Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics) Page 10

  8

  Who doesn’t find dissembling dreary;

  Or trying gravely to convince

  (Recasting platitudes till weary)—

  When all agree and have long since;

  How dull to hear the same objections,

  To overcome those predilections

  That no young girl thirteen, I vow,

  Has ever had and hasn’t now!

  Who wouldn’t grow fatigued with rages,

  Entreaties, vows, pretended fears,

  Betrayals, gossip, rings, and tears,

  With notes that run to seven pages,

  With watchful mothers, aunts who stare,

  And friendly husbands hard to bear!

  9

  Well, this was my Eugene’s conclusion.

  In early youth he’d been the prey

  Of every raging mad delusion,

  And uncurbed passions ruled the day.

  Quite pampered by a life of leisure,

  Enchanted with each passing pleasure,

  But disenchanted just as quick,

  Of all desire at length grown sick,

  And irked by fleet success soon after,

  He’d hear mid hum and hush alike

  His grumbling soul the hours strike,

  And smothered yawns with brittle laughter:

  And so he killed eight years of youth

  And lost life’s very bloom, in truth.

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  He ceased to know infatuation,

  Pursuing belles with little zest;

  Refused, he found quick consolation;

  Betrayed, was always glad to rest.

  He sought them out with no elation

  And left them too without vexation,

  Scarce mindful of their love or spite.

  Just so a casual guest at night

  Drops in for whist and joins routinely;

  And then upon the end of play,

  Just takes his leave and drives away

  To fall asleep at home serenely;

  And in the morning he won’t know

  What evening holds or where he’ll go.

  11

  But having read Tatyana’s letter,

  Onegin was profoundly stirred:

  Her maiden dreams had helped unfetter

  A swarm of thoughts with every word;

  And he recalled Tatyana’s pallor,

  Her mournful air, her touching valour—

  And then he soared, his soul alight

  With sinless dreams of sweet delight.

  Perhaps an ancient glow of passion

  Possessed him for a moment’s sway …

  But never would he lead astray

  A trusting soul in callous fashion.

  And so let’s hasten to the walk

  Where he and Tanya had their talk.

  12

  Some moments passed in utter quiet,

  And then Eugene approached and spoke:

  ’You wrote to me. Do not deny it.

  I’ve read your words and they evoke

  My deep respect for your emotion,

  Your trusting soul… and sweet devotion.

  Your candour has a great appeal

  And stirs in me, I won’t conceal,

  Long dormant feelings, scarce remembered.

  But I’ve no wish to praise you now;

  Let me repay you with a vow

  As artless as the one you tendered;

  Hear my confession too, I plead,

  And judge me both by word and deed.

  13

  ’Had I in any way desired

  To bind with family ties my life;

  Or had a happy fate required

  That I turn father, take a wife;

  Had pictures of domestication

  For but one moment held temptation-

  Then, surely, none but you alone

  Would be the bride I’d make my own.

  I’ll say without wrought-up insistence

  That, finding my ideal in you,

  I would have asked you—yes, it’s true—

  To share my baneful, sad existence,

  In pledge of beauty and of good,

  And been as happy … as I could!

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  ’But I’m not made for exaltation:

  My soul’s a stranger to its call;

  Your virtues are a vain temptation,

  For I’m not worthy of them all.

  Believe me (conscience be your token):

  In wedlock we would both be broken.

  However much I loved you, dear,

  Once used to you … I’d cease, I fear;

  You’d start to weep, but all your crying

  Would fail to touch my heart at all,

  Your tears in fact would only gall.

  So judge yourself what we’d be buying,

  What roses Hymen means to send—

  Quite possibly for years on end!

  15

  ’In all this world what’s more perverted

  Than homes in which the wretched wife

  Bemoans her worthless mate, deserted—

  Alone both day and night through life;

  Or where the husband, knowing truly

  Her worth (yet cursing fate unduly)

  Is always angry, sullen, mute—

  A coldly jealous, selfish brute!

  Well, thus am I. And was it merely

  For this your ardent spirit pined

  When you, with so much strength of mind,

  Unsealed your heart to me so clearly?

  Can Fate indeed be so unkind?

  Is this the lot you’ve been assigned?

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  ’For dreams and youth there’s no returning;

  I cannot resurrect my soul.

  I love you with a tender yearning,

  But mine must be a brother’s role.

  So hear me through without vexation:

  Young maidens find quick consolation—

  From dream to dream a passage brief;

  Just so a sapling sheds its leaf

  To bud anew each vernal season.

  Thus heaven wills the world to turn.

  You’ll fall in love again; but learn …

  To exercise restraint and reason,

  For few will understand you so,

  And innocence can lead to woe.’

  17

  Thus spake Eugene his admonition.

  Scarce breathing and bereft of speech,

  Gone blind with tears, in full submission,

  Tatyana listened to him preach.

  He offered her his arm. Despairing,

  She took it and with languid bearing

  (’Mechanically’, as people say),

  She bowed her head and moved away….

  They passed the garden’s dark recesses,

  Arriving home together thus—

  Where no one raised the slightest fuss:

  For country freedom too possesses

  Its happy rights … as grand as those

  That high and mighty Moscow knows.

  18

  I know that you’ll agree, my reader,

  That our good friend was only kind

  And showed poor Tanya when he freed her

  A noble heart and upright mind.

  Again he’d done his moral duty,

  But spiteful people saw no beauty

  And quickly blamed him, heaven knows!

  Good friends no less than ardent foes

  (But aren’t they one, if they offend us?)

  Abused him roundly, used the knife.

  Now every man has foes in life,

  But from our friends, dear God, defend us!

  Ah, friends, those friends! I greatly fear,

  I find their friendship much too dear.

  19

  What’s that? Just that. Mere conversation

  To lull black empty thoughts awhile;

  In passing, though, one observation:

  There’s not a calumn
y too vile—

  That any garret babbler hatches,

  And all the social rabble snatches;

  There’s no absurdity or worse,

  Nor any vulgar gutter verse,

  That your good friend won’t find delightful,

  Repeating it a hundred ways

  To decent folk for days and days,

  While never meaning to be spiteful;

  He’s yours, he’ll say, through thick and thin:

  He loves you so! … Why, you’re like kin!

  20

  Hm, hm, dear reader, feeling mellow?

  And are your kinfolk well today?

  Perhaps you’d like, you gentle fellow,

  To hear what I’m prepared to say

  On ‘kinfolk’ and their implications?

  Well, here’s my view of close relations:

  They’re people whom we’re bound to prize,

  To honour, love, and idolize,

  And, following the old tradition,

  To visit come the Christmas feast,

  Or send a wish by mail at least;

  All other days they’ve our permission

  To quite forget us, if they please—

  So grant them, God, long life and ease!

  21

  Of course the love of tender beauties

  Is surer far than friends or kin:

  Your claim upon its joyous duties

  Survives when even tempests spin.

  Of course it’s so. And yet be wary,

  For fashions change, and views will vary,

  And nature’s made of wayward stuff—

  The charming sex is light as fluff.

  What’s more, the husband’s frank opinion

  Is bound by any righteous wife

  To be respected in this life;

  And so your mistress (faithful minion)

  May in a trice be swept away:

  For Satan treats all love as play.

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  But whom to love? To trust and treasure?

  Who won’t betray us in the end?

  And who’ll be kind enough to measure

  Our words and deeds as we intend?

  Who won’t sow slander all about us?

  Who’ll coddle us and never doubt us?

  To whom will all our faults be few?

  Who’ll never bore us through and through?

  You futile, searching phantom-breeder,

  Why spend your efforts all in vain;

  Just love yourself and ease the pain,

  My most esteemed and honoured reader!

  A worthy object! Never mind,

  A truer love you’ll never find.

  23

  But what ensued from Tanya’s meeting?

  Alas, it isn’t hard to guess!

  Within her heart the frenzied beating

  Coursed on and never ceased to press

  Her gentle soul, athirst with aching;

  Nay, ever more intensely quaking,

  Poor Tanya burns in joyless throes;

  Sleep shuns her bed, all sweetness goes,

  The glow of life has vanished starkly;

  Her health, her calm, the smile she wore—

  Like empty sounds exist no more,

  And Tanya’s youth now glimmers darkly:

  Thus stormy shadows cloak with grey

  The scarcely risen, newborn day.

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  Alas, Tatyana’s fading quickly;

  She’s pale and wasted, doesn’t speak!

  Her soul, unmoved, grows wan and sickly;

  She finds all former pleasures bleak.

  The neighbours shake their heads morosely

  And whisper to each other closely:

  ’It’s time she married … awful waste….’

  But that’s enough. I must make haste

  To cheer the dark imagination

  With pictures of a happy pair;

  I can’t, though, readers, help but care

  And feel a deep commiseration;

  Forgive me, but it’s true, you know,

  I love my dear Tatyana so!

  25

  Each passing hour more captivated

  By Olga’s winning, youthful charms,

  Vladimir gave his heart and waited

  To serve sweet bondage with his arms.

  He’s ever near. In gloomy weather

  They sit in Olga’s room together;

  Or arm in arm they make their rounds

  Each morning through the park and grounds.

  And so? Inebriated lover,

  Confused with tender shame the while

  (Encouraged, though, by Olga’s smile),

  He sometimes even dares to cover

  One loosened curl with soft caress

  Or kiss the border of her dress.

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  At times he reads her works of fiction—

  Some moralistic novel, say,

  Whose author’s powers of depiction

  Make Chateaubriand’s works seem grey;

  But sometimes there are certain pages

  (Outlandish things, mere foolish rages,

  Unfit for maiden’s heart or head),

  Which Lensky, blushing, leaves unread….

  They steal away whenever able

  And sit for hours seeing naught,

  Above the chessboard deep in thought,

  Their elbows propped upon the table;

  Where Lensky with his pawn once took,

  Bemused and muddled, his own rook.

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  When he drives home, she still engages

  His poet’s soul, his artist’s mind;

  He fills her album’s fleeting pages

  With every tribute he can find:

  He draws sweet views of rustic scenery,

  A Venus temple, graves and greenery;

  He pens a lyre … and then a dove,

  Adds colour lightly and with love;

  And on the leaves of recollection,

  Beneath the lines from other hands,

  He plants a tender verse that stands—

  Mute monument to fond reflection:

  A moment’s thought whose trace shall last

  Unchanged when even years have passed.

  28

  I’m sure you’ve known provincial misses;

  Their albums too you must have seen,

  Where girlfriends scribble hopes and blisses—

  From frontside, backside, in between.

  With spellings awesome in abusage,

  Unmetred lines of hallowed usage

  Are entered by each would-be friend—

  Diminished, lengthened, turned on end.

  Upon the first page you’ll discover:

  Qu ’écrirez-vous sur ces tablettes?

  And ’neath it: toute à vous Annette;

  While on the last one you’ll uncover:

  ‘Who loves you more than I must sign

  And fill the page that follows mine.’

  29

  You’re sure to find there decorations:

  Rosettes, a torch, a pair of hearts;

  You’ll read, no doubt, fond protestations:

  With all my love, till death us parts;

  Some army scribbler will have written

  A roguish rhyme to tease the smitten.

  In just such albums, friends, I too

  Am quite as glad to write as you,

  For there, at heart, I feel persuaded

  That any zealous vulgar phrase

  Will earn me an indulgent gaze,

  And won’t then be evaluated

  With wicked grin or solemn eye

  To judge the wit with which I lie.

  30

  But you, odd tomes of haughty ladies,

  You gorgeous albums stamped with gilt,

  You libraries of darkest Hades

  And racks where modish rhymesters wilt,

  You volumes nimbly ornamented

  By Tolstoy’s* magic brush, and scent
ed

  By Baratynsky’s pen—I vow:

  Let God’s own lightning strike you now!

  Whenever dazzling ladies proffer

  Their quartos to be signed by me,

  I tremble with malicious glee;

  My soul cries out and longs to offer

  An epigram of cunning spite—

  But madrigals they’ll have you write!

  31

  No madrigals of mere convention

  Does Olga’s Lensky thus compose;

  His pen breathes love, not pure invention

  Or sparkling wit as cold as prose;

  Whatever comes to his attention

  Concerning Olga, that he’ll mention;

  And filled with truth’s own vivid glows

  A stream of elegies then flows.*

  Thus you, Yazýkov,* with perfection,

  With all the surgings of your heart,

  Sing God knows whom in splendid art—

  Sweet elegies, whose full collection

  Will on some future day relate

  The uncut story of your fate.

  32

  But hush! A strident critic rises

  And bids us cast away the crown

  Of elegy in all its guises

  And to our rhyming guild calls down:

  ’Have done with all your lamentations,

  Your endless croakings and gyrations

  On “former days” and “times of yore”;

  Enough now! Sing of something more!’

  You’re right. And will you point with praises

  To trumpet, mask, and dagger* too,

  And bid us thuswise to renew

  Our stock of dead ideas and phrases?

  Is that it, friend?—’Far from it. Nay!

  Write odes,* good sirs, write odes, I say …

  33

  ’The way they did in former ages,

  Those mighty years still rich in fame….’

  Just solemn odes? … On all our pages?!

  Oh come now, friend, it’s all the same.

  Recall the satirist, good brother,

  And his sly odist in The Other,*

  Do you find him more pleasing, pray,