Tomorrow, Tanya we shall show
To all her various relations.
Pity, I’m too infirm to go,
I scarce can drag my feet, the devils,
But you are weary from your travels;
Together let us take a rest,
Oh, I’ve no strength… my poor, tired chest…
Not even joy, not only sorrow
Is hard for me to bear, my dear.
I’m good for nothing now, it’s clear.
Life in old age is such a horror.’
And, weeping, by exhaustion hit,
She breaks into a coughing fit.
43
Tatiana’s touched by the good-hearted
Affection of the invalid,
And yet she is unhappy, parted
From her accustomed room and bed.
Round her a silken curtain closes,
Yet she can’t sleep, when she reposes,
The church bells’ early roundelay,
Precursor of the labouring day,
Arouses her, and in the shadows
She sits beside the window, sees
The darkness thinning by degrees,
But can’t discern her fields, her meadows,
Before her lies a yard that’s strange,
A stable, fence and kitchen range.
44
To daily dinners Tanya’s taken
With her extended family,
But grandmas, grandpas cannot quicken
The girl’s abstracted lethargy.
Relatives from a far location
Are welcomed with solicitation,
With exclamations and good cheer.
‘How Tanya’s grown! How long, my dear,
Since at your christening I dried you,’
‘And since I held you – all those years!’
‘And since I pulled you by the ears!’23
‘And since with gingerbread I plied you!’
And grandmothers in chorus cry:
‘Oh how our years go flying by!’
45
But nothing changes in their bearing,
Where age-old fashion is the rule;
The princess Aunt Yelena’s wearing
Her ancient mobcap made of tulle;
Cerused still is Lukerya Lvovna,
Still telling lies Lyubov Petrovna,
Ivan Petrovich is inane,
Semyon Petrovich24 just as mean;
Still Pelageya Nikolavna
Keeps Monsieur Finemouche25 in her house
With Pomeranian dog26 and spouse.
While he, the conscientious clubber,27
Is still the meek and deaf man who
Consumes and drinks enough for two.
46
Their daughters put their arms round Tanya.
These graces of young Moscow28 now
Without a word observe Tatiana,
Surveying her from top to toe;
They find her somewhat unexpected,
Provincial and a touch affected,
A little pale, a little thin,
But passable for kith and kin;
And then, to nature’s way submitting,
They take her to their rooms, make friends,
And kiss her, gently squeezing hands,
Fluff up her curls to look more fitting,
And in their singsong tones impart
Maids’ secrets, secrets of the heart,
47
Conquests, their own and those of others,
Their hopes, their pranks, their reveries.
Their guileless conversation gathers,
Embellished by slight calumnies,
Then, to requite their indiscretion,
They sweetly ask for her confession
Of secrets of the heart she keeps.
But Tanya, just as if she sleeps,
Is hearing them without partaking,
And, understanding nothing, she
Protects her secret silently,
Her heart’s fond treasure, blissful, aching,
The tears and joys she will not share
With anyone encountered there.
48
Tatiana seeks to be convivial,
To listen to what people say,
But in the drawing-room such trivial
And incoherent rot holds sway;
The people are so pale and weary,
Their very slander’s dull and dreary.
Within this land of sterile views,
Interrogations, gossip, news,
Through four-and-twenty hours you’ll never
Spot one lone thought, even by chance;
Even in jest the heart won’t quiver.
We might to foolish jokes respond,
If you but knew some, hollow monde!
49
The archive boys29 in congregation
Cast eyes on Tanya priggishly
And speak of her with denigration
In one another’s company.
But there’s one coxcomb in dejection
For whom she seems ideal perfection,
And, leaning on a doorpost, he
Prepares for her an elegy.
Once, Vyazemsky,30 on meeting Tanya
At some dull aunt’s, sat by the girl
And managed to engage her soul,
And near him, an old man,31 who’d seen her,
Straightening out his wig, inquired
After this maiden he admired.
50
But where Melpomene32 is uttering
Her loud, protracted wails, laments
And, with her gaudy mantle fluttering,
Confronts a frigid audience,
Where Thalia33 is quietly napping,
Hearkening not to friendly clapping,
Where to Terpsichore alone
he young spectator now is drawn
(As was the case in years departed,
In your day and in mine the same),
At whom no jealous ladies aim
Lorgnettes when once the ballet’s started.
Nor modish experts train a glass,
From box or stall, to judge her class.
51
To the Assembly,34 too, they bring her,
Where the excitement, crush and heat,
The tapers’ glare, the music’s clangour,
The flicker, whirl of dancing feet,
The light attire of pretty women,
The galleries with people brimming,
The arc of seats for brides-to-be
All strike the senses suddenly.
Here are inveterate fops, parading
Their waistcoats and impertinence,
And nonchalantly held lorgnettes.
Here are hussars on leave, invading,
Who, thundering through in great display,
Flash, captivate and fly away.
52
The night has many starry clusters,
And Moscow pretty women, too,
But, brighter far than all her sisters,
The moon shines in the airy blue.
But she – my lyre dares not disquiet her
With songs, I fear, that won’t delight her –
Shines like the regal moon alone
‘Midst maids and ladies round her throne.
With what celestial pride she graces
The earth which by her is caressed,
What blissful feelings fill her breast,
How wondrous-languidly she gazes!…
But stop, enough, I beg of you,
To folly now you’ve paid your due.
53
Noise, laughter, galop, waltz, mazurka,
Bows, bustle… meanwhile from the dance
Tatiana hides – the capers irk her –
Beside a column, ‘twixt two aunts,
She looks but does not see, detesting
The worldly tumult and the jesting,
She, stifl
ing here, in fancy strains
To reach again her fields and lanes,
Her rural life: the tranquil bowers,
The poor folk, the secluded nook
Where flows a tiny, limpid brook,
Her novels and the country flowers,
And those tenebrous linden ways
Where he appeared in former days.
54
But while her mind is in the distance,
Forgetting monde and noisy ball,
A certain general of substance
Won’t take his eyes off her at all.
The two aunts wink and in like manner
Both with their elbows nudge Tatiana,
And each one whispers in her ear:
‘Look quickly to the left, my dear.’
‘The left? But where? What is so special?’
‘Well, never mind what it may be,
Just look… that group… in front, you see…
Those two in uniform, official…
Gone… Wait, his profile’s in between.’
‘Who? That fat general, you mean?’
55
But let’s extend congratulations
To dear Tatiana, triumphing,
And change my course (entreating patience),
Lest I forget of whom I sing.
And by the way two words, updating:
‘I sing a youthful friend, relating
His many eccentricities.
Please favour the felicities,
O epic Muse, of my exertions,
And, with your trusty staff, let me
Not wander on so waywardly.’
There, done! Enough! No more diversions!
Thus, classicism I placate:
An Introduction’s here, though late.
CHAPTER VIII
Fare thee well, and, if for ever.
Still forever fare thee well.1
Byron
1
In those far days, serene and careless,
The lycée’s2 gardens saw me grow,
I read with pleasure Apuleius3
And disregarded Cicero4,
In those far days, in dales mysterious,
In spring, when swans call out, imperious,
Near waters shining tranquilly,
The Muse began to visit me.
My student cell was inundated
With sudden light. She brought me there
A youthful feast, a merry fare
Of fancies that in song she fêted,
Sang, too, our glorious, ancient themes,
Sang of the heart that stirs our dreams.
2
And with a smile my Muse was greeted;
Our first success encouraged us,
We were by old Derzhavin5 heeded
And blessed before he joined the dust…6
3
And I, who make the rule of passions
The only law I recognize,
Sharing my feelings with the fashions,
I led my frisky Muse to prize
The noise of feasts and fierce discussions,
Of watch-endangering excursions;7
And to these crazy feasts she brought
Her native gifts, began to sport
And gambol like a young bacchante,
And, over cups, to guests she’d sing,
And in a youthful gathering
Among the men she’d be the centre,
And in that amicable crowd,
My giddy mistress made me proud.
4
But I seceded from their union
And fled afar8… she followed me.
How often would she, fond companion,
Sweeten my mute trajectory
With secret tales and magic aura!
How often, moonlit, like Leonora,9
She d gallop with me on a horse
Across the crags of Caucasus!
How often on the shores of Tauris10
She led me in nocturnal gloom
To listen to the sea’s dull boom,
The Nereids11 unceasing chorus,
The waves profound, eternal choir
And hymn of praise to heaven’s sire.
5
And then a change in her behaviour:
Forgetting feasts and opulence,
Amid the wastes of sad Moldavia12
She visited the humble tents
Of wandering tribes, and, living with them,
Grew wild and shared their daily rhythm,
Forgetting her Olympian speech
For strange, scant tongues the tribesmen teach,
For steppe-land song she found appealing…
Then suddenly this picture cleared
And in my garden she appeared
As a provincial miss, revealing
A thoughtful sadness in her look
And in her hands a small, French book.13
6
And, for the first time now, I’m taking
My Muse to join a worldly rout;
With jealous apprehension quaking,
I view the steppe-land charms she’s brought.
Through solid rows aristocratic,
Of army fops, corps diplomatic
And past imperious dames she flits.
Now, looking quietly, she sits,
The noisy multitude admiring,
The flickering of dress and speech,
The guests who slowly try to reach
The young hostess, who waits untiring,
The men, who, like dark picture frames,
Surround the women and the dames.
7
She liked the hieratic order
Of oligarchic colloquies,
The chill of tranquil pride that awed her,
And ranks and years that mixed at ease.
But who in this august collection
Stands silently, with disaffection?
Not one of them appears to know.
Before him, faces come and go
Like ghosts in tedious succession.
What does his face show – spleen, hurt pride?
Why is this person at our side?
Who is he? Well, it’s my impression
He’s Eugene. Really? Yes, it’s clear.
What wind is it that’s blown him here?
8
Is he the same or more pacific?
Has he returned in novel style?
Or does he still play the eccentric?
What will he stage for us meanwhile?
As what will he appear now? Melmoth?
A cosmopolitan, a patriot,
A Harold, Quaker, Pharisee14
Or else some other jeu d’esprit
Or simply as a decent fellow,
Like you and me and everyone?
A fashion that is past and done
I say you should not try to follow.
We’ve had enough of all his show.
‘You know him, then?’ ‘Well, yes and no.’
9
‘Then tell me why you’re so begrudging,
When talking of him. Might it be
Because we never tire of judging
The world around us ceaselessly,
Because a rash and fiery spirit,
To smug nonentities that near it,
Seems insolent and out of place,
And men of wit constrain your space?
Because we’re wont to talk forever
Instead of acting or because
Stupidity wins our applause?
Because grave men delight in trivia,
And only mediocrity
Will make us feel at liberty?’
10
Blest who in youth was truly youthful,
Blest who matured in proper time,
Who, step by step, remaining truthful,
Could weather, yearly, life’s bleak clime,
To curious dreams was not addicted,
Nor by the social mob constricted,
At twenty was a bl
ade or swell
And then at thirty married well;
Ridding himself, on reaching fifty,
Of debts and other bills to foot,
Then calmly gaining rank, repute
And money, too, by being thrifty;
Of whom the world’s opinion ran:
NN’s an estimable man.
11
How sad, however, if we’re given
Our youth as something to betray,
And what if youth in turn is driven
To cheat on us, each hour, each day,
If our most precious aspirations,
Our freshest dreams, imaginations
In fast succession have decayed,
As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade.
It is too much to see before one
Nothing but dinners in a row,
Behind the seemly crowd to go,
Regarding life as mere decorum,
Having no common views to share,
Nor passions that one might declare.
12
When noisy comments start to plague you,
You won’t endure it (you’ll agree),
If people of good sense should take you
For someone feigning oddity,
A melancholy, crazed impostor
Or maybe a satanic monster
Or even my own Demon.15 Thus,
Onegin once more busies us.
He’d killed his friend; bereft of pleasure,
He lived with neither work nor goal
Till twenty-six, and still his soul
Languished in unproductive leisure;
He lacked employment and a wife
And any purpose in his life.
13
A restless spirit took him over,
A wish to travel, anywhere
(An inclination like a fever
Or cross that few will gladly bear).
And so he came to the conclusion
To leave the fields’ and woods’ seclusion,
Where every day a bloodstained shade
Appeared to him and would not fade,
And sallied forth without direction,
With one sensation in his mind;