Yevgeny Onegin

CHAPTER THREE

Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse. *

MALFILÂTRE

1

“Where are you off to? Oh, you poets!…”

“Onegin, I must disappear.”

“Do go. One thing, though… Take me through

it—

Where do you spend your evenings here?”

“I go to see the Larins.” “Splendid.

But so much time—how do you spend it?

For Heaven’s sake, isn’t it dull?”

“No, not at all.” “Incredible.

I see it all from where I’m standing:

You have first—tell me if I’m wrong—

A Russian family plain and strong,

All welcoming and open-handed,

Then jam and never-ending chat:

Rain, flax, the farmyard—things like that.”

2

“There’s nothing wrong; it’s just propriety.”

“Well, being bored is wrong, I’ve found.”

“I’ve no time for your smart society.

Give me the old domestic round,

Where I…” “Spare me the eclogue, Lensky.

For God’s sake, put it differently.

You’re going now. Too bad… But, hey,

Listen to me. Is there some way

For me to meet this Phyllis woman,

This object of your heart and quill,

And tears, and rhymes, and what you will?

Take me.” “You’re joking.” “No, no, come on…”

“I’d be delighted.” “When, though?” “Now.

They’ll make us welcome anyhow.” 3

“Let’s go.” The friends sped off together

And soon arrived, only to be

Smothered by many a warm endeavour

Of old-world hospitality.

A common ceremony this is

With jams served up in little dishes,

And on waxed tables close at hand

Jugs of red-berry water stand.

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They take the shortest way home, racing

The horses, giving them their head.

Let’s eavesdrop on the conversation

Between our heroes. What was said?

“What’s wrong, Onegin. You are yawning.”

“Just habit, Lensky.” “Was it boring?

There’s something else.” “I’m fine… Look how

The fields are getting darker now.

Andryushka, move! Don’t spare the horses.

Oh, what a stupid place to be!

Though Larina is straight, and she

Was so nice, such a pleasant hostess.

I fear the berry water could

Have done my state of health no good. 5

But tell me—which one was Tatyana?”

“The one who came and didn’t speak.

She looked unhappy like Svetlana,

Sitting there in the window seat.”

“You love the younger one, then, brother?”

“What if I do?” “I’d choose the other

If I had been like you, a bard.

Your Olga’s face is lifeless, hard,

Madonna-like, with van Dyck’s dry line.

It’s round and pretty, but its bloom

Reminds me of that stupid moon

Standing upon that stupid skyline.”

Vladimir’s curt response was heard,

Then, all the way home, not a word. 6

Meanwhile Onegin’s recent visit

Made an impression on them all.

“There’s something here,” they thought. “What is it?”

And local folk were much enthralled,

Which then gave rise to lots of guesses,

And enigmatic noes and yesses,

And jokes and judgements, some quite rude:

Tatyana—was she being wooed?

And some already were presuming

That marriage plans had reached a pause,

Although long fixed, only because

The latest rings were not forthcoming.

While Lensky’s wedding hereabout

Was pencilled in beyond all doubt. 7

Tatyana listened with vexation

To all this gossip, yet, within,

An inexpressible elation

Rose from her thoughts about this thing.

Thoughts stirred her heart like a new seedling.

Love’s time had come; here was the feeling.

Thus fallen granules, flourishing,

Quicken to warm soil in the spring.

Long had she felt, in flights of fancy,

When relishing a blissful mood,

A craving for the fateful food.

Long had her straining heart been lancing

Her young girl’s breast. Her soul was numb,

Waiting for somebody to come… 8

…And here he was! Her eyes were opened.

“It’s him, he is the man,” she said.

Alas! Now, days and nights unbroken,

And lonesome sleep in a hot bed,

He fills them all. All things now tally,

Charming the sweet girl magically,

Speaking of him. She’s quickly bored

By warm thoughts and the knowing word,

Or servants anxious for her pleasure.

Now, permanently plunged in gloom,

She will ignore guests in the room,

Cursing them for their idle leisure,

For dropping in at all—that’s wrong—

And then for staying on too long. 9

How closely is her mind now captured,

In her sweet tales deeply immersed.

And with what energizing rapture

She makes the charming fancies hers.

Through the delightful power of dreaming

Characters most authentic-seeming—

The lover of Julie Wolmar,

Malek-Adhel and de Linar,

And Werther, the unsettled martyr,

And Grandison, to some unique,

Though most of us he sends to sleep—

For this young dreamer, tender-hearted,

Into a single form they ran,

Onegin being the one man. 10

A dreamt-up heroine, peculiar

To her beloved writers, she—

The new Delphine, Clarissa, Julia—

Walks to the silent woods to be

Alone, roaming with unsafe fiction,

In which she seeks and finds depicted

Her inmost secrets and her dreams,

The fullness of her heart’s extremes,

Sighing as she grows ever nearer

To other people’s joys and woes,

And mouthing trance-like as she goes

A letter (learnt) to a nice hero.

Our hero, though, whate’er he be,

Was not a Grandison, not he. 11

Tuning his tone with chords of gravity,

A zealous bard of yesterday

Would launch his hero with great clarity:

A perfect man in every way,

A treasured object fondly burnished:

Pursued unfairly, always furnished

With sympathy of soul and mind

And features of the winsome kind.

Endued with warmth and pure affection

The ever-sanguine hero stood

For noble sacrifice and good,

And then, in the concluding section,

Evil was punished and put down,

While virtue got its well-earned crown. 12

But now all minds are fogged, and morals

Are blamed for leaving people bored.

Evil smiles out in all our novels—

Indeed it sits there like a lord.

Those fictions from the muse of Britain

Disturb the young girl’s sleep as written,

And she has come to idolize

The Vampire with his brooding eyes

Or Melmoth in his melancholy,

The Corsair or the Wandering Jew,

Or weird Sbogar. Lord Byron knew,

By some judicious flight of folly,

How hopeless egotists are given

A cloak of glum Romanticism. 13

If this makes sense, friends, let me know it.

One day, perhaps, by Heaven’s will,

I’ll give up writing like a poet,

Take a new devil for my quill,

Ignoring any threats from Phoebus,

And sink to humble prose. My readers

Will get an old-style novel. Mine

Will be a rapturous decline.

Dark pangs of criminal calamity

I shall not grimly offer you.

Instead, I’ll simply trundle through

The legends of a Russian family,

The charming dreams love brings to us,

The manners of our ancestors. 14

I’ll set down the plain conversation

Of dads, and uncles past their prime,

The children’s secret assignations

Down by the brook, beside the limes,

Throes of the hapless jealous-hearted,

Tears, and the making-up when parted…

I’ll show their tiffs, but without fail

They’ll end up at the altar rail.

I’ll catch the tones of love. The blissful

Accents of aching hearts, which I

Was wont to use in days gone by

At lovers’ feet, where I lay wishful,

Inspired me, tripping off the tongue,

But now their memory is not strong. 15

Tatyana, oh, Tatyana, darling,

I weep along with you. That man’s

A modish brute, and you are falling—

Your destiny is in his hands.

You’ll perish, but first, darling woman,

Dazzled with hope, you wish to summon

At least a darkling form of bliss

And sample what life’s sweetness is—

Desire. You drink a magic poison.

You are pursued by waking dreams,

And everywhere you fancy schemes

For meeting places blithely chosen.

Look everywhere, and everywhere

Your deadly tempter will be there. 16

Driven by aching love, Tatyana

Goes down the garden, there to brood.

She drops her gaze; her eyes are calmer.

She falters now from lassitude.

Her bosom heaves, her cheeks are bright red

And momentarily ignited.

Her breath stops at her lips and dies,

Her ears ring, flashes sear her eyes…

And night falls, with the moon patrolling

The far depths of the firmament,

And in the treetops, eloquent,

A nightingale is sweetly trolling.

Darkness. No sleep. It’s getting worse.

Tatyana whispers to her nurse. 17

“I can’t sleep, Nanny. It’s oppressive.

Open the window. Sit with me.”

“Tanya. What’s wrong?” “I feel so restive.

Let’s talk about our history.”

“Our what? Oh, Tanya, once I gloried

In lots of well-remembered stories

Of things that don’t and things that do,

With evil sprites and young girls too,

But now it’s all gone dark. Oh, Tanya,

I knew it once, but now it’s gone,

And awful times are coming on.

It’s painful.” “Tell me, Nanny—can you?—

What happened to you long ago?

Were you in love? I want to know.” 18

“Oh, come, come, Tanya. I look back on

Times when we never heard of love.

His mother would have sent me packing

(God rest her soul in heaven above).”

“But how did you get married, Nanny?”

“It must have been God’s will. My Vanya

Was not as old as me, my dear,

And I was in my fourteenth year.

A matchmaker came over, plying

My kinsfolk for a week or two,

The father gave the blessing due,

Which left me bitter, scared and crying.

They cried too, shaking out my hair

For church, and then they sang me there. 19

So I was sent to a new family…

…But you’ve not heard a word I’ve said…”

“I’m feeling awful, dearest Nanny,

I have a kind of sickly dread.

I could start crying, sobbing.” “Surely,

My little one, you must be poorly.

God save you in his mercy, dear.

What do you want? Ask, I am here.

I’ll sprinkle you with holy water.

You’re burning hot…” “I’m not ill, though,

Nanny… I’m… I’m in love.” “Oh, no,

The Lord be with you!” Nanny caught her,

Prayed softly for Tatyana, and

Crossed the maid with her small, frail hand. 20

“Yes, I’m in love,” again she whispered,

Lamenting in a doleful tone.

“You’re feeling poorly, sweetheart. Listen…”

“No, I’m in love. Leave me alone.”

And all the time the moon was glowing

With a subdued light, clearly showing

The maiden’s pale charms, and her hair

Undone and scattered everywhere,

Her tears, and near the young Tatyana

Her nanny on the wooden seat,

A scarf on her grey head, complete

With her long-hanging body-warmer.

Silence and dreams. The moon on high

An inspiration in the sky. 21

Tatyana’s heart was feeling freer

As she gazed at the moon, and lo!

She had an interesting idea.

“I want to be alone. Please go,

Nanny, but give me pen and paper.

Bring me that table. I’ll sleep later.

I’m sorry.” And when she has gone

Stillness descends… The moon shines on…

Head propped on elbow, Tanya forges

Ahead with writing (him in mind)

A hasty missive to be signed

By an ingénue lovelorn and gorgeous…

The letter’s done, folded in two.

But, Tanya—who is it going to? 22

I’ve known intractable young beauties

As cool and pure as driven snow,

Implacable, non-venal cuties,

Not for the minds of men—oh, no!

They faze me, modish and high-minded;

Their virtue has good blood behind it.

Yes, I admit to having fled,

Methinks with horror, once I read

Upon their brows that phrase from Hades:

Abandon hope now for all time.

To rouse love is, for them, a crime;

Deterrence gratifies these ladies,

And maybe by the Neva, you

Have come across such persons too. 23

With worshippers no less subservient

Other strange females I have seen

Who were self-centred and impervious

To sighs of love and flattery.

What did I find? I was astonished:

Those austere girls who had admonished,

And turned down shy love, did not lack

The clever skills to win it back,

At least by showing some compassion.

At least in the odd spoken word

A touch of tenderness was heard,

And in his unperceiving fashion

A blind and gullible young swain

Would strive for his sweet dreams again. 24

What is Tatyana’s worst transgression?

That in her sweet way she has been

Free from deceit? Her one obsession

Has been to trust her chosen dream?

Or that she loves without art, yielding

To the seductive call of feeling?

That she is trustingly naive?

That heaven chose her to receive

Imagination of wild splendour,

A will so sharp, a mind so shrewd,

A head so full of attitude,

A heart so passionate and tender?

Forgive! She’s only guilty of

Scatterbrain tendencies in love. 25

Whereas a flirt will judge things coldly,

Tatyana loves with true intent.

She dedicates her spirit wholly

To love, with childlike innocence.

She doesn’t say, “No need to hurry,

Love’s price will rise, we need not worry,

Delay will lure things to our nets.

Let’s puncture vanity, and let’s

Use hope and bafflement together

To overwhelm a heart, and then

Bring it to jealous fire again.

For otherwise, sated with pleasure,

Our wily captive will respond

With a strong urge to burst his bonds.” 26

One further problem: I had better

Protect the honour of my land

By giving you Tatyana’s letter

Translated. You must understand:

Her grasp of Russian was defective,

Our Russian journals she neglected,

And found it hard to get along

With speakers of her mother tongue.

Her letter, then, was in French phrases.

What can we do about this—what?

Again I say: Russian was not

A medium fit for love and ladies.

Our worthy language, I suppose,

Has not grown into postal prose. 27

I know some people want to make them

Read Russian. Horrible indeed!

Is this how I should recreate them:

Clutching The Well-Wisher? Agreed!

Poets! I need to know for certain:

Is it not true that these sweet persons,

To whom you sinners have conveyed

In verse a secret serenade,

To whom you gave your hearts of marble—

How little Russian did they know!

But did they not strain at it so

That, in the end, however garbled,

The foreign language that was wrung

From them became their mother tongue? 28

I pray that at a ball I wouldn’t

Meet there, or on the porch mayhap,

A yellow-shawled religious student

Or academic in his cap.

Red lips are nothing when unsmiling,

And Russian speech is unbeguiling

Without grammatical mistakes.

Perhaps—ah, me! For Heaven’s sake—

Sweet girls in a new generation,

Hearing the journals’ siren voice,

Will teach us grammar as by choice,

And verse will add to the occasion.

But what has this to do with me?

I shall keep faith with history. 29

All incorrect and mindless chatter

And speech that is not of the best

Will always set my heart aflutter,

As long ago, within my breast.

I have no strength now for repentance,

I’ll take French words in any sentence,

And tolerate old sins and worse

With Bogdanóvich and his verse.

But that will do. I must get busy.

Tatyana’s letter is at stake.

I promised… But, for Heaven’s sake,

I could back out… I’m in a tizzy.

I know that Parny’s tender brogue

Has gone, and is no more in vogue. 30

Bard of The Feasts and aching sadness,

If only you were with me here.

I would approach with brazen gladness,

Old friend of mine, and bend your ear:

“Bring melody with magic laden

To this inflamed, impassioned maiden

And the French phrases she recites.

Where are you? Come to me! My rights

I yield to you. Your line is my line.”

But under the sad, beetling crags,

All praise gone by, his way he drags,

Alone beneath the Finnish skyline.

He wanders, knowing no relief,

And cannot hear me in my grief. 31

Tatyana’s letter lies before me.

I hold it like a holy thing.

I read it through in secret torment

With a delight unwavering.

Who taught her all these tender phrases,

The easy kindness that amazes?

Who taught her this warm gibberish,

This heartfelt talk so feverish,

So fascinating yet so tainting?

I cannot tell. This version here

Is poor and incomplete, I fear,

A thin take of a vibrant painting.

It’s like Der Freischütz tightly squeezed

From girl beginners at the keys. TATYANA’S LETTER TO ONEGIN

What can I do but write this letter

To you? Can I say something more?

I know that now you have the better

Of me, to punish me with scorn.

But if you, with my sad fate settled,

Retain one drop of sympathy,

You will not now abandon me.

At first I wanted to keep quiet.

Believe me, you would not have known

About the shame that I have shown,

If only I could have got by it

By simply hoping we might meet

Once weekly in the village street,

Or I might listen to you speaking,

And say a word to you, and then

Withdraw to think and think again,

Around the clock, of our next meeting.

But you’re unsociable, they say;

The country’s not exciting, is it?

And we… don’t shine in any way.

We’re plain, though welcoming your visit.

Why did you come here? What to do?

In our remote, forgotten village

I would have known nothing of you,

Nor this raw suffering. God willing—

Who knows?—at long last, after stilling

The turmoil of a maiden soul,

I might have found a friend, a heartener,

I might have been his faithful partner,

And played a virtuous mother’s role.

Another man? My heart will answer:

It cannot go to others, no.

This comes forth from the highest council:

By Heaven’s will I’m yours alone.

My life has long been dedicated

To meeting you, the person whom

I see as sent by God, and fated

To be my guardian to the tomb.

In dreams I have divined your presence,

Dear to my heart, though still unseen,

Your dear glance pierced me with its gleam,

Your voice has stirred my soul with resonance

For some time now. No dream was this.

I knew you even as you entered;

I felt all faint, ablaze, tormented,

Telling myself: yes, here he is!

Did I not hear your voice engaging

With me whenever silence reigned,

When I was with the poor, or phrasing

A prayer to heaven, and assuaging

The anguish of a soul in pain?

Here is a sudden apparition;

Is it not you, my dearest vision?

Through the bright dusk did you not slope,

Softly above my pillow bending,

Bringing delight and love while sending

To me the whispered words of hope?

What can you be—my guardian angel,

Or someone luring me into danger?

Scatter my doubts. I must be told.

Is this an empty dream created

By one who cheats a simple soul

While something different is fated?

So be it. My destiny

Is in your hands, and I surrender.

I shed my tears for you to see,

And pray you will be my defender.

Picture me: I am all alone,

And no one knows me, nothing alters.

My senses reel, my reason falters,

I cannot speak, my life is gone.

I wait. Your glance has the potential

To raise new hope and hearten me

Or wreck my hard dream, giving me

What I deserve, alas!—your censure.

I close, and dread to read this through.

I feel embarrassed, I feel frightened,

But honour is a pledge from you;

To this my trust is boldly plighted…

32

Now only sighs and moans escape her.

The letter trembles in her hand.

She licks at the pink-coloured wafer,

Dry on her fevered tongue-tip, and

Her darling head slumps at an angle,

Her light slip slides down in a tangle,

Laying a lovely shoulder bare,

And now the moonlight everywhere

Fades in its radiance. Mist comes creeping

Along the vale, the stream reborn

In silver light. The herdsman’s horn

Rouses the village from its sleeping.

Morning… Folk are long out of bed.

My Tanya isn’t interested. 33

She has not noticed the dawn breaking.

She sits, head bowed, in dishabille,

Viewing the letter without making

An imprint with her graven seal.

Then the door opens, slow and quiet;

Grey-haired Filípyevna stands by it,

Bearing a tray, tea-things and cup.

“Come on, my child, time you were up.

My goodness, lovely girl, you’re ready!

My early birdie, what a fright

You brought upon me yesternight.

But, heavens, how your health has steadied,

And last night’s fret has passed. Instead,

Your face has gone all poppy red.” 34

“Nanny, would you do me a favour?”

“Of course, my dear. How does it go?”

“You won’t think… there’s a funny flavour?…

You see… It’s like this… Don’t say no.”

“I won’t, my dear, God be your ransom.”

“Well, on the quiet get your grandson

To take this note to O… that man,

Our neighbour… Ask him, if he can,

To tell him nothing, just keep quiet

And be sure not to give my name.”

“But who’s it for, though? Such a shame—

I’m muddled now, I won’t deny it.

There’s lots of neighbours hereabouts,

Too many, more than I can count.” 35

“Oh dear, you are slow-witted, Nanny.”

“I’m getting on, dear, getting on…

My mind is dull now, not so canny.

Once it was sharp, but now it’s gone.

Time was, with one word from the master…”

“Oh, Nanny, dear, try to move faster.

What has your mind to do with me?

It’s all about this letter. See,

It’s for Onegin.” “Such a business…

Darling, you mustn’t take offence.

You know me. I don’t make much sense…

You’ve gone all pale again. What is this?”

“It’s nothing, Nanny. Don’t delay.

Just send your grandson on his way.” 36

A day passed, and Tatyana tarried.

No answer—and next day, the same.

She got dressed early, looking pallid.

When would he write—what was his game?

Then Olga’s suitor came to see them.

“He’s your close friend—where can he be, then?”

The mistress asked him, curious.

“I’m sure he’s quite forgotten us.”

Tatyana, meanwhile, blushed and shivered.

“He said today he would come by,”

Lensky confided in reply.

“He’ll come—the post is being delivered.”

At which Tatyana dropped her eyes

Like someone suddenly chastised. 37

Dusk settles. On the table, seething,

The evening samovar now sings

And warms the Chinese teapot, wreathing

Its clouds of steam in rising rings.

Dispensed by Olga’s expert fingers,

The tea is poured, its odour lingers

In a dark aromatic stream,

And a young boy goes round with cream.

Tatyana, by the table brooding,

My sweet soul, breathes on the cold glass

And ponders as the moments pass,

Her gorgeous tiny finger doodling…

The pane is steamed, the message brief:

Y.O. She cherished the motif. 38

Sinking in spirit, she felt shattered;

Her languid eyes filled up with tears.

Hoof beats! Her heart froze as they clattered

Into the yard—and he appeared,

Yevgeny! Shadow-like, the lassie

Slips out into another passage…

Porch, yard and garden are attacked,

She flies and flies, not looking back,

Not daring to, as on she rushes

Past edges, bridges, onward drawn

Towards the lake, across the lawn,

Crashing her way through lilac bushes,

Past neat beds to the brook. The wench

Was breathless when, reaching a bench, 39

She flopped…

“It’s him! He’s here! Yevgeny!

Good gracious! What can he have thought?”

Her agonizing heart is straining,

With a dark dream of hope restored.

She shakes. Her temperature has risen.

She waits. Is this him?… No, it isn’t.

Out in the beds the maids, by chance,

Were picking berries from the plants,

And singing, as decreed, in chorus

(A rule intended to preclude

The master’s berries being chewed

By opportunist mouths—a flawless

Country device that substitutes

Singing aloud for scrumping fruits). SONG OF THE GIRLS

Come, ye pretty maidens, come,

Little darlings, little friends,

Frolic, maidens, have your fun,

Dance and play and dance again.

Sing your song, oh, sing your song,

Secret and mysterious,

Lead your lad, bring him along,

Make him join the dance with us.

When you’ve seen him from afar,

When you’ve lured him into place,

Break and run, girls, where you are,

Throw your cherries in his face.

Cherries! Raspberries! Come near.

Berries round and berries red!

Do not try to overhear

Secrets sung and secrets said,

Do not try to watch the way

Maidens dance and maidens play.

40

She never thought—what was their song for?

The ringing voices passed her by.

Tatyana now could only long for

The tremor in her heart to die

And for her cheeks to cease their burning.

But in her breast the pain kept churning,

Warmth in her cheeks did not disperse,

Indeed it blazed up even worse.

Thus a poor butterfly will shimmer

And give one rainbow wing a flap

When caught in a rough schoolboy’s trap.

Thus, in the corn, a hare will quiver

When from afar he sees what’s what—

There in the bushes huntsmen squat. 41

But soon she gave a sigh of yearning

And stood up from the garden seat.

She walked away… The path, the turning,

The avenue… Whom should she meet

But him, with eyes ablaze—Yevgeny!—

A presence ominous and shady.

As if scorched by some fiery bolt,

She staggered slowly to a halt.

But… what came next, that subject matter

Lies at this time beyond my strength;

I cannot tell it now, my friends.

Having indulged in so much chatter,

I need to rest and have some fun.

I’ll finish this off later on.

* She was a girl, she was in love. (French.)