38
Soon this was so familiar to him
He almost lost his mind. He seemed
Almost inclined to write some poems.
(Oh what a thrill that would have been!)
Yes, moved by forces called “galvanic”,
He’d gone through Russian verse mechanics
And almost mastered form and line—
A student (uninspired) of mine.
He looked a poet to the letter
When he sat in his corner seat
And, by the hearth in all the heat,
Hummed ‘Idol Mio’… ‘Benedetta’…
And in the fire he sometimes dropped
Slipper or journal with a plop.
39
The days raced by, and frozen winter
Found warmer air was to be had.
He wrote no poems for the printer,
He did not die, did not go mad.
Spring energized him. One clear morning
He left his closed rooms without warning,
Abandoning the places where
He’d hibernated like a bear.
Fleeing the hearth and double windows,
He speeds the Neva in a sleigh.
The sunlight aims its dancing rays
At blocks of blue ice, slabs and splinters,
At streets of dirty, churned-up snow.
But racing on, where will he go,
40
Onegin? Your guess, incidentally,
Is right—you see this as it is.
My unreformable eccentric
Rushed to Tatyana’s—she was his.
Once in (looking like a dead body),
He meets with no one in the lobby,
The hall, or further in—there’s not
A soul. On through the next door. What
Now stops him in his tracks? He’s met her—
Here is the princess, much distressed,
Sitting there, pallid and half-dressed,
Engrossed in what looks like a letter.
Tears tumble down her face in streaks,
And one hand underpins her cheek.
41
Who could have failed to see Tatyana
In that quick spell of mute distress,
The former girl in a new drama,
Poor Tanya, in the new princess?
Oozing regret, half-crazed and straining,
Before her feet he fell, Yevgeny.
She shuddered, speechless, but her eyes
Glared at Onegin, unsurprised
And not vindictively, not raging…
His eyes, so lifeless and careworn,
His pleading pose, his silent scorn—
She sees it all. The country maiden
Felt dreams and thoughts of yesteryear
Restored to life again in her.
42
Tatyana leaves Onegin kneeling.
She stares; her focus never slips,
Her hand is cold, devoid of feeling;
She leaves it on his hungry lips…
Where are her dreams? Are they inspiring?…
Time passes in the lonely silence.
And then she speaks in a low hiss.
“Enough. Stand up. Listen to this.
I need to speak to you directly.
Do you recall that garden walk
Destined for us to meet and talk,
Where I endured your moral lecture
Well now it’s my turn. I shall speak.
43
Back then, Onegin, I was younger,
And no doubt better-looking too.
I loved you with a young girl’s hunger,
And what did I receive from you?
An answer grim and supercilious.
Isn’t that true? You were familiar
With love from shy girls none too old.
And still today my blood runs cold
When I recall that dreadful sermon
And your cold eyes… But I don’t say
You did me wrong that awful day.
No, you did well. You were determined
To treat me nicely from the start.
I thank you now with all my heart.
44
In those days, hidden in the country,
Far from cheap gossip, you felt cold
Towards me. Now you have the effrontery
To persecute me and make bold!
Why have you picked me for a target?
Am I now such a better bargain
At this new social level, which
Makes me well known as well as rich?
Is it my husband, a war hero
With court connections and some fame?
Or would you just enjoy my shame,
To make sure you got noticed, merely
To stand out in the world of style,
And bask in glory for a while?
45
Excuse these tears… Let me direct you
To memories within our reach…
I’d sooner bear your stinging lecture,
The chilling tenor of your speech
(If I had some choice in this matter,)
Than all of your impassioned patter,
Your longing letters and your tears.
I’d keep the dreams of my young years—
In those days you displayed some pity,
Consideration for my youth.
But now! What brings you here to stoop
Beneath my feet? What jot or tittle?
How could your heart and mind somehow
Become slaves to emotion now?
46
For me this world of pomp and glamour,
These trappings of a life I loathe,
Social success with all its clamour,
Fine house, the soirées that I hold—
What do they mean to me, Onegin?
I’d give up this mean masquerading,
The blare, the glitter and the fumes,
And go back to our humble rooms,
A shelf of books, the rambling garden,
Those country places that I knew,
Where for the first time I met you,
The graveyard of our dear departed…
Where there’s a cross, and branches shade
My poor beloved Nanny’s grave.
47
But happiness was standing next to us,
So very close! Now everything
Is fixed for me. I’ve been impetuous,
Or maybe that’s what people think.
My mother wept, begged and besought me,
I didn’t care what fortune brought me;
It made no difference, yes or no.
I married. Now, I beg you, go.
Please leave me. Do as you are bidden.
I know your heart will be your guide
I do love you—that can’t be hidden—
But now that I’m another’s wife,
I shall stay faithful all my life.”
48
She left the room. Yevgeny, reeling,
Stands thunderstruck before the burst
Of tumult and tempestuous feeling
In which his heart is now immersed.
But what is this? Spurs jingling gently,
Tatyana’s husband makes his entry…
Acute embarrassment is nigh.
But here, dear reader, you and I
Shall leave him, and our separation
Will last… for ever. Far have we
Meandered in close company,
But that’s enough. Congratulations—
We’re home at last! Let’s shout, “Hooray!”
Not before time, I hear you say.
49
Dear reader, be you friend or foeman,
My feeling now is that we ought
To part in friendship and good odour.
Goodbye. Whatever you have sought
In reading through these trivial stanzas—
Memory’s wild extravaganzas,
A break from work, artistic strokes,
Or silly little witty jokes,
Or, it may be, mistakes of grammar—
God grant within this book you find
For love, fun or a dreaming mind,
Or for the journalistic hammer,
Some crumb at least. Now you and I
Must go our separate ways. Goodbye!
50
And you, my wayfaring companion,
Goodbye. Goodbye, the vision pure.
Goodbye, my small work of long standing.
Along with you I’ve kept secure
All things that could delight a poet.
Flight from the stormy world—I know it;
Good conversation—it is mine.
The days have flown… It’s a long time
Since Tanya, youthful and reflective,
With my Onegin next to her,
Came to me in a dreamy blur.
My novel had a free perspective;
Hard though I scanned my crystal ball,
I couldn’t make it out at all.
51
And what of those good friends who listened
To my first stanzas freshly made?
“Some are no more, and some are distant,”
As Sadi said. Without their aid
Onegin’s portrait has been painted.
What of the girl who first acquainted
Me with Tatyana, perfect, pure?…
Fate steals things from us, that’s for sure!…
Blest he who leaves a little early
Life’s banquet without eating up
Or seeing the bottom of his cup,
Who drops his novel prematurely,
Bidding it suddenly adieu,
As I Yevgeny Onegin do.
THE END
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Copyright
Pushkin Press
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London WC2H 9JQ
First published as Yevgeny Onegin in Russia in 1823–31
English language translation © A.D.P. Briggs, 2016
Introduction and Translator’s Note © A.D.P. Briggs, 2016
First published by Pushkin Press in 2016
ISBN 978 1 782272 09 0
Published with the support of the Institute for Literary Translation, Russia.
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