Yevgeny Onegin Read online

  To give Monsieur the sack, it seems.

  Onegin now, devil-may-care-style,

  Copied the very latest hairstyle

  And came out like a London fop

  To see society. Tip-top

  In spoken French (no less proficient

  In speech and writing), he could dance,

  And with the utmost nonchalance

  Perform a bow, which was sufficient

  To show him in a pleasing light

  As a nice lad, and very bright.

  5

  We’ve all of us been taught in smatters

  Of this and that, done bit by bit.

  Not that our education matters:

  We shine despite the lack of it.

  Onegin was esteemed by many

  (Judges as hard and strict as any)

  As an enlightened clever dick.

  He had evolved the happy trick

  Of butting in on French or Russian

  With flippant comments here and there

  Delivered with an expert air,

  While dodging any deep discussion.

  He could bring smiles to ladies’ lips

  With epigrams and fiery quips.

  6

  Although we’ve lost the taste for Latin,

  He knew enough of it to read

  An epitaph and render that in

  Some Russian form, we must concede,

  To mention Juvenal, and, better,

  Write Vale, signing off a letter.

  He knew by heart—or sort of did—

  The odd line from the Aeneid.

  He didn’t know—having no patience

  To learn in any deep degree—

  The world’s historiography,

  Yet he remembered, from the Ancients,

  A fund of jokes and tales for us

  From our times back to Romulus.

  7

  Lacking high passion, too prosaic

  To deem sounds more than life, he read

  What was iambic as trochaic—

  I couldn’t get it through his head.

  Homer, Theocritus he slated,

  But Adam Smith was highly rated

  By this self-styled economist,

  Who knew it all: how states exist,

  How to transform them, make them wealthy,

  And why they have no need of gold

  If they have things that can be sold—

  The product is what keeps them healthy.

  His father couldn’t understand,

  And went on mortgaging his land.

  8

  I cannot run through this man’s learning

  In full, but there’s one field in which

  He had a genius so discerning

  It was incomparably rich.

  This, since his youth, had proved so serious

  It brought him toil and joys delirious,

  Intruding with daylong distress

  Into his anguished idleness:

  Yes, tender passion, that same science

  Which Ovid sang and suffered for,

  Languishing sadly more and more,

  After such bright days of defiance,

  On a Moldavian plain, where he

  Pined for his long-lost Italy.

  [9] 10

  Early he learnt to sow confusion,

  To hide his hopes, show jealous spite,

  To build trust, then to disillusion,

  To brood and droop with all his might,

  To spurn with pride, or turn obedient,

  Cold or attentive, as expedient.

  He could be silent, malcontent

  Or passionately eloquent;

  In missives of the heart, off-handed.

  While yearning with a single dream,

  How self-dismissive he could seem!

  His glances could be fond or candid,

  Reserved or forthright—or appear

  To gleam with an obedient tear!

  11

  Changing at will, today, tomorrow,

  He could fool innocence by jest,

  Alarm with artificial sorrow,

  Flatter the easily impressed,

  Pick up the early signs of ardour,

  Press pure young creatures ever harder

  With passion, and use all his wit

  To foil reluctant girls with it.

  Urging commitment by entreaty,

  Catching at heartbeats, he would thrill

  And harass them with love until

  He winkled out a secret meeting,

  And when he got the girl alone

  What silent lessons was she shown!

  12

  Early he taught himself to ravage

  The feelings of accomplished flirts,

  And when he felt the need to savage

  His rivals in pursuit of skirts

  His vicious language was appalling.

  What traps he set for them to fall in!

  But you, good husbands, did not tend

  To spurn him. He was your close friend,

  As was the foxy spouse, whose story

  Had had its Casanova days,

  And codgers with their snooping ways,

  And the fine cuckold in his glory,

  So smug, so satisfied with life,

  Pleased with his table and his wife.

  [13, 14] 15

  He often lay abed while thumbing

  Through notes brought in. What have we here?

  More invitations! They keep coming.

  Three soirées to attend. Oh dear,

  Then there’s a ball, a children’s party…

  Which will be graced by my young smarty?

  Where will he start? It matters not.

  He’ll easily get round the lot.

  In morning dress he sallies yonder,

  Beneath his Bolivar’s broad brim.

  The boulevardier born in him

  Will stroll abroad and widely wander

  Till his unsleeping Bréguet’s chime

  Announces that it’s dinner-time.

  16

  Later he mounts his sledge in darkness.

  “Drive on!” he calls. The frost, it seems,

  Has daubed his beaver collar’s starkness

  With silver dust until it gleams.

  He speeds to Talon’s place, not sparing

  The horses, sure to find Kavérin.

  Inside, corks pop. The foam, the fizz

  Of Comet wine, the best there is!

  Bloody roast beef will soon restore him,

  With truffles. Young folk are so keen

  On this fine flower of French cuisine!

  And Strasburg pie is waiting for him

  Between a living Limburg cheese

  And golden pineapples. Yes, please.

  17

  And now the glasses need refilling

  To slake the chops’ hot fat—but hey!

  The Bréguet now alerts them, shrilling—

  The new ballet is under way.

  He was the theatre’s closest stickler.

  With actresses no one came fickler;

  He loved the nice ones (any age),

  And was a regular backstage.

  He hurried there. With free demeanour

  The liberals there will shout hurrah

  To celebrate an entrechat,

  Boo Phèdre or call out Moëna

  Or Cleopatra. (In a word,

  They shout to get their voices heard.)

  18

  O magic realm! There, in his season,

  A brilliant satirist was seen,

  That friend of freedom, bold Fonvízin,

  And the mercurial Knyazhnín.

  There Ozerov shared an ovation,

  The tears and plaudits of the nation,

  With young Semyónova, and then

  Katénin brought to life again

  The spirit of Corneille so splendid.

  There comedies, good Shakhovskóy’s,

  Swarmed through and f
illed the house with noise,

  And Didelot to fame ascended.

  There, there, at a much younger age,

  I spent my early days backstage.

  19

  Where are you now, my lost goddésses?

  Oh, hear my melancholy call.

  Are you the same, or have successors

  Emerged to supersede you all?

  Can I still hope to hear your chorus?

  Terpsichore, will you dance for us

  That doleful, Russian, soulful dance?

  Is no one left for my sad glance

  To recognize on that drab staging?

  Must I allow this alien set

  To disillusion a lorgnette

  That finds their frolics unengaging?

  Am I to yawn at everyone,

  Silently ruing what is gone?

  20

  House full. We see the boxes gleaming,

  The pit and stalls a seething world.

  On high, the heckling gods are teeming,

  The curtain zooms up, sweetly swirled.

  Semi-ethereally splendid,

  Watching the magic bow, suspended,

  Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,

  There stands—Istómina. We glimpse

  Two tiny feet twirling together,

  One circling, one upon the boards,

  And then she skips and flits and soars,

  Puffed like a soft aeolian feather.

  She twines, untwines, spins at the hips.

  Her tiny toes touch at their tips.

  21

  Everyone claps. And, having tangled

  With toes of people where they sit,

  He peers across, his glasses angled

  At unknown ladies opposite,

  Taking things in on every level—

  Clothing and faces that bedevil—

  Onegin’s still dissatisfied.

  Exchanging bows on every side,

  He gives the stage some small attention,

  But soon, distracted and withdrawn,

  He turns back, saying with a yawn,

  “It’s time to put this lot on pension.

  Ballet! I’ve taken all I can—

  And Didelot’s such a boring man!”

  22

  There’s many a cupid, devil, dragon

  Still clomping on the boarded floor,

  And footmen still, with coats to sag on,

  Sleep wearily beside the door.

  Much foot-stamping is in the offing,

  Blown noses, hissing, clapping, coughing,

  And still at every end, it seems,

  Inside and out, a lantern gleams.

  Chilled horses stand, pawing the whiteness,

  Irked by their harnesses and reins,

  While drivers, cursing near the flames,

  Beat their cold hands. And yet, despite this,

  Onegin’s gone. Is that so strange?

  Oh, no, he’s driving home to change.

  23

  Shall I describe, with qualm and scruple,

  The hidden room of peace and rest

  Where this man, fashion’s model pupil,

  Is dressed, undressed and then re-dressed?

  Every last whim and freak of fancy

  And London-born extravagancy

  Exchanged across the Baltic seas

  For timber and for tallow, these,

  Along with goods hailing from Paris,

  Where trade and good taste are on hand

  To make things for our pleasure, and

  Where luxury with fashion marries—

  No one had more of these things than

  This eighteen-year-old thinking man.

  24

  Byzantine pipes on tables (ambered),

  Lay beside porcelain and bronze

  And, to delight the truly pampered,

  Bottles of perfume (cut-glass ones),

  With combs and little steels for filing

  And scissors straight or curved for styling

  And thirty brushes (various scales)

  For treating dirty teeth and nails.

  I can’t help adding: Jean-Jacques Rousseau

  (Loquacious oddball) watched while Grimm

  Dared clean his nails in front of him,

  And thought it rude of Grimm to do so.

  On human rights Rousseau was strong,

  But in this instance he was wrong.

  25

  You can be an effective person

  And still take good care of your nails.

  Don’t blame the age, the times that worsen:

  Fashion’s a tyrant to young males.

  A new Chadáyev, my Yevgeny

  Feared jealous blame and thought it brainy

  To dress the pedant, toe to top,

  And be what we would call a fop.

  Three hours or more he ( just between us)

  Would spend at mirrors hung about

  His dressing room, and then walk out,

  For all the world a giddy Venus,

  A goddess in men’s clothes arrayed,

  Departing for a masquerade.

  26

  No doubt your interest has been captured

  By his toilette and taste. And how

  The learned world would be enraptured

  If I described his clothing now!…

  This would not be a wise endeavour.

  I’ve been describing things for ever,

  But pantalon, Frack, gilet… Please!

  There are no Russian words for these.

  I know my poor vocabulary

  Is reason to apologize.

  It has already, for its size

  Too many foreign words to carry.

  I say this after having scanned

  The expert wordsmiths of our land.

  27

  But this we cannot be delayed in.

  We’d better rush off to the ball.

  In a fast hackney my Onegin

  Has hurtled there before us all.

  Past many city houses darkling,

  Along the sleeping highways, sparkling

  With double lanterns, hackneys go

  In relays, lighting up the snow

  And scattering rainbows. In this setting,

  See, here we have a splendid pile

  Lit up with oil lamps in fine style,

  Its plate-glass windows silhouetting

  A group that features, when it stops,

  Fine ladies and pretentious fops.

  28

  Our hero now flies through the entry,

  Darts past the porter and ascends

  A marble staircase for the gentry,

  Smoothing his hair with finger-ends.

  He’s in. The room is full of dancers,

  The band has thundered, but now answers

  With a mazurka danced by all,

  While noisy revellers cram the hall.

  The boots of cavalrymen jingle

  And lovely ladies flick their feet,

  Leaving an afterview so sweet

  They catch the eye and tease and tingle,

  While scraping fiddles in the band

  Drown gossip hushed behind the hand.

  29

  When we were sporty, yearning creatures

  I loved the ballroom well. We knew

  No better place for lovelorn speeches

  Or handing over billets doux.

  You, husbands—each an upright figure—

  I conjure you with all my vigour:

  Listen to what I have to say.

  I’d like to warn you, if I may.

  And you, mamas, you must be stricter.

  Don’t let your daughters out of sight.

  Use your lorgnette, and hold it tight,

  Or else… God save you… That’s the picture.

  I tell you this since I can say

  I do not sin like that today.

  30

  On various pleasures (some that hurt you)

  Much of my
life has gone to waste,

  But, if they didn’t threaten virtue,

  Balls still would have been to my taste.

  I love the youthful dash and clamour,

  The crush, the gaiety and glamour,

  The ladies scrupulously dressed.

  I love their tiny feet. At best,

  In all our land you’ll scarce discover

  Three pairs of lovely female feet.

  But I know two that were so sweet…

  And though I’m sad—my day is over—

  I can’t forget them now, it seems;

  They bring me heartache in my dreams.

  31

  So, where and when, in the out yonder,

  Will you forget them, madman? How?

  O tiny feet, where do you wander?

  What green blooms do you trample now?

  Spoilt by the east, you left no northern

  Traces in snows where there is more than

  Enough of sadness. Oh, the snug

  Touch of an oriental rug!

  The luxury! The soft entwinement!

  For your sake I forgot the cause,

  The thirst for glory and applause,

  My homeland, where I knew confinement.

  My happy youth was soon to pass,

  Like your light traces on the grass.

  32

  Diana’s bosom, friends, is charming,

  And Flora’s cheeks are, oh, so sweet,

  Terpsichore is more disarming,

  However, with her tiny feet.

  That foot, a prophesy of pleasure,

  A quite inestimable treasure

  Of pure, symbolic beauty, stirs

  A swarm of yearnings—to be hers.

  I love the foot, my dear Elvina,

  Beneath a tablecloth’s long swing,

  Tracing a greensward in the spring

  Or on cold winter hearths, still keener

  If treading glass-like floors, or if

  On beaches by a granite cliff.

  33

  Once, on a shore… A storm was brewing,

  And I felt jealous of the waves

  That rushed on her in raging ruin,

  Collapsing at her feet, like slaves.