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

So why is Tanya, then, more tainted?

  Is it because her simple heart

  Believes the chosen dream she’s painted

  And in deceit will take no part?

  Because she heeds the call of passion

  In such an honest, artless fashion?

  Because she’s trusting more than proud,

  And by the Heavens was endowed

  With such a rashness in surrender,

  With such a lively mind and will,

  And with a spirit never still,

  And with a heart that’s warm and tender?

  But can’t you, friends, forgive her, pray,

  The giddiness of passion’s sway?

  25

  The flirt will always reason coldly;

  Tatyana’s love is deep and true:

  She yields without conditions, boldly—

  As sweet and trusting children do.

  She does not say: ‘Let’s wait till later

  To make love’s value all the greater

  And bind him tighter with our rope;

  Let’s prick vainglory first with hope,

  And then with doubt in fullest measure

  We’ll whip his heart, and when it’s tame …

  Revive it with a jealous flame;

  For otherwise, grown bored with pleasure,

  The cunning captive any day

  Might break his chains and slip away.’

  26

  I face another complication:

  My country’s honour will demand

  Without a doubt a full translation

  Of Tanya’s letter from my hand.

  She knew the Russian language badly,

  Ignored our journals all too gladly,

  And in her native tongue, I fear,

  Could barely make her meaning clear;

  And so she turned for love’s discussion

  To French…. There’s nothing I can do!

  A lady’s love, I say to you,

  Has never been expressed in Russian;

  Our mighty tongue, God only knows,

  Has still not mastered postal prose.

  27

  Some would that ladies be required

  To read in Russian. Dread command!

  Why, I can picture them—inspired,

  The Good Samaritan* in hand!

  I ask you now to tell me truly,

  You poets who have sinned unduly:

  Have not those creatures you adore,

  Those objects of your verse … and more,

  Been weak at Russian conversation?

  And have they not, the charming fools,

  Distorted sweetly all the rules

  Of usage and pronunciation;

  While yet a foreign language slips

  With native glibness from their lips?

  28

  God spare me from the apparition,

  On leaving some delightful ball,

  Of bonneted Academician

  Or scholar in a yellow shawl!

  I find a faultless Russian style

  Like crimson lips without a smile,

  Mistakes in grammar charm the mind.

  Perhaps (if fate should prove unkind!)

  This generation’s younger beauties,

  Responding to our journals’ call,

  With grammar may delight us all,

  And verses will be common duties.

  But what care I for all they do?

  To former ways I’ll still be true.

  29

  A careless drawl, a tiny stutter,

  Some imprecision of the tongue—

  Can still produce a lovely flutter

  Within this breast no longer young;

  I lack the strength for true repentance,

  And Gallicisms in a sentence

  Seem sweet as youthful sins remote,

  Or verse that Bogdanóvich* wrote.

  But that will do. My beauty’s letter

  Must occupy my pen for now;

  I gave my word, but, Lord, I vow,

  Retracting it would suit me better.

  I know that gentle Parny’s* lays

  Are out of fashion nowadays.

  30

  Bard of The Feasts* and languid sorrow,

  If you were with me still, my friend,

  Immodestly I’d seek to borrow

  Your genius for a worthy end:

  I’d have you with your art refashion

  A maiden’s foreign words of passion

  And make them magic songs anew.

  Where are you? Come! I bow to you

  And yield my rights to love’s translation….

  But there beneath the Finnish sky,

  Amid those mournful crags on high,

  His heart grown deaf to commendation—

  Alone upon his way he goes

  And does not heed my present woes.

  31

  Tatyana’s letter lies beside me,

  And reverently I guard it still;

  I read it with an ache inside me

  And cannot ever read my fill.

  Who taught her then this soft surrender,

  This careless gift for waxing tender,

  This touching whimsy free of art,

  This raving discourse of the heart—

  Enchanting, yet so fraught with trouble?

  I’ll never know. But none the less,

  I give it here in feeble dress:

  A living picture’s pallid double,

  Or Freischütz* played with timid skill

  By fingers that are learning still.

  Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin

  I’m writing you this declaration—

  What more can I in candour say?

  It may be now your inclination

  To scorn me and to turn away;

  But if my hapless situation

  Evokes some pity for my woe,

  You won’t abandon me, I know.

  I first tried silence and evasion;

  Believe me, you‘d have never learned

  My secret shame, had I discerned

  The slightest hope that on occasion—

  But once a week—I’d see your face,

  Behold you at our country place,

  Might hear you speak a friendly greeting,

  Could say a word to you; and then,

  Could dream both day and night again

  Of but one thing, till our next meeting.

  They say you like to be alone

  And find the country unappealing;

  We lack, I know, a worldly tone,

  But still, we welcome you with feeling.

  Why did you ever come to call?

  In this forgotten country dwelling

  I’d not have known you then at all,

  Nor known this bitter heartache’s swelling.

  Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling

  The girlish hopes on which I fed,

  I might have found (who knows?) another

  And been a faithful wife and mother,

  Contented with the life I led.

  Another! No! In all creation

  There’s no one else whom I’d adore;

  The heavens chose my destination

  And made me thine for evermore!

  My life till now has been a token

  In pledge of meeting you, my friend;

  And in your coming, God has spoken,

  You‘ll be my guardian till the end….

  You filled my dreams and sweetest trances;

  As yet unseen, and yet so dear,

  You stirred me with your wondrous glances,

  Your voice within my soul rang clear….

  And then the dream came true for me!

  When you came in, I seemed to waken,

  I turned to flame, I felt all shaken,

  And in my heart I cried: It’s he!

  And was it you I heard replying

  Amid the stillness of the night,

  Or when I helped the poor and dying,


  Or turned to heaven, softly crying,

  And said a prayer to soothe my plight?

  And even now, my dearest vision,

  Did I not see your apparition

  Flit softly through this lucent night?

  Was it not you who seemed to hover

  Above my bed, a gentle lover,

  To whisper hope and sweet delight?

  Are you my angel of salvation

  Or hell’s own demon of temptation?

  Be kind and send my doubts away;

  For this may all be mere illusion,

  The things a simple girl would say,

  While Fate intends no grand conclusion….

  So be it then! Henceforth I place

  My faith in you and your affection;

  I plead with tears upon my face

  And beg you for your kind protection.

  You cannot know: I’m so alone,

  There’s no one here to whom I’ve spoken,

  My mind and will are almost broken,

  And I must die without a moan.

  I wait for you … and your decision:

  Revive my hopes with but a sign,

  Or halt this heavy dream of mine—

  Alas, with well-deserved derision!

  I close. I dare not now reread….

  I shrink with shame and fear. But surely,

  Your honour’s all the pledge I need,

  And I submit to it securely.

  32

  The letter trembles in her fingers;

  By turns Tatyana groans and sighs.

  The rosy sealing wafer lingers

  Upon her fevered tongue and dries.

  Her head is bowed, as if she’s dozing;

  Her light chemise has slipped, exposing

  Her lovely shoulder to the night.

  But now the moonbeams’ glowing light

  Begins to fade. The vale emerges

  Above the mist. And now the stream

  In silver curves begins to gleam.

  The shepherd’s pipe resounds and urges

  The villager to rise. It’s morn!

  My Tanya, though, is so forlorn.

  33

  She takes no note of dawn’s procession,

  Just sits with lowered head, remote;

  Nor does she put her seal’s impression

  Upon the letter that she wrote.

  But now her door is softly swinging:

  It’s grey Filátievna, who’s bringing

  Her morning tea upon a tray.

  ’It’s time, my sweet, to greet the day;

  Why, pretty one, you’re up already!

  You’re still my little early bird!

  Last night you scared me, ’pon my word!

  But thank the Lord, you seem more steady;

  No trace at all of last night’s fret,

  Your cheeks are poppies now, my pet.’

  34

  ‘Oh, nurse, a favour, please… and hurry!’

  ’Why, sweetheart, anything you choose.’

  ’You mustn’t think … and please don’t worry …

  But see … Oh, nanny, don’t refuse!’

  ’As God’s my witness, dear, I promise.’

  ’Then send your grandson, little Thomas,

  To take this note of mine to O———,

  Our neighbour, nurse, the one… you know!

  And tell him that he’s not to mention

  My name, or breathe a single word….’

  ’But who’s it for, my little bird?

  I’m trying hard to pay attention;

  But we have lots of neighbours call,

  I couldn’t even count them all.’

  35

  ’Oh nurse, your wits are all befuddled!’

  ’But, sweetheart, I’ve grown old … I mean…

  I’m old; my mind … it does get muddled.

  There was a time when I was keen,

  When just the master’s least suggestion….’

  ’Oh, nanny, please, that’s not the question,

  It’s not your mind I’m talking of,

  I’m thinking of Onegin, love;

  This note’s to him.’—’Now don’t get riled,

  You know these days I’m not so clear,

  I’ll take the letter, never fear.

  But you’ve gone pale again, my child!’

  ’It’s nothing, nanny, be at ease,

  Just send your grandson, will you please.’

  36

  The day wore on, no word came flying.

  Another fruitless day went by.

  All dressed since dawn, dead-pale and sighing,

  Tatyana waits: will he reply?

  Then Olga’s suitor came a-wooing.

  ’But tell me, what’s your friend been doing?’

  Asked Tanya’s mother, full of cheer;

  ’He’s quite forgotten us, I fear.’

  Tatyana blushed and trembled gently.

  ’He promised he would come today,’

  Said Lensky in his friendly way,

  ’The mail has kept him evidently.’

  Tatyana bowed her head in shame,

  As if they all thought her to blame.

  37

  ’Twas dusk; and on the table, gleaming,

  The evening samovar grew hot;

  It hissed and sent its vapour steaming

  In swirls about the china pot.

  And soon the fragrant tea was flowing

  As Olga poured it, dark and glowing,

  In all the cups; without a sound

  A serving boy took cream around.

  Tatyana by the window lingers

  And breathes upon the chilly glass;

  All lost in thought, the gentle lass

  Begins to trace with lovely fingers

  Across the misted panes a row

  Of hallowed letters: E and 0.

  38

  And all the while her soul was aching,

  Her brimming eyes could hardly see.

  Then sudden hoofbeats! … Now she’s quaking….

  They’re closer … coming here … it’s he!

  Onegin! ‘Oh!’—And light as air,

  She’s out the backway, down the stair

  From porch to yard, to garden straight;

  She runs, she flies; she dare not wait

  To glance behind her; on she pushes—

  Past garden plots, small bridges, lawn,

  The lakeway path, the wood; and on

  She flies and breaks through lilac bushes,

  Past seedbeds to the brook—so fast

  That, panting, on a bench at last

  39

  She falls ….

  ’He’s here! But all those faces!

  O God, what must he think of me!’

  But still her anguished heart embraces

  A misty dream of what might be.

  She trembles, burns, and waits … so near him!

  But will he come? … She doesn’t hear him.

  Some serf girls in the orchard there,

  While picking berries, filled the air

  With choral song—as they’d been bidden

  (An edict that was meant, you see,

  To keep sly mouths from feeling free

  To eat the master’s fruit when hidden,

  By filling them with song instead—

  For rural cunning isn’t dead!):

  The Girls’ Song

  ’Lovely maidens, pretty ones,

  Dearest hearts and darling friends,

  Romp away, sweet lassies, now,

  Have your fling, my dear ones, do!

  Strike you up a rousing song,

  Sing our secret ditty now,

  Lure some likely lusty lad

  To the circle of our dance.

  When we lure the fellow on,

  When we see him from afar,

  Darlings, then, let’s scamper off,

  Pelting him with cherries then,

  Cherries, yes, and raspb
erries,

  Ripe red currants let us throw!

  Never come to listen in

  When we sing our secret songs,

  Never come to spy on us

  When we play our maiden games!’

  40

  Tatyana listens, scarcely hearing

  The vibrant voices, sits apart,

  And waits impatient in her clearing

  To calm the tremor in her heart

  And halt the constant surge of blushes;

  But still her heart in panic rushes,

  Her cheeks retain their blazing glow

  And ever brighter, brighter grow.

  Just so a butterfly both quivers

  And beats an iridescent wing

  When captured by some boy in spring;

  Just so a hare in winter shivers,

  When suddenly far off it sees

  The hunter hiding in the trees.

  41

  But finally she rose, forsaken,

  And, sighing, started home for bed;

  But hardly had she turned and taken

  The garden lane, when straight ahead,

  His eyes ablaze, Eugene stood waiting—

  Like some grim shade of night’s creating;

  And she, as if by fire seared,

  Drew back and stopped when he appeared.…

  Just now though, friends, I feel too tired

  To tell you how this meeting went

  And what ensued from that event;

  I’ve talked so long that I’ve required

  A little walk, some rest and play;

  I’ll finish up another day.

  Chapter 4

  La morale est dans la nature des choses*

  Necker

  (1–6)7

  The less we love her when we woo her,

  The more we draw a woman in,

  And thus more surely we undo her

  Within the witching webs we spin.

  Time was, when cold debauch was lauded

  As love’s high art… and was applauded

  For trumpeting its happy lot

  In taking joy while loving not.

  But that pretentious game is dated,

  But fit for apes, who once held sway

  Amid our forbears’ vaunted day;

  The fame of Lovelaces has faded—

  Along with fashions long since dead:

  Majestic wigs and heels of red.