Together in their various ways
In carts or carriages or sleighs.
The crowded hall is under pressure
With newcomers exchanging hugs
And kissing girls and yelping pugs,
And shouts and chuckles on the threshold,
And bows and bobs. Everyone chats
Through nursemaids’ calls and bawling brats.
26
With his well-fed wife in attendance
Here comes the portly Pustyakóv;
Gvozdín, who, as a host, shines splendid
(His peasants being not well off );
A grey-haired couple, the Skotínins,
With children of all ages (meaning
From two to thirty); Petushkóv,
The local district’s fancy toff;
And my first cousin, too, Buyánov,
Fluff-covered, wearing a peaked cap
(Already known to you, mayhap);
And the ex-councillor, old Flyánov,
A gossip, rascal and poltroon,
Bribe-taker, glutton and buffoon.
27
Here’s Panfíl Khárlikov’s horde; with ’em
They bring Monsieur Triquet, once big
In Tambov, known for wit and rhythm,
In spectacles and ginger wig.
A perfect Frenchman and a charmer,
He’s penned a ditty to Tatyana,
A children’s song in melody:
Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.
In an old tome of ancient music
This ditty had been stored away.
Ever resourceful, our Triquet
Had dug it from the dust, to use it
With one bold change: bel-le Niná
Became bel-le Ta-ti-a-ná.
28
Now from a nearby urban quarter
A company commander comes,
Idol of many a grown-up daughter
And the delight of local mums.
He’s here… with news to be applauded:
The regimental band’s been ordered.
The colonel has arranged it all.
What joy! There is to be a ball!
The prospect sets girls’ feet a-racing.
When called to table, pair by pair
And hand in hand they saunter there.
The girls crowd Tanya. Men sit facing.
All cross themselves, and at the sign
The murmuring crowd sits down to dine.
29
Then silence falls. Nobody chatters
Though mouths chew on, and everything
Is noisy—cutlery a-clatter
And glasses meeting with a clink.
But very soon again they’re at it,
Raising the roof with a great racket.
There are no listeners; they all speak,
They shout and laugh, bicker and shriek…
The door flies open… Lensky enters,
Onegin too. Tatyana’s mum
Cries, “Lord above, at last you’ve come!”
The guests squeeze up with the intention
Of freeing places. Chairs are found,
They call the friends and sit them down,
30
Facing Tatyana. Thus confronted,
Pale as the moon in morning skies,
She quivers like a doe when hunted
And will not raise her darkling eyes
Towards them. Surging passions quickly
Flood through her; she feels breathless, sickly.
The two friends greet her, but her ears
Hear nothing. She feels pricking tears
About to flow. Poor, wretched creature
She feels she is about to swoon,
But strength and reason rally soon
To win her round. Her teeth now gritted,
She mumbles something into space
And sits there rooted in her place.
31
Theatricalities and paddies,
Girls fainting, tears and all that stuff,
Yevgeny couldn’t stomach; that is,
Quite simply, he had had enough.
At this big feast he, the outsider,
Was furious. But when he spied her
Shaking, producing a dark frown,
In irritation he looked down
And sulked, feeling exasperated
With Lensky. He would rattle him;
Yevgeny’s vengeance would be grim.
He revelled in anticipation.
He mentally began to scrawl
Caricatures of one and all.
And other people saw those moments
When Tanya felt as if to die,
Though really all the looks and comments
Were centred on the rich meat pie
(Unfortunately oversalted),
Then on the tar-sealed bottles, faultless
Between the roast and the blancmange,
Where Russian-made champagne belongs,
And glasses lined up long and slender,
Just like your little waist, Zizí,
Pure crystal of the soul to me,
Sung in my verses, sweet and tender;
Love’s flute so exquisitely shrunk,
Thou hast so often got me drunk!
33
Free from its moistened cork, the flagon
Burst with a pop. The wine released
Fizzed forth. Triquet, with a suave swagger,
Long-tortured by his written piece,
Got up to face the crowd, admirers
Who welcomed him with a deep silence.
Tatyana scarcely breathed. Triquet
Showed her his text and sang away,
Putting on style. Their cheers and plaudits
Reward him, though she is nonplussed,
Bobbing a curtsy as she must,
While he, the poet, great but modest,
Offers a toast. His is the first,
And he presents her with his verse.
34
Congratulations came, and greetings,
And she thanked them with all good grace,
But when it came at last to treating
With him, Onegin, her sad face,
Her weariness and agitation
Drew from him sympathy and patience…
He faced her with a silent bow,
But in his eyes a look somehow
Shone wonderfully warm and kindly.
Had he been moved, cut to the quick,
Or was this a flirtatious trick?
Whether well meant or sent forth blindly,
His warm look was enough to start
A lifting of Tatyana’s heart.
35
And now the chairs are pulled back, scraping,
Into the parlour they all squeeze
Like bees from luscious hives escaping
In buzzing swarms to find the leas.
Pleased with the food and festive table,
They wheeze delight neighbour to neighbour.
Ladies sit by the fire, and—look—
The girls are whispering in their nook.
Now the baize tables are unfolded.
Come forth, ye players brave and bold:
Boston or ombre for the old,
Or whist, a favourite even older.
Monotonous, the kinsmen come,
All avid sons of tedium.
36
Eight rubbers have now been completed
By the whist heroes with their tricks,
And eight times they have been reseated.
Now tea is served. I love to fix
The hour by “dinner”, say, or “teatime”,
Or “supper”. Yes, we rustics see time
As something simple. We obey
Our stomachs rather than Bréguet.
And I should mention in parenthesis
That on the pages of my works
I deal with feasts, and food, and corks,
T
reating them all with no less emphasis
Than you, dear Homer. (This man is
Our god of thirty centuries.)
[37, 38] 39
But tea is served, and with decorum
The girls are sipping from their cups,
When with a boom outside the ballroom
The loud bassoons and flutes strike up.
Fired by the music as it thunders,
Leaving his rum-laced tea, up wanders
(Local Lothario) Petushkóv,
Who comes to Olga—and they’re off;
Lensky takes Tanya; Kharlikóva,
An old maid whom the years have marred,
Is taken by my Tambov bard;
Buyánov sweeps off Pustyakóva…
Into the ballroom they spill, all
Attracted by the glittering ball.
40
When starting on my novel’s journey
(See Chapter One), I felt the urge
To picture, rather like Albani,
A ballroom in St Petersburg,
But in a dreamy intermission
I gave myself to reminiscing
About small feet that I once knew.
O tiny tracks, I followed you,
But, little feet, I’ll roam no further.
Deluded by false youth, I plan
To be a more discerning man
In words and deeds more and more certain.
As to digressions, I shall strive
To purge them from my Chapter Five.
41
Frenzied and furious and blurry,
Whirling like young life, and as fast,
The waltz is in a swirling hurry,
And it sends couples flashing past.
Nearing the moment of his vengeance,
Onegin smirks with dark intentions
And comes to Olga. There’s no rest;
He whirls her round before the guests,
Then brings her back and sees her seated,
Treating her to a little chat,
And then two minutes after that
The waltz between them is repeated.
People look on in great surprise,
And Lensky can’t believe his eyes.
42
Now the mazurka, once delivered
To booming bangs and thunderous peals
In a great hall where all things shivered
And the floor shuddered under heels,
The windows rattling like Hades.
It’s not like that now. No, like ladies,
We sweep the lacquered floor and glide.
Yet small towns in the countryside
Have kept alive the real mazurka
With all its old-world charm and dash.
The heels, the wild leaps, the moustache,
They’re all still there, solid and certain,
Unchanged by fashion’s cruel sway,
The bane of Russians in our day.
[43] 44
Buyánov, my hot-blooded cousin,
Brings to Onegin both the girls,
Tanya and Olga; deftly choosing
The latter, Olga, off he whirls.
He leads her, nonchalantly gliding,
Bending to whisper and confiding
In vulgar tones and fancy terms,
Squeezing her hand until she burns,
The pink of her contented features
Turning bright red. My Lensky stares,
Distraught; his indignation flares
In jealous rage against these creatures.
Is the dance over? Yes, it is—
Now the cotillion must be his.
45
It isn’t. Why not? What’s the matter?
Olga has promised: she will dance
With him, Onegin. Heavens! Drat her!
What does he hear? Where does she stand?…
How can this be? Our recent baby,
Now a wild child and flirting lady,
Is well schooled in the art of guile;
Betrayal she can do with style.
It’s too much. Lensky cannot bear it.
The tricks of women! Hear him curse!
He walks out, calling for his horse,
And rides off. Pistols now will square it;
Two bullets and a single shot
Will suddenly decide his lot.
CHAPTER SIX
Là sotto i giorni nubilosi i brevi Nasce una gente a cui ’l morir non dole.*
PETRARCH
1
Abandoned by the missing Lensky,
Once more Onegin languished, bored.
Olga was near, and he fell pensive,
Revenged, and happy at the thought.
But she was yawning too, now keener
To search the room and find Vladimir.
Meanwhile, the oft-repeated dance
Has sent her into a deep trance.
At last it’s over. Supper beckons.
Beds are made up for one and all,
Extending from the entrance hall
To the maids’ room. Everyone reckons
On sound sleep. But Onegin’s gone,
Off to his bed, driving alone.
2
Peace reigns within the parlour shortly.
Here snores the portly Pustyakóv
Next to his partner, no less portly.
Gvozdín, Buyánov, Petushkóv
And Flyánov (indisposed as ever)
Rest on hard dining chairs together.
Triquet lies on the floor; he’ll nap
In his bright shirt and old-style cap.
The young girls rooming with Tatyana
And Olga are all fast asleep,
Though, at the pane, in sadness deep,
Lonely, illumined by Diana,
Unsleeping Tanya sits, eyes wide,
Scanning the night-black countryside.
3
That brusque arrival, unexpected,
That momentary tender glance,
The strange way Olga was directed—
All this struck Tanya like a lance
Piercing the soul. He is a person
She cannot fathom, which is worsened
By jealous anguish deep inside
That hurts like a cold hand applied
To squeeze her heart, as if black, hellish
Torrents were roaring far below.
“I’ll perish,” Tanya said. “Although,
For him, it will feel good to perish.
Can I complain?… No… I confess—
He couldn’t bring me happiness.”
4
Enough’s enough. On with my story!
Another character is planned.
Some three miles on from Krasnogórye,
Where Lensky lives, there dwells a man
Who used to thrive, and thrives at present
In this philosophical desert:
Zaretsky, once inclined to rob
As hetman of a gambling mob.
A wastrel, now a pub persona,
Straightforward and most kind is he.
Unmarried, though père de famille,
A true friend, now a staid landowner.
He stands for honesty and health.
Thus does an age correct itself!
5
Society, full of flattering faces,
Approved his wild tricks quite a lot.
True, he could, at a dozen paces,
Hit aces with a pistol shot.
And once, out on the field, at random
He swung about with such abandon
That he fell off his Kalmyk horse
Into the mud (pie-eyed, of course),
And to the French he lost his liberty.
Some prize! They let him go—no fuss—
This honourable Regulus,
Though he’d have welcomed new captivity
To spend his mornings chez Véry,
In Paris, downing bottles three.
6
Once he h
ad been a clever joker,
Foxing the fools by playing pranks
And fooling the non-mediocre
Openly or behind their backs,
Though even he suffered some sessions,
Which ended with him learning lessons.
There were times when he would collapse,
A booby caught in booby traps.
His tone when arguing was cheery,
He brought forth answers sharp and dumb,
And he could knowingly keep mum
Or knowingly refute some theory,
And he was good at goading friends
To duelling—and sticky ends—
7
Or he’d arrange a truce, and by it
A breakfast feast laid out for three,
And then malign them on the quiet
With jokes and fibs, amusingly.
But time is change. High jinks are jolly,
But like love’s dream (another folly),
They fade with every passing year.
Zaretsky, as I’ve said, lives here.
Under acacia and wild cherry,
Sheltered at last from nature’s rage,
This true philosopher and sage
Plants cabbages like Horace (very),
Breeding ducks, geese and, yes, indeed,
Small children, teaching them to read.
8
He was no fool. While always shrinking
From this man’s inner sentiments,
Yevgeny liked his way of thinking
And, in all things, his common sense.
It had been nice enough whenever
The two of them had come together,
So, next day, he felt no surprise
When this man came before his eyes.
Zaretsky said hello, though gently
Declined to pass the time of day,
Cast a sly look Onegin’s way
And handed him a note from Lensky.
He walked up to the window shelf
And read it through there to himself.
9
The note was dignified and civil,
A cartel (challenge), brief, polite,
All clear and cold and on the level.