flight;


And, gazing at the moon, she'd nourished


A tender dream that she someday


Might walk with him life's humble way!


29


To love all ages yield surrender;


But to the young its raptures bring


A blessing bountiful and tender


As storms refresh the fields of spring.


Neath passion's rains they green and thicken,


Renew themselves with joy, and quicken;


And vibrant life in taking root


Sends forth rich blooms and gives sweet fruit.


But when the years have made us older,


And barren age has shown its face,


How sad is faded passion's trace! . . .


Thus storms in autumn, blowing colder,


Turn meadows into marshy ground


And strip the forest bare all round.


30


Alas! it's true: Eugene's demented,


In love with Tanya like a boy;


He spends each day and night tormented


By thoughts of love, by dreams of joy.


Ignoring reason's condemnation,


Each day he rides to take his station


Outside her glassed-in entryway,


Then follows her about all day.


He's happy just to be around her,


To help her with her shawl or furs,


To touch a torrid hand to hers,


To part the footmen who surround her


In liveried ranks where'er she calls,


Or fetch her kerchief when it falls.


31


She pays him not the least attention,


No matter what he tries to do;


At home receives him without tension;


In public speaks a word or two,


Or sometimes merely bows on meeting,


Or passes by without a greeting:


She's no coquette in any part


The monde abhors a fickle heart.


Onegin, though, is fading quickly;


She doesn't see or doesn't care;


Onegin, wasting, has the air


Of one consumptivewan and sickly.


He's urged to seek his doctors' view,


And these suggest a spa or two.


32


But he refused to go. He's ready


To join his forebears any day;


Tatyana, though, stayed calm and steady


(Their sex, alas, is hard to sway).


And yet he's stubborn . . . still resistant,


Still hopeful and indeed persistent.


Much bolder than most healthy men,


He chose with trembling hand to pen


The princess an impassioned letter.


Though on the whole he saw no sense


In missives writ in love's defence


(And with good cause!), he found it better


Than bearing all his pain unheard.


So here's his letter word for word.


Onegin's Letter to Tatyana


I know you'll feel a deep distress


At this unwanted revelation.


What hitter scorn and condemnation


Your haughty glance may well express!


What aims . . . what hopes do


I envision In opening my soul to you?


What wicked and deserved derision


Perhaps I give occasion to!


When first I met you and detected


A warmth in you quite unexpected,


I dared not trust in love again:


I didn 't yield to sweet temptation


And had, it's true, no inclination


To lose my hateful freedom then.


What's more: poor guiltless Lensky perished,


And his sad fate drew us apart. ..


From all that I had ever cherished


I tore away my grieving heart;


Estranged from men and discontented,


I thought: in freedom, peace of mind,


A substitute for joy I'd find.


How wrong I've been! And how tormented!


But no! Each moment of my days


To see you and pursue you madly!


To catch your smile and search your gaze


With loving eyes that seek you gladly;


To melt with pain before your face,


To hear your voice. . . to try to capture


With all my soul your perfect grace;


To swoon and pass away . . . what rapture!


And I'm deprived of this; for you


I search on all the paths I wander;


Each day is dear, each moment too!


Yet I in futile dullness squander


These days allotted me by fate . .


. Oppressive days indeed of late.


My span on earth is all but taken,


But lest too soon I join the dead,


I need to know when I awaken,


I'll see you in the day ahead....


I fear that in this meek petition


Your solemn gaze may only spy


The cunning of a base ambition


And I can hear your stern reply.


But if you knew the anguish in it:


To thirst with love in every part,


To burnand with the mind each minute,


To calm the tumult in one's heart;


To long to clasp in adoration


Your knees . . . and, sobbing at your feet,


Pour out confessions, lamentation,


Oh, all that I might then entreat!. ..


And meantime, feigning resignation,


To arm my gaze and speech with lies:


to look at you with cheerful eyes


And hold a placid conversation!. . .


But let it be: it's now too late


For me to struggle at this hour;


The die is cast: I'm in your power,


And I surrender to my fate.


33


No answer came. Eugene elected


to write again . . . and then once more


With no reply. He drives, dejected,


To some soire . . . and by the door,


Sees her at once! Her harshness stuns him!


Without a word the lady shuns him!


My god! How stern that haughty brow,


What wintry frost surrounds her now!


Her lips express determination


To keep her fury in control!


Onegin stares with all his soul:


But where's distress? Commiseration?


And where the tearstains? . . . Not a trace!


There's wrath alone upon that face . . .


34


And, maybe, secret apprehension


Lest monde or husband misconstrue


An episode too slight to mention,


The tale that my Onegin knew ....


But he departs, his hopes in tatters,


And damns his folly in these matters


And plunging into deep despond,


He once again rejects the monde.


And he recalled with grim emotion,


Behind his silent study door,


How wicked spleen had once before


Pursued him through the world's commotion,


Had seized him by the collar then,


And locked him in a darkened den.


35


Once more he turned to books and sages.


He read his Gibbon and Rousseau;


Chamfort, Manzoni, Herder's pages;


Madame de Stal, Bichat, Tissot.


The sceptic Bayle he quite devoured,


The works of Fontenelle he scoured;*


He even read some Russians too,


Nor did he scorn the odd review


Those journals where each modern Moses


Instructs us in a moral way


Where I'm so much abused today,


But where such madrigals and roses


I used to meet with now and then:


E sempre bene, gentlemen.


36


And yetalthough his eyes were reading,


His thoughts had wandered far apart;


Desires, dreams, and sorrows pleading


Had crowded deep within his heart.


Between the printed lines lay hidden


Quite other lines that rose unbidden


Before his gaze. And these alone


Absorbed his soul... as he was shown:


The heart's dark secrets and traditions,


The mysteries of its ancient past;


Disjointed dreamsobscure and vast;


Vague threats and rumours, premonitions;


A drawn-out tale of fancies grand,


And letters in a maiden's hand.


37


But then as torpor dulled sensation,


His feelings and his thoughts went slack,


While in his mind Imagination


Dealt out her motley faro pack.


He sees a youth, quite still, reposing


On melting snowas if he's dozing


On bivouac; then hears with dread


A voice proclaim: 'Well then, he's dead!'


He sees forgotten foes he'd bested,


Base cowards, slanderers full-blown,


Unfaithful women he had known,


Companions whom he now detested . . .


A country house ... a windowsill. . .


Where she sits waiting . . . waiting still!


38


He got so lost in his depression,


He just about went mad, I fear,


Or else turned poet (an obsession


That I'd have been the first to cheer!)


It's true: by self-hypnotic action,


My muddled pupil, in distraction,


Came close to grasping at that time


The principles of Russian rhyme.


He looked the poet so completely


When by the hearth he'd sit alone


And Benedetto* he'd intone


Or sometimes Idol mio* sweetly


While on the flames he'd drop unseen


His slipper or his magazine!


39


The days flew by. The winter season


Dissolved amid the balmy air;


He didn't die, or lose his reason,


Or turn a poet in despair.


With spring he felt rejuvenated:


The cell in which he'd hibernated


So marmot-like through winter's night


The hearth, the double panes shut tight


He quit one sparkling morn and sprinted


Along the Neva's bank by sleigh.


On hacked-out bluish ice that lay


Beside the road the sunlight glinted.


The rutted snow had turned to slush;


But where in such a headlong rush


40


Has my Eugene directly hastened?


You've guessed already. Yes, indeed:


The moody fellow, still unchastened,


Has flown to Tanya's in his need.


He enters like a dead man, striding


Through empty hall; then passes, gliding,


Through grand salon. And on! ... All bare.


He opens up a door. . . . What's there


That strikes him with such awful pleading?


The princess sits alone in sight,


Quite unadorned, her face gone white


Above some letter that she's reading


And cheek in hand as down she peers,


She softly sheds a flood of tears.


41


In that brief instant then, who couldn't


Have read her tortured heart at last!


And in the princess then, who wouldn't


Have known poor Tanya from the past!


Mad with regret and anguished feeling,


Eugene fell down before her, kneeling;


She shuddered, but she didn't speak,


Just looked at himher visage bleak


Without surprise or indignation.


His stricken, sick, extinguished eyes,


Imploring aspect, mute replies


She saw it all. In desolation,


The simple girl he'd known before,


Who'd dreamt and loved, was born once more.


42


Her gaze upon his face still lingers;


She does not bid him rise or go,


Does not withdraw impassive fingers


From avid lips that press them so.


What dreams of hers were re-enacted?


The heavy silence grew protracted,


Until at last she whispered low: '


Enough; get up. To you I owe


A word of candid explanation.


O


negin, do you still retain


Some memory of that park and lane,


Where fate once willed our confrontation,


And I so meekly heard you preach?


It's my turn now to make a speech.


43


'Onegin, I was then much younger,


I daresay better-looking too,


And loved you with a girlish hunger;


But what did I then find in you?


What answer came? Just stern rejection.


A little maiden's meek affection


To you, I'm sure, was trite and old.


Oh God!my blood can still turn cold


When I recall how you reacted:


Your frigid glance . . . that sermonette! . . .


But I can't blame you or forget


How nobly in a sense you acted,


How right toward me that awful day:


I'm grateful now in every way. . . .


44


'Back thenfar off from vain commotion,


In our backwoods, as you'll allow,


You had no use for my devotion . . .


So why do you pursue me now?


Why mark me out for your attention?


Is it perhaps my new ascension


To circles that you find more swank;


Or that I now have wealth and rank;


Or that my husband, maimed in battle,


Is held in high esteem at Court?


Or would my fall perhaps be sport,


A cause for all the monde to tattle


Which might in turn bring you some claim


To social scandal's kind of fame?


45


'I'm weeping. . . . Oh, at this late hour,


If you recall your Tanya still,


Then knowthat were it in my power,


I'd much prefer words harsh and chill,


Stern censure in your former fashion


To this offensive show of passion,


To all these letters and these tears.


Oh then at least, my tender years


Aroused in you some hint of kindness;


You pitied then my girlish dreams. . . .


But now! . . . What unbecoming schemes


Have brought you to my feet? What blindness!


Can you, so strong of mind and heart,


Now stoop to play so base a part?


46


'To me, Onegin, all these splendours,


This weary tinselled life of mine,


This homage that the great world tenders,


My stylish house where princes dine


Are empty. ... I'd as soon be trading


This tattered life of masquerading,


This world of glitter, fumes, and noise,


For just my books, the simple joys


Of our old home, its walks and flowers,


For all those haunts that I once knew . . .


Where first, Onegin, I saw you;


For that small churchyard's shaded bowers,


Where over my poor nanny now


there stands a cross beneath a bough.


47


'And happiness was ours ... so nearly!


It came so close!. . . But now my fate


Has been decreed. I may have merely


Been foolish when I failed to wait;


But mother with her lamentation


Implored me, and in resignation


(All futures seemed alike in woe)


I married. . . .


Now I beg you, go!


I've faith in you and do not tremble;


I know that in your heart reside


Both honour and a manly pride.


I love you (why should I dissemble?);


But I am now another's wife,


And I'll be faithful all my life.'


48


She left him then. Eugene, forsaken,


Stood seared, as if by heaven's fire.


How deep his stricken heart is shaken!


With what a tempest of desire!


A sudden clink of spurs rings loudly,


As Tanya's husband enters proudly


And here ... at this unhappy turn


For my poor hero, we'll adjourn


And leave him, reader, at his station. . .


For long . . . forever. In his train


We've roamed the world down one slim lane


For long enough. Congratulation


On reaching land at last. Hurray!


And long since time, I'm sure you'd say!


49


Whatever, reader, your reaction,


and whether you be foe or friend,


I hope we part in satisfaction. . .


As comrades now. Whatever end


You may have sought in these reflections


Tumultuous, fond recollections,


Relief from labours for a time,


Live images, or wit in rhyme,


Or maybe merely faulty grammar


God grant that in my careless art,


For fun, for dreaming, for the heart. . .


For raising journalistic clamour,


You've found at least a crumb or two.


And so let's part; farewell. . . adieu!


50


Farewell, you too, my moody neighbour,


And you, my true ideal, my own!


And you, small book, my constant labour,


In whose bright company I've known


All that a poet's soul might cherish:


Oblivion when tempests flourish,


Sweet talk with friends, on which I've fed.


Oh, many, many days have fled


Since young Tatyana with her lover,


As in a misty dream at night,


First floated dimly into sight


And I as yet could not uncover


Or through the magic crystal see


My novel's shape or what would be.


51


But those to whom, as friends and brothers,


My first few stanzas I once read


'Some are no more, and distant. . . others.'*


As Sadi* long before us said.


Without them my Onegin's fashioned.


And she from whom I drew, impassioned,


My fair Tatyana's noblest trait. . .


Oh, much, too much you've stolen, Fate!


But blest is he who rightly gauges


The time to quit the feast and fly,


Who never drained life's chalice dry,


Nor read its novel's final pages;


But all at once for good withdrew


As I from my Onegin do.


THE END


APPENDIX


EXCERPTS FROM ONEGIN'S JOURNEY


PUSHKIN'S FOREWORD


The last (eighth) chapter of Eugene Onegin was published separately with the following foreword:


The omission of certain stanzas has given rise on more than one occasion to criticism and jesting (no doubt most just and witty). The author candidly confesses that he has removed from his novel an entire chapter, in which Onegin's journey across Russia was described. It behoved him to indicate this omitted chapter by dots or a numeral, but to avoid ambiguity he thought it preferable to label as number eight, instead of nine, the final chapter of Eugene Onegin, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas:


It's time: my pen demands a pillow; Nine cantos have I duly wrought, And now the ninth and final billow To joyful shore my bark has brought. All praise to you, #62038; nine Camenae,* etc.


P. A. Katenin* (whose fine poetic talent in no way prevents him from being a subtle critic as well) has observed to us that this excision, though advantageous perhaps for the reader, is none the less harmful to the work as a whole, for it makes the transition from Tatyana the provincial miss to Tatyana the exalted lady too sudden and unexplained: an observation that reveals the accomplished artist. The author himself felt the justness of this reproach but decided to omit the chapter for reasons important to him, but not to the public. Some few excerpts have been published already; we insert them here, along with several other stanzas.


ONEGIN TRAVELS FROM MOSCOW TO NIZHNI NOVGOROD


* * *


before his eyes Makriev Market* stirs and bustles,


A-seethe with plenty's wares and cries.


The Hindu's herehis pearls to proffer,


All Europespecious wines to offer;


The breeder from the steppe as well


Has brought defective steeds to sell;


The gambler's here with dice all loaded,


With decks of cards of every type,


The landed gentwith daughters ripe,


Bedraped in dresses long outmoded;


All bustle round and lie like cheats,


And commerce reigns in all the streets


* * * Ennui! . . .


ONEGIN DRIVES TO ASTRAKHAN, AND FROM THERE TO THE CAUCASUS


* * *


He sees the wilful Terek* roaring


Outside its banks in wayward flow;


He spies a stately eagle soaring,


A standing deer with horns held low,


By shaded cliff a camel lying,


Circassian steed on meadow flying;


All round the nomad-tented land


The sheep of Kalmuk herdsmen stand,


And far aheadCaucasian masses.


The way lies open; war has passed


Beyond this great divide at last,


Across these once imperilled passes.


The Kra's and Argva's banks*


Have seen the Russians' tented ranks.


* * *


And now his gazing eye discovers


Beshtu,* the watchman of the waste;


Sharp-peaked and ringed by hills, it hovers . . .


And there's Mashk,* all green-encased,


Mashk, the source of healing waters;


Amid its magic brooks and quarters


In pallid swarms the patients press,


All victims: someof war's distress,


And some of Venus, some of Piles.


Within those waves each martyred soul


Would mend life's thread and make it whole;


Coquettes would leave their ageing smiles


Beneath the waves, while older men


For just one day seek youth again.


* * *


Consumed by bitter meditation,


Onegin, mid those mournful crowds,


With gaze of keen commiseration


Regards those streams and smoky clouds,


And with a wistful sigh he muses:


Oh, why have I no bullet's bruises?


Or why am I not old and spare,


Like that poor tax collector there?


Or why not crippled with arthritis,


The fate that Tula clerk was dealt?


And why #62038; Lordhave I not felt


A twinge at least of some bursitis?


I'm young and still robust, you see;


So what's ahead? Ennui, ennui! .. .


ONEGIN THEN VISITS TAURIS [THE CRIMEA]


* * *


A land by which the mind is fired:


Orestes with his friend here vied,*


And here great Mithridates* died,


And here Mickiwicz* sang inspired,


And, by these coastal cliffs enthralled,


His distant homeland he recalled.


* * *


O lovely land, you shores of Tauris,


From shipboard looming into sight,


As first I saw you rise before us,


Like Cypris* bathed in morning's light.


You came to me in nuptial splendour;


Against a sky all blue and tender


The masses of your mountains gleamed;


Your valleys, woods, and hamlets seemed


A patterned vision spread before me.


And there where Tartar tongues are spoke


What passions in my soul awoke!


What mad and magic yearnings tore me


And held my flaming bosom fast!


But now, #62038; Muse, forget the past!


* * *


Whatever feelings then lay hidden


Within me now they are no more:


They've passed away or changed unbidden ...


So peace to you, you woes of yore!


Back then it seemed that I required


Those desert wastes and waves inspired,


Those massive cliffs and pounding sea,


The vision too of 'maiden free,'


And nameless pangs and sweet perdition . . .


But other days bring other dreams;


You're now subdued, you vaulting schemes


Of youthful springtime's vast ambition,


And in this poet's cup of mine


I now mix water with my wine.


***


Of other scenes have I grown fonder:


I like a sandy slope of late,


A cottage with two rowans yonder,


A broken fence, a wicket gate,


Grey clouds against a sky that lowers,


Great heaps of straw from threshing mowers,


And 'neath the spreading willow tree


A pond for ducks to wallow free.


The balalaika's now my pleasure,


And by the country tavern door


The peasant dance's drunken roar.


A housewife now is what I treasure;


I long for peace, for simple fare:


Just cabbage soup and room to spare.


***


The other day, in rainy weather,


As I approached the farm . . . Enough!


What prosy ravings strung together,


The Flemish painter's motley stuff!


Was I like that when I was tender,


Bakhchisarai,* you fount of splendour!


Were these the thoughts that crossed my mind


When, 'neath your endless chant I pined


And then in silence meditated


And pondered my Zarma's* fate? . . .


Within those empty halls ornate,


Upon my trail, three years belated,


While travelling near that selfsame sea,


Onegin, pausing, thought of me.


* * *


I lived back then in dry Odessa . ..


Where skies for endless days are clear,


Where commerce, bustling, crowds and presses


And sets its sails for far and near;


Where all breathes Europe to the senses,


And sparkling Southern sun dispenses


A lively, varied atmosphere.


Along the merry streets you'll hear


Italian voices ringing loudly;


You'll meet the haughty Slav, the Greek,


Armenian, Spaniard, Frenchman sleek,


The stout Moldavian prancing proudly;


And Egypt's son as well you'll see,


The one-time corsair, Morali*


***


Our friend Tumnsky* sang enchanted


Odessa's charms in splendid verse,


But we must say that he was granted


A partial viewthe poet's curse.


No sooner here than he went roaming,


Lorgnette in hand and senses foaming,


Above the lonely sea . . . and then


With his enraptured poet's pen


He praised Odessa's gardens greatly.


That's fine of course, but all I've found


Is barren steppeland all around,


Though here and there much labour lately


Has forced young boughs, I must admit,


To spread their grudging shade a bit.


* * *


But where's my rambling story rushing?


'In dry Odessa'so said I. I might have said:


'Odessa gushing' And even so have told no lie.


For six whole weeks it happens yearly,


On stormy Zeus's orders clearly:


Odessa's flooded, drowned, and stuck,


Immersed in thickly oozing muck.


In mud waist-high the houses snuggle;


On stilts alone can feeble feet


Attempt to ford the muddy street.


The coaches and the people struggle,


And then the bent-head oxen pant


To do what helpless horses can't.


* * *


But now the hammer's smashing boulders,


And soon with ringing slabs of slate


The salvaged streets will muster shoulders,


As if encased in armoured plate.


But moist Odessa, all too sadly,


Is lacking yet one feature badly:


You'll never guess . . . it's water-short!


To find the stuff is heavy sport.. .


But why succumb to grim emotion?


Especially since the local wine


Is duty free and rather fine.


And then there's Southern sun and ocean . . .


What more, my friends, could you demand?


A blessed and most favoured land!


* * *


No sooner would the cannon, sounding,


Proclaim from ship the dawn of day


Than, down the sloping shoreline bounding,


Towards the sea I'd make my way.


And there, my glowing pipe ignited,


By briny waves refreshed and righted,


In Muslim paradise complete,


I'd sip my Turkish coffee sweet.


I take a stroll. Inciting urges,


The great Casino's opened up;


I hear the ring of glass and cup;


The marker, half asleep, emerges


Upon the porch, with broom in hand,


Where two expectant merchants stand.


***


And soon the square grows gay and vital.


Life pulses full as here and there,


Preoccupied by work ... or idle,


All race about on some affair.


That child of ventures and finances,


The merchant to the port advances,


To learn the news: has heaven brought


The long-awaited sail he sought?


Which just-delivered importations


Have gone in quarantine today?


Which wines have come without delay?


And how's the plague? What conflagrations,


What wars and famines have occurred?


He has to have the latest word.


* * *


But we, we band of callow joysters,


Unlike those merchants filled with cares,


Have been expecting only oysters . . .


From Istanbul, the seaside's wares.


What news of oysters? Here? What rapture!


And off runs glutton youth to capture


And slurp from salty shells those bites


Of plump and living anchorites,


With just a dash of lemon flavour.


What din, debates! The good Automne*


From cellar store has just now come


With sparkling wine for us to savour.


The time goes by and, as it goes,


The bill to awesome stature grows.


* * *


But now blue evening starts to darken,


And to the opera we must get,


The great Rossini there to harken,


Proud Orpheus and Europe's pet.


Before no critic will he grovel,


He's ever constant, ever novel;


He pours out tunes that effervesce,


That in their burning flow caress


The soul with endless youthful kisses,


With sweetly flaming love's refrain,


A golden, sparkling fine champagne,


A stream that bubbles, foams, and hisses.


But can one justly, friends of mine,


Compare this do-re-mi with wine?


* * *


And what of other fascinations?


And what of keen lorgnettes, I say ... ?


And in the wings . . . the assignations?


The prima donna? The ballet?


The loge, where, beautiful and gleaming,


The merchant's youthful wife sits dreaming,


All vain and languorous with pride,


A crowd of slaves on every side?


She heeds and doesn't heed the roses,


The cavatina, heated sighs,


The jesting praise, the pleading eyes .. .


While in the back her husband dozes,


Cries out from sleep Encore!and then


Emits a yawn and snores again.


* * *


The great finale's thunder surges.


In noisy haste the throng departs;


Upon the square the crowd emerges,


Beneath the gleam of lamps and stars.


Ausonia's * happy sons are humming


The playful tune that keeps on drumming,


Against the will, inside their brains


While I roar out the light refrains.


But now it's late. Odessa's dreaming;


The breathless night is warm and soft,


While high above the moon's aloft,


The sky all lightly veiled and streaming.


No stir disturbs the silence round,


Except the sea's incessant sound.


* * *


And so I lived in old Odessa . . .


EXPLANATORY NOTES


2 Ptri. . . particulire: the main epigraph to the novel, apparently written by Pushkin himself, translates roughly as follows: 'Steeped in vanity, he was possessed moreover by that particular sort of pride that makes a man acknowledge with equal indifference both his good and evil actions, a consequence of a sense of superiority, perhaps imaginary. From a private letter.'


dedication: The dedication was originally addressed to Pushkin's friend (and the first publisher of Eugene Onegin) P. A. Pletnyov ( 1792-1862). In later editions, the piece was retained as a kind of preface, but without the inscription to Pletnyov.


Chapter 1


5 My uncle, man of firm convictions: the novel's opening words mimic a line from the fable The Ass and the Peasant by Ivan Krylov (1796-1844): 'An ass of most sincere convictions.'


Ludmila's and Rusln's adherents: the author's address to his readers and references to other of his writings are devices used throughout the novel. The allusion here is to Pushkin's first major work, the mock epic Ruslan and Ludmila.


noxious in the north: 'Written in Bessarabia' (Pushkin's note). A lightly veiled allusion to the poet's troubles with the court: a few poems of liberal sentiment and some caustic epigrams had incurred the wrath of the emperor, and as a consequence, in May 1820, Pushkin was required to leave St Petersburg for an unspecified term of exile in the south of Russia. He would not return to the capital for more than six years.


6 Letny Park: the Summer Garden, a public park situated along the embankment of the Neva and adorned with shade trees and the statues of Greek deities.


9 (9): here and elsewhere, numbers in parentheses indicate stanzas omitted by Pushkin in the published text.


10 Faublas: the hero of a novel by the French writer Louvet de Couvrai (1760-97). Abetted in the seduction of other men's wives by a rakish count, Faublas, it turns out, has seduced his accomplice's bride as well.


io Bolivar. 'Hat la Bolivar' (Pushkin's note). A wide-brimmed black top hat, named after the South American liberator, which was fashionable in both Paris and St Petersburg in the 1820s.


Brguet: an elegant pocket-watch made by the celebrated French watchmaker, Abraham Louis Brguet (1747-1823).


11 Talon's: Talon was a well-known French restaurateur in St Petersburg.


Kavrin: Pyotr Kaverin (1794-1855) was a hussar, man about town, and friend of Pushkin.


comet mine: champagne from the year of the comet (1811), a year of especially good vintage.


Strasbourg pie: a rich pastry made with goose liver, for which the French city is famous.


11 Cleopatra , . . Phdre . . . Mona: the heroines of various plays, operas, or ballets performed in St Petersburg at the time. The Cleopatra that Pushkin had in mind is uncertain; the Phdre was either Racine's tragedy or an opera based on it; Mona is the heroine of Ozerov's tragedy, Fingal.


12 Enchanted land!. . . perfected: the stanza evokes the Russian theatre around the turn of the century, when for the most part imitations of Corneille, Racine, and Molire prevailed. D. Fon-vizin (1745-92), the most noteworthy of the playwrights mentioned, was the author of two successful satires, The Minor and


KThe Brigadier. Y. Knyazhnin (1742-91), V. Ozerov (1769-1816), and P. Katenin (1792-1852) wrote Frenchified tragedies; A. Shakhovskoy (1777-1846) wrote equally derivative comedies. E. Semyonova (1786-1849) was an accomplished Shakespearian actress who performed in Russian dramas as well. Charles-Louis Didelot (1767-1837), French ballet master and choreographer, was associated with the St Petersburg ballet.


13 Istmina: A. I. Istomina (1799-1848). A celebrated ballerina who was a pupil of Didelot. She danced in ballets that were based on works by Pushkin, and early in her career the poet had courted her.


15 Grimm: Frdric Melchior Grimm (1723-1807). French encyclopedist. In a note to these lines Pushkin quotes from Rousseau's Confessions on the encounter between the two men and then comments: 'Grimm was ahead of his age: nowadays, all over enlightened Europe, people clean their nails with a special brush.'


15 Chadyev: the manuscript provides evidence for the name given here. Pyotr Chadayev (1793-1856) was a friend of the poet and a brilliant personality. Both fop and philosopher, he was the author of the famous Lettres philosophiques, of which only one was published in Russia during his lifetime. His work helped to precipitate, through its critique of Russian history, the great debate between the Westernizer and Slavophile camps of Russian thought. For the expression of his ideas, Chadayev was officially declared insane, although he continued to take an active part in Moscow social life.


22 Say or Bentham: the French economist Jean Baptiste Say (1767 1832) and the English jurist and philosopher Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832) were much discussed at the time in progressive circles.


Capricious. . . spleen: in a note to the stanza Pushkin comments archly: 'The whole of this ironical stanza is nothing but a subtle compliment to our fair compatriots. Thus Boileau, under the guise of reproach, eulogizes Louis XIV. Our ladies combine enlightenment with amiability, and strict purity of morals with that Oriental charm which so captivated Mme. de Stal.' See Dix ans d'exil.


25 As . . . himself: a mocking allusion to M. Muravyov (1757-1807) and his lyric poem 'To the Goddess of the Neva'.


26 Brenta: the river that flows into the Adriatic near Venice.


Albion's great and haughty lyre: the reference is to Byron's poetry.


shore: 'Written in Odessa' (Pushkin's note).


my Africa's warm sky: 'The author, on his mother's side, is of African descent. His great-grandfather, Abram Petrovich Anni-bal, in his eighth year was abducted from the coast of Africa and taken to Constantinople. The Russian envoy, after rescuing him, sent him as a gift to Peter the Great, who had him baptized in Vilno.' Thus Pushkin begins a rather lengthy note on the life of his African ancestor. The young man was subsequently sent abroad by Peter to study fortification and military mining. After a sojourn of some seven years in France, he was recalled to the service in Russia, where he had a rather chequered career as a military engineer. He was eventually made a general by the empress Elizabeth and died in retirement, in 1781, at nearly 90 years of age, on one of the estates granted him by the crown. The third of his eleven children (by a second wife) was the poet's maternal grandfather.


30 sang the Salghir captives' praises: the references are to the heroines in two of Pushkin's narrative poems: the Circassian girl in The Caucausian Captive and the harem girls in The Fountain of Bakhchisarai. The Salghir is a river near Bakhchisarai, a Tartar town and former residence of the Crimean khans.


Chapter 2


33 0 rus!... #62038; Rus'!: the epigraph employs a pun. The first 'O rus!' (Horace, Satires 2. 6) means 'O countryside!'; the second invokes the old and lyrical name for 'Russia'.


36 corve. . . rate: the corve was the unpaid labour that a serf was required to provide to his master. Onegin, an enlightened squire, has decided to improve the lot of his peasants by asking instead for a small payment.


37 Mason: since Masonic organizations at the time were centres of liberal thought, a provincial landowner would have considered the member of such a group a revolutionary.


38 That there exists. . . redeeming grace: the last five lines of this stanza, which give Lensky's views on the mission of poets, were omitted by Pushkin from the final text, presumably because he anticipated the censor's objection.


43 passions: the dangerous emotions or 'passions' refer here not only to sensual love but also to feelings of enmity, jealousy, and 1 avarice.


46 that name: 'The most euphonious Greek names, such as, for example, Agathon, Philetus, Theodora, Thecla, and so forth, are used with us only among the common people' (Pushkin's note).


50 shaved the shirkers: serfs who were chosen by their owners for army service had their forelocks shaved for easy recognition.


52 At Trinity. . . deserved: lines 5-11 were omitted in all editions during Pushkin's lifetime. On Trinity Day, the Sunday after Whitsunday, people often brought a birch-tree branch or a bouquet of field flowers to church. The tradition in some regions, according to Vladimir Nabokov, called for the worshipper to shed as many tears for his sins as there were dewdrops on the branch he carried.


53 Ochdkov decoration: a medal that commemorated the taking of the Black Sea fortress of Ochakov in 1788, during the Turkish campaign.


Chapter 3


55 Elle. . . amoureuse: 'She was a girl, she was in love.'


58 A drink . . . coach: in most editions the final six lines of this stanza are omitted.


59 Svetlana: the reference is to the heroine of a ballad by Vasily Zhukovsky (1783-1852), a talented poet and Pushkin's friend.


61 Julie Wolmr: the heroine in a novel by Rousseau, Julie, ou La Nouvelle Hlose.


Malk-Adhl: the hero of Mathilde, a novel by Mme Cottin (1773-1807).


de Linr: a character in the novel Valrie by Baroness von Krudener (1764-1807).


Clarissa: the heroine of Richardson's Clarissa.


Julia: again, the character from Rousseau's Julie.


Delphine: the heroine in a novel of the same name by Mme de Stal.


62 The Vampire. . . Sbogar: the Vampire is presumably from the 1819 tale of that name by John Polidori, Byron's physician. Melmoth is the hero of Melmoth the Wanderer, published in 1820 by Charles Robert Maturin. The Corsair is the poem by Byron. The legend of the wandering Jew was widely used by writers in the Romantic era. Jean Sbogar is the title of a short French novel published in 1818 by Charles Nodier. These are all works of Pushkin's own time, whereas Tatyana's reading comes from an earlier generation; only in Chapter Seven will she discover Byron in Onegin's abandoned library.


70 The Good Samaritan: a Moscow literary journal, actually called the Well-intentioned (Blagonamerennyj).


71 Bogdanovich: I. F. Bogdanovich (1743-1803): a minor poet and translator from the French. His narrative poem Dushen 'ka (Little Psyche) exerted some influence on the young Pushkin.


Parny: Evariste-Dsir de Parny (1753-1814). French poet famed for the elegance of his love poetry. His Posies erotiques influenced Russian poetry of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.


Bard of The Feasts: the reference is to Evgeny Baratynsky (1800-44), a friend of Pushkin's and a fellow poet. His elegy The Feasts was written in 1820, while its author was serving in the


ranks in Finland, after having been expelled from military school for theft. Set in a gloomy Finland, his poem evokes a happier time with poet-friends in the Petersburg of 1819.


72 Freischutz: the reference is to the overture from Der Freischiitz, an opera by Carl Maria von Weber (1786-1826).


Chapter 4


83 La morale . .. choses: 'Morality is in the nature of things.'


96 Tolstoy: Count F. P. Tolstoy (1783-1873): a well known and fashionable artist.


97 No madrigals. . . flows: the octave of this stanza exhibits a rare divergence from the usual pattern: like the Italian sonnet, it employs but two rhymes in the eight lines and thus provides a rather pleasing accompaniment to a discussion of poetic form.


Yazykov: N. M. Yazykov ^180346): a minor poet and acquaintance of Pushkin.


trumpet, mask, and dagger: emblems of the classical drama.


odes: for Pushkin the term 'ode' suggested bombastic and heavy pieces in the eighteenth-century Russian manner; his own preference was clearly for the romantic 'elegy', by which term he would have described any short contemplative lyric. The mock debate conducted in this and the following stanza reflects an actual dispute between the 'archaists' and 'modernists' of Pushkin's day.


98 The Other: the allusion is to Chuzhoi talk (Another's View), a satire on the writers of odes by I. Dmitriev (1760-1837).


99 36: this stanza appeared only in the separate edition of Chapters 4 and 5.


100 Gulnare's proud singer: Byron, in The Corsair.


102 Pradt: Dominique de Pradt (1759-1837): a prolific French political writer.


103 Hippocrene: a fountain or spring on Mount Helicon in Boeotia, sacred in Greek mythology to the Muses.


104 A: or Ay; a champagne whose name derives from a town in the Marne district of northern France.


entre chien et loup: dusk, or the time of day 'between the dog and the wolf (i.e., when the shepherd has difficulty in distinguishing between the two).


106 Lafontaine's: August Lafontaine (1758-1851). A German writer, author of numerous novels on family life.


Chapter 5


no Another bard. . . shade: 'See First Snow, a poem by Prince Vyazemsky' (Pushkin's note). Prince Pyotr Vyazemsky (1792 1878), poet, critic, and wit, was a close friend of Pushkin. He appears in the novel by name in Chapter 7, stanza 49.


bard of Finland's maid divine!: 'See the descriptions of the Finnish winter in Baratynsky's Edd1(Pushkin's note).


112 lThe Kitty's Song': at Yuletide, and especially on Twelfth Night, several traditions for fortune-telling were observed by women and girls (particularly among the common people). The shapes taken by molten wax or lead when submerged in water were read as prophetic, and so-called 'dish divining songs' were sung. In the latter case, girls would place their rings in a covered bowl of water before singing carols. At the end of each song, a ring was drawn at random, and its owner would deduce some portent or meaning from the kind of song just sung. Tatyana's song on this occasion is a portent of death, whereas 'The Kitty's Song', which girls prefer, is a prophecy of marriage.


113 trains a mirror. . . nearer: training a mirror on the moon was another method of divination, the reflected face of the man-in-the-moon supposedly revealing to the enquiring maiden her future husband.


'Agafon': by asking the name of the first stranger she encountered, a girl hoped to learn the name of her future fianc. The name that Tatyana hears, Agafon (from the Greek 'Agathon'), sounds particularly rustic and old-fashioned, and therefore comic, to a Russian ear.


conjure all night through: another device for discovering one's husband-to-be: conjuring up his spirit at an all-night vigil.


Svetlana: the heroine of Zhukovsky's ballad. In the poem, when Svetlana conjures her absent lover, he carries her off to his grave. Fortunately, Svetlana's terrors remain only a dream.


Lel: supposedly a pagan Slavic deity of love; more likely (according to Nabokov) merely derived from the chanted refrain of old songs (e.g., the ay lyuli lyuli of many Russian folk-songs).


119 Martyn Zadck: the name, evidently a fabrication, appears as the author of several collections of prophecies and dream interpretations, published both in Russia and in Germany.


120 Malvina: a novel by Mme Cottin (1773-1807).


Two Petriads: heroic poems on Peter the Great, several of which were in circulation at the time.


Marmontel: Jean Franois Marmontel (1723-99), French encyclopedist and short-story writer.


121 But lo!. . . the sun: 'A parody of some well-known lines by Lomonosov' (Puskin's note). The crimson hand of Aurora (deriving of course from the Homeric 'rosy-fingered dawn') appears in several odes by M. V. Lomonosov (1711-65), scientist and poet and the founder of Moscow University.


Buynov: Mr Rowdy, the hero of a popular and racy poem by Pushkin's uncle, Vasily Pushkin; thus, playfully, Pushkin's cousin. The names given to the other guests are also traditionally comic ones: Pustyakov (Trifle), Gvozdin (Bash), Skotinin (Brute), Petushkov (Rooster).


122 Rveillez-vous, belle endormie: Awaken, sleeping beauty.


Tatyan: Triquet pronounces Tatyana's name in the French manner, with the stress on the last syllable. 124 a lavish pie: the Russian pirog, a meat- or cabbage-pie.


Zizi: Evpraksia Wulf (1809-83), who as a young girl lived near Pushkin's family estate at Mikhailovskoe and with whom he flirted when confined there in 1824. Pushkin became her lover briefly in 1829. Writing to a friend in 1836 from Mikhailovskoe on his last visit there, he recalls her as 'a formerly half-ethereal maiden, now a well-fed wife, big with child for the fifth time'.


127 Albani's glory: Francesco Albani (1578-1660): Italian painter much admired in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.


Chapter 6


131 La sotto. . . dole: 'There, where the days are cloudy and short | Is born a race that has no fear of death.'


135 Regulus: the Roman general Marcus Atilius Regulus, who, upon his capture by the Carthaginians, was sent to Rome to deliver harsh terms for peace; whereupon he returned to his captors as he had promised and was executed.


Vry's: Caf Very, a Parisian restaurant.


141 Delvig: Baron Anton Delvig (1798-1831), minor poet and one of Pushkin's closest friends, his classmate at the Lyceum in Tsar-skoe Selo.


144 Lepage's deadly pieces: Jean Lepage (1779-1822), famous Parisian gunsmith.


Chapter 7


158 Lyovshin's crew: students of works by Vasily Lyovshin (1746-1826), author of numerous tracts on gardening and agriculture.


165 iron bust: A statuette of Napoleon.


166 The bard of Juan and the Giaour. Byron.


173 Automedons: Autmedon was the charioteer of Achilles in the Iliad.


174 Petrovsky Castle: the chateau not far from Moscow where Napoleon took refuge from the fires in the city.


17g ''Archivai dandies': young men from well-connected families who held cushy jobs at the Moscow Archives of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.


Vyzemsky: Prince Pyotr Vyazemsky (1792-1878), friend of Pushkin.


180 Grand Assembly: the Russian Assembly of Nobility, a Moscow club for noblemen.


Chapter 8


185 Lyce: the lyceum established by Alexander I at Tsarskoe Selo for young aristocrats. Pushkin attended the boarding-school there between 1811 and 1817, and to the end of his life remained deeply attached to his friends of those years. It was at the lyceum that he composed his first poems.


Derzhvin: Gavrila Derzhvin (1743-1816): the most outstanding Russian poet of the eighteenth century. In the year before he died, Derzhvin attended a school examination at which the 16-year-old Pushkin recited one of his poems, which the old man praised.


186 Lenore: the heroine of the romantic ballad by Gottfried Burger (I747-94)-


Tauris: an ancient name for the Crimea. Pushkin's visit to the Crimea and his earlier stay in the Caucasus (to which he refers in a line above) were commemorated in two of his so-called 'southern' poems, The Prisoner of the Caucasus and The Fountain of Bakhchisarai.


Nereids': sea-nymphs, daughters of the sea-god Nereus.


187 sing the savage steppe: an allusion to the narrative poem The Gypsies, yet another of Pushkin's southern works.


my garden: Pushkin's country place at Mikhailovskoe, to which he was confined by the government from August 1824 to September 1826 and where he resumed work on Eugene Onegin.


Demon of my pen!: a reference to his poem 'The Demon', in which he speaks of having been haunted in his youth by an 'evil genius', a spirit of negation and doubt who mocked the ideals of love and freedom.


191 Chatsky: the hero of Griboedov's comedy Woe from Wit (1824). Chatsky, after some three years abroad, turns up on the day of a party at the Moscow house of the girl he loves.


Shishkov: Admiral Alexander Shishkov (1754-1841), the leader of the Archaic group of writers, was a statesman and publicist who attacked both Gallicisms and liberal thought in Russian letters.


192 epigram of style: an allusion to some possible epigrammatic play on the word 'vulgar' and the last name of Faddei Bulgarin ( 1789-1859), a literary critic and notorious police informer who was hostile to Pushkin.


Nina Voronskya: an invented name for a stylized society belle. Russian commentators on the poem have suggested various real-life prototypes.


197 badge on those two maids-in-waiting: a court decoration with the royal initials, given to ladies-in-waiting of the empress.


Proldzov: the name (derived from prolaza, roughly 'sycophant' or 'social climber') appears only in posthumous editions. According to Nabokov it was often attached to ridiculous characters in eighteenth-century Russian comedies and in popular pictures.


Saint-Priest. Count Emmanuel Sen-Pri (1806-28), the son of a French migr and a noted caricaturist.


204 Gibbon and Rousseau . . . Fontenelle he scoured: the listing device is a favourite of Pushkin's. Besides Rousseau, this catalogue of Onegin's reading includes: Edward Gibbon (1737-94), the English historian; Sbastien Chamfort (1740-94), French writer famous for his maxims and epigrams; Alessandro Manzoni ( 1785-1873), Italian novelist and poet of the Romantic school; Johann Gottfried von Herder (1744-1803), the German philosopher; Mme de Stal (1766-1817), the French writer (whose novel Delphine was listed earlier as one of Tatyana's favourites); Marie F. X. Bichat (1771-1802), French physician and anatomist,

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