Towards a corner seat he takes her,
Upon a shaky bench he lays her
And, bending downward, rests his head
Upon her shoulder; when a tread
Discloses Olga, then Vladimir;
A sudden light, and in alarm
Onegin stands with upraised arm,
His eyes roam wildly seeing him here,
He chides the uninvited pair;
Tatiana’s lying in despair.
21
The argument grows louder quickly,
Onegin snatches up a knife,
Frightening shadows gather thickly,
Onegin’s taken Lensky’s life.
A piercing cry, the hut is shaking,
Tatiana, terror-stricken, waking,
Looks round her room, already bright,
As through a frozen pane the light
Of crimson dawn’s already playing;
The door stirs. Olga flies to her,
Aurora-like but rosier,
And lighter than a swallow, saying:
‘What did you dream, whom did you see?
Oh, Tanya, tell, who can it be?’
22
But she, not noticing her sister,
Lay leafing through a book in bed;
Page after page kept turning faster,
And to her sister nothing said.
The book that claimed her rapt attention
Wanted the poet’s sweet invention,
No saws or pictures could be seen,
But neither Virgil nor Racine,
Not Seneca, not Scott, not Byron,
Not even Ladies’ Fashion12 could
Engross so much a woman’s mood:
What now enticed her like a siren
Was Martin Zadek,13 Chaldee sage,
Who solved your dreams on every page.
23
This weighty tome a passing trader
Had brought to Tanya’s solitude,
And finally managed to persuade her
To buy it, if he could include
A few odd volumes of Malvina;14
She paid three rubles, one poltina,
He also put into the scales
A book containing vulgar tales,
Two Petriads,15 a Russian grammar
And volume three of Marmontel.16
Once Martin Zadek casts his spell,
Tanya surrenders to his glamour…
He brings her solace when she grieves,
He sleeps with her and never leaves.
24
The dream disturbs her. In confusion,
Not knowing what it presages,
She seeks a meaningful solution
To all its monstrous images.
Arranged in alphabetic order,
The index gives the words that awed her:
A bear, a blizzard, little bridge,
Dark, fir, a forest, hedgehog, witch
And so on. Tanya’s reservations
A Martin Zadek won’t dispel,
And yet her nightmare does foretell
A multitude of sad occasions.
For several days thereafter she
Keeps thinking of it anxiously.
25
But lo, her crimson hand extending,17
Daybreak, from valleys large and small,
Leads forth the folk who’ll be attending
A merry nameday festival.
From morn the Larin home’s abounding
With neighbours from estates surrounding;
Whole families have made their way
On britska,18 coach, kibitka, sleigh.
There’s jostling as the hall is filling,
In the salon new faces, hugs,
Girls’ smacking kisses, barking pugs,
Noise, laughter, crush as more folk spill in,
Guests make their bows and shuffle by,
Wet-nurses shout and children cry.
26
Together with a spouse well nourished,
There entered portly Pustyakov;19
Gvozdin, a splendid lord who flourished
On peasant farmers badly off;
Then the Skotinins, grey-haired, prospering
With their innumerable offspring
From thirty-odd right down to two;
And Petushkov, our fop, came, too;
Then my first cousin, one Buyanov,
In pointed cap and cloaked with fluff
(But you must know him well enough);
And councillor-in-retirement, Flyanov,
A scandalmonger, seasoned cheat,
And bribe-taker who loved to eat.
The family of Kharlikov20 had
Monsieur Triquet within its fold;
A noted wit, late from Tambov, clad
In reddish wig, bespectacled.
Triquet, in truly Gallic manner,
Had brought a stanza for Tatiana,
Set to a children’s melody:
Réveillez-vous, belle endormie.21
This stanza saw its publication
In a decrepit almanac;
Triquet, a poet with a knack,
Redeemed it from disintegration,
And in the place of belle Nina
He boldly put belle Tatiana.
28
And now from an adjacent quarter
A company commander came,
The idol of each ripened daughter
And district mothers, all aflame.
He entered… ah now, what’s he saying?
The regimental band is playing,
The colonel has arranged it all,
What fun! There is to be a ball!
The young things skip, anticipating;
But dinner being served brings calm,
All go to table, arm in arm,
The grown-up girls near Tanya waiting,
The men en face; a buzz goes round;
All cross themselves as seats are found.
29
A sudden ceasing of the chatter;
Mouths chew; and, meanwhile, all about,
Crockery, plates and covers clatter
And clinking wine-glasses ring out.
But soon the guests by small gradations
Revive their deafening conversations.
They shout, laugh, argue through the meal,
Nobody listens, ladies squeal.
The doors fly open, Lensky enters,
With him Onegin. ‘Lord, at last!’
Cries out Dame Larina, and fast
The guests make room, as each one ventures
To move a cover or a chair;
They seat the two young friends with care.
30
They sit right opposite Tatiana;
She, paler than the moon at morn,
More agitated in her manner
Than hunted doe, stays looking down
With darkening eyes; a glow pervades her,
A surge of passion suffocates her;
She does not hear from our two friends
The salutation each extends;
About to cry, poor thing, she’s ready
To fall into a swoon or faint;
But will and reason bring restraint;
Clenching her teeth, remaining steady,
She quietly utters just a word
And from the table has not stirred.
31
With tragi-nervous demonstrations,
With maidens’ fainting fits and tears
Eugene had long since lost all patience:
He’d had enough of them for years.
Finding himself at this huge banquet,
The oddball was already angry.
But noticing the languid maid’s
Disquiet, he, with lowered gaze,
Fell sulking and, with indignation,
Swore he would madden Lensky and
Avenge himself on every hand.
Rejoicing in anticipation,
He in his soul began to s
ketch
Caricatures of every guest.
32
Of course, it was not just Onegin
Who could detect Tatiana’s plight,
But at that moment all were taking
Cognizance of a pie22 in sight
(Alas, too salty for the throttle).
Meanwhile, inside a pitch-sealed bottle
Between the meat and blanc-manger23
Tsimlyansky24 wine goes on display,
Followed by long and narrow glasses,
So like your waist, Zizi,25 so small,
The crystal pattern of my soul,
The object of my guiltless verses,
The vial of love’s enticing brew –
How often I got drunk on you!
33
The damp cork pops, the bottle’s emptied,
The glasses fizz with ancient wine;
Then, by his stanza long tormented,
Triquet with ceremonial sign
Stands up; and all the guests before him
Are still. Unable to ignore him,
Tatiana’s scarce alive; Triquet,
Holding a paper, turns her way
And starts his song, off-key. He’s fêted
With shouts and calls, the guests clap hard,
She owes a curtsey to the bard;
The poet, great but underrated,
Is first to drink her health, and she
Accepts his stanza gracefully.
34
Homage, congratulations greet her;
In turn Tatiana thanks each guest.
Then, as Onegin comes to meet her,
The maiden’s air, her lack of zest,
Her discomposure, tired expression
Engender in his soul compassion:
He simply bows, yet in his eyes
Tatiana catches with surprise
A look miraculously tender.
Whether indeed he feels regret
Or plays with her like a coquette,
This wondrous look appears to mend her:
True tenderness in it she sees,
It puts Tatiana’s heart at ease.
35
The chairs are pushed back in a clatter,
The drawing-room receives the crowd,
So bees from honied hives will scatter
To cornfields in a noisy cloud.
Contented with their festive labours,
The locals snuffle to their neighbours;
Ladies sit by the chimney-place;
Girls whisper in a corner space;
The men unfold the green baize tables,
Boston and ancient omber26 call
The ardent players to their thrall,
Whist too, still one of players’ staples –
But what a dull consortium,
All sons of avid tedium!
36
Whist’s gallant heroes have completed
Eight rubbers; and as many times,
Having changed places, are reseated;
Now tea is served. We hear no chimes:
I like to time repasts at leisure
With dinner, supper, tea my measure.
We countryfolk make little fuss
Without Bréguet to govern us:
Our stomach is our faultless timer;
And, by the way, I like to talk
As much of dishes, feasts and cork,
In my capacity as rhymer,
As you did, Homer, bard divine
Whom thirty centuries enshrine.
[37, 38]
39
But tea is brought; the dainty maidens
Have scarce their saucers in their hand,
When from the hall they hear the cadence
Of flute, bassoon – the army band.
By music’s thunder animated,
His tea-and-rum cup relegated,
Our Paris of the towns about,
Our Petushkov seeks Olga out,
Then Lensky Tanya; Kharlikova,
A seasoned maid, not married off,
Falls to our poet from Tambov,
Buyanov whirls off Pustyakova,
And all have spilled into the hall,
And in full glory shines the ball.
40
When I began this composition
(My Chapter One you will recall),
I wanted with Albani’s27 vision
To paint a Petersburgian ball.
But, by an empty dream’s deflection,
I got engrossed in recollection
Of once-familiar little feet
Along whose narrow tracks so neat
I swear I’ll go no more a-roving!28
With youth betrayed, its time for me
To learn to live more sensibly,
My deeds and diction need improving,
And this Fifth Chapter I shall cleanse
Of its digressions, when it ends.
41
Monotonous and madly whirling,
Like young life’s whirl, when spirits soar,
The waltz revolves, the music swirling,
The couples flick across the floor.
The moment for revenge arriving,
Onegin, chuckling and reviving,
Approaches Olga. Rapidly,
He twirls her near the company,
Then seats her on a chair, proceeding
To talk to her of this or that;
One or two minutes spent on chat,
And they rejoin the waltz, unheeding;
The guests are taken by surprise,
Poor Lensky can’t believe his eyes.
42
Now the mazurka has resounded.
Once, when you heard its thunder peal,
A giant ballroom shook and pounded,
The parquet cracking under heel.
The very window-frames vibrated;
Today, like ladies, understated,
We glide across the lacquered boards;
But in small towns and country wards
There the mazurka thrives, retaining
Its pristine charms: the leap and dash,
The play of heel, and the moustache;
These have not changed at all, remaining
Immune to wanton fashion’s sway,
The Russian sickness of today.
[43]
44
My irrepressible Buyanov
Took Olga and Tatiana then
To meet Eugene, who promptly ran off
With Olga to the ball again.
He guides her, nonchalantly gliding,
And in a whisper, bends, confiding
A madrigal, the merest slush,
Squeezes her hand – her rosy flush
Takes on a brighter coloration,
Infusing her complacent face.
My Lensky, watching this take place,
Flares up with jealous indignation
And by the long mazurka vexed,
Solicits the cotillion next.
45
It isn’t possible, she tells him,
Eugene already has her word.
Not possible? Ah, she repels him,
She could… good God, what has he heard?
Scarce out of swaddling, always mild,
Now a coquette, a giddy child!
Already versed in artful play,
She’s learned already to betray!
The blow’s too much for Lensky; cursing
The sex’s tricks, he leaves the hall,
Calls for a horse, and, full of gall,
Gallops away, in thought rehearsing:
A brace of pistols, bullets two –
Enough for fate to take its due.
CHAPTER VI
La, sotto i giorni nubilosi e brevi,
Nasce una gente a cui ‘l morir non dole.1
Petrarch
1
On noticing his friend had vanished,
Onegin stayed at Olga’s side,
Pensive, again to boredom banished,
Content with vengeance satisfied,
Now Olen’ka like him was yawning,
Her eyes in search of Lensky turning,
While the cotillion’s endless stream
Oppressed her like a grievous dream.
But it has ended. Supper’s ready.
The beds are made. The guests are all
Assigned their place from entrance-hall
To housemaids’ quarters. All are needy
Of restful sleep. Alone Eugene
Drives home from this domestic scene.
2
All’s calm: from the salon ascended
The snores of heavy Pustyakov,
Beside his heavy wife extended.
Gvozdin, Buyanov, Petushkov
And Flyanov (somewhat over-sated)
Were on the dinner chairs located,
And on the floor Monsieur Triquet
In vest and ancient nightcap lay.
The rooms of Olga and Tatiana
Were full of sleeping girls. Alone
And sad, Tatiana shone,
Illuminated by Diana;
To sleep, poor thing, she could not yield
And gazed upon the darkened field.
3
Tatiana to her soul is riven
By Eugene’s unexpected call,
The sudden tender look he’d given,
His strange approach to Olga – all
Distresses her and makes her wonder,
To understand him’s quite beyond her:
A jealous anguish makes her start,
As if a cold hand pressed her heart,
As if a chasm, black and frightful,
Had opened, roaring, under her.
‘I’ll die,’ she says, but does not stir,
‘To die from him will be delightful.2
I shan’t complain, for I confess
He cannot bring me happiness.’
4
But onward, onward with my story!
Another character arrives.
Five versts away from Krasnogorye
(Lensky’s estate) there lives and thrives
In philosophical seclusion
Still to this day, without intrusion,