Eugene Onegin Page 8

  Prepares in play for protocol,

  For every social admonition;

  And to her doll, without demur,

  Repeats what mama taught to her.

  27

  But dolls were never Tanya's passion,

  When she was small she didn't choose

  To talk to them of clothes or fashion

  Or tell them all the city news.

  And she was not the sort who glories

  In girlish pranks; but grisly stories

  Quite charmed her heart when they were told

  On winter nights all dark and cold.

  Whenever nanny brought together

  Young Olga's friends to spend the day,

  Tatyana never joined their play

  Or games of tag upon the heather;

  For she was bored by all their noise,

  Their laughing shouts and giddy joys.

  28

  Upon her balcony appearing,

  She loved to greet Aurora's show,

  When dancing stars are disappearing

  Against the heavens' pallid glow,

  When earth's horizon softly blushes,

  And wind, the morning's herald, rushes,

  And slowly day begins its flight.

  In winter, when the shade of night

  Still longer half the globe encumbers,

  And 'neath the misty moon on high

  An idle stillness rules the sky,

  And late the lazy East still slumbers

  Awakened early none the less,

  By candlelight she'd rise and dress.

  29

  From early youth she read romances,

  And novels set her heart aglow;

  She loved the fictions and the fancies

  Of Richardson and of Rousseau.

  Her father was a kindly fellow

  Lost in a past he found more mellow;

  But still, in books he saw no harm,

  And, though immune to reading's charm,

  Deemed it a minor peccadillo;

  Nor did he care what secret tome

  His daughter read or kept at home

  Asleep till morn beneath her pillow;

  His wife herself, we ought to add,

  For Richardson was simply mad.

  30

  It wasn't that she'd read him, really,

  Nor was it that she much preferred

  To Lovelace Grandison, but merely

  That long ago she'd often heard

  Her Moscow cousin, Princess Laura,

  Go on about their special aura.

  Her husband at the time was still

  Her fiancagainst her will!

  For she, in spite of family feeling,

  Had someone else for whom she pined

  A man whose heart and soul and mind

  She found a great deal more appealing;

  This Grandison was fashion's pet,

  A gambler and a guards cadet.

  31

  About her clothes one couldn't fault her;

  Like him, she dressed as taste decreed.

  But then they led her to the altar

  And never asked if she agreed.

  The clever husband chose correctly

  To take his grieving bride directly

  To his estate, where first she cried

  (With God knows whom on every side),

  Then tossed about and seemed demented;

  And almost even left her spouse;

  But then she took to keeping house

  And settled down and grew contented.

  Thus heaven's gift to us is this:

  That habit takes the place of bliss.

  32

  'Twas only habit then that taught her

  The way to master rampant grief;

  And soon a great discovery brought her

  A final and complete relief.

  Betwixt her chores and idle hours

  She learned to use her woman's powers

  To rule the house as autocrat,

  And life went smoothly after that.

  She'd drive around to check the workers,

  She pickled mushrooms for the fall,

  She made her weekly bathhouse call,

  She kept the books, she shaved the shirkers,*

  She beat the maids when she was cross

  And left her husband at a loss.

  33

  She used to write, with blood, quotations

  In maidens' albums, thought it keen

  To speak in singsong intonations,

  Would call Praskvya 'chre Pauline'.

  She laced her corset very tightly,

  Pronounced a Russian n as slightly

  As n in French .. . and through the nose;

  But soon she dropped her city pose:

  The corset, albums, chic relations,

  The sentimental verses too,

  Were quite forgot; she bid adieu

  To all her foreign affectations,

  And took at last to coming down

  In just her cap and quilted gown.

  34

  And yet her husband loved her dearly;

  In all her schemes he'd never probe;

  He trusted all she did sincerely

  And ate and drank in just his robe.

  His life flowed onquite calm and pleasant

  With kindly neighbours sometimes present

  For hearty talk at evenfall,

  Just casual friends who'd often call

  To shake their heads, to prate and prattle,

  To laugh a bit at something new;

  And time would pass, till Olga'd brew

  Some tea to whet their tittle-tattle;

  Then supper came, then time for bed,

  And off the guests would drive, well fed.

  35

  Amid this peaceful life they cherished,

  They held all ancient customs dear;

  At Shrovetide feasts their table flourished

  With Russian pancakes, Russian cheer;

  Twice yearly too they did their fasting;

  Were fond of songs for fortune-casting,

  Of choral dances, garden swings.

  At Trinity, when service brings

  The people, yawning, in for prayer,

  They'd shed a tender tear or two

  Upon their buttercups of rue.

  They needed kvas no less than air,

  And at their table guests were served

  By rank in turn as each deserved.*

  36

  And thus they aged, as do all mortals.

  Until at last the husband found

  That death had opened wide its portals,

  Through which he entered, newly crowned.

  He died at midday's break from labour,

  Lamented much by friend and neighbour,

  By children and by faithful wife

  Far more than some who part this life.

  He was a kind and simple barin,

  And there where now his ashes lie

  A tombstone tells the passer-by:

  The humble sinner Dmitry Larin

  A slave of God and Brigadier

  Beneath this stone now resteth here.

  37

  Restored to home and its safekeeping,

  Young Lensky came to cast an eye

  Upon his neighbour's place of sleeping,

  And mourned his ashes with a sigh.

  And long he stood in sorrow aching;

  'Poor Yorick!' then he murmured, shaking,

  'How oft within his arms I lay,

  How oft in childhood days

  I'd play

  With his Ochkov decoration!*

  He destined Olga for my wife

  And used to say: "Oh grant me, life,

  To see the day!" ' ... In lamentation,

  Right then and there Vladimir penned

  A funeral verse for his old friend.

  38

  And then with verse of quickened sadness

  He honour
ed too, in tears and pain,

  His parents' dust. . . their memory's gladness . . .

  Alas! Upon life's furrowed plain

  A harvest brief, each generation,

  By fate's mysterious dispensation,

  Arises, ripens, and must fall;

  Then others too must heed the call.

  For thus our giddy race gains power:

  It waxes, stirs, turns seething wave,

  Then crowds its forebears toward the grave.

  And we as well shall face that hour

  When one fine day our grandsons true

  Straight out of life will crowd us too!

  39

  So meanwhile, friends, enjoy your blessing:

  This fragile life that hurries so!

  Its worthlessness needs no professing,

  And I'm not loathe to let it go;

  I've closed my eyes to phantoms gleaming,

  Yet distant hopes within me dreaming

  Still stir my heart at times to flight:

  I'd grieve to quit this world's dim light

  And leave no trace, however slender.

  I live, I writenot seeking fame;

  And yet, I think, I'd wish to claim

  For my sad lot its share of splendour

  At least one note to linger long,

  Recalling, like some friend, my song.

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  And it may touch some heart with fire;

  And thus preserved by fate's decree,

  The stanza fashioned by my lyre

  May yet not drown in Lethe's sea;

  Perhaps (a flattering hope's illusion!)

  Some future dunce with warm effusion

  Will point my portrait out and plead:

  'This was a poet, yes indeed!'

  Accept my thanks and admiration,

  You lover of the Muse's art, #62038;

  you whose mind shall know by heart

  The fleeting works of my creation,

  Whose cordial hand shall then be led

  To pat the old man's laurelled head!

  Chapter 3

  Elle tait fille, elle tait amoureuse.*

  Malfiltre

  1

  'Ah me, these poets . . . such a hurry!'

  'Goodbye, Onegin . . . time I went.'

  'Well, I won't keep you, have no worry,

  But where are all your evenings spent?'

  'The Larin place.''What reckless daring!

  Good God, man, don't you find it wearing

  Just killing time that way each night?'

  'Why not at all.''Well, serves you right;

  I've got the scene in mind so clearly:

  For starters (tell me if I'm wrong),

  A simple Russian family throng;

  The guests all treated so sincerely;

  With lots of jam and talk to spare.

  On rain and flax and cattle care. . . .'

  2

  'Well, where's the harm ... the evening passes.'

  'The boredom, brother, there's the harm.'

  'Well, I despise your upper classes

  And like the family circle's charm;

  It's where I find . . .''More pastoral singing!

  Enough, old boy, my ears are ringing!

  And so you're off. . . forgive me then.

  But tell me Lensky, how and when

  I'll see this Phyllis so provoking

  Who haunts your thoughts and writer's quill,

  Your tears and rhymes and what-you-will?

  Present me, do.''You must be joking!'

  'I'm not.''Well then, why not tonight?

  They'll welcome us with great delight.'

  3

  'Let's go.'

  And so the friends departed

  And on arrival duly meet

  That sometimes heavy, but good-hearted,

  Old-fashioned Russian welcome treat.

  The social ritual never changes:

  The hostess artfully arranges

  On little dishes her preserves,

  And on her covered table serves

  A drink of lingonberry flavour.

  With folded arms, along the hall,

  The maids have gathered, one and all,

  To glimpse the Larins' brand new neighbour;

  While in the yard their men reproach

  Onegin's taste in horse and coach.*

  4

  Now home's our heroes' destination,

  As down the shortest road they fly;

  Let's listen to their conversation

  And use a furtive ear to spy.

  'Why all these yawns, Onegin? Really!'

  'Mere habit, Lensky.''But you're clearly

  More bored than usual.''No, the same.

  The fields are dark now, what a shame.

  Come on, Andryushka, faster, matey!

  These stupid woods and fields and streams!

  Oh, by the way, Dame Larin seems

  A simple but a nice old lady;

  I fear that lingonberry brew

  May do me in before it's through.'

  5

  'But tell me, which one was Tatyana?'

  'Why, she who with a wistful air

  All sad and silent like Svetlana*

  Came in and took the window chair.'

  'And really you prefer the other?'

  'Why not?''Were I the poet, brother,

  I'd choose the elder one instead

  Your Olga's look is cold and dead,

  As in some dull, Van Dyck madonna;

  So round and fair of face is she,

  She's like that stupid moon you see,

  Up in that stupid sky you honour.'

  Vladimir gave a curt reply

  And let the conversation die.

  6

  Meanwhile . . . Onegin's presentation

  At Madame Larin's country seat

  Produced at large a great sensation

  And gave the neighbours quite a treat.

  They all began to gossip slyly,

  To joke and comment (rather wryly);

  And soon the general verdict ran,

  That Tanya'd finally found a man;

  Some even knowingly conceded

  That wedding plans had long been set,

  And then postponed till they could get

  The stylish rings the couple needed.

  As far as Lensky's wedding stood,

  They knew they'd settled that for good.

  7