15
Evening arrived. The sky has darkened.
The beetle whirrs. The waters flow.
Gone are the choirs to which we hearkened;
Across the river, smoking, glow
The fires of fishermen; and, dreaming
Under the silver moonlight streaming,
Out in the country, on her own,
Tatiana walks, walks on and on,
When suddenly, and with a quiver,
Below her, from her hill, she sees
A manor house, a village, trees,
A garden by a limpid river.
She gazes – and the heart in her
Starts beating fast and oftener.
16
She pauses now as doubts beset her:
Should she continue, does she dare?
He isn’t here. They’ve never met her…
‘Oh, just the house – and garden there.
I’ll peep at them,’ she says, advancing
Downhill, scarce breathing, round her glancing,
Bewildered as the house draws close…
And to the empty courtyard goes.
Dogs, barking, hurtle out toward her
And, hearing her alarming cry,
A noisy crowd of serf boys fly
From different entrances to guard her,
And, after fighting off each hound,
They leave the lady safe and sound.
17
‘Please, can I see the house?’ asked Tanya.
The children ran off speedily
To find the keeper of the manor
Who had with her the hallway key.
Anisya promptly came to meet her,
To open up the house and greet her.
She entered the deserted pile,
Our hero’s recent domicile,
She looked: inside the hall, unheeded,
A cue lay on the billiard baize,
A riding crop upon a chaise
Dishevelled. She proceeded.
Here is the fireplace,’ said the crone:
‘Here master used to sit alone.
18
‘He used to dine here in the winter
With neighbour Lensky, now deceased.
This way, I’ll lead you. Here, we enter
The master’s study, where he pleased
To sleep, take coffee, pay attention
To what the steward had to mention,
And read a book the morning through…
And the old master lived here, too.
Time was, on Sundays, by this casement,
He’d don his glasses and agree
To play “tomfoolery”4 with me.
God save his soul, he was so patient,
And give his bones a peaceful berth
In his damp grave in mother-earth.’
19
With melting gaze Tatiana measures
The objects that surround her here,
All seem to her like priceless treasures,
All set her languid soul astir
With feelings joyful and half-anguished:
The desk, the lamp there, now extinguished,
The carpet-covered bed, the books,
The window over them that looks
Out on the moonlit dark unending,
And that pale half-light over all,
Lord Byron’s portrait on the wall,
And, on a little column standing,
Arms crossed, a cast-iron statuette
With gloomy forehead and a hat.5
20
Tatiana long as in a vision
Stands in this fashionable cell.
But it is late. A cold wind’s risen.
The valley’s dark. The grove is still
Above the mist-enveloped river;
The moon behind the hill takes cover
And it is time, indeed high time
The pilgrim makes her homeward climb.
And Tanya, hiding her excitement,
Stifles a sigh before she starts
Out back to more familiar parts.
But first she asks whether she mightn’t
Visit again the empty home
And read the books there on her own.
21
Tatiana and Anisya parted,
Beyond the gate. After two days –
In early morning now – she started
Towards that strange, deserted place.
And, in the study’s silent setting,
Briefly the earth entire forgetting,
She was at last alone and free,
And wept a long time, copiously.
The books then called for her attention.
At first, she lacked the appetite,
But all the titles within sight
Appeared bizarre. With apprehension
She avidly began to read
And found a different world indeed.
22
Although, as we’re aware, Onegin
Had long abandoned reading, still
There were some books he’d not forsaken
That earned a place in his goodwill:
The bard of Juan and the Giaour6
And two, three novels of the hour,7
In which the epoch was displayed
And modern man put on parade
And fairly faithfully depicted:
With his depraved, immoral soul,
Dried up and egotistical,
To dreaming endlessly addicted,
With his embittered, seething mind
To futile enterprise consigned.
23
There were preserved on many pages
The trenchant mark of fingernails,
With them the watchful girl engages
As if she were deciphering spells.
Tatiana saw with trepidation
What thought it was or observation
Had struck Onegin, what they meant,
To which he’d given mute consent.
And in the margins she encountered
His pencil marks by certain lines.
Throughout, his soul was by such signs,
Without his knowing it, expounded,
Whether by cross, by succinct word,
Or question mark, as they occurred.
24
And gradually my Tatiana
Begins to understand – thank God! –
More clearly now the true persona
To sigh for whom it is her lot,
By fate united to this stranger:
Eccentric, sad, exuding danger,
Creature of heaven or of hell,
This angel, this proud devil – well,
What is he then? An imitation,
A paltry phantom or a joke,
A Muscovite in Harold’s cloak,
Of alien fads an explication,
Of modish words a lexicon,
A parody, when said and done?
25
Can she have solved Onegin’s puzzle?
Can she have found the fitting ‘word’?
The hours race on and in her tussle
Her journey home is long deferred.
Two neighbours there have met to chatter
About her.’Well then, what’s the matter?’
‘She is no child now, if you please,’
Said the old lady with a wheeze.
‘Why, Olen’ka is younger than her.’
‘It’s time that she was settled, yes,
But I feel helpless, I confess.
In such a curt and point-blank manner
She turns down everyone. And broods,
And wanders lonely in the woods.’
26
‘Might she not be in love?’ ‘With whom, then?’
‘Buyanov courted her – no fear.
And Petushkov – she left the room then.
A guest, hussar Pykhtin, was here,
And he found Tanya such a marvel,
Pursued her like the very devil!
I thought perhaps she’ll take this one,
But no, once more the deal’s undone.’
‘My dear good woman, why not send her
To Moscow, to the bridal fair!
So many vacant places there.’
‘Good sir, my income’s much too slender.’
‘Enough, though, for a winter’s spree,
If not, then borrow – say, from me.’
27
The ageing lady was delighted
To hear this sensible advice;
She pondered – and at once decided
One winter would be worth the price.
And Tanya learns of her intention.
Unto the stringent monde’s attention
To offer up the clarity
Of countryside simplicity,
Its dated finery and dresses
And no less dated turns of phrase,
Sure to attract the mocking gaze
Of Moscow’s popinjays and Circes!8
God, no! Much better to remain
Secluded in the wood’s domain.
28
Arising as the sun is dawning,
She hastens out; with melting eyes
Surveys the fields, and speaks in mourning
These words to all her rural ties:
‘Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to
Familiar hilltops that I call to,
Farewell, familiar woods near by;
Farewell, the beauty of the sky,
Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;
I am exchanging my dear peace
For noisy, glittering vanities…
Farewell, my freedom that must perish!
Whither and wherefore do I strive?
What can I hope for in this life?’
29
Her walks continue, lasting longer.
Now at a hillock, now a stream
Tatiana cannot help but linger,
Arrested by their special charm.
As with old friends Tatiana hastens
To carry on her conversations
With every meadow, grove in sight,
But short-lived summer’s taking flight.
And golden autumn is arriving.
Nature, now pale and tremulous,
Is richly dressed for sacrifice.
Here is the North now, storm clouds driving,
It blows, it howls – and winter then,
The sorceress arrives again.
30
She’s come, herself she scatters, weighting
The oaken boughs with flocks of snow;
Lies down in carpets undulating
Over the hills and fields below;
Spreads out a puffy shroud to cover
The trace of banks and frozen river;
Frost gleams. And we take pleasure in
Old Mother Winter’s frolicking.
But Tanya finds her antics galling.
She shuns the winter, cannot bear
To take a breath of frosty air,
Or at the bath with new snow falling
To wash her face, her shoulders, breast.
Tatiana dreads this winter’s quest.
31
Departure has been long extended,
The final date is almost gone.
The coach has been inspected, mended,
Recovered from oblivion.
The usual three kibitkas manage
The plethora of goods and baggage:
Pans, jars of jam, and chairs and chests
And feather beds and mattresses,
Roosters in cages, pots and basins,
Etcetera – for so much more
Is wrested from the family store.
And in the log hut, losing patience
The servants weep, farewell is hard:
And eighteen nags invade the yard.
32
They’re harnessed to the master carriage,
The cooks prepare a lunch for all,
The three kibitkas teem with baggage,
While household women, coachmen brawl.
A bearded outrider is seated
Upon a jade, unkempt, depleted.
Up at the gate retainers vie
To bid their mistresses goodbye.
The venerable carriage, gliding,
Has crept beyond the gate. ‘Farewell,
You peaceful places, hill and dell!
Farewell the refuge that I’d hide in!
When shall I see you all?’ she cries,
And tears stream out of Tanya’s eyes.
33
When we are free of the constrictions
Of our benign enlightenment,
In time (we’re told, from the predictions
Of philosophic measurement,9
In some five hundred years) our highways
Will no more look like tawdry byways,
But surfaced roads on every hand
Will unify the Russian land,
And cast-iron bridges will support us
On wide arcs over waterways,
We’ll part the mountains in the skies,
Dig daring tunnels under waters,
And Christendom will institute
A chain of inns on every route.
34
But now our roadways are decaying,
Our bridges, now forgotten, rot,
At stations fleas and bedbugs preying
Won’t let a traveller sleep a jot.
There are no inns. In some cold cabin
There hangs for show a highfalutin’
And meagre menu to excite
An unrewarded appetite;
While rural Cyclopes take courage
And with a Russian hammer treat
A slender European carriage,
And bless the ditches and the moats
That constitute our country’s roads.
35
Yet in the chilly winter season
A drive is light and pleasant. Like
A voguish song devoid of reason,
Unruffled is the winter track.
We have automedons,10 quick-witted,
And troikas tireless and intrepid,
And mileposts, like a fence, race by,
Diverting the lethargic eye.
But Larina drove none too fleetly,
Her transport all her own for fear
Post-chaises would have proved too dear,
And our young maid enjoyed completely
The road’s monotonous delights:
They travelled seven days and nights.
36
But they are close now, and their horses
To white-stone Moscow gallop, as
They glimpse ahead the golden crosses
Glowing on ancient cupolas.
Brothers, there’s nothing that can equal
My pleasure when a semi-circle
Of churches, belfries, gardens, halls
Opened to me inside the walls.
How often, sadly separated,
Fated to roam without resort,
Moscow, it was of you I thought!
Moscow, whose name reverberated
In every Russian heart! I heard
So many echoes in that word!
37
Here next, by leafy grove surrounded,
Petrovsky Castle11 stands. Dark pride
In recent glory here resounded.
Here Bonaparte chose to reside
By Fortune’s smile intoxicated,
He waited – but in vain he waited –
For Moscow on her bended knees
To yield to him old Kremlin’s keys.
My Moscow spurned such self-abasement,
No gift, no feast day she declared,
A fiery welcome she prepared
To greet a hero so impatient.
From here he watched, in thought immersed,
The dreadful conflagration burst.
38
Farewell to you, Petrovsky Palace,
Witness of glory’s first defeat,
Away now to the turnpike pillars12
Whitening on Tverskaya Street.
Across the pits the carriage flashes,
Past sentries, peasant women dashes,
Past street lamps,13 shops and errand boys,
Past monasteries, gardens, sleighs,
Mansions, Bokharans,14 small plantations,
Shacks, merchants, peasants selling wares,
Boulevards and Cossack messengers,15
Towers, pharmacies and stores with fashions,
Balconies, gates where lions curl,16
Crosses where flocks of jackdaws swirl.17
39,4018
An hour or two they go on driving
In this exhausting marathon,
When at a gated house arriving,
They stop – just by St Khariton19
To see an aunt, who, with consumption
Some four years now, can hardly function.
To them the door is opened wide,
A grey-haired Kalmyk20 stands inside,
Arrayed in torn kaftan and glasses,
And with a stocking in his hand.
In the salon, from her divan,
The cry they hear is the Princess’s.
The two old ladies weep, embrace
And exclamations pour apace.
41
‘Princesse, mon ange!’ ‘Pachette!’21 ‘Dear cousin
Alina!’ ‘Who’d have thought? It’s been
So long. You’ll stay? Well, stop this fussing,
Sit down – how wonderful, a scene
Out of a novel, just the manner.’
‘But meet my daughter here, Tatiana.’
‘Ah Tanya, come to me, my dear…
I’m getting quite deranged, I fear…
Our Grandison, do you remember?’
‘What Grandison? Oh, Grandison!
Of course, I wonder where he’s gone?’
‘Lives near St Simeon’s;22 last December,
On Christmas Eve he called on me:
Married a son quite recently.
42
‘The other one – a little patience…