In winter, when the shades of night
Darkened the half-world of the valley,
A vale of lazy peace, unkissed
By moonlight in the murky mist,
The slothful east was slow to rally,
She would arise from her night’s rest,
Lighting the candles as she dressed.
29
She spent her youth in reading sessions;
Novels were all she wished to know.
She loved to take in false impressions
From Richardson and from Rousseau.
Her father was a good chap, decent,
Outdated, knowing nothing recent.
In novels he could see no harm.
He read none, he felt no alarm.
Book-reading was, in his opinion,
An empty toy. Why should he care
What secret volume she had there,
Dozing the night beneath her pillow?
His wife was smitten like their child
With Richardson. He drove her wild.
30
Though Richardson was her true favourite,
Not from the reading she had done,
And not that Lovelace seemed unsavoury
Compared to Mr Grandison.
No. Her cousine, Princess Alina,
In Moscow, where she’d often seen her,
Had told her all about these men…
Her spouse was her fiancé then,
Though this ran counter to her feelings.
Another man, for whom she pined,
And who had seized her heart and mind,
Was altogether more appealing—
A Grandison who played the cards,
A dashing captain of the Guards.
31
She was, like him, a stylish dresser
Following fashion and good taste…
But she was not consulted. Better
To get her wed now. They made haste.
Then straight away, to stop her grieving,
Her husband acted wisely, leaving
For their new country home, where soon,
Hemmed in all round by God knows whom,
At first she wept a lot and bridled,
Close to divorce. But soon she’d been
Domesticated by routine,
And she contentedly subsided.
Routine is heaven-sent, oh, yes,
A substitute for happiness.
32
Routine calmed the despairing daughter,
Whose grief was unassuageable.
A big discovery then brought her
Relief that comforted in full.
Midst work and pleasure she discovered
How her new husband could be governed
And mastered with an iron rod—
So that things happened on the nod.
She toured the workings, field and factory,
She pickled mushrooms, laid them down,
She shaved serfs’ heads. She kept accounts.
She saw the bathhouse every Saturday.
She whacked the maids. Her every whim
Went though without a word to him.
33
She took to using blood when scrawling
In sweet girls’ albums. How bizarre:
Praskovya’s name was changed to Pauline
And normal speech went la-di-da.
She wore a very narrow corset.
She took the Russian “n” and forced it
Into a Frenchman’s nasal sound…
But soon all this turned upside down.
Album and stays, Princess Alina,
The book of tender poems, the lot—
Even the false names—she forgot,
Saying Akulka, not Selina,
And she restored without mishap
The padded robe and floppy cap.
34
Her husband loved her with deep feeling.
Her whims and fancies left him blank.
So, blithely trusting all her dealings,
He lounged about and ate and drank.
His life has struck an even tenor,
Not least as evening drew on when a
Group of their neighbours, good and true,
Arrived, down-to-earth people who,
After the usual friendly greetings,
Would gossip, moan and raise a smile…
The time would steal away; meanwhile
Olga was sent to get the tea-things…
The friends in due time, having fed,
Were driven off back home to bed.
35
Their peaceful lives passed in the old style
With good traditions still held dear,
Thus Russian pancakes came at Shrovetide
Floating on butter; twice a year
They fasted; they were happy playing
On little roundabouts, soothsaying
In songs; they loved a choral dance,
And on Trinity Day perchance,
When folk were yawning through Thanksgiving,
They’d splash a couple of teardrops
Upon a bunch of buttercups,
And rye beer made their lives worth living,
And guests at table ate and drank,
Served in accordance with their rank.
36
Behold the pair—now ageing mortals.
And for the husband his cold tomb
At last has opened wide its portals;
He has a new crown to assume.
He died with lunch nigh on the table,
And those who mourned him were his neighbour,
His children and his wife so true,
A forthright woman through and through.
He’d been a bluff and kindly barin,
And at the site of his remains
A monument in stone proclaims:
A humble sinner, Dmítry Lárin,
Here rests in peace beneath this sod,
A brigadier and slave of God.
37
Back on home soil, Vladimir Lensky
Came to this graveyard by and by,
Looked at the modest tomb intently
And blessed the relics with a sigh,
Which left him feeling melancholic.
“Oh dear,” he gloomed. “Alas, poor Yorick!
For he hath borne me in his arms…
How oft in childhood in my palms
I joshed his medal, that ‘Ochákov’.
He put dear Olga in my way,
And wondered if he’d see the day…”
Vladimir, with a sincere mark of
Sadness upon him, daubed his draft,
A fancy tribute epitaphed.
38
He paid another tribute, weeping,
To mark his parents and their past
And all his ancestors here sleeping.
Life with its furrows comes, alas,
To a swift harvest. Generations,
By Providence’s machinations,
Arise and flourish and are gone,
And others always follow on…
And thus our giddy tribe will breeze on,
Will rise and writhe and boil and bloom,
Then speed us to the family tomb.
For all of us there comes a season,
And grandchildren will one fine day
Drive us from mother earth away.
39
But you must now enjoy life (shall you?)
In all its emptiness, my friends.
I know its less-than-nothing value,
And there my interest in it ends.
My eyes are closed to all things ghostly,
Yet hope, of the remote kind mostly,
Sometimes intrudes upon my heart.
It would be dismal to depart
This life leaving no half-seen marker.
I live and scribble not for fame,
Though I have wanted all the same
To flaunt my fate as it grows darker.
Sound is my true friend. May it thrive
And keep my memory alive.
40
And may my sounds lift hearts tomorrow,
When, by the grace of Destiny,
Perhaps the Lethe will not swallow
This stanza now compiled by me.
And also (though false hope is famous!)
Perhaps some future ignoramus
Will point to a known sketch of me
And say, “That poet, what a man was he!”
My thanks to you who take delight in
The muses and their gentle work,
In whose remembrance there will lurk
Signs of my evanescent writings,
And whose too generous hand will pat
An old man’s laurel wreath—like that.
* O countryside!… (Latin.)
CHAPTER THREE
Elle était fille, elle était amoureuse. *
MALFILTRE
1
“Where are you off to? Oh, you poets!…”
“Onegin, I must disappear.”
“Do go. One thing, though… Take me through
it—
Where do you spend your evenings here?”
“I go to see the Larins.” “Splendid.
But so much time—how do you spend it?
For Heaven’s sake, isn’t it dull?”
“No, not at all.” “Incredible.
I see it all from where I’m standing:
You have first—tell me if I’m wrong—
A Russian family plain and strong,
All welcoming and open-handed,
Then jam and never-ending chat:
Rain, flax, the farmyard—things like that.”
2
“There’s nothing wrong; it’s just propriety.”
“Well, being bored is wrong, I’ve found.”
“I’ve no time for your smart society.
Give me the old domestic round,
Where I…” “Spare me the eclogue, Lensky.
For God’s sake, put it differently.
You’re going now. Too bad… But, hey,
Listen to me. Is there some way
For me to meet this Phyllis woman,
This object of your heart and quill,
And tears, and rhymes, and what you will?
Take me.” “You’re joking.” “No, no, come on…”
“I’d be delighted.” “When, though?” “Now.
They’ll make us welcome anyhow.”
3
“Let’s go.” The friends sped off together
And soon arrived, only to be
Smothered by many a warm endeavour
Of old-world hospitality.
A common ceremony this is
With jams served up in little dishes,
And on waxed tables close at hand
Jugs of red-berry water stand.
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4
They take the shortest way home, racing
The horses, giving them their head.
Let’s eavesdrop on the conversation
Between our heroes. What was said?
“What’s wrong, Onegin. You are yawning.”
“Just habit, Lensky.” “Was it boring?
There’s something else.” “I’m fine… Look how
The fields are getting darker now.
Andryushka, move! Don’t spare the horses.
Oh, what a stupid place to be!
Though Larina is straight, and she
Was so nice, such a pleasant hostess.
I fear the berry water could
Have done my state of health no good.
5
But tell me—which one was Tatyana?”
“The one who came and didn’t speak.
She looked unhappy like Svetlana,
Sitting there in the window seat.”
“You love the younger one, then, brother?”
“What if I do?” “I’d choose the other
If I had been like you, a bard.
Your Olga’s face is lifeless, hard,
Madonna-like, with van Dyck’s dry line.
It’s round and pretty, but its bloom
Reminds me of that stupid moon
Standing upon that stupid skyline.”
Vladimir’s curt response was heard,
Then, all the way home, not a word.
6
Meanwhile Onegin’s recent visit
Made an impression on them all.
“There’s something here,” they thought. “What is it?”
And local folk were much enthralled,
Which then gave rise to lots of guesses,
And enigmatic noes and yesses,
And jokes and judgements, some quite rude:
Tatyana—was she being wooed?
And some already were presuming
That marriage plans had reached a pause,
Although long fixed, only because
The latest rings were not forthcoming.
While Lensky’s wedding hereabout
Was pencilled in beyond all doubt.
7
Tatyana listened with vexation
To all this gossip, yet, within,
An inexpressible elation
Rose from her thoughts about this thing.
Thoughts stirred her heart like a new seedling.
Love’s time had come; here was the feeling.
Quicken to warm soil in the spring.
Long had she felt, in flights of fancy,
When relishing a blissful mood,
A craving for the fateful food.
Long had her straining heart been lancing
Her young girl’s breast. Her soul was numb,
Waiting for somebody to come…
8
…And here he was! Her eyes were opened.
“It’s him, he is the man,” she said.
Alas! Now, days and nights unbroken,
And lonesome sleep in a hot bed,
He fills them all. All things now tally,
Charming the sweet girl magically,
Speaking of him. She’s quickly bored
By warm thoughts and the knowing word,
Or servants anxious for her pleasure.
Now, permanently plunged in gloom,
She will ignore guests in the room,
Cursing them for their idle leisure,
For dropping in at all—that’s wrong—
And then for staying on too long.
9
How closely is her mind now captured,
In her sweet tales deeply immersed.
And with what energizing rapture
She makes the charming fancies hers.
Through the delightful power of dreaming
Characters most authentic-seeming—
The lover of Julie Wolmar,
Malek-Adhel and de Linar,
And Werther, the unsettled martyr,
And Grandison, to some unique,
Though most of us he sends to sleep—
For this young dreamer, tender-hearted,
Into a single form they ran,
Onegin being the one man.
10
A dreamt-up heroine, peculiar
To her beloved writers, she—
The new Delphine, Clarissa, Julia—
Walks to the silent woods to be
Alone, roaming with unsafe fiction,
In which she seeks and finds depicted
Her inmost secrets and her dreams,
The fullness of her heart’s extremes,
Sighing as she gro
ws ever nearer
To other people’s joys and woes,
And mouthing trance-like as she goes
A letter (learnt) to a nice hero.
Our hero, though, whate’er he be,
Was not a Grandison, not he.
11
Tuning his tone with chords of gravity,
A zealous bard of yesterday
Would launch his hero with great clarity:
A perfect man in every way,
A treasured object fondly burnished:
Pursued unfairly, always furnished
With sympathy of soul and mind
And features of the winsome kind.
Endued with warmth and pure affection
The ever-sanguine hero stood
For noble sacrifice and good,
And then, in the concluding section,
Evil was punished and put down,
While virtue got its well-earned crown.
12
But now all minds are fogged, and morals
Are blamed for leaving people bored.
Evil smiles out in all our novels—
Indeed it sits there like a lord.
Those fictions from the muse of Britain
Disturb the young girl’s sleep as written,
And she has come to idolize
The Vampire with his brooding eyes
Or Melmoth in his melancholy,
The Corsair or the Wandering Jew,
Or weird Sbogar. Lord Byron knew,
By some judicious flight of folly,
How hopeless egotists are given
A cloak of glum Romanticism.
13
If this makes sense, friends, let me know it.
One day, perhaps, by Heaven’s will,
I’ll give up writing like a poet,
Take a new devil for my quill,
Ignoring any threats from Phoebus,
And sink to humble prose. My readers
Will get an old-style novel. Mine
Will be a rapturous decline.
Dark pangs of criminal calamity
I shall not grimly offer you.
Instead, I’ll simply trundle through