Eugene Onegin

CHAPTER III

Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse.

Malfilâtre¹

I

‘Where now? How very like a poet!’

‘Onegin, I must go, goodbye.’

‘By all means, but (I’d like to know it),

Where do you spend your evenings?’ ‘Why,

I see the Láirins.’ ‘That’s amazing.

Mercy, does it not drive you crazy

To murder every evening thus?’

‘Not in the least.’ ‘I am nonplussed.

From here I picture the occasion:

First (listen, am I right?), I see

A simple, Russian family,

Concern for guests and their provision,

Jam, endless chatter with regard

To rain and flax and cattle-yard…’

2

‘I do not see why that’s so shocking.’

‘It’s boring, that is why, dear man.’

‘I hate your fashionable mocking;

I’m happy with a homely clan,

Where I…’ ‘An eclogue’s bound to follow!

For God’s sake, that will do, good fellow.

But now, you’re off; I’m sorry. Say,

Could you devise for me a way

Of seeing for myself your Phyllis,

The object of your thoughts from far,

Your tears, pen, rhymes, etcetera.

Present me.’ ‘But you’re joking.’ ‘Promise.’

‘I’ll gladly.’ ‘When?’ ‘Why, now’s all right.

They will receive us with delight.’

3

‘Let’s go, then.’ At their destination

They’re met with the formality,

The sometimes onerous ministration

Of old-world hospitality.

The order of the fare’s habitual:

Jam in small dishes² starts the ritual,

Then lingonberry juice is brought

And set upon an oil-cloth board.³

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4

Returning home, the two are flying

At high speed by the shortest way.

Now let us condescend to spying

On what our heroes have to say.

‘You yawn, Onegin, what’s the matter?’

‘A habit, Lensky – all that chatter.’

‘But you seem worse.’ ‘The same old thing.

But look, the light is vanishing.

Faster, Andryushka, hasten, hasten!

What silly places all these are!

Oh, by the way, your Larina

Is simple, but a dear old person;

I fear the lingonberry juice

May cause my stomach some abuse.

5

‘Please tell me which one was Tatiana.’

‘Oh, she’s the sister who appeared

All sad and silent like Svetlana,⁴

And by the window sat and stared.’

‘But surely you don’t love the younger?’

‘Why not?’ ‘Were I like you a singer,

I’d choose the other for my wife.

In Olga’s looks there’s no more life

Than Van Dyck has in his madonnas:

Her countenance is round and fair

Just like the daft moon shining there

Above the daft horizon on us.’

Vladimir answered icily

And all the way sat silently.

6

Meanwhile, Onegin’s visitation

Had made on all the Larin folk

A most significant impression

And given neighbours cause for talk.

Conjecture followed on conjecture,

All started furtively to lecture,

To joke, to judge, not without spite

And view Tatiana as a bride;

Some, going further still, asserted

That wedding plans had all been made

And simply had to be delayed

Till modish rings had been located.

And as for Lensky’s wedding, they

Had long ago arranged the day.

7

Tatiana listened with vexation

To gossip of this kind; but she,

With inexplicable elation,

Kept thinking of it secretly;

And in her heart the thought was live;

The time had come, she fell in love.

So will a seed that’s fallen in

The earth be quickened by the spring.

For long had her imagination,

Consumed with pain and lassitude,

Yearned to assay the fatal food;

For long a heartsick enervation

Constrained her youthful breast; her soul

Waited… for somebody to call,

8

And was requited… Eyes asunder,

She said: ‘It’s he! He’s made his call.’

And now, alas, her hot, lone slumber,

And every day and night were full

Of him; by some enchanted force

All objects seemed without a pause

To speak of him; how tedious

The kind entreaties and the fuss,

The watchful looks of worried servants!

Enveloped in despondency,

She paid no heed to company

And cursed their leisurely observance

Of custom and the sudden way

They would arrive and overstay.

9

Now with what eager concentration

She reads delicious novels through,

With what enlivened fascination

She drinks deception’s honeydew.

In fantasy she visualizes

The characters that she most prizes:

The lover of Julie Wolmar,⁵

Malek Adhel⁶ and de Linar,⁷

And Werther,⁸ martyr to his passion,

And Grandison⁹ the consummate

Who dulls us like an opiate –

All these in her imagination

Were in a unique shape expressed,

All in Onegin coalesced.

10

The authors that she loves so seize her,

She feels herself their heroine,

She is Julie, Delphine,¹⁰ Clarissa;¹¹

Alone, Tatiana roams within

The silent woods, armed with a novel

In which she seeks and finds some marvel:

Her secret glow, her dreamy mood,

Her heart’s abounding plenitude;

She breathes a sigh and, taking over

Another’s grief or ecstasy,

Whispers by heart, unconsciously

A letter for her hero lover…

But he, whatever else he’d done,

Was certainly no Grandison.

11

His manner gravely elevated,

The fervent author in times gone

Showed us a hero dedicated

To perfect aims – a paragon.

To him, forever persecuted

Iniquitously, he committed

A tender soul, intelligence

And an attractive countenance.

Nursing the flame of purest passion,

The hero, always rapturous,

Was ready for self-sacrifice,

And, in the novel’s closing action,

Vice was forever beaten down

And virtue gained a worthy crown.

12

But nowadays all minds are clouded,

A moral brings on somnolence,

Vice in the novel, too, is lauded

And there has gained pre-eminence.

The British Muse’s tales¹² intrude on

The slumber of our Russian maiden,

And now she’s ready to adore

Either the pensive vampire¹³ or

The vagrant Melmoth,¹⁴ restless, gloomy,

The Wandering Jew¹⁵ or the Corsair¹⁶

Or the mysterious Sbogar.¹⁷

Lord Byron’s whim most opportunely

Clothed even hopeless egotism

In woebegone romanticism.

13

My friends, this makes no sense, I know it.

Perhaps by heavenly decree

I shall no longer be a poet,

A demon new will enter me;

And having scorned the threats of Phoebus,

I’ll settle to prosaic labours;

A novel of the ancient kind

Will occupy my blithe decline.

There, not the secret pangs of villainy

I shall in grim relief narrate,

But simply, friends, to you relate

The legends of a Russian family,

Love’s charming dreams in former days

And ancient Russia’s rural ways.

14

I shall record the plain orations

When fathers or old uncles met,

The children’s chosen assignations

By ancient limes, by rivulet;

The jealous agonies of lovers,

Partings, and tears as love recovers;

I’ll have them quarrel once again

And lead them to the altar then…

I shall recall the tender feeling,

Love’s aching words upon my tongue,

Impassioned speeches made when young

And courting a fair mistress, kneeling

And uttering an ardent vow

From which I’m disaccustomed now.

15

Tatiana, dear Tatiana, vanquished!

Together with you, now I weep;

Your fate already you’ve relinquished

Into a modish tyrant’s keep.

You’ll perish, dear; but till we lose you

The dazzling light of hope imbues you:

You’ll summon up a sombre bliss,

Discover life’s felicities,

Imbibe the magic bane of yearning,

Daydreams will court your every pace,

And you’ll imagine in each place

A tryst to which you’re always turning;

In front of you and everywhere

You’ll see your fateful tempter there.

16

Tatiana seeks the garden bowers

To grieve in, chased by aching love,

But soon her lifeless eyes she lowers

And loses the desire to rove.

Her bosom lifts, her features redden,

A sudden flame consumes the maiden,

Upon her lips her breath has died,

Her ears with sound, her eyes with light

Are filled… Night comes, the moon’s patrolling

The distant space of heaven’s dome,

The nightingale sings in the gloam

Of trees, its sonorous accents calling.

Tatiana does not go to bed

But quietly talks to nurse instead:

17

‘I can’t sleep here, nurse, it’s so airless!

Open the window, sit by me.’

‘Why, Tanya, what is it?’ ‘I’m cheerless,

Let’s talk of how things used to be.’

‘Tanya, what things? Once I was able

To keep a store of every fable,

Old tales that, true or false, I’d tell

Of maidens and of spirits fell;

But now my mind’s grown dark and woolly:

I can’t recall a thing. Alas,

It’s all come to a sorry pass!

I am confused’… ‘Nurse, tell me truly

About those years, can you recall

Whether you were in love at all?’

18

‘Tanya, my dear! We never even

Knew what love was in my young day;

Else mother-in-law would have driven

Me out in no uncertain way.’

‘How did you marry, then?’ ‘Oh, Tanya,

It seemed to be God’s will. My Vanya

Was even younger then than me,

And I was just thirteen, you see.

Two weeks a matchmaker kept coming

To all my kinsfolk, finally

My father blessed me. Bitterly

I wept for fear of what was looming;

While they untwined my braid they wept,

And chanted while to church I crept.

19

‘Into an unknown family taken…

But you’re not listening now, I fear.’

‘Oh nurse, nurse, I’m unhappy, aching,

I’ m sad and sick at heart, my dear.

I’m on the verge of crying, sobbing!’

‘You are not well.’ ‘My heart is throbbing.’

‘Save us, O Lord, have mercy, pray!

What would you like, you’ve but to say…

Let’s sprinkle you with holy water,

You’re all aflame’… ‘I’m not unwell:

I am… in love, nurse… can’t you tell?’

‘May the good Lord protect his daughter!’

Her ancient hand raised in the air,

She crossed the girl and said a prayer.

20

‘I am in love,’ again she whispered

To the old woman mournfully.

‘You are unwell,’ her nurse persisted.

‘I am in love, go, let me be.’

Meanwhile, the moon was radiating

A languid light, illuminating

Tatiana’s graces, pale with care,

Her loosened and unruly hair,

Her tears and, there before her sitting,

Upon a bench, the ancient dame

With kerchiefed head, her feeble frame

Into a bodywarmer fitting;

And all beneath the tranquil night

Dozed in the moon’s inspiring light.

21

And now Tatiana’s heart was soaring

As she looked out and watched the moon…

A sudden thought came, overpowering…

‘Nurse, leave, I want to be alone.

Just let me have a pen, some paper.

The table, too. I’ll lie down later.

Goodbye.’ And she’s alone at last.

All’s quiet. For her the moon has cast

Its light. Upon her elbow leaning,

She writes, with Eugene on her mind,

And in a letter undesigned

There breathes a guileless maiden’s yearning.

The letter’s ready, folded, who…

Tatiana! Is it written to?

22

I’ve known fair beauties unapproachable,

The chaste, the cold, the wintry kind,

Implacable and irreproachable,

Unfathomable to the mind;

I’ve marvelled at their modish manner,

Their inborn virtue, sense of honour,

And, to be frank, from them I fled,

And, terror-stricken, thought I read

Above their brows hell’s admonition:

Abandon hope for evermore.

The joys of loving they forswore,

To frighten people was their mission.

Perhaps you’ve seen by the Neva

Fair ladies who are similar.

23

Amidst admirers acquiescent

I’ve seen like women in my days,

Conceited, haughty and indifferent

To sighs of passion or to praise.

But what did I, amazed, discover?

That they, despite their stern behaviour,

Frightening to a timid swain,

Could make his love return again,

At least by showing some compassion,

At least, by a more tender word

That they permitted to be heard,

And, blinded in his naive fashion,

The lover with new energy

Once more pursued sweet vanity.

24

Why blame Tatiana, then? For having

Not known in her simplicity

Deceit or falsehood and for craving

Her chosen dream so fervently?

For loving without double-dealing,

Obedient to the bent of feeling?

For being predisposed to trust,

For being by the heavens blest

With turbulent imagination,

Intelligence, a lively will,

A wayward spirit, never still

And with a tender heart’s vibration?

Will you then not forgive her, when

She follows passion’s weathervane?

25

Coquettes are cool in their decisions.

Tatiana loves in earnest, she

Gives up herself without conditions

Like a small child, defencelessly.

Of love she says not: let’s postpone it

To raise its value when we own it,

To trap it more assuredly;¹⁸

First let us puncture vanity

With hope, then introduce confusion

To rack the heart, and when we tire,

Revive it with a jealous fire;

Or else, fatigued by joy’s profusion,

The cunning captive day or night

May from his prison-house take flight.

26

I can foresee another matter:

Saving the honour of my land,

I must translate Tatiana’s letter,

Without a doubt you’ll understand.

Russian she knew, but very badly,

She did not read our journals, sadly;

And in her native tongue she could

With difficulty write a word.

And so in French she penned this version…

What’s to be done? Once more I say

A lady’s love up to this day

Has not expressed itself in Russian,

Up to this day our proud tongue shows

It’s still not used to postal prose.

27

Some would have women reading Russian,

A frightful prospect, if applied;

Imagine females in discussion

With The Well-Meaner¹⁹ at their side!

I turn to you, my poets, teach us;

Is it not true: those charming creatures

For whom, to expiate your wrongs,

You wrote, in secret, verse and songs,

To whom you pledged your heart’s affection,

Did they not try, with much travail,

Our Russian speech, to no avail,

Yet using such a sweet inflection

That on their lips a foreign tongue

Became their native one ere long?

28

The Lord forbid my ever meeting

A bonneted scholar at a ball

Or seminarist with a greeting

As she departs in yellow shawl.²⁰

Like rosy lips unused to smiling,

Russian, I find, is unbeguiling

Without grammatical mistakes.

Perhaps (my head already aches)

A crop of exquisite new creatures

Will heed the journals, set up school

And make us bow to grammar’s rule:

Verse will acquire more useful features;

But I… what matters this to me,

I shall respect antiquity.

29

An incorrect and careless patter,

An inexact delivery

Will generate a heartfelt flutter

Within my breast as formerly.

I’ve not the strength to be repenting,

Since Gallicisms are as tempting

As bygone sins of youth, no worse

Than Bogdanovich’s²¹ in verse.

But stop. It’s time now I translated

The letter of my maiden dear,

I gave my word, and what? I fear

My wish to do so has abated.

I know that tender Parny’s²² ways

Are out of fashion nowadays.

30

Bard of The Feasts²³ and languid sorrow,

If you had still remained with me,

I would have troubled you, dear fellow,

With a request, immodestly:

That you transpose the foreign diction

Of an impassioned maid’s affliction

Into enchanting melodies.

Where are you? Come: my rights I raze

And, with a bow, place in your keeping…

But in a land of mournful stone,

His heart forgetting praise, alone,

Beneath the Finnish sky escaping,

He wanders, and his soul hears not

My grief for his unhappy lot.

31

Before me is Tatiana’s letter;

Religiously, I treasure it,

I read it with a secret shudder

And cannot get my fill of it.

Who could have taught such tender writing,

Such words so carelessly delighting,

Who taught her that affecting rot,

Mad conversation of the heart,

A captivating, harmful mixture?

I cannot tell. But now you’ll meet

My version, feeble, incomplete,

Pale copy of a vivid picture,

Or as Der Freischütz²⁴ might be played

By girlish pupils, still afraid.

Tatiana’s Letter to Onegin

I write to you – what more is needed?

What else is there that I could say?

It’s in your power, I concede it,

To punish my naiveté.

But if you’ve even slightly pitied

The dismal lot that I endure,

You won’t abandon me, I’m sure.

At first, I did not want to vex you.

Believe me: you’d have never known

The shame I’ve suffered all alone,

Had I been hopeful to expect you

Here in our home, where we could speak,

If only seldom, once a week,

Enough to listen to your greeting

And say a word to you, and then

For days and nights to wonder when

I could enjoy another meeting.

They say, though, you’re unsociable;

You treat our world with condescension,

And we’re… in no way fashionable,

But welcome you without pretension.

Why ever did you visit us?

Lost in the village where I languish

I never would have known you, thus

I never would have known this anguish;

Time would have taught me to extinguish

My naive longings (but who knows?);

I would have found a friend for life,

Would have become a faithful wife

And virtuous mother, if I chose.

Another!… No, I’d not have given

My heart to anyone on earth!

It has been foreordained in heaven…

I was marked out for you from birth;

My life has been a precondition

For our encounter – which I crave;

I know you’re sent by God’s provision,

And you’re my guardian till the grave…

You came in dreams that soon abounded,

Even unseen, I treasured you.

Your wondrous glances pierced me through,

Long in my soul your voice resounded…

No, this was not a dream for me!

I knew you on your first appearing;

All faint and numb, aflame and fearing,

I uttered inwardly: it’s he!

Wasn’t it you that I was hearing

When in the stillness I’d depart

To help the poor folk? Weren’t you nearing

Each time I prayed in hope of cheering

The anguish of my troubled heart?

And even at this very second,

Wasn’t it you, dear vision, beckoned

And slipped through night’s transparency,

Inclining gently at my bedhead,

You, who with joy and love persuaded

And whispered words of hope to me?

Who are you: guardian angel, mentor,

Or, if not, a perfidious tempter?

Resolve my doubts, my wavering,

Perhaps my feelings are misguided,

An artless soul’s imagining!

And something else has been decided…

But let that be! My fate is sealed,

I place it now in your safekeeping,

I beg of you, become my shield,

If you were here, you’d see me weeping…

Imagine what it’s like for me,

Alone, not understood and ailing,

I’m frightened that my reason’s failing,

That I shall die here silently.

I wait for you: you can inspirit

My hoping heart with just one glance

Or interrupt this heavy trance

With censure, which alas I merit!

I close! I dread to read this through…

I’m faint with shame and fear… However,

I boldly put my trust in you,

Whose honour is my pledge for ever.

32

By turns, Tatiana’s moaning, sighing,

The letter trembles in her hand,

Upon her fevered tongue lies drying

The rosy seal,²⁵ a paper band.

Her head sinks downward to her shoulder,

Her light chemise that won’t enfold her

Slips to expose her shoulder’s charm…

But now the radiance of the calm

And moonlit sky grows dim. A valley

Is outlined through the mist of dawn,

Streams silver; and a shepherd’s horn

Wakes villagers to rise and rally.

It’s morn, all bustle here and there,

But my Tatiana does not care.

33

The rising dawn does not affect her;

Sitting with lowered head and still,

She does not set upon the letter

Her monogram and graven seal.

But now the door has opened quietly,

Grey-haired Filipyevna treads lightly,

Carrying tea upon a tray.

‘It’s time, my child, to greet the day.

But look, my pretty one, you’re ready!

Aren’t you my early little bird!

Oh, last night I was so afeard!

But thank the Lord, you’re well and steady!

There’s not a trace of last night’s fret,

Your face is now all poppy red.’

34

‘Oh nurse, I need a favour, listen.’

‘Of course, dear, I’m at your command.’

‘Don’t think.… who knows?… perhaps suspicion…

But don’t refuse, please understand.’

‘My dear, I vow by the Almighty.’

‘Well, send your grandson very quietly –

Give him this note for O… for that…

Our neighbour… Tell him not to chat

To anybody or to dawdle

And not to mention me by name…’

‘To whom, then?’asked the ancient dame.

‘Oh, nowadays my head’s a muddle.

Neighbours are many in this part,

I cannot think of where to start.’

35

‘Oh really, nurse, you are slow-witted!’

‘I’m old, I’m very old, my heart,

The mind grows dull, you must admit it,

But way back I was very smart,

And if the master once requested…’

‘Oh nurse, nurse, I’m not interested.

What you were like then I don’t care,

What matters is this letter here:

It’s for Onegin.’ ‘Oh the letter.

Do not be cross with me, my soul,

You know, I make no sense at all.

But you look pale again, not better.’

‘It’s nothing, nurse, but don’t delay,

Please send your grandson on his way.’

36

The day flowed by, there came no letter

Nor anything the following day.

Since morning dressed, pale as a spectre,

Tatiana waits for a reply.

Olga’s adorer drove up. ‘Tell us,

Where’s your companion?’ came the zealous

Inquiry from the châtelaine.

‘He has forgotten us, that’s plain.’

Tatiana trembled, flushed, uneasy.

‘He promised that today he’d come.’

Lensky replied to the old dame:

‘No doubt the post has kept him busy.’

Tatiana cast a downward look,

As though she’d heard a harsh rebuke.

37

It darkened: on the table, gleaming,

The evening samovar now hissed,

On it the Chinese teapot, warming;

Light vapour eddied under it.

Poured out by Olga’s hand, the steady,

Dark flow of fragrant tea already

Into the cups ran, in a stream;

A household boy served up the cream;

Tatiana, though, preferred to linger

Before the window, breathing on

The frosted panes; and, pensive one,

She wrote, with a beguiling finger,

In windowpane calligraphy,

A monogram: an O and E.

38

And, meanwhile, still her soul is aching,

And tears have filled her languid gaze.

A thud of hoofs!… Her blood is shaking.

Closer! Into the yard they race.

Eugene! Tatiana, lighter than a

Shadow, is leaping through the manor,

She flies, flies from the porch outside

Into the garden, mortified;

Without a backward look she scurries

Past borders, little bridges, lawn,

The lake’s approach, the copse; has torn

Down lilac bushes as she hurries;

Through flowers to the brook she flies,

Where, halting, out of breath, she sighs

39

And falls upon a bench… exclaiming:

‘Here’s Eugene! God, how will I cope?

What will he think?’ With torment flaming,

Her heart retains a dream of hope.

She trembles, burns and looks behind her,

Wondering if he’ll come to find her;

Hears nothing. In the orchard, maids

Were picking berries in brigades

And singing by decree a merry,

Collective song (aimed to prevent

A cunning servant girl intent

On eating, secretly, a berry

Belonging to her lord – a ruse

Which landed folk are pleased to use!

Song of the Girls²⁶

Come, you maidens beauteous,

Dear companions, near to us,

Frolic, if you’re timorous,

Have your fling, my darling ones.

Let us sing a song we know,

One that we all cherish so,

Let us lure a fine young lad

To our dance as round we go.

When we lure this fine young lad,

When we see him distantly,

Let us scatter, darling ones,

Pelt him with our cherries, dears,

Cherries bright and raspberries,

Currants red we’ll also throw,

Do not come and eavesdrop on

Songs we cherish secretly,

Do not come and spy upon

Games we girls play privately.

40

Tatiana hears with scant attention

Their ringing voices, while she waits

Impatiently until the tension

That agitates her heart abates,

Until her cheeks desist from burning.

But in her breast there’s still the yearning,

Nor do her cheeks give up their glow,

But ever brighter, brighter grow…

So a poor butterfly will flutter

And beat an iridescent wing,

Caught by a schoolboy, frolicking;

So a small winter hare will shudder

On seeing in the distant brush

A hunter crouched behind a bush.

41

Tatiana sighed and, though still yearning,

Rose from her bench in calmer state:

Set off, but just as she was turning

Into the avenue, there straight

Before her Eugene stood, eyes blazing,

Like some forbidding phantom gazing,

And she, as if by fire seared,

Stayed rooted to the spot, and feared.

But to detail the consequences

Of this unlooked-for tryst, dear friends,

I’ve no more strength. I’ll make amends;

Meantime, I need my recompenses

For so much talk – an interlude

Of strolls and rest, then I’ll conclude.