Eugene Onegin

CHAPTER IV

La morale est dans la nature des choses.

Necker¹

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

7

The less we love a woman, woo her,

The more disposed to us she gets,

And thus more surely we undo her

And catch her in our tempting nets.

Time was, when cool debauch was lauded

And as the art of love rewarded.

Blowing its trumpet far and wide,

It fed a loveless appetite.

But this grand game, once so paraded

In our forefathers’ vaunted day,

Is one for ancient apes to play:

The fame of Lovelaces has faded

As have their famed red heels affixed

And their majestic periwigs.

8

Who is the man not bored by feigning,

Repeating things in other ways,

In all solemnity maintaining

What people think in any case,

By hearing all the same objections,

By undermining predilections,

Such as a girl of mere thirteen

Is free from and has always been!

Who will not tire of the denials,

The threats, the vows, the put-on fear,

The notelets of six pages sheer,

The gossip, rings, the tears, betrayals,

Surveillances by mothers, aunts

And husbands with their friendly stance!

9

My Eugene drew the same conclusions.

In his first youth he’d fallen prey

To stormy errors and delusions

And passion’s unrestricted play.

Spoiled by the life he had been granted,

By one thing for a while enchanted,

Another disenchanting him,

Thwarted desire tormenting him,

Tormented, too, by quick successes,

Hearing amid the noise and lull

The timeless mutter of the soul,

A yawn with laughter he suppresses:

Precisely so, eight years he killed,

His prime thus passing, unfulfilled.

10

Beauties no longer claimed his passion,

He wooed them with insouciance;

Refusal was a consolation,

Betrayal a deliverance.

He sought them with no great affection

And left them, feeling no connection,

Barely recalled their love and spite.

Just so a casual guest one night

Will visit friends for some distraction;

Sits down to whist; concludes the game:

He sets off on the journey home,

Falling asleep with satisfaction,

And, in the morning, does not know

Himself that evening where he’ll go.

11

But, on receiving Tanya’s letter,

Onegin was profoundly stirred;

The girlish daydreams that beset her

Roused thoughts in him he’d long interred;

And he recalled the mournful manner

And pale complexion of Tatiana;

And plunged into a reverie,

A sweet and sinless fantasy.

Perhaps a glow of old emotion

Returned to him in his decline,

But he’d no wish to undermine

Her trustfulness, her pure devotion.

We’ll fly now to the garden where

Tatiana met him, in despair.

12

For two long minutes they were quiet,

Onegin then approached her, said:

‘You wrote to me, do not deny it.

The letter that you sent I’ve read.

I read a trusting soul’s confession,

A pure, effusive declaration;

Your openness appeals to me;

It roused into activity

A heart that long ago turned heartless;

But I’ve no wish to praise you; I

Shall recompense your candour by

My own confession, just as artless;

Listen to my avowal now;

And to your judgement I shall bow.

13

‘If I had wanted life restricted

To living in domestic bliss;

If I, by kindly fate conscripted,

Were destined to be father, spouse,

If I could ever without stricture

Be charmed by a familial picture,

I’d doubtless choose no other bride

Than you to cherish at my side.

I’d say, without poetic glitter,

That I had found my past ideal,

With you my destiny I’d seal

And cleave to you when times were bitter,

A pledge of beauty and the good,

And would be happy… if I could!

14

‘But happiness I never aimed for,

It is a stranger to my soul;

Alas, the virtues you are famed for,

I do not merit them at all.

Upon my conscience: do believe me,

Wedlock would make you want to leave me.

Once used to you, I’d cease to love

The bride I could not love enough;

The tears that surely you’d be shedding

Would fail to touch my heart and would

Only infuriate my mood.

Judge, then, what roses for our wedding

Would Hymen pluck, how many more

To mark the days we have in store.

15

‘What in a family’s more depressing

Than when a poor wife wastes her tears

Over a spouse who keeps her guessing

And day and evening disappears;

Where this dull man, pleased with his treasure

(Yet cursing fate in equal measure),

Is always silent, angry, grim

And coldly jealous. I’m like him.

And is it this you were awaiting

With such impassioned innocence,

When you with such intelligence

And such simplicity were writing?

Is this the lot that you deserve,

That fate keeps for you in reserve?

16

‘Our dreams and years we can’t recover,

I shall not renovate my soul…

I love you like an elder brother

And, it may be, more gently still.

So, don’t be angry with me, listen:

A youthful maid will always hasten

From dream to dream, she no more grieves

Than when a sapling sheds its leaves,

Exchanging them each spring for fresh ones,

Heaven no doubt has ruled it so.

You’ll fall in love again, I know,

But… learn to govern your confessions;

Not all, like me, will understand,

Naiveté risks a dangerous end.’

17

Thus Eugene preached. Tatiana, crying,

Saw nothing through her tears, but she,

Scarce breathing and without replying,

Listened to Eugene’s homily.

He gave his arm with some compassion.

Mechanically (the word in fashion)

She leaned upon it, silent, sad,

Bending her languid little head;

Returning round the kitchen garden,

Together they arrived, and none

With disapproval looked thereon:

The country has its rules regarding

A person’s liberty and rights

No less than haughty Muscovites.

18

You will agree with me, my reader,

Our friend respected Tanya’s plight

And was not tempted to mislead her;

His soul showed here in noble light

Not for the first time; though ill-wishers

Were unreservedly malicious,

Finding him wholly dissolute:

His enemies, and friends to boot,

(Perhaps there’s not so great a difference)

Upbraided him that way and this.

I fear those friends who seek to please.

Oh give me enemies in preference!

What friends are these, if friends at all,

Whom for good reason I recall!

19

What then? Oh nothing. I’m just laying

Empty and gloomy dreams to rest;

It’s only by the by I’m saying

That once a slander gets expressed

By some foul liar in a garret

To whom the monde awards a carrot,

That there is no absurdity,

No epigram’s vulgarity,

That those good folk whom you’ve befriended

Would not repeat a hundred times,

With errors and distasteful rhymes,

And smile with malice unintended;

Yet they are yours through thick and thin,

They love you… like your kith and kin.

20

Hm! Hm! I ask you, noble reader,

Are all your kindred healthy, well?

Allow me: you perhaps may need a

Lesson from me on how to tell

Just what is meant by kinsfolk really.

By kinsfolk, then, is meant ideally:

The folk whom we do not neglect,

But love and cosset with respect,

And, following the rules obtaining,

At Christmas visit or, if not,

By post congratulate the lot,

So that throughout the year remaining

They will not think of us… and may

God grant them life for many a day!

21

The love you get from tender beauties

Is surer than from kin or friend:

However turbulent its duties,

Your rights are honoured in the end.

That’s so. But then there’s whirling fashion

And nature’s wayward disposition,

And what the monde thinks is enough…

And our sweet sex is light as fluff.

And then, it is to be expected

That virtuous wives will all be true

To husbandly opinions, too;

Your faithful mistress has defected

Before you know it: love’s a joke

That Satan plays on gentlefolk.

22

Whom then to love? Whom to have faith in?

Who can there be who won’t betray?

Who’ll judge a deed or disputation

Obligingly by what we say?

Who’ll not bestrew our path with slander?

Who’ll cosset us with care and candour?

Who’ll look benignly on our vice?

Who’ll never bore us with his sighs?

Oh, ineffectual phantom seeker,

You waste your energy in vain:

Love your own self, be your own man,

My worthy, venerable reader!

A worthwhile object: surely who

Could be more lovable than you?

23

What followed on from the encounter?

Alas, it is not hard to guess!

Love’s pangs continued to torment her,

Continued to inflict distress

Upon a young soul craving sadness;

No, in her passion near to madness

Still more does poor Tatiana burn;

Sleep shuns her bed, will not return;

Health, bloom of life that sweetly flowers,

Smile, virginal repose and peace –

All, like an empty echo cease.

On Tanya’s youth a darkness lowers;

Thus does the shadow of a storm

Enshroud a day that’s scarcely born.

24

Alas, Tatiana’s fading, waning;

Grows pale, is wasting, does not speak!

There is no joy for her remaining,

Nothing to make her soul less bleak.

Shaking their heads, the neighbours gather,

Whispering gravely to each other:

‘It’s high time that we married her!’

But that will do. I much prefer

To cheer up the imagination

With pictures of a happy love,

And from this sad one take my leave.

I cannot help, though, my compassion;

Forgive: I love Tatiana so,

It’s hard for me to let her go.

25

From hour to hour with still more rapture

For Olga, young and beautiful,

Vladimir to delightful capture

Surrendered now with all his soul.

He’s constantly beside her, whether

In darkness in their room together

Or in the garden, arm in arm,

Wandering in the morning calm.

What then? By love intoxicated,

Bewildered by a tender shame,

He only dares from time to time,

By Olga’s smile invigorated,

To play with an unravelled tress

Or kiss the border of her dress.

26

He sometimes takes and reads out for her

An edifying novel on

The state of nature, which the author

Knows better than Chateaubriand,²

Meanwhile omitting certain sections

(Inanities or pure confections

Too dangerous for Olga’s age),

And blushes as he turns the page.

Sometimes, all company forsaking,

They settle to a game of chess

And, leaning on a table, guess

What move the other may be making,

And Lensky with a dreamy look

Allows his pawn to take his rook.

27

At home or homewards, at all stages

He’s with his Olga occupied,

Upon an album’s fleeting pages

He sketches pictures for his bride –

Of rural prospects, small and simple,

A gravestone, Aphrodite’s temple,

Or draws a dove atop a lyre

With pen and wash she might admire;

On pages meant for recollections,

Beneath the names already signed,

He leaves a tender verse behind,

Mute monument of his reflections,

Of sudden thought the drawn-out trace,

Still, after many years, in place.

28

Of course, you’ve more than once encountered

The album of a country miss,

Where all her girlfriends will have entered

Their messages in every space.

With orthographic imprecision,

Unmetered verses, by tradition,

In shortened or in lengthened line

Betoken friendship’s loyal sign.

Upon the first leaf you’ll be meeting

Qu’écrirez-vous sur ces tablettes?

And signed with toute à vous, Annette;³

And on the last you will be reading:

Whoever loves you more than I,

Let them append here how and why.

29

You’ll find here, doubtless, on some pages

Two hearts, a torch and tiny flowers;

You’re bound to read here all the pledges

Of love until the final hours;

Some army poet here has scribbled

A verselet, villainously ribald.

In such an album, I confess,

I, too, am glad to pen a verse,

Secure in my presupposition

That any zealous rot of mine

Will merit a regard benign,

And not the solemn inquisition

Of those, who, with their wicked smile,

Appraise my nonsense by its style.

30

But you, O miscellaneous volumes

From every devil’s library,

Magnificent, resplendent albums,

A voguish rhymester’s calvary,

In which Tolstoy⁴ with nimble touches

Has plied his wonder-working brushes

Or Baratynsky lent his lyre,

May God consume you with his fire!

Whenever, holding her in-quarto,

Some brilliant lady comes to me,

I shake with animosity,

An epigram I’d fain resort to,

Already stirring in my soul,

But all they want’s a madrigal!⁵

31

It is not madrigals that Lensky

In Olga’s album writes to please,

His pen breathes love, his tender entry

Refrains from frosty pleasantries;

Olga alone holds his attention,

All that concerns her, every mention:

And, river-like, his elegies

Flow forth aglow with verities.⁶

Just so indeed, with like elation,

Your heart, Yazykov,⁷ finds the room

To sing of someone, God knows whom,

And when the precious compilation

Of all your elegies appears,

They’ll show how fate has shaped your years.

32

But hush! I hear an awesome critic⁸

Cry: ‘Drop your wreath of elegies,

So miserable and pathetic,’

And to us rhymesters bellow: ‘Cease

Your whimpering and endless croaking

About those times you keep invoking,

Regretting what is past, what’s gone:

Enough! Sing us another song!’

‘You’re right and you will surely steer us

To trumpet, dagger and the mask,

And with each one set us the task

Of resurrecting dead ideas.

Is that not so, friend?’ ‘Not a bit!

No, gentlemen, write odes, that’s it,

33

Like those that praised our mighty nation,

Like those established long ago…’

‘You mean an ode for each occasion?

Oh come, friend, does it matter so?

Remember in The Other Version⁹

The satirist’s animadversion.

Or has that versifier’s guile

Replaced our rhymesters’ gloomy style?’

‘But elegies don’t have a moral,

They’re aimless – that’s what makes one weep –

Whereas an ode’s majestic sweep

Is noble and…’ ‘Here’s cause to quarrel,

But I’ll restrain myself before

I make two ages go to war.’

34

To fame and freedom dedicated,

Vladimir, when his spirits flowed,

Could turn out something elevated,

But Olga would not read an ode.

When tearful poets have been suffered

To read their work to a beloved

And gaze into her eyes – they say

There is no greater prize today.

But blest is he with modest passion,

Who reads to her for whom he longs,

The object of his love and songs –

A pleasant, languid belle in fashion!

Blest, too… though, maybe, while he reads,

She’s occupied with other needs.

35

When I want somebody to read to,

To match a dream with tuneful phrase,

It is my nurse that I pay heed to,

Companion of my youthful days,

Or, following a boring dinner,

A neighbour comes in, whom I corner,

Catch at his coat tails suddenly

And choke him with a tragedy,

Or (here I am no longer jesting),

Haunted by rhymes and yearning’s ache,

I roam beside my country lake

And scare a flock of wild ducks resting:

Hearing my strophes’ sweet-toned chants,

They fly off from the banks at once.

[36]¹⁰

37

But where’s Onegin? By the way,

Brothers! I must entreat your patience:

I shall describe without delay

His daily life and occupations.

A hermit underneath God’s heaven

In summer he was up by seven

And, lightly clad, would set off till

He reached the river by the hill;

The singer of Gulnare¹¹ repeating,

Across this Hellespont he swam,

Then drank his coffee, while through some

Disreputable journal flitting,

And dressed…¹²

[38]

39

A book, sound sleep, a fine excursion,

The purl of streams, the woodland shade,

A fresh, young kiss for his diversion

From dark-eyed, fair-complexioned maid,

A fiery steed with trusty bridle,

A fancy meal at which to idle,

A bottle of resplendent wine,

Seclusion, quiet – thus, in fine,

The life Onegin lived was sainted;

And to it he by slow degrees

Surrendered, the fair summer days

Never, in carefree languor, counted,

Forgetting both the town and friends,

The boring feasts and latest trends.

40

But summer in our North is merely

A Southern winter’s counterfeit,

It’s glimpsed and gone: we know this, clearly,

Although we won’t acknowledge it.

The sky already breathed with autumn,

The sun already shone more seldom.

The day was getting shorter now,

And with a melancholy sough

The forest lost its secret awning,

Mist settled on the fields, the peace

Was broken by the screech of geese

Migrating south: already dawning,

A dullish season lay in wait;

November stood outside the gate.

41

A chill, dark dawn presages winter;

No labour’s heard upon the fields;

A wolf and hungry she-wolf enter

The road to find out what it yields;

Sensing the pair, a road horse, nearing,

Snorts – and the traveller goes tearing

Uphill, relieved to be alive;

No longer does the herdsman drive

His cows abroad while night is clinging,

No more at noontime does he sound

His horn to gather them around;

A maiden in her small hut, singing,

Spins by the crackling splintwood light,

A friend to every winter’s night.

42

And crackling frost settles already

And silvers midst the fields and leas,

(You’ve guessed the rhyme to come is ‘petals’,¹³

So take it, reader, quickly, please!).

The ice-clad river sheds a lustre

That fashion’s parquet cannot muster.

The merry sound of boys on skates,

Cutting the ice, reverberates;

A heavy goose steps out with caution,

Plants its red feet upon the ice,

And plans to swim, but in a trice,

Slips and falls over in mid-motion;

The first snow flickers gaily round,

Falling in stars upon the ground.

43

What pastime can you find that’s pleasing

Out in the backwoods? Walking? Try.

For all the countryside is freezing,

The naked flatness tires the eye.

A gallop in the bitter prairie?

The very mount you ride is wary

In case its blunted shoe should catch

Against a sudden icy patch.

Under your lonely roof take cover,

Let Pradt and Scott¹⁴ divert your mind

Or check expenses, if inclined,

Grumble or drink, somehow or other

Evening will pass, the morrow too:

With ease you’ll see the winter through.

44

Childe Harold to a T, Onegin

Lapsed into pensive indolence:

Enjoyed a bath with ice on waking,

And then, alone in residence,

Absorbed in household calculations,

Armed with a blunted cue, he stations

Himself at billiards, starts to play

With just two balls till close of day.

The evening comes, the game is ended,

The cue’s forgotten in the shade,

Before the fire a table’s laid,

Onegin waits: here’s Lensky, splendid!

A troika of roan horses wheel

Into the yard – quick, start the meal!

45

At once, a Veuve Cliquot or Moët,

That most revered and blessed wine,

Is brought to table for the poet,

In a chilled bottle, as they dine.

Like Hippocrene it sparkles, flashes

And pours in playful, frothy splashes

(A simile for – please invent).

It once enraptured me: I spent

My last poor penny on its solace.

Dear friends, do you remember that?

Its magical cascades begat

No dearth of silliness and follies,

Verses and jokes in endless streams

And arguments and cheerful dreams.

46

But now its noisy effervescence

Betrays my stomach, and instead

I much prefer Bordeaux’s quiescence

Which spares the stomach and the head.

Aї¹⁵ I can no longer savour;

Aї is like a woman’s favour,

Ravishing, gay, mercurial,

Impetuous and trivial…

If now Bordeaux is my addiction,

It’s as a friend who’s always there

To benefit us everywhere,

Partaking sorrow and affliction,

Sharing the leisure time we spend.

Long live Bordeaux, our precious friend!

47

The fire is out; ash barely covers

The golden coal; a tiny flow

Of vapour, just apparent, hovers;

The grate exhales the faintest glow.

And, up the chimney, pipe smoke rises.

Wine in the gleaming glass still fizzes

Among the empty dinner plates.

An evening gloom accumulates…

I like a friendly chat in quiet

Over a friendly bowl of wine,

Above all at that special time

‘Between the wolf and dog’¹⁶ (though why it

Should be so called, I’ve no idea).

But our two friends are talking here:

48

‘How are the Larin girls, I wonder,

Tatiana, sprightly Olga, tell?’

‘Pour me just half a glass or under…

Enough, dear chap… the family’s well

And all of them send salutations.

But Olga, ah, what transformations!

Dear fellow, Olga’s in her prime,

What shoulders, bosom, soul!… Some time,

Let’s visit them, they’ll be delighted;

Judge for yourself, my friend, it’s clear:

You drop in twice, then disappear

And never show a nose. They’re slighted.

But I’m a fool… for as I speak,

You are invited there next week.’

49

‘I?’ ‘Yes. The family’s celebrating

Tatiana’s nameday, Saturday.

Mother and Olen’ka are waiting:

You’ve no good reason to gainsay?’

‘But goodness knows what sort of rabble

I shall encounter, that’s the trouble…’

‘I’m sure nobody will be there,

It’s just a family affair.

So let us go, do me the favour!’

‘Well, yes; let’s hope I’m entertained.’

‘You’re kind,’ Vladimir said and drained

His glass, a toast to his fair neighbour,

Then started talking once again

Of Olga – such is love’s refrain!

50

Cheerful he was – about to marry.

In just a fortnight he’d be wed.

The crown sweet love gave him to carry,

The mystery of the nuptial bed

Awaited Lensky’s exaltations.

Hymen’s concerns and tribulations,

The chilling train of yawns in store

He neither dreamed of nor foresaw.

While we whom Hymen will not capture

Perceive in home life but a show

Of tedious pictures row on row,

A Lafontaine¹⁷ account of rapture…

Oh, my poor Lensky, he at heart

Was born to play this very part.

51

She loved him… or was she deceiving?

Why should a happy man suspect?

Blest he who’s given to believing,

Who sets aside cold intellect,

Whose heart, enjoying bliss delightful,

Rests like a traveller drunk at nightfall

Or (gentler) like a butterfly

That settles on a flower near by;

But sad is he who lacks illusion,

Whose head is steady, never stirred,

Who hates each impulse, every word,

Foreseeing always their conclusion;

Whose heart experience has chilled,

Whose urge to reverie is stilled.