Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (Oxford World's Classics) Read online

  Tatyana heard the news morosely—

  The haughty world would watch her closely

  And judge her harshly from the start:

  Her simple, open country heart

  And country dress would find no mercy;

  And antiquated turns of phrase

  Were sure to bring a mocking gaze

  From every Moscow fop and Circe!

  O horrors! No, she’d better stay

  Safe in her woods and never stray.

  28

  With dawn’s first rays Tatyana races

  Out to the open fields to sigh;

  And gazing softly, she embraces

  The world she loves and says goodbye:

  ‘Farewell, my peaceful vales and fountains!

  Farewell, you too, familiar mountains

  And woods where once I used to roam!

  Farewell, celestial beauty’s home,

  Farewell, fond nature, where I flourished!

  I leave your world of quiet joys

  For empty glitter, fuss, and noise!

  Farewell, my freedom, deeply cherished!

  Oh, where and why do I now flee?

  And what does Fate prepare for me?’

  29

  And all that final summer season

  Her walks were long; a brook or knoll

  Would stop her now for no good reason

  Except to charm her thirsting soul.

  As with old friends, she keeps returning

  To all her groves and meadows, yearning

  To talk once more and say goodbye.

  But quickly summer seems to fly,

  The golden autumn now arriving.

  Now nature, tremulous, turns pale—

  A victim draped in lavish veil….

  The North now howls, the winds are driving

  The clouds before them far and near:

  That sorceress the winter’s here!

  30

  She’s spread herself through field and fountain,

  And hung the limbs of oaks with white;

  She lies atop the farthest mountain

  In wavy carpets glistening bright;

  She’s levelled with a fluffy blanket

  Both river and the shores that flank it.

  The frost has gleamed, and we give thanks

  For Mother Winter’s happy pranks.

  But Tanya’s heart is far from captured:

  She doesn’t greet the winter’s glow,

  Inhale the frostdust, gather snow

  From bathhouse roof to wash, enraptured,

  Her shoulders, face, and breast. With dread

  She views the winter path ahead.

  31

  Departure day was long expected;

  The final hours come at last.

  The covered sleigh, for years neglected,

  Is checked, relined, and soon made fast.

  The usual three-cart train will carry

  What household goods are necessary:

  The mattresses, the trunks and chairs,

  Some jars of jam and kitchen wares,

  The featherbeds and coops of chickens,

  Some pots and basins, and the rest—

  Well, almost all that they possessed.

  The servants fussed and raised the dickens

  About the stable, many cried;

  Then eighteen nags were led outside.

  32

  They’re harnessed to the coach and steadied;

  The cooks make lunch for one and all;

  The heaped-up wagons now are readied;

  The wenches and the drivers brawl.

  Atop a lean and shaggy trotter

  The bearded postboy sits as spotter.

  Retainers crowd the gate pell-mell

  To bid their mistresses farewell.

  They’re all aboard and, slowly gliding,

  The ancient coach creeps out the gate.

  ‘Farewell, my peaceful home and fate!

  Farewell, secluded place of hiding!

  Shall I return?’ And Tanya sighs,

  As tears well up to dim her eyes.

  33

  When we have broadened education,

  The time will come without a doubt

  (By scientific computation,

  Within five hundred years about),

  When our old roads’ decayed condition

  Will change beyond all recognition.

  Paved highways, linking every side,

  Will cross our Russia far and wide;

  Above our waters iron bridges

  Will stride in broadly arching sweep;

  We’ll dig bold tunnels ‘neath the deep

  And even part whole mountain ridges;

  And Christendom will institute

  An inn at every stage en route.

  34

  But roads are bad now in our nation;

  Neglected bridges rot and fall;

  Bedbugs and fleas at every station

  Won’t let the traveller sleep at all.

  No inns exist. At posting stages

  They hang pretentious menu pages,

  But just for show, as if to spite

  The traveller’s futile appetite;

  While some rude Cyclops at his fire

  Treats Europe’s dainty artefacts

  With mighty Russian hammer whacks,

  And thanks the Lord for ruts and mire

  And all the ditches that abound

  Throughout our native Russian ground.

  35

  And yet a trip in winter season

  Is often easy, even nice.

  Like modish verse devoid of reason,

  The winter road is smooth as ice.

  Our bold Autómedons* stay cheery,

  Our Russian troikas never weary;

  And mileposts soothe the idle eye

  As fencelike they go flashing by.

  Unluckily, Dame Larin wasted

  No funds on renting fresher horse,

  Which meant a longer trip of course;

  And so our maiden fully tasted

  Her share of travel’s dull delights:

  They rode for seven days and nights.

  36

  But now they’re near. Before them, gleaming,

  Lies Moscow with its stones of white,

  Its ancient domes and spires streaming

  With golden crosses, ember-bright.

  Ah, friends, I too have been delighted

  When all at once far-off I’ve sighted

  That splendid view of distant domes,

  Of churches, belfries, stately homes!

  How oft … forlorn and separated—

  When wayward fate has made me stray—

  I’ve dreamt of Moscow far away!

  Ah, Moscow! How that sound is freighted

  With meaning for our Russian hearts!

  How many echoes it imparts!

  37

  And here’s Petróvsky Castle,* hoary

  Amid its park. In sombre dress

  It wears with pride its recent glory:

  Napoleon, drunk with fresh success,

  Awaited here, in vain, surrender—

  For kneeling Moscow’s hand to tender

  The ancient Kremlin’s hallowed keys.

  But Moscow never bent her knees,

  Nor bowed her head in subjugation;

  No welcome feast did she prepare

  The restless hero waiting there—

  But lit instead a conflagration.

  From here he watched, immersed in thought,

  The awesome blaze my Moscow wrought.

  38

  Farewell now, scene of fame unsteady,

  Petróvsky Castle. Hey! Be fleet!

  There gleam the city gates already!

  And now along Tverskáya Street

  The sleigh glides over ruts and passes

  By sentry booths and peasant lasses;

  By gardens, mansions, fashion shops;

  Past urchins, streetlamps,
strolling fops,

  Bokhárins, sleighs, apothecaries,

  Muzhíks and merchants, Cossack guards;

  Past towers, hovels, boulevards,

  Great balconies and monasteries;

  Past gateway lions’ lifted paws,

  And crosses dense with flocks of daws.

  (39) 40

  This tiring trek through town extended

  For two full hours; then, quite late

  Nearby St Chariton’s it ended

  Before a mansion’s double gate.

  For now they’ll seek accommodation

  With Tanya’s aunt, a kind relation—

  Four years consumptive, sad to note.

  In glasses and a torn old coat,

  A grizzled Kalmuk came to meet them;

  With sock in hand he led the way

  To where the prostrate princess lay;

  She called from parlour couch to greet them.

  The two old ladies hugged and cried,

  With shouts of joy on either side.

  41

  ‘Princesse, mon anger!' ‘Pachette!’ ‘Oh, Laura!’

  ‘Who would have thought?’ ‘How long it’s been!’

  ‘I hope you’ll stay?’ ‘Dear cousin Laura!’

  ‘Sit down…. How strange! … I can’t begin …

  I’d swear it’s from some novel’s pages!’

  ‘And here’s my Tanya.’ ‘Lord, it’s ages!

  Oh, Tanya sweet, come over here—

  I think I must be dreaming, dear….

  Oh, cousin, do you still remember

  Your Grandison?’ ‘I never knew …

  Oh, Grandison! … of course I do!’

  ‘He lives in Moscow. This December,

  On Christmas eve, he paid a call:

  He married off his son this fall.

  42

  ‘The other. … But we’ll talk tomorrow;

  And straightway too, to all her kin

  We’ll show your Tanya. What a sorrow

  That paying visits does me in;

  I drag about like some poor laggard.

  But here, your trip has left you haggard;

  Let’s all go have a nice long rest….

  I’ve got no strength… this weary breast

  Finds even joy at times excessive,

  Not only woe…. It’s true, my dear,

  I’m good for nothing now, I fear;

  When one gets old, life turns oppressive.’

  And all worn out, she wept a bit,

  Then broke into a coughing fit.

  43

  The sick old lady’s kindly smile

  Left Tanya moved; but she felt sad

  Within this strange new domicile

  And missed the room she’d always had.

  In bed, beneath her silken curtain,

  She lies there sleepless and uncertain;

  And early church bells—when they chime,

  Announcing dawn and working time—

  Rouse Tanya from her bed to listen.

  She sits before the windowsill.

  The darkness wanes, but Tanya still

  Can’t see her fields and valleys glisten:

  She sees an unknown yard instead:

  A stable, fence, and kitchen shed.

  44

  And now they trundle Tanya daily

  To family dinners just to share

  With grandams and granduncles gaily

  Her languid and abstracted air.

  Those kin who’ve come from distant places

  Are always met with warm embraces,

  With shouts of joy and welcome cheer.

  ‘How Tanya’s grown! It seems, my dear,

  So short a time since I baptized you!’

  ‘And since I dried your baby tears!’

  ‘And since I pulled you by the ears!’

  ‘And since my gingerbread surprised you!’

  And with one voice the grannies cry:

  ‘Good gracious, how the years do fly!’

  45

  In them, though, nothing ever alters;

  The same old patterns still are met:

  Old Aunt Elena never falters

  And wears that same tulle bonnet yet;

  Still powdered is Lukérya Lvóvna;

  A liar still, Lyubóv Petróvna;

  Iván Petróvich … no more bright;

  Semyón Petróvich … just as tight;

  And Anna Pávlovna, as ever,

  Still has her friend, Monsieur Finemouch,

  Her same old spouse, and same old pooch—

  Her husband, clubman come whatever,

  Is just as meek and deaf, it’s true,

  And still consumes enough for two.

  46

  Their daughters, after brief embraces,

  Look Tanya over good and slow;

  In silence Moscow’s youthful graces

  Examine her from head to toe.

  They find her stranger than expected,

  A bit provincial and affected,

  And somewhat pale, too thin and small,

  But on the whole, not bad at all;

  Then bowing to innate compassion,

  They squeeze her hand and, in the end,

  Take Tanya in and call her friend;

  They fluff her curls in latest fashion,

  And in their singsong tones impart

  Their girlish secrets of the heart—

  47

  Both others’ and their own successes,

  Their hopes, and pranks, and maiden dreams;

  All innocence, their talk progresses—

  Though now and then some gossip gleams.

  And then they ask, in compensation

  For their sweet flow of revelation,

  For her confessions of romance.

  But Tanya, in a kind of trance,

  Attends their giddy conversation

  Without response and takes no part;

  And all the while she guards her heart

  With silence and in meditation:

  Her cherished trove of tears and bliss

  She’ll share with none, aloud like this.

  48

  Tatyana tries to pay attention

  When in the parlour guests converse;

  But all they ever seem to mention

  Is incoherent rot, or worse;

  They seem so pallid and so weary,

  And even in their slander dreary.

  In all the sterile words they use—

  In arid gossip, questions, news—

  Not once all day does thought but flicker,

  Not even in some chance remark;

  The languid mind will find no spark,

  The heart no cause to beat the quicker;

  And even simple-minded fun

  This hollow world has learned to shun!

  49

  ‘Archival dandies’* in a cluster

  Eye Tanya with a priggish frown,

  And with their usual sort of bluster,

  Among themselves they put her down.

  One melancholy joker found her

  His ‘true ideal’ and hovered round her—

  Then, leaning by the door, prepared

  An elegy, to show he cared.

  Once Vyázemsky* sat down beside her

  (On meeting her at some dull aunt’s)

  And managed to dispel her trance;

  And some old man—when he espied her—

  Put straight his wig and asked around

  About this unknown belle he’d found.

  50

  But where Melpomene still stages

  Her stormy scenes and wails aloud

  And in her gaudy mantle rages

  Before the dull and frigid crowd;

  Where sweet Thalia calmly dozes,

  Indifferent to admirers’ roses;

  Where just Terpsichore enchants

  The youthful lover of the dance

  (As was the case—for nothing passes—

  In o
ur day too, let’s not forget),

  No jealous lady trained lorgnette,

  No modish connoisseur his glasses,

  To spy on Tanya down below

  From boxes rising row on row.

  51

  They take her to the Grand Assembly:*

  And there the crush, the glare, the heat,

  The music’s roar, the ballroom trembling,

  The whirling flash of pairs of feet,

  The beauties in their filmy dresses,

  The swarming gallery throng that presses,

  The host of girls on marriage hunts—

  Assault the senses all at once.

  Here practised dandies bow and slither

  To show their gall… and waistcoats too,

  With negligent lorgnettes in view.

  Hussars on leave come racing hither

  To strut their stuff and thunder by,

  To dazzle, conquer … and to fly.

  52

  The night has countless stars to light her,

  And Moscow countless beauties too;

  And yet the regal moon shines brighter

  Than all her friends in heaven’s blue;

  And she, whose beauty I admire—

  But dare not bother with my lyre—

  Just like the moon upon her throne,

  Mid wives and maidens shines alone.

  With what celestial pride she grazes

  The earth she walks, in splendour dressed!

  What languor fills her lovely breast!

  How sensuous her wondrous gazes! …

  But there, enough; have done at last:

  You’ve paid your due to follies past.

  53

  Commotion, bows … the glad, the solemn…

  Galop, mazurka, waltz…. And there,

  Between two aunts, beside a column,

  Observed by none, and near despair,

  Tatyana looks with eyes unseeing

  And loathes this world with all her being;

  She’s stifled here … and in her mind

  Calls up the life she left behind—

  The countryside, poor village neighbours,

  A distant and secluded nook

  Beside a limpid flowing brook,