Yevgeny Onegin

CHAPTER FOUR

La morale est dans la nature des choses.*

NECKER

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6] 7

The less we prize and love a woman

The more she’ll like us, and perhaps

The more she’ll be inclined to come on,

Lured into our enticing traps.

It used to be that cold seduction

Counted as amorous instruction,

Vaunting itself, consisting of

Enjoyment not involving love,

But this game, once a major pastime

Was suited to the apes of old

Much praised in granddad’s days. Behold,

Lovelace was cast off for the last time

Along with red heels flashed in jigs

And all those splendid periwigs. 8

Who isn’t weary of pretending,

Repeating things that all men know,

Convincing people without ending

Of what convinced them long ago?

Attending to the same objections,

Rejecting age-old preconceptions,

Which are not, and have never been,

Believed by young girls of thirteen?

Who does not quail before dire warnings,

Entreaties, fleeting fears and oaths,

Or seven pages filled with notes,

Deceit, rings, tears and gossips droning,

While mothers watch and aunts attend

And husbands wear you down as friends? 9

These very thoughts came to afflict him.

From early youth he’d always been

Stormy and wild, a willing victim

Of passions that he let run free.

Life spoilt him, yielding what he wanted.

With one thing for a while enchanted,

Then disenchanted with the next,

He let desire cool by neglect,

The more so when he waxed successful.

No noise nor silence could control

The incessant murmur of his soul.

Laughing through yawns had seemed less stressful,

But eight killed years had been, in truth,

The best bloom of his wasted youth. 10

When love of girls no longer reckoned

He sort of followed in their tracks:

Rejected, he came round in seconds;

Let down by them, he would relax.

He sought them out with no enthusing

And didn’t grieve much at their losing—

Love or rebuffs were quick to fade.

He, a bored guest who, having played,

An evening’s whist with everybody,

Sits there until the game is done,

Then sets off on his homeward run,

Soon settled and serenely nodding,

Though come the dawn he doesn’t know

Where in the evening he will go. 11

Her missive, though, had left him anguished.

Onegin felt moved and distraught,

For those dreams and the girlish language

Had raised in him a swarm of thoughts.

He well remembered dear Tatyana,

Her sad complexion and her pallor,

And suddenly his spirit seemed

Flooded with sweet and spotless dreams.

Was this his long-lost ardour? Will it

Take hold of him for a short time?

He had no wish to undermine

The trust of one so pure in spirit.

But let us to the garden skim,

Where our Tatyana met with him. 12

Some moments passed while they both listened,

Then he came up to her and said,

“Let’s talk about what you have written…

No, please don’t run away… I’ve read

Words from a trusting soul confessing

Pure innocence and love, expressing

Sincerity, which I admire

And which has somehow brought new fire

To feelings long since unawoken.

This is not praise in any sense,

But now I come without pretence,

Speaking to you by the same token.

Please, hear me out while I confess.

Then what I am—you can assess. 13

If my life’s purpose had been rather

To shrink in a domestic round,

If as a husband and a father

Kind destiny had set me down,

If the domestic hearth had beckoned

And caught my fancy for a second,

I could have chosen, it is true,

No bride more suitable than you.

I tell you with no frills and fancies:

Taking an ideal from the past,

I surely would have held you fast,

A soulmate facing life’s mischances,

A guarantee of all things good.

I’d have been happy—if I could! 14

But no. I was not born and nurtured

For bliss—my soul dismisses it.

I look in vain upon your virtues,

Unworthy of them and unfit.

Believe me—conscience grips like bedrock—

We’d have been agonized by wedlock.

I might have loved you once, and then

From habit unloved you again,

And you’d have wept, but my heart, frozen,

Would not let your tears to do their work;

In fact the tears would only irk.

Consider, then, what thorny roses

Hymen would scatter in our way,

Alas, perhaps for many a day. 15

Can there be anything more disheartening

Than households where the wretched wife

Is saddened by a useless partner

And daily leads a lonely life,

Where the dull spouse, who knows her value

(Though Fate’s unkind to him, he’ll tell you),

Sits there without a word and sulks?

Tetchy, cold, touchy—how he bulks!

That’s me. Do you seek such a person,

Deep in your pure and fervent soul?

Your letter was so clear and bold,

Intelligent… But are you certain

That this is how your life should be

Apportioned by harsh Destiny? 16

Dreams and lost years can’t be recovered.

My spirit cannot be restored…

I love you like a loving brother.

(Perhaps I love you rather more.)

Hear me. I ask you to be patient:

Young girls are prone to transformations

When airy dreams chase airy dreams

Like saplings changing all their leaves

Each year in springtime, all-refreshing

And moved, it seems, by Heaven’s will.

So, you will love again. But still…

Study the art of self-possession.

I understand you; some may not.

Unworldliness can hurt a lot.” 17

Thus, like a preacher, spoke Yevgeny.

Eyes blinded, as the salt tears choked,

Tatyana, breathless, uncomplaining,

Was listening to him as he spoke.

He gave his arm. Far from ecstatic,

With movements now called “automatic”,

She leant on him—nothing was said—

And languidly inclined her head.

They came back round the kitchen garden,

Strolling together. No one would

Have thought this anything but good,

For rural laxity can pardon

Most things, within its happy laws,

As condescending Moscow does. 18

Reader, you must be in agreement:

Poor Tanya was gently let down.

Nothing but good was all that he meant.

Yevgeny once again has shown

That his pure soul could not be deeper,

And yet the ill will of bad people

Has spared him nothing, though his foes

Along with so-called friends, yes those

(Friends, foes—the difference may be worthless),

Pay him some desultory respect.

Foes flourish, but, to be correct,

From friends, not foes, may God preserve us.

Friends, friends of mine—they give me pause.

I recollect them with good cause. 19

Why so? Well, it is my intention

To put some blank, black dreams to sleep,

And in parenthesis to mention

That there’s no jibe too low or cheap

Spawned by a gabbler in a garret

For high-born scum to hear and parrot,

No phrase too gross for any man,

No vulgar gutter epigram

That won’t be smilingly repeated

In front of nice folk by your friend

In error, for no wicked end,

Though endlessly acclaimed and greeted.

And he’s still friends through thick or thin

Because he loves you—you’re akin. 20

Ho-hum. I ask you, noble reader,

How are your people? Are they well?

Permit me to insist you need a

Pointer from me so you can tell

What is implied by family members.

Families have their own agendas;

We must indulge them, show them love,

Woo them in spirit like a dove,

And, following the common custom,

See them at Christmas and, at most,

Send them a greeting through the post,

And then we can relax and trust ’em

To disregard us through the year…

God grant them long life and good cheer. 21

But still, the love of gorgeous ladies

Outweighs the claims of friends and kin;

With this, through all the storms from Hades,

You’re in control, reigning things in.

That’s it. But still there’s whirling fashion,

And nature with her wayward passion,

And world opinion… All that stuff…

While the sweet sex is light as fluff.

Besides, a husband’s known opinions

Must be observed throughout her life

By any truly virtuous wife.

Thus one of your female companions

Can suddenly be swept away.

Satan loves love. Watch him at play. 22

Who shall be loved? Who can be trusted?

With whom do we risk no betrayal?

Who weighs our words and deeds, adjusted

Obligingly to our own scale?

Who never blackens us with slander?

Who’s there to coddle us and pander?

Who sees our sins as “not too bad”?

Who will not bore us, drive us mad?

Stop your vain search for lost illusions:

You’re wasting all your strength and health.

The one to love is you yourself.

You are, good reader, in conclusion,

A worthy subject, we insist,

For no one kindlier exists. 23

But what has followed the encounter?

Alas, it isn’t hard to guess!

Love’s frenzied torments still confound her,

Still harassing with storm and stress

Her youthful soul that longs for bleakness.

Her passion worsens, and her weakness

Leaves Tanya with a burning head;

Sleep will not settle on her bed.

Her health, her life’s bloom, sweet and sparkling,

Her smile, her maid’s tranquillity,

Have, like an echo, ceased to be,

And gentle Tanya’s youth is darkling.

Shadow-clad storms can thus array

The birth of an emerging day. 24

Tanya, alas, is fading, sinking,

Withering, wasting, pale and dumb.

Nothing impinges on her thinking,

And her unstirring soul is numb.

Shaking their heads in knowing whispers,

The neighbours say to any listeners,

“By now she should be married off!…”

But I must speed on. That’s enough:

Imagination must be brightened

By love shown in a happy sense.

I cannot help it if, my friends,

Within my heart compassion tightens.

I’m sorry if my thoughts are such:

I love dear Tanya, oh, so much. 25

Lensky was caught, and hourly keener

On his young Olga and her charms,

But sweet enthralment pleased Vladimir,

Who welcomed it with open arms.

He’s always there. Birds of a feather,

They sit in her dark room together.

At morningtide they join up and

Stroll through the garden hand in hand.

And then? Besotted by his Olga,

Squirming with sweet embarrassment,

He makes occasional attempts

(Fed by her smile and growing bolder)

To toy with a loose curl, and then

To kiss her dress along the hem. 26

He’ll read to her, sooner or later,

An educational romance,

In which the author’s grasp of nature

Is greater than Chateaubriand’s,

Though, should he light on some few pages

Of raving nonsense, too outrageous,

Too risqué for young girls’ hearts—hush!—

He will omit them with a blush.

In some sequestered, far location

Over a chessboard, watching it,

Elbows on table, there they sit

Together in deep concentration…

And Lensky, with a distant look

Moving his pawn, takes his own rook. 27

When he goes home, he still engages

Obsessively with Olga. Hence,

He paints her album’s fleeting pages

With doodled, detailed ornaments,

With rustic pictures, for example,

A tombstone or a Cypris temple,

A dove upon a lyre, a still

And slender bird of paint and quill,

Or else on pages for remembrance

Below where other folk have signed

He leaves a gentle verse behind,

Dream’s voiceless monument, a semblance

Of rapid thought with lasting trace,

Unchanged years later, still in place. 28

You’ve done it. You have been absorbed in

The album of some country miss,

In which friends have been busy daubing

The end, the start, and all that is.

Here, with the rules of spelling thwarted,

Run old lines metrically distorted,

Lines of true friendship badly done,

Which undershoot or overrun.

On page one you will see this jotting:

Qu’écrirez-vous sur ces tablettes?

Followed by toute à vous, Annette,

And on the last page, at the bottom,

Let him whose love is more than mine

Write for you underneath this line. 29

Undoubtedly you will pluck from it

Two hearts, a torch and blooms amid

Assertions of true love, a promise:

My love until the coffin lid.

Some army rhymester will have thought he

Might slip in something rather naughty.

My friends, in albums such as these

I also write, and feel well pleased,

In spirit being all too certain

That my keen rubbish will entrance

The passing favourable glance,

And with a bilious smile no person

Will solemnly attempt to spot

Whether my trash has wit or not. 30

But you odd volumes once engendered

For devils’ libraries, and you

Young ladies’ albums bound in splendour,

The bane of modern rhymesters too,

You tomes adroitly decorated

With Tolstoy’s art and magic painted,

Or Baratýnsky’s quill. I call

On God’s hot bolts to singe you all!

When a fine lady host approaches,

Handing her quarto book to me,

I tremble in my enmity

And a sharp epigram encroaches

Upon my soul, yet all along

Duty demands a pretty song! 31

But Lensky pens no pretty ditties

In his young Olga’s book. Behold,

His quill suspires with love, and wit is

Precluded as too bright and cold.

He writes exclusively of Olga

As a close listener and beholder;

His living truth is then bestowed

On elegies in a fast flow.

Inspired thus, Nikoláy Yazýkov,

Your heart feels mighty surges too,

As you hymn someone (God knows who),

And your rich verse will one day speak of

Your past in elegies, and state

The history that was your fate. 32

But soft! We hear the critic’s stricture:

Throw all those elegies away—

Their garlands make a sorry picture.

Our brother rhymesters must obey

His call: “I tell you not to snivel,

And not to croak the same old drivel;

Past times… The old days rued so soon…

Old hat! Sing us another tune!”

“All right, but then you will escort us

Back to the trumpet, mask and knife,

And old ideas devoid of life

You’ll bid us quicken in all quarters.

Is this not so?” “No! Stay your pen:

Write odes from now on, gentlemen, 33

Like those penned in an age of glory,

And long-established in our land.”

“So—solemn odes—is this our story?

Oh, come, my friend. This can go hang.

Think what was said in words satirical:

Can Other Views, though shrewd and lyrical,

Seem more acceptable to you

Than our repining rhymesters do?”

“The elegy amounts to nothing;

Its aims are pitifully low,

While solemn odes have aims that grow

To noble heights.” We shan’t be stopping

To quibble here. My lips are tight.

Two ages won’t be called to fight. 34

Vladimir, soul of fame and freedom,

Fraught with wild thoughts that ebbed and flowed,

Knew well that Olga didn’t read ’em

Or else he might have penned an ode.

Shall bards wax tearfully poetic

And read to others sympathetic

Their written works? They say that bliss

Holds no reward greater than this.

And blest indeed the modest lover

Who in his daydreams can immerse

The object of his love and verse,

A languid beauty like no other,

Well blest… And yet—it’s hard to say—

Her thoughts could well be miles away. 35

What of the products of my fancies,

My shots at harmony? In truth,

I read them to the one who chances

To be my nurse, a friend from youth,

And after dinner—tiresome labour!—

When called on by a passing neighbour,

I corner him, grabbing his coat,

And ram my sad lines down his throat,

Or else—I swear I am not jesting—

Worn down with yearning in my rhymes,

I tread my lakeside path betimes

And scare the flock of wild ducks resting.

They hear the sweet lines that I sing,

Then they are up and on the wing. [36] 37

Onegin though… By the way, brothers,

I’m asking your indulgence here…

The daily round with which he bothers

I’ll now describe, correct and clear.

He lived a hermit-like existence,

Got up at six and strolled some distance,

In summer lightly clad, until

He reached the stream beneath the hill,

Feeling like Gulnare’s bard in choosing

This Hellespont to swim across.

He drank his coffee while perusing

A magazine or some such dross,

And then got dressed… [38] 39

Walking trips, sound sleep, bouts of reading,

The sylvan shade, the brooks that purl,

A cool, fresh kiss, their young lips meeting,

With a white-skinned but dark-eyed girl,

A stallion, bridle-true yet restive,

A dinner fancifully festive,

A wine flask brightening the mood,

Sequestered ways and quietude—

To this angelic life Onegin

Yielded himself unfeelingly;

Carefree, oblivious was he

To summer days fair and engaging.

Town life and old friends he forgot;

Festivities, he knew them not. 40

Our summer is a twisted version

Of winter in the south. Hello,

It’s here and gone! And every person

Knows this, but won’t accept it though.

Now o’er the sky comes autumn, soughing,

The thin sun shining much less often,

And we have come to shorter days

When in the woods a hidden haze

Has shown itself with a sad murmur,

And mists are on the fields released.

A honking caravan of geese

Heads south, and they leave ever firmer

The prospect of dull days… You wait…

November tarries at the gate. 41

Through the cold murk the dawn comes searching,

The noisy field work has tailed off,

The wolf is on the road, emerging

With his half-starving lady wolf.

A passing horse scents him and bridles,

Snorting, at which the wary rider

Gallops away uphill flat-out.

At dawn no herdsmen are about,

Bringing to pasture hungry cattle,

At noon no horn is heard to sing

And bring the cows into a ring.

And girls stay home to sing and rattle

Their spinning wheels. Friendly and bright,

The pine logs sting the winter night. 42

Now crackling frost descends and shows us

A silver canopy outdoors…

(You readers want a rhyme like “roses”;

You’re welcome to it; it is yours.)

Smoother than parquet stands the river,

Ice-covered, shiny and ashiver.

A tribe of gay young skaters slice

Their crunchy runs across the ice.

A tubby goose, red-footed, fearful,

Hoping to breast the waters, crawls

Gingerly out, but skids and falls

Upon the ice. Here comes the cheerful

First fall of whirling, gleaming snow,

Star-scattered on the banks below. 43

Out in the wilds what’s on this season?

Walking? The countryside, I’ve found,

Wearies the eyes for one good reason—

Unbroken nakedness all round.

Riding the prairie wild, of course, is

Perilous for your blunt-shod horses,

Who stumble on the treacherous ice

And down they clatter in a trice.

Stay in your bleak homestead. Try reading—

Here is your Pradt, here’s Walter Scott—

Or go through your accounts, if not,

Or fume, or drink. The endless evening

Will somehow pass, tomorrow too.

Great stuff! You’ll see the winter through. 44

Onegin, languid like Chile Harold,

Gets up to ponder and relax,

Sits in an ice bath unapparelled,

And then all day, not overtaxed,

Lonesome, engaged in calculation,

Takes a blunt cue, anticipating

A morning spent within four walls,

Chasing a pair of billiard balls.

The country evening draws on gently;

Gone are the table and the cue.

The table has been set for two

Beside the fireplace. Here comes Lensky,

Driving a three-roan troika. Fine,

Let’s serve the dinner. Waste no time! 45

Now Veuve Clicquot—or is it Moët?

A wine that’s blest to the last drop

Is served up chilled before the poet

And placed upon the tabletop.

It sparkles like the Muses’ fountain.

Spirited, full of fizz and flouncing

(Reminding us of that and this),

It dazzled me once; for its bliss

I would have spent my last poor lepton,

As you’ll recall, my friends. You know

The silly pranks its magic flow

Has brought about, while it has kept on

Producing jokes, verses in streams,

Wild arguments and merry dreams. 46

And yet, with its unsettling fizziness

It plays my stomach false, so now

Sedate Bordeaux is more my business.

I much prefer it, anyhow.

No more Aÿ. It leaves me listless.

Aÿ is like a lovely mistress,

Vivacious, brilliant, volatile,

Quirky and frivolous. Meanwhile,

Bordeaux, you are a good friend, present

In times of sorrow and despair,

A comrade always, everywhere,

Ministering with something pleasant

Or sharing our sweet leisure. So,

Let’s drink to our good friend, Bordeaux! 47

The fire’s gone out. A golden ember

Is dusted over with fine ash,

The curling vapour stream is slender,

And from the hearth comes just a dash

Of warmth. The pipe smoke seems to vanish

Straight up the flue. A fizzing chalice

Still shines mid-table. Now the home

Yields to encroaching evening gloam.

(I love the friendly idle chatter

And the odd friendly glass of wine

Enjoyed at what they call “the time

’Twixt wolf and dog”. Ignore the latter—

I cannot fathom things like that.)

Meanwhile the two companions chat: 48

“The ladies! How’s Tatyana faring?

Is Olga still as sharp, old man?”

“A half-glass. Be a little sparing…

That’s it, my friend… Yes, all the clan

Is fit and well. They send their greetings.

My dear chap, she is such a sweet thing—

Those lovely shoulders, and that bust!

That spirit too! We really must

Call on them soon. They’ll be delighted.

But think… It isn’t very nice—

You’ve wandered in to see then twice,

And after that you’ve not been sighted.

But listen. Who am I to speak?

You are invited there next week.” 49

“I am?” “Yes, you. It’s Tanya’s name day—

Saturday. Olga and her mum

Want you to be there. It’s their brainwave

To have you over. Why not come?”

“But people will be there in legions,

And all the riff-raff of the region…”

“No, no one will be there. Trust me.”

“Who’s coming? Only family.

Let’s go. Do them a little favour.

Yes?” “All right.” “There’s a chap.” He drank,

And thought of someone as he sank

His wine—toasting his lady neighbour—

Then he went back to talking of

His darling Olga. Such is love! 50

His mood was merry. Two weeks later

Bliss beckoned—they had fixed the date.

The secret marriage bed… No sweeter

Love garland could one contemplate,

With his anticipation climbing.

Meanwhile the cares and woes of Hymen,

The long-extended trail of yawns,

Upon his thinking never dawned.

We hymen-haters can discover

In domesticity a rut

Of tedious scenes and nothing but—

As in a La Fontaine-style novel.

Poor Lensky, though his heart was bliss,

Was born to live a life like this. 51

And he was loved… At least he needed

To think so. Happy was the thought.

Blest hundredfold is the believer

Who sets his chilling mind at naught

And rests in heartfelt joy, reposing

Like a drunk tramp abed and dozing,

Or like a butterfly (less gloom!)

Swooning in spring upon its bloom.

But pity him who has forebodings,

Whose mind is set and never whirls,

Who views all movement, and all words

That carry extra sense, with loathing.

His heart is chilled by life, it seems,

And barred from dreaming woozy dreams.

* Morality is in the nature of things. (French.)