Yevgeny Onegin

CHAPTER FIVE

May you never know these nightmares, My dear Svetlana.

ZHUKÓVSKY

1

That year the weather stayed with autumn,

As if the world outside had slowed,

But winter waited—then it caught them

In January, when it snowed,

The third night. Up betimes, Tatyana

Looked through the windowpane to garner

A picture of the white world hence—

The flowerbeds and the roofs and fence,

The windowpanes with gentle patterns,

Trees in their winter silver, hard,

With happy magpies in the yard

And all the hillocks smoothly flattened.

A brilliant white had overset

All things with winter’s coverlet. 2

Winter! A sledding peasant revels

In ploughing through a virgin plot.

His pony, snuffling snow, bedevilled,

Gets through it at a struggling trot.

A covered sleigh flies past, and flurries

Of powdered snow rise as it scurries.

The seated coachman in a flash

Speeds by in long coat and red sash.

A peasant lad, the little tinker,

Runs round with Blackie as his fare

And him the horse. Without a care,

The scamp ignores his frozen finger,

Which hurts a bit, and still he laughs

At mummy scolding through the glass. 3

But you may think this kind of picture

Is hardly worth a second glance.

Here’s Nature mean and unrestricted,

Deprived of any elegance.

Warmly inspired, as if divinely,

Another bard, of verbal finery,

Has shown us first snow and displayed

Winter delights of every shade.

I know he’ll charm you with his talent,

His use of keen poetic skills

On sleigh rides with their secret thrills!

But neither poet do I challenge,

Not him, not you. Be not afraid,

Singer of that young Finnish maid. 4

The Russian spirit deep within her

Made Tanya inexplicably

A lover of our Russian winter,

So cold and beautiful to see,

The rimy sheen in frosty sunshine,

Sledging in the late dawn and, sometimes,

The bright pink texture of the snow,

Its January evening glow…

They marked the church days after Christmas

The old way, in the evenings there,

And maids came in from everywhere

To guess the fortune of each mistress.

Each year, the same thing: what’s in store?

A soldier husband and a war. 5

Tanya loved legends from all quarters,

To old tales she was well attuned,

And dreams, and cards, and telling fortunes,

Prognostications by the moon.

Omens of every kind upset her,

And everything was a begetter

Of mystery amid dismay.

Forebodings took her breath away.

If Snobs, the cat, sat on his oven

And purred, pawing to clean his face,

This was a definite foretaste

Of coming visitors. Above her,

If a young crescent moon was heft

Into the heavens from the left— 6

She would turn pale and give a shudder,

And if a shooting star should speed

Through the dark firmament above her

And shower down, ah, then indeed

Tanya made haste in great confusion,

While the said star was downward cruising,

To whisper forth her heart’s desire.

If a chance meeting should transpire

To place a black-robed monk before her,

Or if a swift hare shot across

Her field path, she was at a loss,

Deciding what to do, from horror,

And, full of premonitions, she

Expected a calamity. 7

So what? She welcomed the contagious

Thrill of the horror and its shocks.

And that’s how Mother Nature made us,

Susceptible to paradox.

Epiphany comes round—so thrilling!—

And giddy youth goes fortune-telling,

For whom there’s no cause for regret,

For whom the span of life as yet

Shines far ahead, a boundless treasure.

Old age divines, with specs on nose,

As life is coming to its close

And all is lost and gone for ever.

No matter. Hope on them has smiled

(With the false prattle of a child). 8

When hot wax was dropped into water

Tatyana looked at it transfixed,

And wonderful the things it taught her

When it was wonderfully mixed.

Then from fresh water in a basin

Their rings emerged in quick succession,

And when her tiny ring emerged

They sang an old song with these words:

“Rich toilers dwell in that far city,

Shovelling silver all day long.

We wish the subject of our song

Fortune and fame!” But this sad ditty

Tells of sad losses soon for us;

Girls are more moved by “lady-puss”. 9

Night falls… Clear skies and frosty weather.

A wondrous choir of heavenly suns

Wheel in sweet harmony together.

Into the wide yard Tanya comes,

Wearing a dress with neckline open.

Her mirror picks the moon out, hoping,

But in the dark glass, if you please,

Sad, trembling moon is all she sees.

Hush!… Creaking snow… Who is that passing?

On tiptoe, over there she speeds

And, softer than a pipe of reeds,

Her fluting voice sings to him, asking,

“What do they call you?” Whereupon

He glares and answers, “Agaphon.” 10

Tatyana’s nurse had once suggested

That conjured dreams at night come true,

So in the bathhouse she requested

A secret table set for two.

But sudden panic struck Tatyana

(As once, when thinking of Svetlana,

I panicked too… But let that go…

We’re not in Tanya’s magic show).

She took her silk sash and undid it,

Then she undressed and went to bed,

A love charm hanging by her head.

Neath the down pillow, where she’d hid it,

Lay the maid’s mirror she had kept.

And all went quiet; Tanya slept. 11

And Tanya dreams a dream fantastic,

She dreams of a white glade snow-kissed,

Which she is walking through, while past it

There swirls a dismal circling mist.

Ahead, through snowdrifts, roars a current,

A steaming, wavy, boiling torrent,

Its waters dark with light-grey flocks,

Left by the winter still unlocked.

Two sticks icily glued together

Flimsily, perilously spanned

A gorge where rushing waters ran,

The loud deeps racing hell for leather,

And there she halted in dismay,

Her footsteps dwindling away. 12

Tanya viewed this unwanted hiccup

And cursed the stream, but nowhere could

She see a proffered hand to pick up

And use to help her cross the flood.

Then suddenly a snowdrift shuddered.

You’ll never guess what it uncovered—

A great, big, full-size, bristling bear.

She screamed, he roared, and then and there

He offered her his claws, a pawful.

She rallied, taking courage, and

Steadied herself with trembling hand.

Warily, dreading something awful,

She crossed. Then, with no more ado,

She walked on—but the bear came too! 13

Too scared to look back—so horrendous!—

Faster she runs. Not fast enough:

He’s coming, her hirsute attendant,

And he will not be shaken off.

The ghastly bear grunts as he lumbers,

Ahead of them the pinewood slumbers,

Wasting its beauty in a scowl,

And all the branches are weighed down

With clumps of snow. The starlight pushes

Down through the treetops—birches, limes

And aspens—but though it shines,

There is no road. Gorges and bushes

Have gone from sight. They’re down below,

Everything buried deep in snow. 14

Into the woods… The bear comes after…

She struggles, knee-deep in soft snow.

First a long branch comes down to grasp her

Around the neck, then a sharp blow

Sends both her golden earrings tumbling.

Her wet shoe sticks (the snow is crumbling)

And bares a charming little foot.

She lets her handkerchief fall, but

Can’t stop to pick it up. She flinches,

Hearing the bear behind her, and

Modesty keeps her shaking hand

From raising her skirts a few inches.

She runs, and still he follows on,

Until she can no longer run. 15

Down she goes in the snow, and swiftly

He scoops her up. He’s off with her.

She yields herself coldly and stiffly.

She’s breathes not, neither does she stir

As down the forest road he rushes

To a shack lost in trees and bushes.

The woods are dense, and far and wide

The snows lie deep on every side.

Here is a window shining brightly.

From inside comes a raucous din.

The bear announces, “They’re my kin.

Inside you’ll soon get warmed up nicely.”

Into the hallway. On the floor

He sets her down before the door. 16

Tanya stares out as her swoon passes.

He’s gone. She’s at the door, through which

She hears loud talk and clinking glasses—

It’s like a funeral for the rich.

It doesn’t make sense. It’s uncanny.

She sneaks a look in through a cranny.

What’s this? A table, and round it

All sorts of ugly monsters sit:

A horned beast and a dog-faced creature,

One with a cockerel’s head, a weird

Old witch sporting a goatee beard,

A skeleton with proud, prim features,

A long-tailed dwarf and, after that,

A hybrid thing, half-crane, half-cat. 17

But weirder still—and more horrific—

A crayfish on a spider’s back,

A red-capped skull hermaphroditic.

Rotating on a goose’s neck,

A windmill dances round, legs squatting,

With sails that crack and swing like nothing.

They bark, laugh, whistle, bang and screech

To clopping hooves and human speech.

But one thing got the better of her:

Among the strange guests had appeared

The one man that she loved and feared—

Onegin—hero of out novel!

He’s at the table. What is more,

He’s sneaking glances at the door. 18

A sign from him, and they looked ruffled.

If he drinks, they drink, and they shout.

If he laughs, they begin to chuckle,

And when he scowls noise peters out.

He is the undisputed master.

Tanya, less fearful of disaster,

Begins to wonder how things are.

Gently she sets the door ajar…

A sudden gust of wind then douses

The light from all the candlesticks;

The ghostly gang fades with the wicks.

Eyes flashing, now Onegin rouses,

Clattering as he leaves the board.

They rise; he walks towards the door. 19

Feeling afraid and in a panic,

Tatyana tries to flee. It seems

She cannot run. Her mood is manic,

She casts about, but cannot scream,

He flings the door wide. The effect is

That all these glaring hellish spectres

Turn upon her, and mocking cries

Ring out against her. All those eyes,

The clopping hooves, the muzzles curvy,

The tufty tails, the tusky prongs,

Moustaches and the bloody tongues,

The horns and bony fingers turning

To point at her, while voices whine,

Together crying, “Mine, she’s mine!” 20

“She’s mine!” announced Yevgeny starkly,

And suddenly the pack has gone,

Leaving behind them, cold and darkling,

Onegin, Tanya, all alone.

Onegin, though, has now withdrawn her,

Settling her gently in a corner

Upon a wobbly wooden seat.

He now inclines his head to meet

Her shoulder. But then Olga enters

With Lensky. Lights flash through the mist.

Onegin makes a threatening fist

And stares round fiercely, ill-contented,

Chiding the two intrusive guests,

While Tanya, scarcely breathing, rests. 21

They argue. Louder. Of a sudden

Yevgeny grabs a long knife. Oh,

Lensky’s struck down! Grim shadows huddle

Them close. A hideous cry of woe

Rings out… The wooden shack is shaken…

…In horror Tanya now awakens

And looks around. It’s light again,

As through the frozen windowpane

Dawn’s crimson rays send out an aura.

The door swings open. Olga flies

Across to Tanya swallow-wise,

Rosier than the north’s Aurora.

“Tanya,” she says, “Tell me, my love—

Who is it you’ve been dreaming of?” 22

Tatyana, though, ignores her sister

And lies there with a book in bed.

The pages turn—she hasn’t missed her—

And now she’s here nothing is said.

Not that this book, for those who know it,

Presents sweet fictions from a poet,

Or maxims, or delightful scenes,

Or texts from Virgil or Racine,

Scott, Byron, Seneca. No features,

Not even Ladies Fashion, could

So fascinate and stir the blood.

It was Martin Zadeck, dear readers,

A wise Chaldean sage, it seems,

And an interpreter of dreams. 23

This work of moment and profundity

Came from a travelling salesman, who

Called in one day, out in the country,

And haggled with her as they do.

For her three roubles fifty copecks

She got Malvina (not the whole text)

Plus extras, normal in such sales:

A bumper book of common tales,

A grammar and two Petrine epics,

And Marmontel’s Works (Volume Three).

Martin Zadeck soon came to be

Her favourite… So sympathetic

To her when sorrows made life grim,

And every night she sleeps with him. 24

Disturbed by what she had been dreaming,

She wondered what it had to show.

What was the ghastly vision’s meaning?

Tanya would dearly like to know.

Though short, the index was poetical.

She found, in order alphabetical:

Bear, black of night, blizzard and bridge,

Fir, forest, hedgehog, raven, witch,

And suchlike words. Her apprehensions,

Despite Zadeck, could not be stilled.

The nightmare showed her fate fulfilled

By most unhappy misadventures.

For several days she was distraught

With worry at this very thought. 25

But now the crimson day is dawning;

Here from the valleys soars the sun,

Ushering in for us this morning

A name day! Joy for everyone!

All day the Larins’ house was writhing

With guests, whole families arriving

Together in their various ways

In carts or carriages or sleighs.

The crowded hall is under pressure

With newcomers exchanging hugs

And kissing girls and yelping pugs,

And shouts and chuckles on the threshold,

And bows and bobs. Everyone chats

Through nursemaids’ calls and bawling brats. 26

With his well-fed wife in attendance

Here comes the portly Pustyakóv;

Gvozdín, who, as a host, shines splendid

(His peasants being not well off );

A grey-haired couple, the Skotínins,

With children of all ages (meaning

From two to thirty); Petushkóv,

The local district’s fancy toff;

And my first cousin, too, Buyánov,

Fluff-covered, wearing a peaked cap

(Already known to you, mayhap);

And the ex-councillor, old Flyánov,

A gossip, rascal and poltroon,

Bribe-taker, glutton and buffoon. 27

Here’s Panfíl Khárlikov’s horde; with ’em

They bring Monsieur Triquet, once big

In Tambov, known for wit and rhythm,

In spectacles and ginger wig.

A perfect Frenchman and a charmer,

He’s penned a ditty to Tatyana,

A children’s song in melody:

Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.

In an old tome of ancient music

This ditty had been stored away.

Ever resourceful, our Triquet

Had dug it from the dust, to use it

With one bold change: bel-le Niná

Became bel-le Ta-ti-a-ná. 28

Now from a nearby urban quarter

A company commander comes,

Idol of many a grown-up daughter

And the delight of local mums.

He’s here… with news to be applauded:

The regimental band’s been ordered.

The colonel has arranged it all.

What joy! There is to be a ball!

The prospect sets girls’ feet a-racing.

When called to table, pair by pair

And hand in hand they saunter there.

The girls crowd Tanya. Men sit facing.

All cross themselves, and at the sign

The murmuring crowd sits down to dine. 29

Then silence falls. Nobody chatters

Though mouths chew on, and everything

Is noisy—cutlery a-clatter

And glasses meeting with a clink.

But very soon again they’re at it,

Raising the roof with a great racket.

There are no listeners; they all speak,

They shout and laugh, bicker and shriek…

The door flies open… Lensky enters,

Onegin too. Tatyana’s mum

Cries, “Lord above, at last you’ve come!”

The guests squeeze up with the intention

Of freeing places. Chairs are found,

They call the friends and sit them down, 30

Facing Tatyana. Thus confronted,

Pale as the moon in morning skies,

She quivers like a doe when hunted

And will not raise her darkling eyes

Towards them. Surging passions quickly

Flood through her; she feels breathless, sickly.

The two friends greet her, but her ears

Hear nothing. She feels pricking tears

About to flow. Poor, wretched creature

She feels she is about to swoon,

But strength and reason rally soon

To win her round. Her teeth now gritted,

She mumbles something into space

And sits there rooted in her place. 31

Theatricalities and paddies,

Girls fainting, tears and all that stuff,

Yevgeny couldn’t stomach; that is,

Quite simply, he had had enough.

At this big feast he, the outsider,

Was furious. But when he spied her

Shaking, producing a dark frown,

In irritation he looked down

And sulked, feeling exasperated

With Lensky. He would rattle him;

Yevgeny’s vengeance would be grim.

He revelled in anticipation.

He mentally began to scrawl

Caricatures of one and all. 32

And other people saw those moments

When Tanya felt as if to die,

Though really all the looks and comments

Were centred on the rich meat pie

(Unfortunately oversalted),

Then on the tar-sealed bottles, faultless

Between the roast and the blancmange,

Where Russian-made champagne belongs,

And glasses lined up long and slender,

Just like your little waist, Zizí,

Pure crystal of the soul to me,

Sung in my verses, sweet and tender;

Love’s flute so exquisitely shrunk,

Thou hast so often got me drunk! 33

Free from its moistened cork, the flagon

Burst with a pop. The wine released

Fizzed forth. Triquet, with a suave swagger,

Long-tortured by his written piece,

Got up to face the crowd, admirers

Who welcomed him with a deep silence.

Tatyana scarcely breathed. Triquet

Showed her his text and sang away,

Putting on style. Their cheers and plaudits

Reward him, though she is nonplussed,

Bobbing a curtsy as she must,

While he, the poet, great but modest,

Offers a toast. His is the first,

And he presents her with his verse. 34

Congratulations came, and greetings,

And she thanked them with all good grace,

But when it came at last to treating

With him, Onegin, her sad face,

Her weariness and agitation

Drew from him sympathy and patience…

He faced her with a silent bow,

But in his eyes a look somehow

Shone wonderfully warm and kindly.

Had he been moved, cut to the quick,

Or was this a flirtatious trick?

Whether well meant or sent forth blindly,

His warm look was enough to start

A lifting of Tatyana’s heart. 35

And now the chairs are pulled back, scraping,

Into the parlour they all squeeze

Like bees from luscious hives escaping

In buzzing swarms to find the leas.

Pleased with the food and festive table,

They wheeze delight neighbour to neighbour.

Ladies sit by the fire, and—look—

The girls are whispering in their nook.

Now the baize tables are unfolded.

Come forth, ye players brave and bold:

Boston or ombre for the old,

Or whist, a favourite even older.

Monotonous, the kinsmen come,

All avid sons of tedium. 36

Eight rubbers have now been completed

By the whist heroes with their tricks,

And eight times they have been reseated.

Now tea is served. I love to fix

The hour by “dinner”, say, or “teatime”,

Or “supper”. Yes, we rustics see time

As something simple. We obey

Our stomachs rather than Bréguet.

And I should mention in parenthesis

That on the pages of my works

I deal with feasts, and food, and corks,

Treating them all with no less emphasis

Than you, dear Homer. (This man is

Our god of thirty centuries.) [37, 38] 39

But tea is served, and with decorum

The girls are sipping from their cups,

When with a boom outside the ballroom

The loud bassoons and flutes strike up.

Fired by the music as it thunders,

Leaving his rum-laced tea, up wanders

(Local Lothario) Petushkóv,

Who comes to Olga—and they’re off;

Lensky takes Tanya; Kharlikóva,

An old maid whom the years have marred,

Is taken by my Tambov bard;

Buyánov sweeps off Pustyakóva…

Into the ballroom they spill, all

Attracted by the glittering ball. 40

When starting on my novel’s journey

(See Chapter One), I felt the urge

To picture, rather like Albani,

A ballroom in St Petersburg,

But in a dreamy intermission

I gave myself to reminiscing

About small feet that I once knew.

O tiny tracks, I followed you,

But, little feet, I’ll roam no further.

Deluded by false youth, I plan

To be a more discerning man

In words and deeds more and more certain.

As to digressions, I shall strive

To purge them from my Chapter Five. 41

Frenzied and furious and blurry,

Whirling like young life, and as fast,

The waltz is in a swirling hurry,

And it sends couples flashing past.

Nearing the moment of his vengeance,

Onegin smirks with dark intentions

And comes to Olga. There’s no rest;

He whirls her round before the guests,

Then brings her back and sees her seated,

Treating her to a little chat,

And then two minutes after that

The waltz between them is repeated.

People look on in great surprise,

And Lensky can’t believe his eyes. 42

Now the mazurka, once delivered

To booming bangs and thunderous peals

In a great hall where all things shivered

And the floor shuddered under heels,

The windows rattling like Hades.

It’s not like that now. No, like ladies,

We sweep the lacquered floor and glide.

Yet small towns in the countryside

Have kept alive the real mazurka

With all its old-world charm and dash.

The heels, the wild leaps, the moustache,

They’re all still there, solid and certain,

Unchanged by fashion’s cruel sway,

The bane of Russians in our day. [43] 44

Buyánov, my hot-blooded cousin,

Brings to Onegin both the girls,

Tanya and Olga; deftly choosing

The latter, Olga, off he whirls.

He leads her, nonchalantly gliding,

Bending to whisper and confiding

In vulgar tones and fancy terms,

Squeezing her hand until she burns,

The pink of her contented features

Turning bright red. My Lensky stares,

Distraught; his indignation flares

In jealous rage against these creatures.

Is the dance over? Yes, it is—

Now the cotillion must be his. 45

It isn’t. Why not? What’s the matter?

Olga has promised: she will dance

With him, Onegin. Heavens! Drat her!

What does he hear? Where does she stand?…

How can this be? Our recent baby,

Now a wild child and flirting lady,

Is well schooled in the art of guile;

Betrayal she can do with style.

It’s too much. Lensky cannot bear it.

The tricks of women! Hear him curse!

He walks out, calling for his horse,

And rides off. Pistols now will square it;

Two bullets and a single shot

Will suddenly decide his lot.