Elle était fille; elle était amoureuse.
Malfilâtre
I
“Whither? Ah me, those poets!”
“Good-by, Onegin. Time for me to leave.”
“I do not hold you, but where do you
[4] spend your evenings?”
“At the Larins’.” “Now, that is marvelous.
Mercy—and you don’t find it difficult
thus every evening to kill time?”
[8] “Not in the least.” “I cannot understand.
From here I see what it is like
first—listen, am I right?—
a simple, truly Russian family,
[12] a great solicitude for guests,
jam, never-ending talk
of rain, of flax, of cattle yard.”
“So far I do not see what’s bad about it.”
“Ah, but the boredom—that is bad, my friend.”
“Your fashionable world I hate;
[4] dearer to me is the domestic circle
in which I can …” “Again an eclogue!
Ah, that will do, old boy, for goodness’ sake.
Well, so you’re off; it’s a great pity.
[8] Oh, Lenski, listen—is there any way
for me to see this Phyllis,
subject of thoughts, and pen,
and tears, and rhymes, et cetera?
[12] Present me.” “You are joking.” “No.”
“I’m glad.” “So when?” “Now, if you like.
They will be eager to receive us.
III
Let’s go.” And off the two friends drove;
they have appeared; upon them are bestowed
the sometimes onerous attentions
[4] of hospitable ancientry.
The ritual of the treat is known:
in little dishes jams are brought,
on an oilcloth’d small table there is set
[8] a jug of lingonberry water.
They by the shortest road
fly home at full career.17
Now let us eavesdrop furtively
[4] upon our heroes’ conversation.
“Well now, Onegin, you are yawning?”
“A habit, Lenski.” “But you’re bored
somehow more.” “No, the same.
[8] I say, it’s dark already in the field;
faster! get on, get on, Andryushka!
What silly country!
Ah, apropos: Dame Larin’s on the simple side
[12] but she’s a very nice old lady;
I fear that lingonberry water
may not unlikely do me harm.
V
Tell me, which was Tatiana?”
“Oh, she’s the one who, melancholy
and silent like Svetlana,
[4] entered and sat down by the window.”
“How come you’re with the younger one in love?”
“Why, what’s the matter?” “I’d have chosen the other,
if I had been like you a poet.
[8] In Olga’s features there’s no life,
just as in a Vandyke Madonna:
she’s round and fair of face
as is that silly moon
[12] up in that silly sky.”
Vladimir answered curtly
and thenceforth the whole way was silent.
Meanwhile Onegin’s apparition
at the Larins’ produced
on everyone a great impression
[4] and entertained all the neighbors.
Conjecture on conjecture followed.
All started furtively to reason,
to joke, to judge not without malice,
[8] a suitor for Tatiana to assign.
Some folks even asserted
the wedding was arranged completely,
but had been stayed because
[12] of fashionable rings’ not being got.
Concerning Lenski’s wedding, long ago
they had already settled things.
VII
Tatiana listened with vexation
to gossip of that sort; but secretly
with joy ineffable
[4] she could not help thinking about it;
and the thought sank into her heart;
the time had come—she fell in love.
Thus, dropped into the earth, a seed
[8] is quickened by the fire of spring.
Long since had her imagination,
consumed with mollitude and yearning,
craved for the fatal food;
[12] long since had the heart’s languishment
constrained her youthful bosom;
her soul waited—for somebody.
And its wait was rewarded. Her eyes opened;
she said: “’Tis he!”
Alas! now both the days and nights,
[4] and hot, lone sleep,
all’s full of him; to the dear girl
unceasingly with magic force
all speaks of him. To her are bothersome
[8] alike the sounds of friendly speeches
and the gaze of solicitous domestics.
Plunged in dejection,
to visitors she does not listen,
[12] and imprecates their leisures,
their unexpected arrival
and protracted sit-down.
IX
With what attention she now
reads a delicious novel,
with what vivid enchantment
[4] drinks the seductive fiction!
By the happy power of reverie
animated creations,
the lover of Julie Wolmar,
[8] Malek-Adhel, and de Linar,
and Werther, restless martyr,
and the inimitable Grandison,18
who brings upon us somnolence—
[12] all for the tender dreamer
have been invested with a single image,
have in Onegin merged alone.
Imagining herself the heroine
of her beloved authors—
Clarissa, Julie, Delphine—
[4] Tatiana in the stillness of the woods
alone roams with a dangerous book;
in it she seeks and finds
her secret glow, her daydreams,
[8] the fruits of the heart’s fullness;
she sighs, and having made her own
another’s ecstasy, another’s melancholy,
she whispers in a trance, by heart,
[12] a letter to the amiable hero.
But our hero, whoever he might be,
quite surely was no Grandison.
XI
His style to a grave mood having attuned,
time was, a flaming author
used to present to us his hero
[4] as a model of perfection.
He’d furnish the loved object—
always iniquitously persecuted—
with a sensitive soul, intelligence,
[8] and an attractive face.
Nourishing the glow of the purest passion,
always the enthusiastic hero
was ready to sacrifice himself
[12] and by the end of the last part,
always vice got punished,
virtue got a worthy crown.
But nowadays all minds are in a fog,
a moral brings upon us somnolence,
vice is attractive also in a novel,
[4] there also it already triumphs.
The British Muse’s never-haps
disturb the young girl’s sleep,
and now her idol has become
[8] either the pensive Vampyre,
or Melmoth, gloomy vagabond,
or the Wandering Jew, or the Corsair,
or the mysterious Sbogar.19
[12] Lord Byron, by an opportune caprice,
has draped in glum romanticism
even hopeless egotism.
XIII
My friends, what sense is there in this?
Perhaps, by heaven’s will,
I’ll cease to be a poet;
[4] a new fiend will inhabit me;
and having scorned the threats of Phoebus,
I shall descend to humble prose:
a novel in the old mood then
[8] will occupy my gay decline.
Not secret pangs of villainy
shall I grimly depict in it,
but simply shall detail to you
[12] traditions of a Russian family,
love’s captivating dreams,
and manners of our ancientry.
I shall detail the simple speeches
of a father or aged uncle,
the children’s assigned meetings
[4] by the old limes, by the small brook;
torments of hapless jealousy,
parting, reconciliation’s tears;
once more I’ll have them quarrel, and at last
[8] conduct them to the altar.
I shall recall the accents of impassioned sensuousness,
the words of aching love,
which in bygone days
[12] at the feet of a fair mistress
came to my tongue;
from which I now have grown disused.
XV
Tatiana, dear Tatiana!
I now shed tears with you.
Into a fashionable tyrant’s hands
[4] your fate already you’ve relinquished.
Dear, you shall perish; but before,
in dazzling hope,
you summon obscure bliss,
[8] you learn the sensuousness of life,
you quaff the magic poison of desires,
daydreams pursue you:
you fancy everywhere
[12] retreats for happy trysts;
everywhere, everywhere before you,
is your fateful tempter.
The ache of love chases Tatiana,
and to the garden she repairs to brood,
and all at once her moveless eyes she lowers
[4] and is too indolent farther to step;
her bosom has risen, her cheeks
are covered with an instant flame,
her breath has died upon her lips,
[8] and in her ears there’s noise, before her eyes a flashing.
Night comes; the moon tours
on patrol the far vault of heaven,
and in the murk of trees the nightingale
[12] intones sonorous strains.
Tatiana in the darkness does not sleep
and in low tones talks with her nurse.
XVII
“I can’t sleep, nurse: ’tis here so stuffy!
Open the window and sit down by me.”
“Why, Tanya, what ails you?” “I’m dull.
[4] Let’s talk about old days.”
“Well, what about them, Tanya? Time was, I
kept in my memory no dearth
of ancient haps and never-haps
[8] about dire sprites and about maidens;
but all to me is dark now, Tanya:
What I knew I’ve forgotten. Yes,
things have come to a sorry pass!
[12] My mind is fuddled.” “Tell me, nurse,
about your years of old.
Were you in love then?”
“Oh, come, come, Tanya! In those years
we never heard of love;
elsewise my late mother-in-law
[4] would have chased me right off the earth.”
“But how, then, were you wedded, nurse?”
“It looks as if God willed it so. My Vanya
was younger than myself, my sweet,
[8] and I was thirteen years of age.
For some two weeks came a matchmaking woman
to see my kinsfolk, and at last
my father blessed me.
[12] Bitterly I cried for fear;
crying, my braid they unplaited
and, chanting, churchward led me.
XIX
“And so they made me enter a strange family….
But you’re not listening to me.”
“Oh, nurse, nurse, I feel dismal,
[4] I’m sick at heart, my dear,
I’m on the point of crying, sobbing!”
“My child, you are not well;
the Lord have mercy upon us and save us!
[8] What would you like, do ask.
Here, let me sprinkle you with holy water,
you’re all a-burning.” “I’m not ill;
I’m … do you know, nurse … I’m in love.”
[12] “My child, the Lord be with you!”
And the nurse, with a prayer, the maiden
crossed with decrepit hand.
“I am in love,” whispered anew
to the old crone with sorrow she.
“Friend of my heart, you are not well.”
[4] “Leave me. I am in love.”
And meantime the moon beamed
and with dark light irradiated
the pale charms of Tatiana
[8] and her loose hair,
and drops of tears, and, on a benchlet,
before the youthful heroine,
a kerchief on her hoary head,
[12] the little crone in a long “body warmer”;
and in the stillness everything
dozed by the inspirative moon.
XXI
And far away her heart was ranging
as Tatiana looked at the moon …
All at once in her mind a thought was born …
[4] “Go, let me be alone.
Give me, nurse, a pen, paper,
and move up the table; I’ll soon go to bed;
good night.” Now she’s alone,
[8] all’s still. The moon gives light to her.
Tatiana, leaning on her elbow, writes,
and Eugene’s ever present in her mind,
and in an unconsidered letter
[12] an innocent maid’s love breathes forth.
The letter’s ready, folded.
Tatiana! Whom, then, is it for?
I’ve known belles inaccessible,
cold, winter-chaste;
inexorable, incorruptible,
[4] unfathomable to the mind;
I marveled at their modish morgue,
at their natural virtue,
and, to be frank, I fled from them,
[8] and I, meseems, with terror read
above their eyebrows Hell’s inscription:
“Abandon hope for evermore!”20
To inspire love is bale for them,
[12] to frighten folks for them is joy.
Perhaps, on the banks of the Neva
similar ladies you have seen.
XXIII
Amidst obedient admirers,
other odd females I have seen,
conceitedly indifferent
[4] to sighs impassioned and eloges:
And what, to my amazement, did I find?
They, by austere demeanor,
frightening timid love,
[8] had the knack of attracting it again,
at least by their compassion;
at least the sound of spoken words
sometimes would seem more [tender],
[12] and with credulous blindness
again the youthful lover
pursued dear vanity.
Why is Tatiana, then, more guilty?
Is it because in dear simplicity
she does not know deceit
[4] and in her chosen dream believes?
Is it because she loves without art,
obedient to the bent of feeling?
Because she is so trustful,
[8] because by heaven is endowed
with a restless imagination,
intelligence, and a live will,
and headstrongness,
[12] and a flaming and tender heart?
Can it be that you won’t forgive her
the thoughtlessness of passions?
XXV
The coquette reasons coolly;
Tatiana in dead earnest loves
and unconditionally yields
[4] to love like a dear child.
She does not say: Let us defer;
thereby we shall augment love’s value,
inveigle into toils more surely;
[8] let us first prick vainglory
with hope; then with perplexity
harass a heart, and then
revive it with a jealous fire,
[12] for otherwise, cloyed with delight,
the cunning captive from his shackles
hourly is ready to escape.
Another hindrance I foresee:
saving the honor of my native land,
undoubtedly I’ll be obliged
[4] Tatiana’s letter to translate.
She knew Russian badly,
did not read our reviews,
and expressed herself with difficulty
[8] in her native tongue;
hence wrote in French.
What’s to be done about it! I repeat again;
as yet a lady’s love
[12] has not expressed itself in Russian,
as yet our proud tongue has
to postal prose not got accustomed.
XXVII
I know: some would make ladies
read Russian. Horrible indeed!
Can I imagine them
[4] with The Well-Meaner21 in their hands?
My poets, I appeal to [you]!
Is it not true that the amiable objects
for whom, to expiate your sins,
[8] in secret you wrote verses,
to whom your heart you dedicated—
did not they all, the Russian tongue
wielding poorly, and with difficulty,
[12] so amiably garble it,
and on their lips a foreign tongue
did not it turn into a native one?
The Lord forbid my meeting at a ball
or at its breakup, on the porch,
a seminarian in a yellow shawl
[4] or an Academician in a bonnet!
As vermeil lips without a smile,
with no grammatical mistake
I don’t like Russian speech.
[8] Perchance (it would be my undoing!)
a generation of new belles,
the pleading voice of journals having heeded,
to Grammar will inure us;
[12] verses will be brought into use.
Yet I … what do I care?
I shall be true to ancientry.
XXIX
An incorrect, negligent patter,
an inexact delivery of words,
as heretofore a flutter of the heart
[4] will in my breast produce;
in me there’s no force to repent;
to me will Gallicisms remain as dear
as the sins of past youth,
[8] as Bogdanovich’s verse.
But that will do. ’Tis time to occupy myself
with my fair damsel’s letter;
my word I’ve given—and what now? Yea, yea!
[12] I’m now quite ready to back out.
I know: tender Parny’s
pen in our days is out of fashion.
Bard of The Feasts and languorous melancholy,22
if you were still with me,
I would have with an indiscreet request,
[4] my dear fellow, importuned you:
that into magic strains
you would transpose a passionate maid’s
outlandish words.
[8] Where are you? Come! My rights
I with a bow transfer to you …
But in the midst of woeful rocks,
his heart disused from praise,
[12] alone, under the Finnish sky
he wanders, and his soul
hears not my worry.
XXXI
Tatiana’s letter is before me;
religiously I keep it;
I read it with a secret heartache
[4] and cannot get my fill of reading it.
Who taught her both this tenderness
and amiable carelessness of words?
Who taught her all that touching [tosh],
[8] mad conversation of the heart
both fascinating and injurious?
I cannot understand. But here’s
an incomplete, feeble translation,
[12] the pallid copy of a vivid picture,
or Freischütz executed
by timid female learners’ fingers.
I write to you—what would one more?
What else is there that I could say?
’Tis now, I know, within your will
[4] to punish me with scorn.
But you, for my unhappy lot
keeping at least one drop of pity,
you’ll not abandon me.
[8] At first, I wanted to be silent;
believe me: of my shame
you never would have known
if I had had the hope,
[12] even seldom, even once a week,
to see you at our country place,
only to hear your speeches,
to say a word to you, and then
[16] to think and think about one thing,
both day and night, till a new meeting.
But, they say, you’re unsociable;
in backwoods, in the country, all bores you,
[20] while we … with nothing do we glitter,
though simpleheartedly we welcome you.
Why did you visit us?
In the backwoods of a forgotten village,
[24] I would have never known you
nor have known bitter torment.
The tumult of an inexperienced soul
having subdued with time (who knows?),
[28] I would have found a friend after my heart,
have been a faithful wife
and a virtuous mother.
Another! … No, to nobody on earth
[32] would I have given my heart away!
That has been destined in a higher council,
that is the will of heaven: I am thine;
my entire life has been the gage
[36] of a sure tryst with you;
I know, you’re sent to me by God,
you are my guardian to the tomb….
You had appeared to me in dreams,
[40] unseen, you were already dear to me,
your wondrous glance pervaded me with languor,
your voice resounded in my soul
long since … No, it was not a dream!
[44] Scarce had you entered, instantly I knew you,
I felt all faint, I felt aflame,
and in my thoughts I uttered: It is he!
Is it not true that it was you I heard:
[48] you in the stillness spoke to me
when I would help the poor
or assuage with a prayer
the yearning of my agitated soul?
[52] And at this very moment
was it not you, dear vision,
that slipped through the transparent darkness,
softly bent close to my bed head?
[56] Was it not you that with [joy] and love
words of hope whispered to me?
Who are you? My guardian angel
or a perfidious tempter?
Perhaps, ’tis nonsense all,
an inexperienced soul’s delusion,
and some quite different thing is destined …
[64] But so be it! My fate
henceforth I place into your hands,
before you I shed tears,
for your defense I plead.
[68] Imagine: I am here alone,
none understands me,
my reason is breaking down,
and, silent, I must perish.
[72] I’m waiting for you: with a single look
revive my heart’s hopes,
or interrupt the heavy dream
alas, with a deserved rebuke!
[76] I close! I dread to read this over.
I’m faint with shame and fear …
But to me your honor is a pledge,
and boldly I entrust myself to it.
By turns Tatiana sighs and ohs.
The letter trembles in her hand;
the pink wafer dries
[4] on her fevered tongue.
Her poor head shoulderward she has inclined;
her light chemise has slid
down from her charming shoulder.
[8] But now already the moonbeam’s
radiance fades. Anon the valley
grows through the vapor clear. Anon the stream
starts silvering. Anon the horn
[12] of the herdsman wakes up the villager.
Here’s morning; all have risen long ago:
to my Tatiana it is all the same.
XXXIII
She takes no notice of the sunrise;
she sits with lowered head
and on the letter does not
[4] impress her graven seal.
But, softly opening the door,
now gray Filatievna for her
brings tea upon a tray.
[8] “’Tis time, my child, get up;
why, pretty one, you’re ready!
Oh, my early birdie!
I was indeed so anxious yesternight—
[12] but glory be to God, you’re well!
No trace at all of the night’s fret!
Your face is like a poppy flower.”
“Oh, nurse, do me a favor.”
“Willingly, darling, order me.”
“Don’t think … Really … Suspicion …
[4] But you see … Oh, do not refuse!”
“My friend, here’s God to you for pledge.”
“Well, send your grandson quietly
with this note to O … to that …
[8] to the neighbor. And let him be told
that he ought not to say a word,
that he ought not to name me.”
“To whom, my dear?
[12] I’m getting muddled nowadays.
There’s lots of neighbors all around
even to count them over is beyond me.”
XXXV
“Oh, nurse, how slow-witted you are!”
“Friend of my heart, I am already old,
old; blunted grows the reason, Tanya;
[4] but time was, I used to be sharp:
time was, one word of master’s wish …”
“Oh, nurse, nurse, is this relevant?
What matters your intelligence to me?
[8] You see, it is about a letter,
to Onegin.” “Well, this makes sense.
Do not be angry, my dear soul;
I am, you know, not comprehensive …
[12] But why have you turned pale again?”
“Never mind, nurse, ’tis really nothing.
Send, then, your grandson.”
But the day lapsed, and no reply.
Another came up; nothing yet.
Pale as a shade, since morning dressed,
[4] Tatiana waits: when is it coming, the reply?
Olga’s adorer drove up.
“Tell me, where’s your companion?”
was the chatelaine’s question to him;
[8] “He seems to have forgotten us entirely.”
Tatiana, flushing, quivered.
“He promised he would be today,”
Lenski replied to the old dame,
[12] “but evidently the mail has detained him.”
Tatiana dropped her gaze
as if hearing an unkind rebuke.
XXXVII
’Twas growing dark; upon the table, shining,
there hissed the evening samovar,
warming the Chinese teapot;
[4] light vapor undulated under it.
Poured out by Olga’s hand,
into the cups, in a dark stream,
the fragrant tea already ran,
[8] and a footboy served the cream;
Tatiana stood before the window;
breathing on the cold panes,
lost in thought, the dear soul
[12] wrote with her charming finger
on the bemisted glass
the cherished monogram: an O and E.
And meantime her soul pined,
and full of tears was her dolorous gaze.
Suddenly, hoof thuds! Her blood froze.
[4] Now nearer! Coming fast … and in the yard
is Eugene! “Ach!”—and lighter than a shade
Tatiana skips into another hallway,
from porch outdoors, and straight into the garden;
[8] She flies, flies—glance back
dares not; has traversed in a trice
platbands, footbridges, lawn,
the avenue to the lake, the bosquet;
[12] has broken bushes [,] lilac,
flying across the flower plots to the brook,
and, panting, on a bench
XXXIX
has dropped. “He’s here! Eugene is here!
Good God, what did he think!”
Her heart, full of torments,
[4] retains an obscure dream of hope;
she trembles, and glows hotly,
and waits: does he not come? But hears not.
Girl servants, in the garden, on the beds,
[8] were picking berries in the bushes
and singing by decree in chorus
(a decree based on that
in secret the seignioral berry
[12] sly mouths would not eat
and would be busy singing;
device of rural wit!):
Maidens, pretty maidens,
darling ones, companions,
romp unhindered, maidens,
[4] have your fling, dear ones!
Start to sing a ditty,
sing our private ditty,
and allure a fellow
[8] to our choral dance.
When we’ve lured a fellow,
when afar we see him,
we shall scatter, dear ones,
[12] pelter him with cherries,
with cherries, with raspberries,
with red currants.
[16] “Do not come eavesdropping
on our private ditties,
do not come a-spying
on our girlish games!”
They sing; and with neglection
harking their ringing voice,
Tatiana waited with impatience
[4] for the heart’s tremor to subside in her,
for her cheeks to cease flaming;
but in her breasts there’s the same quivering,
nor ceases the glow of her cheeks:
[8] yet brighter, brighter do they burn.
Thus a poor butterfly both flashes
and beats an iridescent wing,
captured by a mischievous schoolboy;
[12] thus in the winter corn a small hare quivers
upon suddenly seeing from afar
the shotman in the bushes crouch.
XLI
But finally she sighed
and from her bench arose;
started to go; but hardly had she turned
[4] into the avenue when straight before her,
eyes blazing, Eugene
stood, similar to some dread shade,
and as one seared by fire
[8] she stopped.
But the effects of the unlooked-for meeting
today, dear friends,
I have not the strength to detail;
[12] after this long discourse I need
a little jaunt, a little rest;
some other time I’ll tell the rest.