Eugene Onegin

CHAPTER V

Never know these fearful dreams,

You, O my Svetlana!

Zhukovsky¹

I

Winter that year arrived belated,

The autumn weather not yet gone,

Impatient nature waited, waited,

Snow only fell in January, on

The third at night-time. Early waking,

Tatiana, from her window seeking,

Beheld at morn the whitened court,

The roof, the fence and flower plot,

Delicate patterns on the windows,

The trees in winter’s silver frond,

Gay magpies gathering beyond,

And distant hills that were by winter’s

Resplendent carpet softly bound.

The scene is bright and white all round.

2

Winter!… The peasant, celebrating,

Climbs on his sleigh and clears a spot;

Sniffing the snow and hesitating,

His nag then somehow starts to trot;

A daredevil kibitka² hurries,

Ploughing up fluffy snow in furrows;

The driver hurtles with panache

In sheepskin coat and crimson sash.

An impish household lad who’s chosen

To seat a small dog on his sled,

And play the part of horse instead,

Already has a finger frozen.

He finds it fun, the pain he scorns,

His mother from her window warns…

3

But pictures with this kind of feature

Will not appeal to you, I fear,

They’re nothing more than lowly nature,

You won’t find much refinement here.

Warmed by the god of inspiration,

One poet,³ rich in stylization,

Has painted early snow for us

In every nuance sumptuous;

He’ll hold you fast, there’s no denying,

Depicting in his fiery lay

Secret excursions in a sleigh;

But, in the meantime, I’m not trying

To fight with either him or you,

Whose Finnish Maid⁴ I can’t outdo.

4

Tatiana, knowing not the reason,

But being Russian to the core,

Adored the Russian winter season,

The frosty beauty that it wore,

Rime in the sun when days were freezing,

The sleighs, and, at late dawn, the blazing

Resplendence of the rosy snows,

And Twelfth Night evenings dark and close.

And in her household these occasions

Were celebrated as of old,

Young ladies heard their fortunes told

In servant girls’ prognostications,

That promised them a husband from

The army with a march and drum.

5

Tatiana held to the convictions

Of ancient lore, believed in dreams,

In guessing cards and the predictions

Discernible in moonlight beams.

She was disturbed by every portent,

All objects held a secret content,

Proclaiming something to be guessed,

Presentiments constrained her breast.

The mincing tomcat, sitting, purring

Upon the stove would lift a paw

To wash its snout – in this she saw

A certain sign that guests were nearing.

Seeing the young moon’s countenance

Two-horned, upon her left, at once

6

She’d turn quite pale, begin to tremble.

Or if a falling star should fly

Across the sombre sky and crumble,

Then Tanya hurried to be nigh,

To catch the star while still in motion

And, all her senses in commotion,

To whisper to it her desire.

If it should anywhere transpire

In her excursions from the manor

For her to meet a monk in black

Or see a swift hare cross her track,

All this so terrified Tatiana,

That she with sad presentiment

Expected some adverse event.

7

And yet – she found a secret pleasure

In very terror; surely we

Are creatures that you cannot measure,

We all are contradictory.

Yuletide is come with jubilation;

Immersed in blissful divination,

The young have nothing to regret,

Their life extends before them yet,

A radiant prospect, undiscovered;

Through spectacles old age divines

While to the gravestone it inclines

And nothing past can be recovered;

But does it matter? They’ll believe

Their hopeful prattle till they leave.

8

With curious gaze Tatiana ponders

The wax that, sinking, leaves behind

A labyrinthine web of wonders,

Enchanting wondrously her mind.

Up from a brimming dish of water

Rings surface in successive order;

And, when her little ring appears,

A song is sung of bygone years:

The peasants there have all the riches,

They heap up silver with their spades;

We promise those who hear us maids

Glory and good! The tune is piteous,

Portending losses and mischance;

Maidens prefer the tomcat chants.⁵

9

A frosty night; a sky transparent;

A starry choir from heaven flows

In so serene and quiet a current…

In low-cut frock Tatiana goes

Into the spacious courtyard, training

A mirror on the moon,⁶ complaining

That nothing in her darkened glass

Shows save the trembling moon, downcast…

But hark!… a crunch of snow… the maiden

Flies tiptoe to a passing man,

Her little voice more tender than

The sound of reed pipe gently played on:

‘What is your name?’ He looks; anon

He answers: it is Agafon.⁷

10

Instructed by her nurse, Tatiana

Arranged a séance all night through;

And in the bathhouse of the manor

Ordered a table laid for two.

But sudden fear assailed Tatiana…

And I – remembering Svetlana –

Felt fear as well⁸ – but that will do…

We won’t tell fortunes all night through.⁹

Her silken girdle she unknotted,¹⁰

Undressed and settled into bed,

Lel¹¹ hovering above her head,

While underneath her pillow slotted

Lies a young maiden’s looking glass.

All’s hushed. Sleep overtakes the lass.

11

A wondrous dream she has: she’s taken

A path across a snow-filled glade.

Gloomy and dismal, sad, forsaken;

Snowdrifts rear up before the maid,

And through them runs a seething torrent,

A dark, untamed and age-old current,

With thundering, whirring, churning waves;

Glued by the ice, two flimsy staves

Are set above the rushing water –

A perilous and tiny bridge

That oscillates from edge to edge.

This and the roaring chasm thwart her;

Perplexed, not knowing what to think,

She halts there at the very brink.

12

As at a vexing separation,

Tatiana murmured at the tide,

Saw neither man nor habitation

To call to on the other side.

But soon a drift began to quiver

And who appeared beside the river?

A burly bear with ruffled fur;

Tatiana cried, he roared at her,

Stretched out a paw, sharp claws protruding;

She braced herself, with trembling hand

She leaned on it and scarce could stand;

They reached the bank, where she, concluding

That she was safe, walked on ahead,

Then… what was that?… a bear-like tread!

13

The shaggy footman is behind her,

She dares not look, strains every limb

In hope the creature will not find her,

But there is no escaping him.

The odious bear comes grunting, lumbering;

A wood’s before them; pines are slumbering

In frowning beauty, boughs hang low,

Weighed down with heavy flocks of snow;

And, seeping through the topmost summits

Of aspens, birches, lindens bare,

The starry rays invade the air.

The shrubs, the path and where it plummets

Are covered by the blizzard’s sweep

And in the snowfall buried deep.

14

Bear in pursuit, Tatiana dashes

Into the wood, up to her knee

In powdery snow; a long branch catches

Her by the neck, then forcefully

Wrenches away her golden earrings;

Tatiana, wholly without bearings,

Leaves in the snow a small, wet boot,

Pulled from her charming little foot;

She drops her handkerchief, foregoing

To pick it up, the bear is nigh,

Her hand is trembling, yet she’s shy

To raise the dress around her flowing;

She runs, and he pursues her still,

Then she abandons strength and will.

15

She falls into the snow; and nimbly

The bear retrieves and carries her;

She yields insensibly and limply,

She does not breathe, she does not stir;

Along a forest path he rushes,

And suddenly through trees and bushes

A hut appears; all’s wild around

And sad snow covers roof and ground,

A window sheds illumination

And noise and shouting blast the ear;

The bear declares: ‘My gaffer’s here:

It’s warm inside his habitation.’

And, quickly, opening the door,

He lays the maiden on the floor.

16

Tatiana, coming to, looks round her:

The bear has gone: beyond the hall

Shouting and tinkling glass astound her

As if there’s some big funeral;

Making no sense of this she quietly

Peers through a chink… the scene’s unsightly,

No fancy could imagine it:

Around a table monsters sit,

One with a dog’s face, horned, abnormal,

Another with a cockerel’s head,

A witch with bearded goat cross-bred,

A skeleton, august and formal,

A small-tailed dwarf, and what is that,

Apparently half-crane, half-cat?

17

More wondrous, more intimidating,

Astride a spider sits a crab,

Upon a goose’s neck, rotating,

A skull is perched with scarlet cap,

And there a crouching windmill dances,

Waving its snapping vanes like lances;

Barks, laughter, whistles, song, applause,

Men’s talk and horses stamping floors!

What could Tatiana do but marvel

To see among this company

The man she loved so fearfully,

The hero of our present novel!

Onegin steals a quick look for

Whoever may be at the door.

18

He gives a sign – they spring to action,

He drinks – they shout and drink a round.

He laughs – they roar with satisfaction,

He knits his brow – there’s not a sound.

It’s obvious that he’s the master:

And Tanya no more fears disaster,

And curious to find out more

She opens gingerly the door…

A sudden gust of wind blows, lashing

The flaming lamps that light the night;

The goblins cower at the sight;

Onegin, from his chair, eyes flashing,

Rises with clatter; they all rise:

And swiftly to the door he flies.

19

A terrified Tatiana hastens

To flee Onegin and his team;

Not possible; and, in impatience,

She scurries round and wants to scream,

But Eugene pulls the door wide open

And she’s exposed to the misshapen

And hellish spectres; savage cries

Of laughter resonate; their eyes,

Their curved proboscises, moustaches,

Their hooves, horns, tusks and tufted tails,

Their bony fingers, sharp like nails,

Their bloody tongues – all these mismatches

At once towards the girl incline

And all cry out: ‘She’s mine! She’s mine!

20

‘She’s mine,’ Onegin spoke out grimly,

And suddenly the pack was gone;

In frosty darkness Tanya dimly

Confronted Eugene all alone.

Towards a corner seat he takes her,

Upon a shaky bench he lays her

And, bending downward, rests his head

Upon her shoulder; when a tread

Discloses Olga, then Vladimir;

A sudden light, and in alarm

Onegin stands with upraised arm,

His eyes roam wildly seeing him here,

He chides the uninvited pair;

Tatiana’s lying in despair.

21

The argument grows louder quickly,

Onegin snatches up a knife,

Frightening shadows gather thickly,

Onegin’s taken Lensky’s life.

A piercing cry, the hut is shaking,

Tatiana, terror-stricken, waking,

Looks round her room, already bright,

As through a frozen pane the light

Of crimson dawn’s already playing;

The door stirs. Olga flies to her,

Aurora-like but rosier,

And lighter than a swallow, saying:

‘What did you dream, whom did you see?

Oh, Tanya, tell, who can it be?’

22

But she, not noticing her sister,

Lay leafing through a book in bed;

Page after page kept turning faster,

And to her sister nothing said.

The book that claimed her rapt attention

Wanted the poet’s sweet invention,

No saws or pictures could be seen,

But neither Virgil nor Racine,

Not Seneca, not Scott, not Byron,

Not even Ladies’ Fashion¹² could

Engross so much a woman’s mood:

What now enticed her like a siren

Was Martin Zadek,¹³ Chaldee sage,

Who solved your dreams on every page.

23

This weighty tome a passing trader

Had brought to Tanya’s solitude,

And finally managed to persuade her

To buy it, if he could include

A few odd volumes of Malvina;¹⁴

She paid three rubles, one poltina,

He also put into the scales

A book containing vulgar tales,

Two Petriads,¹⁵ a Russian grammar

And volume three of Marmontel.¹⁶

Once Martin Zadek casts his spell,

Tanya surrenders to his glamour…

He brings her solace when she grieves,

He sleeps with her and never leaves.

24

The dream disturbs her. In confusion,

Not knowing what it presages,

She seeks a meaningful solution

To all its monstrous images.

Arranged in alphabetic order,

The index gives the words that awed her:

A bear, a blizzard, little bridge,

Dark, fir, a forest, hedgehog, witch

And so on. Tanya’s reservations

A Martin Zadek won’t dispel,

And yet her nightmare does foretell

A multitude of sad occasions.

For several days thereafter she

Keeps thinking of it anxiously.

25

But lo, her crimson hand extending,¹⁷

Daybreak, from valleys large and small,

Leads forth the folk who’ll be attending

A merry nameday festival.

From morn the Larin home’s abounding

With neighbours from estates surrounding;

Whole families have made their way

On britska,¹⁸ coach, kibitka, sleigh.

There’s jostling as the hall is filling,

In the salon new faces, hugs,

Girls’ smacking kisses, barking pugs,

Noise, laughter, crush as more folk spill in,

Guests make their bows and shuffle by,

Wet-nurses shout and children cry.

26

Together with a spouse well nourished,

There entered portly Pustyakov;¹⁹

Gvozdin, a splendid lord who flourished

On peasant farmers badly off;

Then the Skotinins, grey-haired, prospering

With their innumerable offspring

From thirty-odd right down to two;

And Petushkov, our fop, came, too;

Then my first cousin, one Buyanov,

In pointed cap and cloaked with fluff

(But you must know him well enough);

And councillor-in-retirement, Flyanov,

A scandalmonger, seasoned cheat,

And bribe-taker who loved to eat.

27

The family of Kharlikov²⁰ had

Monsieur Triquet within its fold;

A noted wit, late from Tambov, clad

In reddish wig, bespectacled.

Triquet, in truly Gallic manner,

Had brought a stanza for Tatiana,

Set to a children’s melody:

Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.²¹

This stanza saw its publication

In a decrepit almanac;

Triquet, a poet with a knack,

Redeemed it from disintegration,

And in the place of belle Nina

He boldly put belle Tatiana.

28

And now from an adjacent quarter

A company commander came,

The idol of each ripened daughter

And district mothers, all aflame.

He entered… ah now, what’s he saying?

The regimental band is playing,

The colonel has arranged it all,

What fun! There is to be a ball!

The young things skip, anticipating;

But dinner being served brings calm,

All go to table, arm in arm,

The grown-up girls near Tanya waiting,

The men en face; a buzz goes round;

All cross themselves as seats are found.

29

A sudden ceasing of the chatter;

Mouths chew; and, meanwhile, all about,

Crockery, plates and covers clatter

And clinking wine-glasses ring out.

But soon the guests by small gradations

Revive their deafening conversations.

They shout, laugh, argue through the meal,

Nobody listens, ladies squeal.

The doors fly open, Lensky enters,

With him Onegin. ‘Lord, at last!’

Cries out Dame Larina, and fast

The guests make room, as each one ventures

To move a cover or a chair;

They seat the two young friends with care.

30

They sit right opposite Tatiana;

She, paler than the moon at morn,

More agitated in her manner

Than hunted doe, stays looking down

With darkening eyes; a glow pervades her,

A surge of passion suffocates her;

She does not hear from our two friends

The salutation each extends;

About to cry, poor thing, she’s ready

To fall into a swoon or faint;

But will and reason bring restraint;

Clenching her teeth, remaining steady,

She quietly utters just a word

And from the table has not stirred.

31

With tragi-nervous demonstrations,

With maidens’ fainting fits and tears

Eugene had long since lost all patience:

He’d had enough of them for years.

Finding himself at this huge banquet,

The oddball was already angry.

But noticing the languid maid’s

Disquiet, he, with lowered gaze,

Fell sulking and, with indignation,

Swore he would madden Lensky and

Avenge himself on every hand.

Rejoicing in anticipation,

He in his soul began to sketch

Caricatures of every guest.

32

Of course, it was not just Onegin

Who could detect Tatiana’s plight,

But at that moment all were taking

Cognizance of a pie²² in sight

(Alas, too salty for the throttle).

Meanwhile, inside a pitch-sealed bottle

Between the meat and blanc-manger²³

Tsimlyansky²⁴ wine goes on display,

Followed by long and narrow glasses,

So like your waist, Zizi,²⁵ so small,

The crystal pattern of my soul,

The object of my guiltless verses,

The vial of love’s enticing brew –

How often I got drunk on you!

33

The damp cork pops, the bottle’s emptied,

The glasses fizz with ancient wine;

Then, by his stanza long tormented,

Triquet with ceremonial sign

Stands up; and all the guests before him

Are still. Unable to ignore him,

Tatiana’s scarce alive; Triquet,

Holding a paper, turns her way

And starts his song, off-key. He’s fêted

With shouts and calls, the guests clap hard,

She owes a curtsey to the bard;

The poet, great but underrated,

Is first to drink her health, and she

Accepts his stanza gracefully.

34

Homage, congratulations greet her;

In turn Tatiana thanks each guest.

Then, as Onegin comes to meet her,

The maiden’s air, her lack of zest,

Her discomposure, tired expression

Engender in his soul compassion:

He simply bows, yet in his eyes

Tatiana catches with surprise

A look miraculously tender.

Whether indeed he feels regret

Or plays with her like a coquette,

This wondrous look appears to mend her:

True tenderness in it she sees,

It puts Tatiana’s heart at ease.

35

The chairs are pushed back in a clatter,

The drawing-room receives the crowd,

So bees from honied hives will scatter

To cornfields in a noisy cloud.

Contented with their festive labours,

The locals snuffle to their neighbours;

Ladies sit by the chimney-place;

Girls whisper in a corner space;

The men unfold the green baize tables,

Boston and ancient omber²⁶ call

The ardent players to their thrall,

Whist too, still one of players’ staples –

But what a dull consortium,

All sons of avid tedium!

36

Whist’s gallant heroes have completed

Eight rubbers; and as many times,

Having changed places, are reseated;

Now tea is served. We hear no chimes:

I like to time repasts at leisure

With dinner, supper, tea my measure.

We countryfolk make little fuss

Without Bréguet to govern us:

Our stomach is our faultless timer;

And, by the way, I like to talk

As much of dishes, feasts and cork,

In my capacity as rhymer,

As you did, Homer, bard divine

Whom thirty centuries enshrine.

[37, 38]

39

But tea is brought; the dainty maidens

Have scarce their saucers in their hand,

When from the hall they hear the cadence

Of flute, bassoon – the army band.

By music’s thunder animated,

His tea-and-rum cup relegated,

Our Paris of the towns about,

Our Petushkov seeks Olga out,

Then Lensky Tanya; Kharlikova,

A seasoned maid, not married off,

Falls to our poet from Tambov,

Buyanov whirls off Pustyakova,

And all have spilled into the hall,

And in full glory shines the ball.

40

When I began this composition

(My Chapter One you will recall),

I wanted with Albani’s²⁷ vision

To paint a Petersburgian ball.

But, by an empty dream’s deflection,

I got engrossed in recollection

Of once-familiar little feet

Along whose narrow tracks so neat

I swear I’ll go no more a-roving!²⁸

With youth betrayed, its time for me

To learn to live more sensibly,

My deeds and diction need improving,

And this Fifth Chapter I shall cleanse

Of its digressions, when it ends.

41

Monotonous and madly whirling,

Like young life’s whirl, when spirits soar,

The waltz revolves, the music swirling,

The couples flick across the floor.

The moment for revenge arriving,

Onegin, chuckling and reviving,

Approaches Olga. Rapidly,

He twirls her near the company,

Then seats her on a chair, proceeding

To talk to her of this or that;

One or two minutes spent on chat,

And they rejoin the waltz, unheeding;

The guests are taken by surprise,

Poor Lensky can’t believe his eyes.

42

Now the mazurka has resounded.

Once, when you heard its thunder peal,

A giant ballroom shook and pounded,

The parquet cracking under heel.

The very window-frames vibrated;

Today, like ladies, understated,

We glide across the lacquered boards;

But in small towns and country wards

There the mazurka thrives, retaining

Its pristine charms: the leap and dash,

The play of heel, and the moustache;

These have not changed at all, remaining

Immune to wanton fashion’s sway,

The Russian sickness of today.

[43]

44

My irrepressible Buyanov

Took Olga and Tatiana then

To meet Eugene, who promptly ran off

With Olga to the ball again.

He guides her, nonchalantly gliding,

And in a whisper, bends, confiding

A madrigal, the merest slush,

Squeezes her hand – her rosy flush

Takes on a brighter coloration,

Infusing her complacent face.

My Lensky, watching this take place,

Flares up with jealous indignation

And by the long mazurka vexed,

Solicits the cotillion next.

45

It isn’t possible, she tells him,

Eugene already has her word.

Not possible? Ah, she repels him,

She could… good God, what has he heard?

Scarce out of swaddling, always mild,

Now a coquette, a giddy child!

Already versed in artful play,

She’s learned already to betray!

The blow’s too much for Lensky; cursing

The sex’s tricks, he leaves the hall,

Calls for a horse, and, full of gall,

Gallops away, in thought rehearsing:

A brace of pistols, bullets two –

Enough for fate to take its due.